"Sherlock, this is ridiculous," said John irritably. "There's no reason we should be out here."

"I am a consulting detective," Sherlock told him firmly, shifting to a more comfortable position behind the dumpster. "This is part of my work, you know that."

"Yes," John said with a sigh, "but really. We shouldn't be here."

They were crouched in some dark London alley, and had been for several hours, waiting outside a bar's back door for a man who might never come. This man, their target, was an accomplished gunman, suspected of nearly a dozen drive-by shootings. What made this man interesting to the pair was the victims he chose: only the old, the sick, the weak - what many would call the bottom of humanity. He was also excellent at providing alibis (several of wench Sherlock had already disproven) and avoiding arrest. Sherlock had received a tip-off from a member of his homeless network that the man would be here on that night.

And so they waited. "We really ought to at least get police backup," John argued. "I'm sure Lestrade would be delighted to help."

"Delighted, just like you are?" Sherlock looked at John sideways, then shook his head. "That's not how I operate, John. I work alone."

"Alone, but with me." John was teasing now, but also curious to see how Sherlock would react. After the work party incident several weeks ago, things had largely returned to normal, though John could sense a faint undercurrent of tension. Both men had, through unspoken mutual agreement, said nothing of that night, neither to their friends nor to each other.

"You," Sherlock said softly, startling John from his thoughts, "are the exception."

John looked down, trying not to blush. It's those damn eyes, he thought, very aware of his friend's presence. Incredibly green and deep enough to drown in.

He cleared his throat, settling into a more comfortable position. Beside him, Sherlock pulled out his mobile. Glancing over, John saw he had opened a page on airplane mechanics. The diagrams he saw were far more in-depth than he'd imagined diagrams could go.

"Sherlock, you solved that one weeks ago."

Sherlock didn't look up. "The basic information is there, John, but there's still so much more. What been useful once may very well be useful again." He held out the phone. "See, when the plane begins to take off, the engine-"

"I really don't want to know." John cut him off, pushing the phone away. "You lose the magic that way."

Sherlock stared. "The what?"

"You know…" John shifted, mildly uncomfortable. "I don't need to know every detail of what makes a plane fly. Just enough basics to trust that it does." He shrugged. "The rest is sort of like magic, you know? You can rely on that. Like the stars."

"The stars."

"Yeah, you know, stars. They're just pinpoints of light, far off and inexplicable and beautiful. Unknowable. But once you figure it out, once you know they're just big balls of fiery gas, then you just know it. It's not magical anymore." He fought down a blush. "Didn't mean to make a speech."

"Magic." Sherlock stared a moment more, then shook his head. "Ah, John, I always wondered if there was a romantic's heart buried there somewhere." He went back to his diagrams, leaving John thoroughly red in the face.

A romantic's heart? And what does that make yours, Sherlock?

John looked over at Sherlock again, checking to be sure he was thoroughly engrossed, then pulled out his own phone. He shot off a quick text to Lestrade.

Waiting for serial gunman outside bar. Bring backup? He added the address, then sent it, hoping Sherlock hadn't seen. Then, as an afterthought: Keep it small. Sherlock doesn't know.

Only moments later, he got a text back. He opened it, intensely glad his mobile was silenced. On my way, it read.

It's for your own good, Sherlock, he thought, putting the phone away, no matter what you think.

Suddenly, a door at the end of the alley slammed open, spilling light into the dark street. Noise from the crowded bar flowed out before the man shut it again. In the sudden darkness, the flare of a lighter was almost painful, followed by the dull glow of a cigarette. John could even see the telltale bulge in the side of his jacket, proof that the man was armed.

"That's our man," Sherlock whispered, quickly stowing his mobile. "Did you bring your gun?"

"Yes." Leaning sideways, John worked the handgun out of the waistband of his jeans. He held it up to show Sherlock, being sure to stay out of sight. "Here."

"Perfect." Before John could protest, Sherlock seized the gun and vaulted over the dumpster, landing in the alley with remarkable grace and aiming the gun at the man. "Stay where you are!"

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock!" John hissed, scrambling after him. "Really?"

The other man said nothing, merely pulling out his own gun and aiming it right back at Sherlock. John felt his breath catch in his chest - the man's hand was steady, and he was certain his aim would be good.

"I don't care how you've been doing it," Sherlock called. "I just want to know why. The weak, the ill, the elderly… Are you some kind of purist?"

"Put the gun down," the man as a response. "Say nothing. You're going to let me go and forget you ever saw me." His tone brooked no argument.

But Sherlock was never one to heed a warning. "Or what?" he scoffed. "You'll shoot me? Somehow I doubt it."

"You're right," the man said coolly, "I won't." Slowly, his gaze shifted to John, the barrel of the gun following. "But I would shoot him."

Instantly, Sherlock's entire demeanour changed. He held up his hands, gun pointing towards the sky. John, surprised, terrified, and a touch flattered, followed suit.

"Look, let's not cause a fuss," he said reasonably. "Just come quietly, we'll-"

A shot rang out in the alley, striking the pavement in front of them and sending up sparks. Sherlock staggered back, wincing. John flinched.

"No more warning shots," the man called, though his voice shook slightly. "Put the gun down and back away."

"Just stay calm," Sherlock countered, carefully laying the gun on the ground. "No one's going to do anything."

"Police! Stay where you are!"

Lestrade burst into the alley, gun at the ready, another officer behind him. "Nobody move!"

"We didn't call them," Sherlock said instantly, all his attention on the gunman. "We didn't-" He suddenly stopped, glancing suspiciously at John. The answer to his unspoken question was written on John's face.

"Put down the guns!" Lestrade called, motioning with his pistol. "Hands in the air!"

Blam!

Another shot cracked through the alley, but this one didn't hit the pavement. This one struck John squarely in the chest.

Time seemed to slow down. John looked down at the hole in his shirt, in his side, at the spreading red stain. He wondered briefly if he'd ever be able to get it clean, then recognized in the next instant that he was going into shock.

He stumbled back until he hit the alley wall, feeling his jacket ride up as he slid to the ground. He closed his eyes as the first wave of pain hit. Dimly John heard Lestrade shouting, then the running feet of the officers taking off after the fleeing gunman. Then Sherlock was at his side.

"John." John forced his eyes open and his best friend's face swam into focus. "John, can you hear me?"

For some reason, Sherlock's face was not its normal blank canvas. It was open, vulnerable. Panicked. This was new. John squinted through the pain, trying to see more clearly.

"Sherlock?"

"I'm here, John, I'm here-" Sherlock's voice broke, and he busied himself supporting John's head.

"Sherlock, it hurts." John clenched his teeth, closing his eyes again - it was easier that way, both to bear the pain from the gunshot and from Sherlock's terror.

"I know, John. I'm so… so sorry." His hands were fluttering about, wanting desperately to help but not sure how. This wasn't covered in his Guide to Basic Home Health. "I didn't mean for this to happen, I swear-"

"You think I don't know that?" John laughed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Please tell me there's an ambulance coming."

"I, er, didn't think of it." Immediately Sherlock grabbed for his mobile, nearly dropping it in his haste.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock." He watched through half-lidded eyes as his friend dialed.

"Hello, yes, emergency. My friend's been shot. We need help." He rattled off the address, then hung up before the person on the line could ask anything more.

"Now put pressure on it," John instructed him, grunting out the words. He could feel the blood loss starting to set in. Sherlock hurried to do as he asked, crossing his bare hands over the hole in John's chest and pushing down. His gaze was riveted on the red gushing out between his fingers.

"Okay. Okay. Pressure. Now what?"

"What's wrong with you, Sherlock?" John asked. Even through the haze of pain, he could see that this was far from normal behaviour. "Surely there's something in that mind palace of yours for this?"

"I can't - It's like it's locked," Sherlock answered, shaking his head in frustration. John winced at the stab in his chest, and instantly Sherlock froze. "It's locked and the key is broken, I can't get in…"

"What?"

"I don't know, I don't know, it's never happened before…" Sherlock's cheeks were shining. It looked like tears, but this was so out of character John was sure he was hallucinating.

"Sherlock, you've got to keep it together," he said, trying to be firm. "You've got to stay with me. At least 'til someone comes."

Sherlock let out what might have been a laugh, or possibly a sob. "You stay with me, John. I couldn't… If you…"

"Just-" He took a ragged breath, fighting for consciousness. "Just stay focused. You can do it, Sherlock."

"Oh, John." Sherlock met his eyes at last. Through John's pain-fractured vision, Sherlock's blue-green eyes seemed to swell to fill his entire view, until he could see nothing else. "Have I ever told you how absurdly brave you are?" Sherlock's voice was low, heavy with emotion, but a bit more controlled. "I wish I was more like you."

"Yeah… Yeah… Brave Sherlock…" John's eyes slid closed, and his head slumped back against the brick wall behind him.

"John?" Sherlock shook him slightly, then harder, heedless of the blood staining his hands. "John? John, you've got to wake up, they'll be here any minute, John, just stay with me, John…JOHN!"

When John didn't respond, the great Sherlock Holmes, famous for a brilliant mind and an icy heart, broke down completely. The paramedics who arrived mere moments later would find him with his head on John's chest, hair matted with blood and face streaked with tears, whispering one name over and over again. For a moment, they would wonder which of these two men was the one they were there for.

"It's him, John Watson, here, hurry!" The young medic jumped as the man he'd taken for dead sat up and barked orders at him, but he hurried to extract the unconscious man beneath and get him on a stretcher.

"Are you Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" he asked as two of his colleagues hurried off, carrying John between them.

"Yes- Yes, that's me." Sherlock struggled to his feet, starting after the stretcher, but the medic held him back.

"Mr. Holmes, are you injured?"

The answer that sprang to his mind immediately was Yes. Yes, my heart's been shot and you're taking it away in your truck. But he merely shook his head. "Where're you taking him?"

"Mr. Holmes-"

"Where?"

"St. Bart's," the medic answered, galvanized by Sherlock's harsh tone. "Are you family?"

"No." Yes. "I'm his… friend."

"I see." The young man got to his feet, starting towards the ambulance. "Well, Mr. Holmes, if you come to the hospital, we'll soon have him in intensive care." Already Sherlock could see the medics in the back of the van trying to start John's heart. "Are you certain you're okay?"

No. Not in the slightest. Sherlock nodded, and watched, uncharacteristically helpless, as the young man hopped in the driver's seat and the ambulance drove away, leaving a shell of a man behind it.

A.N: And you thought you were here to have fun. Poor things. From here on it'll be one very connected storyline, so grab your kleenex box and let's go.

-Forever the Optimist