I own nothing. BBC owns them. Lucky bastards.

John cancelled the rest of his appointments and went back to the flat. He wanted to talk to Molly again, but he was terrified of what she would tell him. What if he was insane and just making things up because he wanted so desperately for them to be true? It certainly seemed feasible. He felt like he had been warped back to just after Sherlock had jumped off the building. He didn't know how to feel. And he had never been so lost or alone.

-We found SM. GL

-Where?-

-Mirror Inn, rm 202. On Kings St.-

-On my way. No sirens, nothing to tip him off-

Sherlock pocketed the phone, and hailed a cab. He had the driver drop him off about a block away from the Inn, and took the back streets to the Service Entrance. He slipped inside as a frustrated maintenance man stormed out, hitting the wall before pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with shaking hands. Sherlock barely noticed, except to note that he wanted a cigarette quite badly. However, it could wait. He wouldn't be surprised if Moran had some sort of surveillance of the street and corridors. He didn't look up, just kept his head down, walking with purpose toward 202. With any luck, Moran wouldn't shoot him the moment he entered the room. Well, entered being a euphemism. Upon arriving at room 202 he kicked open the door, splintering the lock. Lestrade had been right, it was Moran. As the door splintered open, he leapt up, whirled, and fired. Luckily, Sherlock had been expecting something like that and was flinging himself to the side as he entered. A bullet slammed into the wall just behind where his head would have been.

He retrieved his own gun, and Moran blinked in surprise. Sherlock had designed the jacket specially. Deepened the pockets so it was impossible to tell what, if anything, was in them. He'd had Molly go out of the room and put different things in the pockets, including the gun, and readjusting the pockets until he couldn't tell when there was something in them at all.

Moran didn't stay surprised long, he fired again. Sherlock had seen it coming, the man had a tell, a slight shifting of the eyes, and a tiny movement of his trigger finger, as though he were caressing the trigger, just before he shot. Sherlock didn't know if he could be so lucky a third time. Moran was clever, and a bloody amazing shot. He wouldn't miss a third time. Sherlock got off a shot himself, but it missed, bullet lodging itself in the bookshelf to Moran's left. The man himself remained focused, gun up, finger twitching. Sherlock feinted to the left, then dropped straight down. Moran got off two shots, one where Sherlock would have been had he actually jumped to the left, and one that he actually felt whizz through his hair. One shot left. At least, in that gun. Moran probably had others stashed elsewhere.

He could see Moran approaching from his reflection in the window. He'd only have one shot at this. He stood, whirled, and shot, just as a second loud crack rang out. He felt something thud into his left shoulder. He dully saw Moran fall to his knees, hole in his stomach. Somehow, Sherlock managed to edge over to him, glare at the man gasping for breath on the floor. He raised his gun again and fired, the bullet going cleanly through Moran's head.

Hospital he thought. His vision was already greying, he clutched at his shoulder. He'd never imagined it would hurt this badly. It was lucky, he knew, that he had fired when he did. The recoil had made it so he'd moved slightly as Moran's bullet had entered his body, otherwise it would have hit him solidly in the heart. He managed to get out the door before collapsing from pain and blood loss. He heard running feet, and Lestrade's voice issuing an all clear. "You idiot, you should have waited." He blacked out.

He awoke in a hospital, IV dripping a clear fluid into his arm. Lestrade was standing there, arms crossed. "Why the hell didn't you wait Sherlock?"

"Had to end it. It wasn't safe if he remained alive." Lestrade ran a hand through his hair.

"Yeah, but it wasn't your decision to make. You should have let the courts handle it." Sherlock scoffed.

"He wouldn't have been charged with anything, he's too good. And anyway, he shot first."

"Self defense, alright. We can go with that."

"What if no one were to find the gun he was shot with, and there was no way to prove that I shot him at all? There might have been a second shooter and I was just at the wrong place at the wrong time." Sherlock grinned, then winced, as a stab of pain shot through him. Lestrade rolled his eyes. "How bad is it?"

"You'll have a nice scar. But they got the bullet out cleanly, and even though you lost a lot of blood, you're fine now. You have to stay a few days, for observation and to make sure the bullet wound doesn't get infected." Sherlock nodded.

"Where's John?"

"At his flat, I assume."

"No one told him? I've been here three days, and no one told him?"

"How'd you know how long you've been here?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. There was a whiteboard on the wall opposite him. It had the date on it. Lestrade noticed it and had the grace to look embarrassed. "Look, we weren't sure if you'd want him to know. We didn't even tell the hospital folks who you were." He sighed. "I have to go. I'll stop by John's place tonight and let him know where you are."

"No, don't do that. You were right, I don't want him to know I got hurt. Let him think I'm dead for a bit longer." Lestrade nodded.

"Just stay here and relax. Heal up." Sherlock nodded. A nurse came in and asked him questions and fiddled with his medication. He still felt a bit fuzzy, being unconscious for three days will do that to a person, but he was still fairly lucid. Whatever pain meds they had him on were working, mostly, aside from a rather unpleasant constant throbbing in his shoulder. He waited fifteen minutes after she left to rip the IV from his arm. It started beeping at him, but he ignored it. His clothes were lying on a chair across the room. He knew that wasn't supposed to happen. Lestrade. He had to grin, but he dressed quickly. Different clothes. Not the ones he'd been wearing upon admission. He wasn't sure where Lestrade had gotten one of his old suits, or the coat that looked remarkably similar to his old one, but in either case, Lestrade obviously knew he was going to make a break for it as soon as possible. Good for him. Sherlock made a mental note to thank him. Not outright, because Lestrade wouldn't be able to admit helping to sneak someone out of a hospital when he'd been shot, but maybe he would be nicer at the next crime scene or something. He'd figure it out. He dressed quickly as he could, though buttoning the shirt took longer than he'd expected, as little flares of pain kept shooting up and down his arm.

He pulled on the coat, too bad Lestrade couldn't find him a scarf, but, he'd take what he could get he supposed, and peeked out the door. Nothing. The machine was still beeping infernally behind him, so he quickly pulled the door closed and started down the hall. He thought at one point he heard a gasp of recognition, but he couldn't be sure if it was his nurse who knew he shouldn't be wandering around in street clothes or if someone recognized him from the papers, so he walked faster.

When he finally reached the street, he was a bit dizzy. Too much action after blood loss and unconsciousness, not to mention the physical trauma of being shot and the mental and emotional trauma of the past three years he decided. He hailed a cab, gave the address for John's new flat. He closed his eyes and passed out in the cab, woken only by the rough yell of the cabbie. He didn't have any money, having just broken out of the hospital and his wallet in his other pants, but he ignored that. Gave the cabbie a phone number and promised compensation. He hurried away while the cabbie was still yelling insults, threatening to call the cops and just being generally unpleasant. Ridiculous. Mycroft would pay him, if he'd just call the damn number. He pushed every single buzz button, and, luckily, someone let him in. He leaned against the wall, regaining his breath for a moment—this being an invalid thing was not working out well for him at all—and then headed into the lift. He slumped against the wall during the short trip, his legs already shaky, and his shoulder hurting more now, the medication was wearing off.

Now he stood outside John's door, staring at the handle. He touched it with one finger, then slowly turned the handle. Locked. Shit.

John had been about to take a sip of tea when the door handle jiggled. He had called out of work the past few days, trying to sort everything out. He hadn't answered his phone or buzzed anyone up when someone came by. But still, someone was at his door. He slowly stood up and walked toward the door. He reached out a shaking hand and unlocked it, then slowly pulled it open. The figure standing there couldn't possibly be there. He couldn't be.

"Hello John," it said, and oh god, he was there, pale and emaciated and clearly in pain from the way he held his left arm stiff and was bracing himself against the door frame with his right, but he was there and he was alive and smiling.

The mug of tea shattered on the floor.

And…..that's that. The end! Sorry it took so long to get up. I had acute writers block. Then I rewrote it several times. Thanks for sticking with me. And I'd love to hear reviews.