-ooo-

'You didn't get the milk', John expressed bitterly. 'You went out to get the milk, and as ever, no milk! You never intended to get the milk! What are you not telling me, Sherlock? Why are you leaving me out of it? Is it because I got shot? Because somehow I let myself get shot you won't trust me the same?'

He was angry, his friend knew that perfectly well. For the sake of peace and quiet, Sherlock was sitting very still in his chair, with a pondering attitude, as John talked it out, he must have known it was perfectly useless. Anyway, John was incapable of expressing the real reason for his anger. It was never about the milk. He hardly ever took milk. He was possibly mildly lactose-intolerant. Further observing would be necessary to assess that theory.

'Well, I'm back now', Sherlock said at last, getting up in a burst of energy and heading towards the papers on his desk. John just sighed, somehow reaching a low point in energy, or finally letting it go.

'Did you get something important - from wherever you went? - and I'm not talking about groceries now.'

'We should go check on Scotland Yard, see what they have on the guy you nailed with a plank.'

There was a hint of an evil grin in John, the armed guy hadn't seen it coming... 'Fine, let me just get my coat...'

He went to grab his coat. Behind him, Sherlock was already racing down the steps to the front door. All John could do was hurry behind him as best as he could.

'Sherlock!' he protested as Sherlock was about to close shut a cab door without him. He seemed to have missed the fact that John was still far behind, so immersed in his reasoning. He reopened the door wide to let him in. John wanted to protest. He couldn't run, he physically couldn't run, and that was bothering him more than it'd ever bother Sherlock to wait two seconds for him to catch up. But John didn't say a word. After all, the man sitting next to him was the only consulting detective in the world, he should figure out on his own (eventually) that John wasn't being exactly lazy for idleness sake.

John sat back against the cab upholsters as it took off. He could see Sherlock was in one off his silent sulky moods, there was hardly a point in trying to talk him out of it. He closed his eyes for a second, trying to disguise the intense deep pain flash that intermittently erupted from his shoulder.

Sherlock had a glance of concern over John, sitting very stiff by his side on the cab. Mary had stayed behind. Maybe devising some personal plan, again. Mary didn't play well in a team, she had been trained that way, she couldn't help it. She wouldn't let go of the chance to exercise revenge on the shooter, if she came across him first. But that was something she couldn't let John know. John was getting convinced she was abandoning it all for him, for their future together, for the plans to have children and lead boring lives together. As much as they wished such a future together, it was in neither of their natures. They wouldn't bear to lead those plain boring lives they were building. Mary had come to find that out, and was coming to terms with it. John still couldn't face it. That the man he was when he relocated abroad to a war scenario was still the same man that solved national security calibre puzzles by the consulting detective's side. So Mary had come to hide it from him. Slowly, the small lies were starting to pile up into bigger ones. Somewhere in London, the woman currently known as Mary Watson was leading a silent double life, not much different from the one her husband was exploring at the moment. The only difference was that she accepted his need for danger and let him do it openly, and he'd be too much disrupted by hers to let her off like that. He'd feel the urge to protect her and keep her safe more than anything else.

Just look at him now, following Sherlock around because he wanted to keep his friend safe. He couldn't be with the both of them, and believing Mary to be playing the safe game, he had come along with his friend. Like old times, John had always taken to himself the role of the protector. It was his nature. But this time there was another part of his nature that was failing him. His body was collapsing under the combined effort of the activity in the last hours. He was visibly exhausted, sleep deprived and starved. He wouldn't stop while Sherlock didn't stop as well, he wouldn't sleep until the danger had lessened (and John had the medical core and army training to withstand up to days awake with small pauses like that one), and he couldn't care to eat and trigger the secondary effects of the demanding medication that had been instilled in him at the Hospital. There was a blind allegiance in John Watson's personality, but a very strong minded one at it. One that continuously baffled Sherlock Holmes, because he couldn't really understand it rationally, and he really didn't feel worthy of it for the most part. To John, and in spite all that Sherlock himself had told him harshly, Sherlock was a hero. Not just a heroic person, but a hero in his nature. Well, John was wrong, Sherlock was sure. And though to keep John around was unfair to his loyalty and care for Sherlock, the detective had come to rely on him, to need him more and more, in a semblance of true care, one that Sherlock didn't believe himself capable off, but that John could have sworn was in him from the start.

In under twenty minutes through London's traffic, they arrived at Scotland Yard.

Bored. Sherlock Holmes was now bored. The exhilarating chase for a mysterious shooter had shrivelled down to a senseless waiting game. Now that the adrenaline came crashing down, it made it all unbearably dull. They were all in danger, fatigued from chasing weak leads and no closer to the resolution of the case then before.

Sherlock and John walked the hallways to meet DI Lestrade. Some faces, not many, turned to gaze at them as they passed. Fame, that's what it was. Especially after the mysterious fake fall of a rooftop that had been a reality for two years straight.

'John, you look like hell', Greg was explicit, as he took a step back to let them cross his office door.

'It's a new look I'm going for', he replied at once, stiffing and straightening himself.

Greg tried to talk directly at John and to him alone: 'Look, I'm not a doctor, but you need to...'

He'd cut him off: 'I am. I'm a doctor.' There was defiance in his eyes, yet his overall expression was as innocent as controlled.

Greg looked from John to Sherlock, who was already peacefully taking a seat by the desk. Greg made sure to do what Sherlock had failed to do and pulled a chair out for John before circling his desk. Military John only took his seat after the detective inspector did. It wasn't the first time. It was something that distracted John did, when caught off guard, a trained behaviour of supposed recognition of authority that took over like a second nature. John was at Scotland Yard premises, he'd sit when told to sit or after the representative had sat. By his side, Sherlock was melting away in his chair, in a strong dominant presence on the office.

'You two are here because of that man this morning. I could have saved you the trip here. He's not doing much talking. In fact, he won't be doing much talking for a while. He had to be rushed to the Hospital. One of my men realized he wasn't doing well. We're not doctors here, John, but we could tell he had been poisoned...'

'Interesting', said Sherlock. 'Same thing as John?'

John dismissed briefly: 'Probably still running the tests, they can't tell just yet... Why poison him?' he asked out loud as usual.

'You already know why, John.'

John nodded slowly. 'So he wouldn't provide us with information if he got caught.'

'And again, so the second man could escape. Greg, run his name against the international data base. I think you'll find that he's our shooter.'

'What?!' they both asked at once.

'The second man is the one that ordered the hit. He's tying loose ends. He's cleaning up before he makes his last move.'

'Sherlock!' Greg was exasperated. 'If there's something you're not telling us...'

John went further along, more calmly: 'You think there's only one more shooting, one last shooting, you've just said it yourself', he anticipated the reproach Sherlock was about to fake to keep him in the dark. 'If the mastermind has severed ties with the shooter, then he'll have to find himself another shooter...'

'Unlikely.'

'Or he'll have to shoot himself. If he went about hiring someone in the first place he mustn't be that much of a shooter himself. So he'll have to find an easy clean opportunity for the last shot. An easy target, in an open area.'

Greg added: 'Actually, even if he misses...'

'The bullet's coating...' John understood. All along Sherlock seemed miles away in his mind.

'Instead of narrowing down the suspects, we've just opened the list to just about anyone, really.'

'And the fingerprints in the bunker, the car tires analysis on the factory, all those things?'

'Nothing came up yet, I'll keep you guys posted.'

John felt drained. Racing against time and always just slightly out of reach.

Sherlock glanced at him - that must be a record time for not pressing him for answers - before casually noticing: 'What if John wasn't the first?' Both man stared at him without saying a word.

Greg assured them: 'We haven't got unsolved hits like that, Sherlock, I checked.'

'None with that poison, sure, but what if no one noticed the poison and the victim died due to unclear complications? I'll need to ask Molly to have a look in the morgues as well.'

John closed his eyes and lowered his head to his chest for a second, saying: 'And me, I'll have a look at the files as well', he volunteered.

'John?!' Greg called him, circling his desk.

'He's fine (!)', Sherlock assured the detective inspector, leaning over his friend and unbuttoning his shirt to have a look at the bandages on the shoulder. John pushed him away violently, recovering from the weakness with a black humorous mood.

'Not dying this time around, Sherlock, no need to play the hero.'

There was a perceptible flash of hurt in the other's eyes, as he got back.

'Well, then, St. Bart's now. Will you come, John?' Sherlock asked, expressionless.

'Couldn't keep me out if you tried', he challenged, cold.

Behind them, Greg was looking very concerned.