Fuck.

This was the second time this week that Sherlock had internally cussed, highly unusual, but this was for much worse reasons than the first. Swiftly pulling the door closed, with John firmly outside it, and firing three shots into the air (much quicker than telephoning), Sherlock surveyed the damage.

Abdominal wounds are serious. The first few minutes are crucial in most cases, and the extreme weight loss only worsened his chances. Many vital organs could be compromised if this wasn't mended quickly. Taking off his trademark blue scarf, Sherlock applied pressure to the wound and kept John talking, kept him awake. Stroking the hair away from John's forehead with his spare hand, Sherlock told John of how what people said was true and how he wanted to be with him and how sentiment was definitely not a chemical defect found in the losing side and how they'd eventually retire together and live by the sea, in St Anne's or somewhere quiet. He told John everything he'd ever wanted, and exactly how John fulfilled those desires. An ambulance arrived, probably thanks to Mycroft, and Sherlock heard himself saying that he needed to ride in the ambulance with him, he needed to be with John, and nobody complained. A private room at St Bart's had been prepared, again, probably Mycroft, and John was rushed into surgery to remove the bullet and observe the damage.

What felt like hours later, Sherlock was finally approached by a doctor. The prognosis was good, John should make a full recovery, and he was allowed visitors. He could finally see his John. Sherlock pondered for a millisecond on when John became "his" in any way, before rushing into the room to see the results. John looked, if possible, even thinner than ever, lost in an oversized hospital bed. His eyes were open, but glazed from the morphine. Fairly compus-mentus though, that was surprising. Sherlock might have to revoke his earlier statement; sentiment may very well be a defect if it made him hurt this badly.

"I heard what you said. Before". John's voice was weak, he sounded so small and unhealthy. So unlike before the Fall.

"I meant it. Every word". Sherlock suddenly found nothing to say. It was all well and good to confess having feelings to a dying man, but knowing that John could hear him made it all so difficult. Sherlock had lived as a self-proclaimed sociopath, adopting the diagnosis of anti-social behavioural disorder as a teen, for most of his life, shirking emotion entirely. It was John that had changed everything. He'd made him feel. The doctor had made him human. And admitting it, openly accepting that he could love and feel and hurt, that he'd been wrong, was not pleasant at all.

The look in John's eyes though, seeing that Sherlock truly loved him and honestly wanted that life with John, made all the anguish of admitting defeat worth it. John's adoration of Sherlock, his ability to put up with the man despite his foulest moods and most irritating habits, made every ounce of pain Sherlock had ever felt worth it. Even the torture of being apart from his blogger whilst tracking down Moriarty's men; worth it. As long as Sherlock could be with John, it was all going to work out.

John's eyes were beginning to drift closed; he was exhausted and the surgery, not to mention the drugs, were taking it's toll. "Get some rest, love, I'll be here when you wake up", Sherlock said, anxious that his doctor would heal. John nodded sleepily, shutting his eyes and turning on his good side, his arm outstretched. Sherlock took his hand, rubbing soothing circles with his thumb until John's breathing steadied and slowed and sleep overcame him.

"Well, isn't that a sight for sore eyes, brother".

Mycroft's drawl cut through the comfortable silence like a knife. Sherlock groaned audibly. Mycroft was the last person he wanted to see right now. "Caring is most decidedly not an advantage, if it allows you to leave a murderer in her hiding place with the knowledge that we know where she is." Sherlock was getting increasingly pissed with every second Mycroft spent in the room. "Nevertheless", he continued, "the police have been given the address and a raid is being carried out as we speak. John is to stay here overnight, and provided that his condition remains stable, he will be released into your care in the morning; I know how you despise hospitals. You will be given full training regarding how to address his injuries, and are entirely responsible for his aftercare. Are we clear?" Mycroft gained a nod from his brother, and turned to leave.

Sherlock, for the second time in so many minutes, groaned. With a look of pure and utter disdain, he turned to his brother, not relinquishing his hold on John's hand for a millisecond. "Don't you want to know how he is?". Knowing the answer would be no, he continued. "And don't you have anything to say upon my return but a message from the nurse? I asked you to look out for John if something happened to me. I asked you to make sure he was all right. And look at him! Does he look like he is all fine and dandy?" Silence ensued and Sherlock returned his gaze to his lover, pointedly ignoring Mycroft.

"I'm sorry for your pain". The door closed behind Mycroft and Sherlock was left to fall asleep in the chair, head resting inches from John's, and holding his hand as if he was holding on for dear life.

The morning arrived far too slowly for Sherlock's liking. He had only managed to sleep a little from all the worry, and nurses were checking the room every time he managed to get his eyes shut. Nonetheless, the morning did, in fact, arrive and John was fit to discharge himself from the hospital. During the taxi ride back to Baker street, the air was tense. Sherlock worried, petrified that he had done something wrong. Did he admit all those things too quickly? Did he crowd his lover? What was it? It never occurred to him that John may be having the same issues admitting his feelings; Sherlock had assumed that John, much more experienced with relationships than him, would be struggling to come to terms with feelings for a man. Homophobia is as rife as homosexuality in the army, and John's squadron was teeming with the former.

Helping John up the stairs, Sherlock assisted him into bed, ran to make a cup of tea and brought it to his side. He needed rest; the nurses made that perfectly clear. Passing John the steaming cup with a kiss, Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed and shuffled uncomfortably. They needed to talk, that was clear, and as they say, no time like the present, but Sherlock was unsure of how to start it.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you. I just want you to know"

Hearing this, John's face split into a fantastical grin. Even with the second bullet wound of his life, John was incredibly happy. Sherlock relaxed instantly; even more so when he heard an "I love you too".

"I meant what I said, at the warehouse. I want to be with you, properly with you. I want people to know, I want to hold hands going down the street, I want a real relationship, like you used to have with all of those women. I want to be with you. And it scares me because before you, I'd never even felt a remote attachment to someone, I thought I was entirely incapable of feeling at all. I was a sociopath until I met you. And now I have to admit that I was wrong and I have all these feelings and I can't quantify them. And it's really scary." Sherlock looked down, unable to make eye contact. It was only when he felt the bed shift that he looked up; John had stretched out his arms, inviting an embrace. Snuggling into his partner, Sherlock relaxed again, the increased heart rate and adrenaline from his babbling subsiding. "I want that too, you know. And you're the first man I've been with, so I'm scared too. But it will be fine. We have each other. It will always be fine." John was surprised at how easily the words came, when he had been struggling for them since they had sex.

"Won't Mrs Hudson be pleased!"