Whew! This one took all day. But, it's ready for your reading pleasure, and that's what's important.

By the way, sorry about the title. I know it's corny, but I couldn't resist. xD

Thanks to Emma/Lucy GB for this one. :)

John stared blankly at the pencil holder on his desk, tapping his index finger absent-mindedly on his mouse pad as he did so.

God, he was bored. Not prepared-to-shoot-the-hell-out-of-the-wall bored (which he would never not be pissed about). Just bored. And tired. All he wanted was to get home, make some tea, and enjoy some good old-fashioned crap tele. Or maybe a good book.

It's not that he didn't enjoy helping people. After all, that was his job. And he really did like his job. He just disliked slow days such as these. Nothing exciting ever happened.

John always figured that his time living with Sherlock had raised his expectations of life; he seemed to always be anticipating something exciting to happen. But it was quite easy for him to forget that most of life is simply boring and uneventful; that that is just how things work in the world.

How he loathed the fact.

"Doctor Watson?" a timid-sounding woman called through the doorway.

John turned around in his chair and found himself looking at an alarmingly pale and excessively bruised face.

Well, this wasn't exactly excitement, but it was certainly not boring either. Domestic violence (as that appeared to be the case) was never really a dull subject. Albeit, a common one, but certainly not dull.

The woman before him wore a small, turquoise coat with a nice red scarf (given the brisk weather outside) along with skinny jeans and black boots. She was quite pretty: she had a lovely head of long, red hair, beautiful green eyes, and a thin figure. What offset her features were the bruises scattered about her face; and John hadn't gotten the chance to check the rest of her body. He was sure she looked absolutely stunning when her boyfriend wasn't abusing her. Not that she didn't look good now, she just looked... scared. Pale, exhausted, and scared.

John smiled at her.

"Have a seat," he said, gesturing to the observation table.

With a soft smile, the woman shuffled over to the table and, with some struggling, propped herself up onto it.

"So," John started as he turned his chair to face her, "How are you doing this evening?"

She shrugged.

"I've certainly seen better days."

"Right," John nodded apologetically.

What a stupid question. Of course the poor woman wasn't okay. Her boyfriend had been beating her to a bloody pulp not too long ago, and for God knows how long before then.

John, eager to shy away from that awkward bit of smalltalk, brought out his clipboard, checking to see what this young woman's name was.

"Ah. You're Kate, correct? Kate Summers?"

The woman nodded.

"Yeah. But you can just call me Kate." She smiled again, wincing as her black eye protested the movement.

"Lovely to meet you, Kate," John said. "Would you mind if I ask how you got banged up so badly?"

Of course John knew. He just needed to hear it from her.

Kate hesitated before she answered, rubbing her arm uncomfortably.

"I, erm... I fell... down the stairs."

John raised his eyebrow.

It wasn't any of his business to pry. He only knew this woman's name, and she only knew his. Him pressing the matter wouldn't be very appropriate and would only make Kate even more uncomfortable and stressed out than she already was. So he settled on moving past the subject.

"Okay," he said, trying not to sound too suspicious.

John could tell with just one look that Kate did not believe for one second that he had bought her cover-up. She was obviously too smart to think that. After all, 'falling down the stairs' was the oldest and laziest deception in the book. No one bought it anymore.

"From what I can tell, you've got a pretty bad wrist there," John said, changing the subject. "Broken, if I'm not mistaken. You've also got quite a few bumps and bruises."

Kate shrugged.

"It's not too bad. Just painful."

John gave her a sad sort of look.

"I'm sure. Mind if I take a closer look?"

Kate shook her head, giving John the permission to examine her.

John stood up and walked over to her.

"Alright. Let's have a look, shall we?"

Gently, John reached out to undo the woman's scarf, causing her to tense up.

"It's alright," John reassured her. "I won't hurt you. Promise."

Kate nodded and let her shoulders slack a bit, so John continued to undo her scarf.

The bruises on the girl's neck immediately stood out as soon as the scarf was loosened.

"Those stairs must have had quite a powerful grip," John said, giving his patient a look.

Kate looked up at him out of the corner of her eye, almost ashamed.

"Let's have a look under the coat," John continued.

He delicately unzipped her coat, revealing a white tank top that exposed the extent of the damage done to her body. Her boyfriend was definitely a large fellow; the bruises on the girl's arms and neck were definitely hand-shaped and quite large. Not to mention dark. This man had a near bone-crushing grip.

Moving past the bruising, John picked up Kate's mangled hand, and she noticeably winced.

"Sorry," John said.

Kate nodded.

"It's okay."

John ran his finger's over the mess that was her wrist, feeling exactly where her boyfriend had twisted and broken it.

"Well, the good news is, this is easily fixable," he smiled at her.

"Bad news?" Kate asked.

"Well, you'll be stuck in a cast for a while, but I'm sure you knew that already."

She nodded.

"Now, there's really not much I can do about the bruises except give you some painkillers. But that should help significantly with the pain."

"That's fine."

"Well then, if you're ready, I say we get your wrist x-rayed and in a cast."

"Okay."

It took roughly an hour for the whole process to be finished, what with the x-rays, the strength tests, and putting on the actual cast. But once it was all said and done and the painkillers were administered, Kate seemed significantly better.

Physically, of course.

John was seated back in his chair, Kate reseated on the table, filling out a bit of paperwork and typing in the rest of Kate's details.

"You should be good to go," he said, setting his pen and clipboard down. He turned his chair back around to face her.

Kate smiled at him.

"Thanks Doctor," she said.

"Of course," John said, returning the smile.

"Am I alright to go?"

"In a moment. I would just like to talk to you."

Kate looked a bit nervous.

"About what?"

"I won't keep you long," John reassured her. "I just want to tell you that if there's anything you need; if you ever need somebody to call, I and a few good friends of mine will be willing to help you. I know it's not my place. I mean, I am only your doctor. But really, if you need anything at all-"

"Thank you," Kate interrupted. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Right. Okay." John cleared his throat. "I can give you my card. You know, if you want it."

The young woman smiled.

"That would be lovely. Thanks."

"Great. Just give me a moment to find my stack, here."

John turned back around to face his desk, pulling open some drawers in search of his business cards.

Just then, the room shook as the door to his office was roughly thrown open.

"Kate, you fucking whore!" a gruff man's voice boomed.

John immediately threw back his chair and ran in front of the man, holding his arms out as if to block him from passing through.

"Am I to assume that you're Kate's boyfriend?" he asked, ready to protect the woman cowering behind him.

"Damn fucking right! And am I to assume that you're the guy she's been fucking behind my back?!"

John raised an eyebrow at the man.

"I told you already, Ron, I haven't been seeing anyone behind your back! I just came to get my wrist fixed up, and he's the doctor who helped me," Kate said behind John. "This is Doctor Watson."

The man, whose name was Ron, apparently, gave John a look of pure malice.

John saw a nurse come running down the hallway to his office.

"Doctor Watson, I'm so sorry. I tried to stop him but-"

She looked at the frightening scene before her and went completely silent.

"Just walk away," John told her. "I've got this handled."

The nurse nodded quickly and scurried away, leaving John to deal with the situation until security inevitably arrived.

"Look, Ron, if you don't leave the room right now, security's going to make you leave," he told the man.

Ron got right in his face and snarled.

"I'm not leaving until she comes with me."

"Alright, I'm coming, Ron. Just please, calm down," Kate begged.

"You don't tell me to calm down!" Ron screamed at her. "You don't ever tell me what to do!"

As he went to shove John out of the way to lunge at Kate, John expertly grabbed his wrist and pulled it behind his back, grabbing the man's hair with his other hand and shoving him up against the wall.

"One thing you should know, Ron," he whispered harshly in his ear, "Just because I'm a medical man doesn't mean I won't hesitate to kick your ass. Especially when you try to attack one of my patients."

Ron struggled against the army man's tight grip, but to no avail.

"Kate, run!" John called behind him. "Get some more security!"

Shocked, Kate stood frozen for a second before doing as she was told, running out of the room as fast as her spindly legs would allow her.

"Okay, Ron," John said, his voice clear and low, "Security is going to be here any minute now, so I suggest that you calm the hell down. I know how to heal, so I know how to hurt."

Ron struggled again.

"This has nothing to do with you, you prick! This is between me and Kate!"

John pulled his arm tighter, causing him to cry out.

"When you're in my office, it becomes my problem. So now I'm involved too."

Ron growled.

"You want to be involved, Doctor? Well, alright then. Now you're fucking involved!"

With the force of what John could only compare to a wrecking ball, the man pushed doctor back and into the table, earning a grunt from the smaller man.

John, a bit dazed, went to steady himself, but found a fist connecting with his cheek, once again sending him back into the table.

Before John could even go to defend himself, Ron's hands were wrapped tightly around his neck, cutting off all air flow.

Now things were getting exciting.

John could feel the force of the grip crushing his windpipe, the threat of a fractured hyoid ringing through his brain.

Fuck. He was going to die.

Quickly, John splayed his hand out, searching for the medical tray, relieved to find his hand gripping a scalpel. In his panic, he accidentally caused the tray to go crashing to the ground, the noise echoing throughout the room. Just as black spots started to take hold of his vision, he forcefully drove the scalpel into Ron's arm. The man gave a satisfying cry of pain, pulling away from the doctor, giving John room to get up and run to the door.

If only he could run. The lack of oxygen made him woozy, so his attempted run was more of a stumble, the door a bit more of a blur in his eyes.

Just as he reached the door, he felt a terrible pain rocket throughout his entire body as Ron drove the scalpel into his back, immediately causing him to crumple to the floor.

His vision was completely greying now, and he was sure this was how he was going to die.

He cried out as Ron roughly yanked the scalpel out and drove it into his back again.

This was it.

Before Ron could stab him again, the door flew open and four men were pulling him away.

The last thing John heard was a cry from Kate as she screamed down the hallway:

"We need a doctor here! Help!"

And the world went dark.

Ping!

That string sounded fine.

Ping!

Fine, again.

Pang!

Not right. Far from right. The peg needed a twist.

Sherlock looked distastefully at the offending string on his violin and twisted its peg until it sounded right again.

"There," he muttered.

He plucked at it.

Ping!

Perfect.

With a sigh, Sherlock got up from his chair, gently setting his beloved instrument down, and walked over to the window, looking out at the dimly lit street.

It was already nighttime. How had the day gone by so quickly?

Sherlock pulled out his phone from his pocket and looked at the time.

It was nine o'clock. Shouldn't John have been home?

"Leaving me to die of boredom. How rude," Sherlock scoffed, placing his phone back in his pocket.

Despite the fact that he was quite annoyed with his flatmate, the detective decided that after such a long day at work, John would appreciate an already made cup of tea. And Sherlock wouldn't mind a cup, either.

As he was about to walk into the kitchen, his phone rang. Without even thinking twice about who might be calling, he answered.

"A bit late, are we John?" he said, making it a point to sound irritated.

"Sherlock, it's Lestrade."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"What is it now? Another case you and your officers can't-"

"Could you shut up for a second? This isn't about a case. It's about John."

Sherlock's breath hitched.

"Sherlock, there was an incident at the hospital. A patient of John's has a boyfriend who went apeshit and attacked him."

The detective was already shrugging on his coat.

"Is he alright?"

He knew how badly his voice was shaking. He just didn't give a shit at the moment.

"I don't know, Sherlock. They're still working on him."

"I'm on my way, Lestrade," Sherlock said, running outside. "Give me details."

"Sherlock..."

"Details, Lestrade! Now!"

The D.I. sighed on the other end.

"Sherlock, all I can assume is that John was stabbed. The guy who attacked him has got blood on his hands. And I know not all of it is his own."

Sherlock's blood was boiling.

"Do you have the man there with you?"

"My officers took him down to the Yard."

"For questioning, correct?"

"Sherlock, you are not going down there right now. All you're going to do is get yourself arrested."

"Lestrade-"

"The last thing John'd want you to do is get yourself in trouble on his behalf."

Sherlock growled.

"Very well. But after I am sure that John will make a full recovery, I will want to question this man myself."

"My men have got it covered."

"You will let me confront this man, Lestrade," Sherlock said firmly through gritted teeth.

Lestrade sighed.

"Fine. But not without my supervision. The last thing I need is another dead body on my hands."

Sherlock saw a cab coming down the street and frantically hailed it, relieved as it pulled over.

"I'll be there in ten minutes. Wait for me."

"I will."

Sherlock bursted through the doors leading into the lobby.

"Lestrade!" he called out.

"Excuse me, sir!" a nurse dashed over to him. "There is really no need to shout!"

"Move out of my way," Sherlock snarled at her.

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock," Lestrade rolled his eyes as he jogged over to the two. "I'm sorry, M'aam," he apologised to the nurse.

With a huff, the woman stormed back over to the front desk.

"Sherlock, if you act like this, you'll get booted out of here," the D.I. scolded the detective.

Sherlock completely ignored Lestrade.

"Is he out yet? Is he alright?"

"No, Sherlock, he isn't out yet. I haven't heard anything. Just sit down and shut up, will you?"

With a scowl, Sherlock marched over to the set of waiting room chairs and plopped himself down in one, crossing his legs and bobbing his foot up and down as he stared at the clock.

"Sherlock, you need to calm down," Lestrade said as he sat down in a chair beside the detective. "You're only making the situation worse."

"I'm making the situation worse? How am I making it worse?"

"You're freaking yourself out and making everyone here tense. Including me."

"And how am I supposed to react when I'm told that my flatmate has been brutally attacked at work, hm? Sit in front of the television while enjoying a nice spot of tea?"

"Sherlock, please calm down."

"I am perfectly calm, Lestrade!"

The lobby went silent as Sherlock's voice echoed throughout the room.

Lestrade put his head in his hands and groaned.

"Look, I'm going to grab some coffee. Do you want-"

"No."

The D.I. pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Fine. Just please stay out of trouble while I'm gone."

Sherlock glared at the clock, completely ignoring the man.

"Jesus," Lestrade mumbled as he got up and walked away.

It seemed like years before a doctor finally came up to Sherlock.

"Are you Mr. Holmes?" she asked.

"Yes, of course I am. Don't be dull. How is John?"

"Well, he certainly wasn't wrong about you," the doctor mumbled. "John's recovering at the moment. There was no need to place him in the Intensive Care Unit, but he was still quite badly injured. He will make a full recovery, however."

Sherlock nodded, his head dizzy from relief.

"Good. Can I see him?"

The doctor nodded.

"Of course, Mr. Holmes. Follow me."

The doctor seemed to walk much too slowly, causing what should have been a quick trip down the hallway to turn into a bloody voyage. Finally, though, she opened the door to the room where John was currently resting, letting Sherlock in first.

"We've been told that you are to be allowed to stay past visiting hours, but that if you start acting up in any way that we have full permission to revoke that privilege. Understood?"

Sherlock nodded, unable to pull his eyes away from his unconscious friend in the hospital bed.

"Very good. The call button is beside John's bed if he needs anything."

Sherlock barely registered the door closing as the doctor left the room.

"John..." he whispered.

His flatmate looked quite pale in comparison to the blue sheet that covered him. Sherlock's eyes danced over John's injuries, making him angrier and angrier.

Punched in the face, strangled half to death, stabbed once- no, twice- with what I assume to be a medical instrument.

That seemed to be all, and none of it seemed too serious. After all, the doctor said John would be fine. He just seemed to have suffered from blood loss and trauma. He was fortunate enough to have gotten injured in a hospital. Medics, particularly colleagues, had been at the ready.

Sherlock sat down in the chair beside the bed and scooted up closer beside John, reaching his hand out to touch the bruises on his neck and cheek.

John's lovely neck. His lovely cheek. Coloured an ugly mix of purple and black.

Sherlock was definitely going to have a word with the son of a bitch who did this.

And it wasn't going to be pretty.

John awoke the very next day, shocked and somewhat pleased to find his flatmate clinging onto his hand like a frightened child. A nurse, who he knew personally as Amanda Burns, came in to check his vitals and refill his bags, taking care to pump him full of morphine and leave him with a smile before swiftly exiting the room, leaving the two flatmates alone once again.

"How are you feeling, John?" Sherlock asked.

John shrugged a bit lazily.

"Tired and sore. And a bit hoarse." He cleared his throat, cringing when it throbbed from the very effort.

Sherlock quickly grabbed a cup of water on the table and handed it to John who greedily took a few sips, hardly caring how much it hurt to swallow.

"Thanks," John said as he handed the plastic cup back to the detective.

Just then, there was a timid knock at the door.

"Come in," John said, swearing as his vocal chords protested the call.

Sherlock gave John a bit of an annoyed look, obviously wanting to be alone with him. But that didn't stop the door from creaking open.

"Doctor Watson?"

John cocked his head in surprise at the red-headed woman at the door, her green eyes looking guiltily at him, and her undamaged hand holding a bouquet of lilies.

"Hello, Kate," he smiled at her.

Sherlock turned around to look at the woman, firing off deductions in his head as soon as his eyes locked onto her.

Age twenty-four, only child, dead mother, librarian, shy, abusive boyfriend-

"Your significant other is the one responsible for John's injuries," he stated, glaring at her coldly.

Kate shuffled her feet nervously.

"Yeah, um... that's kind of why I'm here. Are you Doctor Watson's boyfriend?"

Both John and Sherlock blushed.

"Sorry about him, Kate," John said. "This is Sherlock, by the way. Sherlock, this is-"

"I don't care," Sherlock muttered, crossing his arms and sinking into his chair.

John sighed.

"Sorry."

Kate smiled.

"It's fine, really." She cautiously stepped into the room. "These flowers, they um... I got them for you. I'll just, ah..."

She set them down on the table and gently smoothed them out.

"There."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I assume you came here for a reason other than delivering flowers?" the detective sneered.

"Sherlock, be nice," John shushed him.

Kate cleared her throat.

"Ah, yeah, actually. I just... if it's alright with you, I wanted to, um... thank you. I mean, if you hadn't... I mean if you didn't-"

"It's no trouble, really," John smiled.

"I'd beg to differ," Sherlock mumbled.

Kate tightened her lips and looked down at the floor.

"Oh, ignore him," John said, smacking Sherlock on the hand, receiving an indignant look from the man.

"I am so sorry this happened," Kate said, her voice cracking as she spoke. "Really I am. I just... God, I never expected that Ron would... I'm just so sorry you had to get involved." She wiped at her eyes.

"Well, snivelling won't help things," Sherlock said with a huff.

"Shut up, Sherlock," John said through gritted teeth. "Kate, there's really no need to cry. It's all fine. I chose to get involved. And it was worth it to avoid you getting hurt."

Kate had tears running down her face.

"I'm sorry I'm being so silly," she laughed, swiping at her cheeks. "If there's anything I can do... anything at all, if you ever... you know, need anything..." She set a slip of paper next to the flowers. "Just give me a ring. I know I probably won't be of much help with anything. But, if you ever have any overdue library books or something I can be of some help." She sniffed and smiled at the doctor.

John laughed.

"I'll certainly keep your number. I have a feeling we might be needing it."

Kate grinned.

"Oh good. I'm glad."

"How's the wrist?" John asked.

"It's fine. Everything's fine." Kate seemed so much more happier than she had looked the previous day. "I just... thank you for everything. I know I'll never be able to fully repay you. But I do hope you'll stay in touch."

She gently hugged him.

"Thank you."

John patted her on the back.

"Of course."

With one last nod, she hurried out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

"You," John glared at Sherlock, "Have got to be the rudest man on this bloody planet."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"You're just getting that now?"

"Sherlock, the poor woman's been through enough in her life already. Not to mention she feels guilty for something that was completely out of her control."

"Good."

"Sherlock!"

"It's her fault that this happened to you, John!"

"It is most certainly not her fault! She tried to stop the guy but I insisted on getting in the way. If anything, this whole situation is my doing."

Sherlock stared hard at the doctor for a long minute.

"Why, John?"

"What?"

"Why are you so damn selfless? You've gotten injured far too many times on the behalf of others, including mine, and it's nearly gotten you killed more than once. But you don't care, do you? No. Because you're John Hamish Watson: a hardened and yet kind-hearted army doctor who can't help but take a bullet for any man or woman on the street."

"What's your point, Sherlock?"

"My point is, you're a remarkable man who I admire and care about and I don't want to see you hurt anymore than you already are."

"So you're saying you want me to stop saving lives?"

Sherlock stared at the floor.

"Only if saving the life is at the cost of your own."

John sighed and grabbed Sherlock's hand, squeezing it tightly.

"Sherlock, saving lives is what I do. I'm a bloody doctor for Christ's sake. It's what I will do until the day I die. And if that day had been yesterday, that would have been okay."

Sherlock looked at him with wild eyes.

"But I would have had one regret; and that would have been leaving you behind. I mean, someone has to look after you. And I bloody well know Lestrade won't be the one to do it. So I don't think I'll be dying anytime soon. And if it makes you feel better, I will certainly try to be more careful."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him.

"You say that quite a lot."

John smiled at him.

"What if I promise?"

"Promises mean nothing to me."

"You can hold me to it."

Sherlock seemed somewhat satisfied with this.

"By any means necessary?"

"If it makes you feel any better. Just don't go making me wear bullet-proof vests beneath my jumpers."

"I might."

John rolled his eyes.

"Fine."

"Okay. Say it out loud."

John raised his right hand.

"I, John Watson, solemnly swear to keep myself alive as long as I possibly can."

"You will promise to keep yourself alive. Period."

John sighed.

"I, John Watson, solemnly swear to keep myself alive. Period."

Sherlock nodded.

"Good. I will most certainly hold you to that."

John let out a deep breath and closed his eyes again.

"Fantastic. Am I allowed to nap now?"

"Only if you stick to your promise."

John smirked.

"I raised my right hand, didn't I?"

Sherlock smiled and chuckled softly.

"Enjoy your rest, John. You need it."

The detective got up from the chair and worked on putting on his coat.

"I'll be back to visit you this evening. That is a promise that I am making. In the meantime, work on getting well," he said, brushing himself off and giving his hair a bit of a ruffle.

"Where are you off to?" John yawned.

"I have an appointment that I'm late for." Sherlock straightened his collar. "I need to see a man about a dog."

You all are probably sick of me saying this, but... please review! :3