A/N: I'm so sorry I haven't been updating. To be honest, I'm still thinking of ideas on how to stretch out the plot and what will happen in the climax. But we're getting there! Thank you to those who are sticking with me, specifically johnsarmylady: Thank you for your reviews and help! I appreciate everyone's reviews and expect a Fun Fact after each of the chapters!

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Watson."

"Dr. It's Dr. Watson," was the immediate response.

"Of course, Dr. Watson," the psychiatrist, Dr. Pennypacker said. "Now, uh, Dr. Watson, could you tell me what's troubling you?"

John shifted uncomfortably. He glanced at the impatient detective in the kitchen, his arms crossed and having a Death Glare Battle with the oven.

"I- I can't leave the house," John confessed. He wished Sherlock would leave. Having to admit it was one thing; having Sherlock listen to it was worse. It was embarrassing, because Sherlock never had these sort of trivial issues, though to a real human it would be a huge issue. John felt a surge of rage.

But Mycroft didn't hire idiots. Dr. Pennypacker turned to see what John was glancing at and understood. "Mr. Holmes," he called,"would you be so kind as to leave while we're having our session? It is between Dr. Watson and myself. Doctor-patient confidentiality, if you will."

Sherlock scowled and marched out of the flat. John winced as the detective stomped down the stairs and out the door.

"Would you like to tell me how you came to be in a wheelchair, Dr. Watson?" the psychiatrist inquired now that Sherlock was gone.

John took a deep breath. "I pushed him."

"Who?"

"Sherlock Holmes." John pointed to the door. "Someone tried to shoot him. I pushed him. It hit me instead."

"Mmhm. And do you regret your actions?" Dr. Pennypacker jotted something down.

John was stopped by that question. Did he regret taking a bullet for Sherlock, a bullet that had ruined his life?

Sherlock walked down the sidewalk, fuming but happy to be out of the horrible place he had spent a week in doing nothing. The thoughts in his head were extremely childish but he couldn't help them.

Damn Olsewski...damn the psychologist...damn the surgeons...damn the wheelchair...damn John-!

Sherlock stopped and swerved into an alley, suddenly furious, all relief to have escaped the flat vanished. He kicked a trashcan hard. The noise echoed around the buildings as the metal cylinder fell and spewed its contents.

Damn John! All his fault! Everything! Dammit! Damn John Watson!

What was he thinking? Damn John? What for?

He wasn't kidding himself. You know what for! For playing the bloody hero and pushing you out of the way of a bullet! You're taller than him; if you had been hit, it would have hit your thigh. You wouldn't be paralyzed. Not like John.

And damn John for joining the army! He was too quick, too troubled and suicidal already. The man suffered from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Add never-walk-again to his heap of troubles and they had a full sandwich of mental issues.

And damn John for keeping me inside and missing cases and making me carry him up and down the stairs only for him to have a panic attack at the last second and bathing in his own self-pity and loathing and for being in a wheelchair and making me leave for half an hour just so he could talk nonsense to some man with a worthless degree and keeping me up all night with his bloody nightmares and making Mycroft pay for a therapist as if we can't afford one on our own.

Damn John! It's all his fault!

John had to think hard. Sherlock was his best friend and was far more important than John to his clients. And John needed Sherlock. If Sherlock were in a wheelchair, John would never leave him. Sherlock would need all the help he could get (though would never admit it).

But it wasn't Sherlock paralyzed; it was John. John who would never walk again. Sherlock didn't need John. He was a true invalid. This wasn't psychosomatic. This was real.

"If I hadn't, it would be Sherlock in this wheelchair," John thought aloud. "Sherlock is very secluded and hates people who can't stay up to par with him. That's just about everyone. He finds me fascinating. I don't know why; nothing special about me. I help him with his cases...but I can't anymore. He'll get someone new, now that I'm not as independent. He'll think it's so tedious to have to carry me up stairs and hills. He does already. I'm waiting. He'll leave, or make me leave. And he won't do it gently, either."

"Why are you so convinced that Mr. Holmes will abandon you?" Dr. Pennypacker squinted his eyes a bit. He was truly curious.

"Because that's just how he is," was the answer. "When he's bored, he shoots holes in the walls," John nodded towards the smiley face and his therapist's eyes widened. "When he's happy, he'll jump around the apartment. When he doesn't like someone, he'll say it straight to their face."

"But if he wished you to leave, then he would have told you so by now."

John shook his head. "I don't know. I like to think that he's just grown so accustomed to me by now, he just doesn't want to admit that everything's changed for the worst. He's a very stubborn man."

There was a shadow at the end of the alley. It saw Sherlock. It was staring at him. The detective saw nothing through his white-hot rage. He seethed and was breathing hard. It wasn't fair. It should have been Sherlock with the gun wound. It should have been Sherlock in the hospital, Sherlock bleeding on the floor, Sherlock having the limp everywhere. It shouldn't be John in a wheelchair.

John. In a wheelchair. Forever. The rage again, blinding him. It wasn't FAIR!

A black car pulled up next to the alley and the detective turned on it, knowing it was Mycroft. Why couldn't he leave Sherlock alone?

He ran up and kicked the car, hoping to make several bad dents, but nothing could penetrate his perfect brother's car. He pounded on the tinted windows and shiny black paint, hating his brother for hiding, for caring but not telling John anything, like he was bloody God and was better than Sherlock because he could afford actual help. The detective yelled,"Mycroft, come out right now!"

The door opened and the older Holmes brother stepped out. Sherlock, expression livid, grabbed the fancy suit collar and was suddenly inches away from his sibling, wanting to scream at him, hiss a threat, but nothing came to mind.

"Brother, what are you so angry about?"

And Sherlock realized that he didn't know anymore.

Mycroft nodded at the blank look on his brother's face. "Come with me, Sherlock. I believe you've...attracted some unwanted attention..." His wary gaze turned towards the shadows. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder into the alley, his eyes searching for one thing. He turned and took a step forward, only to be stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

"Sherlock," his brother advised,"don't go after him. He could do serious harm to you, and you would be alone. John would not be there to protect you."

The detective glared at him. "If John wants to protect me, he'll have to come outside first."

Sherlock marched off into the alley, and Mycroft followed.

A/N: And there we have it! What is in store for Sherlock and Mycroft in the dark recesses of the alley? What will John think of his therapist? Will you keep reading to find out? (The answer to that is YES.)

Fun Fact Of The Chapter: You will give this chapter a lengthy review.