A/N: Sorry I was away, can't edit a thing on my phone. May have needed a better phone and a few less tens of thousands of people at work, yesterday. (Yes, I really mean literally what I wrote, just- just don't ask.) I needed to make sure to add this next line.

Alert: I'm fairly sure this first section is a bit creepy (for lack of a better word) to some people, and if it makes you squirm, then please move on to the (relief) section next.

There will be no further similar gratuitous-squirm alerts arising (I checked).

I have no excuse, except that maybe it unites the first part of the story, where the case comes to the detective and the blogger by means of a bullet entering 221B, and the second part, starting when the former soldier shot a bullet out of the Watsons residence.

Oh, how in the world is your mind like, C- ? ("that's me by the way, Hi!" - direct quoting now, to divert attentions...). -csf

-ooo-

'Please hold very still now', John directed as he held up the needle. Sherlock looked at him silently. He had full confidence on John's abilities to start with. And then there was that empathic but stern professional attitude with which he addressed every bruise Sherlock ever had returned to 221B with, or the outcome of a close call on a knife fight. Sure, he had preached Sherlock care and security, but all the while a tinge of a smile in the corner of his lips seemed to defy "how many of them did you get?" and the very next time John was by his side to share his battles with complete disregard for his own safety.

John prepared the material they had borrowed of a first aid kit with a tense expression on his face. This was not a grateful task on him. Fixing his friend was a good thing, having to hurt him in order to do it was close to unbearable and required the numbing of all his senses, one by one. This was why rules and regulations had been invented to prevent doctors to tend to patients they were too close to, and John was surely too close to Sherlock now.

Sherlock watched the cold stone expression in Dr. Watson, realizing how much John didn't want to be his doctor right then. But why was that any different from chicken soup on a flu or ice on a sprained ankle? John had never backed down before, and he'd never back down now, so why go through the whole process complaining and doing it anyway was beyond his friend's understanding.

Sherlock couldn't help to flinch on the first approach of the needle to skin, even if he knew what was coming and knew he could endure much worse. He saw John take a deep breath like it was hurting him as much.

John whispered in an emotionless voice: 'If you could pay attention, please, I might need you to redo mine. They aren't right. I shouldn't ask you, and it's one of the worse things I'll ever ask you in my life, and I understand if you say No.'

His hands were working fast and light, dextrous and precise. Properly medicated, the second and third punctures had been expected and it had mostly been the weird feeling of thread running through that affected Sherlock.

'Yes, of course, what you need.'

'There, it's done. Sorry it took so long.'

'Double knot again. It's like a signature, you just can't help yourself... John, are you alright?'

'Light-headed, that's all. I'm fine.'

'How long do you think it'll take me?'

'A bit longer than me. Not too long, you've got a good teacher', he joked. He covered his work with fresh bandages and finally drew a deep breath out. 'So...?'

'Yes, I said "yes".'

Sherlock picked needle and thread and disinfected them. John leaned back against the circus tent wall. Reaching for the alcohol bottle he took a few good sips.

'Don't be so childish', his friend teased to clear the air some. John laughed.

'All doctors are the worst patients... Okay, one by one, let's start at this side, it's the easy one. It's going to be like a freaking computer game.'

'Is it?'

'Of course it is. There's not much to it, either. And you're a certified genius, you got this, Sherlock. Ready?'

Sherlock nodded. Strangely enough he never said the word. But John pushed through. Some blood surfaced the edges, not much, to Sherlock's relief. He took the needle and followed the instructions for placement that John provided, clear, scientific, detached, calculated words out of some medical textbook. The very thing that could get him at ease. Motivated he pushed the instrument in. There was a disguised gasp in John's breathing, his pupils dilated in an instinctive response to pain.

'Sorry.' Sherlock stared at John's face. Was this going to be like that all the time? (You can't do this to me, John.)

'Didn't feel a thing', he lied, and smiled to pacify his friend. 'Go on, knot.'

'One down.' Sherlock felt a certain relief.

'Yes.' He was breathing in deeper, with shallow intervals. He was pushing himself to control all his reactions, Sherlock noticed.

'Next', Sherlock said. Confidence growing from his first success.

'Maybe a bit faster, now', John asked.

'What do you mean?'

'Well, I guess we've got all night', he backtracked his request.

'No, no, I can be faster, sure. Ready?'

John nodded briefly and he inserted it with trembling fingers. No, he had to control it, he had to do it better... John's hand came over his, frozen dead-like fingers that still held all their dexterity guided him along the path and abandoned him as soon as it came out the other way. His breathing was now shallow, and there was a lot of red coming out, sending Sherlock close to a panic attack.

'John, John what is happening?' Sherlock really needed to know, his brain was blanking of all logic and knowledge.

'Sensitive area, you're doing fine, ignore it. Don't freak out on me, you aren't done yet.'

'Can you do it?'

There was a pained expression in John's eyes as he smiled and took over. 'Sure, I'll do it. Can you hold the mirror up for me?'

'Mirror, yes, mirror...'

Sherlock's hands were shaking as he abandoned his work and held up the mirror for John to see.

'You're a natural at this', John said, but his voice was going weird now. And so were his eyes. And there kept coming off a lot of red, Sherlock noticed. Then it dawned on him, John was going into shock. The sweat over his face, the cold hands, the contracted pupils, the eerily drowned voice. John was crashing himself by trying to doctor his wound on his own after the toll of helping his friend. That's was why doctors should attend to themselves first, like parents and oxygen masks on airplanes, he of all people who hold rules and regulations dear should know that, why had he ignored it?

'John', he stopped his hand short. 'I can do it. Just breath deep and keep talking about something, anything, not this, not what is going on here.' Sherlock was back in control, his reasoning had pushed through, John was in his now safe steady hands.

'I'm not in shock, Sherlock.' The doctor saw right through it, and tried to calm his friend down, it was obvious he knew he was approaching it.

'Tell me about your sister', Sherlock asked.

'Don't be silly, you've met her.' John flinched as it was going through him. Sherlock may not be able to name in his mind the piece of metal but as long as he performed a menial manual task of no great significance he could pull through.

'What does she do for a living?' Sherlock insisted.

'You've already deduced it, why should I answer you?' he smiled, it was a compliment. Bleeding his shoulder out in a freakish circus tent and he still complimented the detective.

'Prove me wrong, won't you try?' Sherlock defied.

'Fine... She's a teacher and...' This time he let out a little gasp, but that awful look on his eyes was fading into a stronger gaze. Sherlock insisted:

'How many cats?'

'Four, I think. But if she had it her way might have been a dozen. She really likes cats.'

'You like cats.' Sherlock recalled.

'Yeah, but not a dozen...' Common sense, good old John was so fond of it.

(Last one, hang in there.) 'And your lactose allergy?' Sherlock questioned next.

'Not even sure I got one... Holly- !... Sorry! I meant to say "good job", really good job.' Compliments, again. (Still feels as the wrong damned time for them, John.)

'Liar... There, it's done, the worst part of it at least. Are you still breathing?'

'Technically, if I'm speaking then...'

Sherlock frowned on him, feeling relieved it was over and he'd made it through. Hell, and that John had made it through as well, at Sherlock's hands, it was no small victory. 'Don't be smart.'

'Never!' he pretended to vow. 'Can I see it?'

Sherlock pulled up the mirror. John looked at it, inspecting with a fake disinterest. 'Good job', he repeated.

'Liar, I said.' Sherlock leaned against the wall as well, by his side. He was feeling good now it was over, the panic was gone.

'I mean it', he actually insisted as he covered the shoulder with a bandage. 'And I apologise too. I should never have placed you in this spot, you...'

'Shut up, John, to save your strengths. Tomorrow we're back on the run. And this better be the last time you have me rummaging through your... red thing.'

'"Red thing"?'

'You're a doctor, surely you know what it is.'

John giggled. 'You can't say "blood"? You say it a lot at a crime scene, Sherlock, and you experiment with it in your improvised lab of a kitchen.' Sherlock smiled at last.

'It doesn't bother me there.' (It's not yours, John.)

'Fair enough', John conceded. He looked exhausted. As he fell asleep, he drifted slowly towards his friend. Sherlock just let him lean against him, as he kept a watchful eye over the entrance of the tent for the Old Psychic Cannibal.

-ooo-

If John had it his way he'd be playing poker with the two acrobats and the magician for another hour before they left. If Sherlock hadn't insisted it was time to go, John would have lost all his cash, his phone and maybe some clothes gambling. If John hadn't insisted on one last game, Sherlock wouldn't have sat down to join them, understood very fast who was cheating and how to turn it in their favour. That way, they both walked out of there with five hundred pounds profit each, new sweaters (that's what they needed, to be fair) and the respect of all those at the table.

But it was definitely time to leave. As the attractive Romanian woman who presented the show in the arena came to talk to them in her sequels long evening gown, high heels, and red shiny lips, her foreign accent gave charms to her goodbyes.

'Nice to have had the chance to repay you for old times, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.'

'Nice to see the business is doing fine, Ms. Rina', he answered. John looked over at him, interested. That must have been one of those cases John had been left out off. Contrary to popular belief, there were plenty of those, some because they were prior to their friendship, some because Sherlock hadn't invited him, for unknown reasons (possibly closely related to that morality clause).

'Took me three years to rebuild the smuggling ring you torn apart', John looked over at her, confused. (She owed Sherlock a favour to start with?) 'I'd do anything to escape the Baron. Giving up and starting over was easy. Do you like what I built here?'

'Lovely, too bad we need to go.'

She smiled and blinked provocatively at him. 'Too bad, yes... And, Sherlock, we're even now.' He nodded, and then they left. Sherlock waited a couple of seconds to remember, idly, as he and John walked off: 'She is actually a great runner, for a woman with a wooden leg, that was the basis for the whole operation, years ago.'

John just had to look over his shoulder to the woman walking away in sensual high heeled steps. 'Really?!' Sherlock just smiled.

'And that is why you shouldn't play poker, John. How many times need I tell you that?'

'Shut up, we won.'

'Thanks to me', Sherlock said pointedly.

'I knew you'd join in only if I was already loosing badly, it's not rocket science...' John said in his turn, smiling smugly. Sherlock cursed, staring at him. They hailed a cab nearby.

'For the record, John, you're the only person who does that.' Sherlock clarified as he opened the cab door.

'Do what? Play poker badly to win?'

'Play me well.'

John smiled and closed the door shut after them. 'I don't, really. For instance, I never got to convince you to come over to my house, Sherlock. Plenty of times I've invited you, too.'

'You don't like it in Baker Street anymore, John?'

'There you go, changing the subject. Of course I do. It's sort of... home. Not at all like my home when I was growing up, I don't mean it like that. It's much cosier and...' he was struggling for words.

'Your childhood home wasn't "cosy"?' Sherlock repeated looking at the view of the streets they rolled by.

'No, it was, it was, I mean... You understand, right?'

'Not really, no.'

'My father was just sort of... so my house was just sort of... No, sorry, no words yet. Not even therapy can help me, I suppose.'

'You're welcomed at my place anytime.'

'Thanks, but I'm not a runaway child, Sherlock.' His voice was a touch harsh.

'Because I don't want you to stop coming back to Baker Street', Sherlock added.

'Sorry?'

'I don't want to go to your place because then it's two against one. You and Mary would stop going to my place, I'd be always going to yours.'

'Oh. Well, now I know, it doesn't have to be like that', John assured him.

'If you stopped going to my place, soon you'd stop coming along on our cases.'

'No, of course not, it's not going to be like that.'

'And when you stop coming along on our cases you start developing weird food allergies', Sherlock ended it on a funny note. John giggled.

'I'm not even sure I have...'

'You have. I looked it up on one of your old medical textbooks you left behind, by your chair, second shelf. You should know these things, you're a doctor, John.'

'We're not supposed to diagnose ourselves, you know...' He took a deep breath. 'It didn't feel safe, Sherlock, that's the word. Baker Street does, and I know that's crazy, it just does.'

This time Sherlock didn't reply, as he always did. He just glanced over at John, and John pretended not to notice anything but the landscape outside the cab until Sherlock looked away again. A secret for a secret; Sherlock knew John had come through at great personal difficulty because Sherlock had come clean first. John was the only one that understood him, he really felt that.

They were heading towards a new location. Sure they should have been avoiding cabs still but John was hardly strong enough to walk around London districts by foot and in busses. As he sat by his friend's side, he must have known he was being watched carefully. It didn't help that Sherlock was a (renowned) detective. Still, as Sherlock looked upon John he evaluated the recent weight loss (the darned food allergy didn't help, nor the time in and out of hospitals), the sheet white tinge on his demeanour from all the blood loss (there's that word again, he can say it again, apparently), the haggard expression of a man who's haunted (both by the police and his actions), and it hardly made him health magazine cover material. All the more reasons to watch him carefully over the next few days.

(The worst, John, is now gone, and the ending is near. It all should have been a lazy evening in Baker Street, like old days. We'll fix this and redo that plan, we'll make sure of that.)

John's phone rang; a strangely out of pitch sound that the resuscitated phone could gargle up after the river water had sipped into its systems. He took it off his pocket and they both stared at it.

'I think it says Greg', John evaluated the damaged screen.

'Four letters, I concur. Still, lots of people with four letter names.'

'I don't think it's Mary or Molly.'

'Molly is a five letter name.'

'Oh. Still Yard is four letters long.' John wouldn't take the call.

'Yard? You wrote Yard for the Scotland Yard's phone number?'

'I thought it would save time, Sherlock. How about your phone, is it working now?'

'I'll get a new one, waterproof.'

The small apparatus stopped ringing at last. 'Let's hope they'll text.'

'We wouldn't be able to read much on there, John.'

'Oh... I would like to know that Mary is alright, though.' John confessed that with as much detachment as he could, the detachment a fugitive of the law should have under the circumstances, but it was fairly obvious that the thought had been weighting him down.

John was married now, John had a wife. 'What is it like to have someone you are always worrying about?' Sherlock asked out of curiosity.

'Why would I answer you? You already seem to know.' True, still it took his friend by surprise that John would admit knowing he was under scrutiny.

'We do some of our best conversations in cabs now, John.'

'We are very messed up indeed.'