John

It was Bill Murray. I pulled myself straighter, embarrassed as I felt a blush crawl up my neck to my face. Sherlock sensed my discomfort and let the hand that had been in my hair slip to his side but continued to hold my good hand.

"John!" Bill beamed, "What a surprise!"

"Yeah," I said.

"I got a job here, in case you hadn't noticed!" He chuckled, "Resigned from the army," He answered my unasked question more seriously, running a hand through his hair, "I couldn't put up with their shit any longer."

Bill tore the temporary dressing off my arm which sent a jolt of pain running through me so strong that I swore and dug my nails into Sherlock's palm.

"Ouch." He said.

"Sorry," I loosened my grip.

Bill sucked in air through his teeth and straightened up, "John, this is a gunshot wound. How the Hell did you-?"

"Mindless gang violence." Sherlock interjected in a monotone.

"Right…" Bill raised his eyebrows and continued to examine the bullet hole, "We must stop meeting like this!" He grinned, "Although, luckily, this is a lot less serious than last time, obviously. If it were as serious you'd be dead by now, like as not!" He laughed heartily and then frowned, "Wait a second, the shrapnel in this does look like it came from one of our Brownings…"

"Well! Fancy that!" Sherlock exclaimed, failing miserably at pretending to be surprised.

Bill glanced at Sherlock and then turned back to me, "This is going to need stiches."

With Sherlock enveloping my hand in his one I barely noticed the pricks of pain as Bill's tweezers dug bits of bullet out of me and his needle tugged at the semi-anesthetised ragged flesh around the gash in my arm.

"All done." Said Bill after winding a bandage over his work, "You do realise you're going to have to speak to the police about you got this injury?"

"That won't be necessary!" Sherlock told Bill.

"Yeah," I seconded, "We were actually with a detective inspector when it happened. I'm sure he'll report it or whatever… I don't want to press charges. I'm sure we were just the same when we were their age…"

"Speak for yourself!" Bill replied, before narrowing his eyes at looking at me suspiciously, "Where is this detective inspector, then?"

"In the cubicle next door… I assume John can now be discharged?" Sherlock looped my arm round his shoulder and practically lifted me off the bed before setting me gently on the floor.

"Alright?" He asked me.

"Yeah…yeah," I couldn't stop myself smiling, partly out of embarrassment, "You're stronger than you look."

Sherlock winked and then the two of us burst out laughing.

"Yes, you're free to go… you know all about wound care…Um… is…is there anything, you know, going on between you two?" Bill ventured.

Sherlock and I exchanged a look and both decided that there was, "Yes." We said simultaneously.

Sherlock

Bill needed proof that we hadn't made Lestrade up so he, John and I walked to Lestrade's cubicle to find a significantly blotchy looking Molly and a doctor wearing far too tight a dress which she'd bought in the sales four years previously but was trying to see if she could get away with it for her sister's wedding. Four seconds.

"Hi," Said Lestrade grimly as we entered.

"Hi," John replied, "Are you okay?"

"As okay as I can be, given the circumstances." Lestrade said through gritted teeth.

"Right. Good." I tried to smile again, "Can you confirm that you are a DI with the Metropolitan Police and that you were there when John was shot?"

"Yes, that's all true." Lestrade grimaced as the doctor prised his blood covered eyelids apart.

Bill smiled, "Oh, jolly good! Better safe than sorry though, eh? John, it was lovely to catch up but you know how it is; duty calls!" with that he was gone.

"Thank God." John sighed, "I thought we'd never get rid of him."

The doctor wanted to keep Lestrade in for observation overnight but I attempted to be kind without being provocative to Molly and in the end convinced her to ask her friend Becky from A&E to pull some hypothetical strings to get him discharged earlier. If he died from intense unforeseen internal bleeding it would be my fault and I didn't think I would care overly. That probably made me a bad person… but I didn't care overly about that either.

I just wanted to avoid hanging around all night, as John would feel obliged to do; I wanted to go home and tie the threads of the case together in my mind. I needed to solve it. Lestrade, John and I were eventually able to return to our cab, all of us sporting at least one specimen of white tape on our faces, Lestrade clutching seven bottles of pain relief, John with his arm strapped across his body in a sling. By the time we reached 221B Baker Street after dropping Lestrade at Scotland Yard along with the piercing I'd picked up and instructions to analyse it I was very keen to have a good long think about what I'd seen. I sent John to bed and then lay down on the sofa, slapped two nicotine patches onto each of my arms and closed my eyes.