-ooo-

'Sherlock, talk to me - talk to me, now!' John Watson, former army doctor, was actually dictating a thundering order to his friend, at the same time he checked Sherlock's arm for the gunshot wound. He took a sigh of relief as he understood it had just grazed Sherlock. As nasty as a graze could be, it might have been far worse. John held him tight in his arms (his own shoulder was hurting like crazy from the effort but he wouldn't ever let go again). 'You stupid ...bastard... what the ...hell... were you thinking?!'

'What?! I got you out of the way of a bullet, John!' he yelled back, indignant.

'Exactly!?' John yelled, with lost temper, but controlled actions.

'Would you prefer to be shot again?!'

'Yes!' he answered sincerely, before he could register what he had just said. 'Yes', he said, very calmly then. 'And No.'

'I know', Sherlock told him back, and then he frowned. 'This stings a lot', he complained.

John nodded as he kept pressuring a napkin against the wound. 'I'd think you'd know that, since it wasn't the first time you're shot.' John had to fight for his self-control every inch of the way, away from the memories of that other time, in Magnussen's office flooding him.

'Yeah, we're pros, now', Sherlock joined in, for John's benefit.

Despite the faked good humour, none of them was in a happy place. From far, they could hear the police sirens and the ambulance someone had called.

'And we'll take the bullet with us', Sherlock directed, with a strained voice.

'I know, I've already spotted it. But, Sherlock, there is no casing. No poison.' John was playing along, as if the case was the important thing. Surreal. Doubtfully he'd ever feel like a case was important ever again.

Even Sherlock had to glance at the bullet embedded on the wooden flooring, the best he could from his position.

'What does that mean?' John murmured. But Sherlock didn't answer and the paramedics were stepping in already. John turned to them with control, and said, in a clear emotionless voice: 'Male, healthy, no history of chronic diseases, gunshot graze wound to the upper right arm region, the cut was clean and the bleeding is controlled at the moment. His blood type is O-, and he's not on any medication at the moment, and has no allergies. He'll need about five stitches transversely. Oh, and I'm going with you in the ambulance, guys.'

Sherlock had his gaze frozen on John. All of a sudden he looked distant, cold, as Sherlock felt frail, vulnerable. For a second, he wondered if John cared as much as Sherlock had cared, turned off by the army doctor façade. Then Sherlock's gaze fell upon John's shoulder, quite by accident. And he saw the blood stain erupting on John's shirt, still disguised under his jumper, but even if the paramedics couldn't see John's pain, John could certainly feel it to his core, as he kept holding Sherlock up, uselessly, as the stretcher was being set, John wouldn't let go of Sherlock, wouldn't let his friend and hero fall to the ground.

'I'm okay, John', he found himself lying, the same way John had done. A lie to help others, to protect them from a truth that was set on stone. John smiled to him, as if he could believe it, he really couldn't.

-ooo-

'Six, John!' Sherlock protested as they waited for the nurse to bring in the dismiss papers for the patient. 'You said five and they made it six stitches, John.' They sat side by side in two stretchers on a small nursing room at the Hospital. There was a curtain between them, but it had been pushed back so they could see each other.

'Honestly, Sherlock, I'm just a GP now, my bad...' he claimed, half-smiling, slumping himself back on the uncomfortable stretcher. Again he had his shoulder exposed and had been awarded a couple new stitches as well. His voice was getting slurry from the anaesthetics.

Sherlock had had some too, but his had been more localized so he felt better in his arm, and much less hazy. The tremors and cold that had come with shock were fading at last. In the end it was transport for his mind, his body, he needed to keep that present. An annoying setback, an incentive to catch the one responsible. Sherlock was carefully getting his shirt back on over his bandaged arm, wondering if he should leave now, or if he'd actually wait to be discharged before heading back into the case at hands. He didn't want to leave before John (lest the need to reenter the hospital illegally later on) so he settled for staying quietly for now.

'You're not going to sleep now, and leave me here alone, are you?' Sherlock asked John, before he could check himself.

John smiled, a happy childish smile. 'I could sit here hearing you talk for ages.'

Sherlock looked at him sideways. 'What have they gone and put into you, John?'

He laughed and then answered truthfully with a complicated long chemical compound name. 'The fun part of it will wear off in five minutes, don't worry...' he waved off in the air. 'Oh, yeah, you never worry, I forgot again', he shook his head with a bit too much enthusiasm for a non-drugged up person.

'Actually...' Sherlock started, more animated with his friend's currant outtake on life, 'I worry a lot, John.' He'd probably forget all about it in a couple of hours, anyway.

John half-closed his eyes, drowsy.

'Are you sure you're reacting normally?' Sherlock asked him, for what it was worth.

He nodded again, before he burst into giggles. 'It's not funny, so stop it', he said firmly, looking at him with a sweet expression in his blue eyes.

'Now you're starting to freak me out', Sherlock commented with a smile.

'I just wanted to make you laugh', he spilled the beans. 'I was meant to keep quiet. And you were told not to talk to me.'

'Yes, I was...' he remembered. 'So this was funny why?'

He giggled, helplessly. Then he grimaced. 'It's wearing off, now...'

'Maybe it's for the best', Sherlock assured him, quietly.

There was a slight knock on the door, and Mycroft appeared. Still in a better mood, Sherlock acknowledged: 'I'd rather have the red haired nurse to get us out of here, Mycroft.'

'She'll be in shortly', he assured his brother, sternly. 'So, it grazed your arm, did it?'

Sherlock nodded, serious. 'I bet you've read all my medical file before you came here, you know this is not important.'

Mycroft shrugged, like he probably did. On the other stretcher, John burst out in giggles. Mycroft looked at him slightly appalled, then to Sherlock, who confided: 'We're not supposed to keep him talking... But it's fun. John, you remember Mycroft, my brother?'

John frowned for a moment, before telling Mycroft, slurring: 'You owe me... a cat.'

Mycroft's eyes widened before turning to Sherlock, who was trying hard to keep his laughter silent. 'Oh, he's talking about his own sister when he was a child, never mind', he dismissed it briefly. 'He was more fun before you came in.'

'That bullet', Mycroft focused, 'was it meant for you or for him?'

'Don't know', Sherlock alleged, but his brother believed he was holding something back.

'If you got shot because of him!' he said in a furious manner before he could contain himself, pointing openly at John, who now followed what he said hazily.

'Mycroft, are you caring?' Sherlock answered in the same way, angry that John was there to hear his words. Mycroft just pursed his lips tight and assured: 'Convince me you know what you are doing, and that you are safe, or I'll pull you off Baker Street, Sherlock.'

'I'm happy to see you too', said Sherlock as he turned to leave, more controlled.

'And please don't make me come back here again', he said, loathing the Hospital. More than that, secretly caring very much for his brother. Sherlock smiled, only after he left.

'John?' he called his friend.

'Hm?' he heard grunt back.

'Are you awake?'

John burst into innocent giggles, again. Sherlock smiled, that was fun.

'You're not in pain, are you?'

'No, it's fine!'

'You're not angry at me, are you?'

'No, it's all fine!'

Sherlock stared at him.

'You're not lying, are you?'

'It's fine!'

'Hm?' Sherlock frowned.

John looked sad. 'I'm sorry, I didn't catch... Double negatives...?'

'You should sleep it off, John', he finally let go.

'Will you stay there?' he asked, vulnerable, and closing his eyes. Doubling Sherlock's earlier question.

'Yes, I will', he assured him, quietly. 'Have nice dreams.'

He smiled. 'You also.'

-ooo-

'Didn't expect to see you two back in here so soon', Greg said, worriedly, as he caught up with Sherlock and John being discharged out of the Hospital, the next morning.

'Where are the flowers?' Sherlock noticed. This time, Greg hadn't brought flowers as he had for John.

John reproached him with a fast glance, Greg replied anyway: 'I'm on a tight budget, and the pair of you seem to be coming here a lot.'

'Just joking', John alleged, trying to make peace. 'Last night, that was weird, Greg. We need to start considering that someone might be following our every move. There is just no way anyone knew where I was going last night...'

Greg asked, forcefully. 'Care to elaborate on that, Sherlock?'

'What do you mean?' John defended him, on instinct.

'Well, Greg realizes I knew where you were going, John', Sherlock spelled it out.

'Yeah, but you hadn't real plans to be going there more than I did!'

The detective inspector asked then: 'And Mary?'

John turned to him. 'Went home after the gym class and never even knew what had happened before Sherlock called her.'

'You didn't call her yourself?'

He frowned. 'I think I spoke to her, not sure what I said, the anaesthetics had taken a big toll on me... It... hm... reopened, that's why they wanted me here for the night as well.' John was avoiding Greg's look, now, Sherlock noticed. John didn't want to explain his injury yet again.

'And you, Sherlock?' he turned to the other friend.

'It just grazed my arm', he explained, stern as the situation seemed to call for. Honestly he didn't care much about it anymore. Now it was just the annoyance of having to spare his dominant arm in the daily chores. Of course John would never hear of not caring about a bullet graze, so there was a perceived battle ahead in the next weeks. 'Six stitches, although five would suffice.' John glanced at him, confused.

'And which one of you was the target, after all?'

'I think it was me', Sherlock stated calmly. 'No way we can be sure. We were on the move, pacing and turning, the shooter could have aimed at any of us, really. Either way, he was repeating himself.'

'Why would he aim at your arm?' Greg wouldn't let it go. He knew something was up, even from Sherlock's expression.

'We already know that this second shooter is less proficient than the first.'

Greg pursed his lips straight, there was something quite not right...

John talked, all of a sudden: 'There was no poisoned casing this time. That's significant.'

'Yes. We're working in the bullet, but so far it appears to be similar to the other ones... So,' he tried to lighten the mood, 'which one of you two is going to get fussed over by Mrs Hudson now?'

As immediate reactions, John pointed over at Sherlock and Sherlock frowned annoyed.