Thanks to Zealister for the prompt!

John rested his chin on his hand, his eyelids slowly drooping, the events of that particular day having caught up with him. So many suspects, so many murders, so little time...

"John!" Sherlock barked at him.

"Wha...? Yeah, m'wake. What is it?" John said, fumbling over his words as he tried to perk himself up a bit.

"The doctor, John."

"What?"

"He did it."

"The murders?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"What has been the subject of most of our conversations throughout the past few weeks?"

John nodded.

"Right. Sorry."

"But wait," Lestrade said, holding up a finger to bring the discussion to a halt. "This man's a doctor. He heals people, doesn't he?"

Sherlock looked at the detective inspector, annoyance clearly etched into his expression.

"That typically does fit the job description, yes. What is your point exactly? That people who are meant to heal can't possibly be capable of murder?"

Lestrade pondered this for a moment.

"I mean, it just can't be right. He's just... I don't know. Are you sure?"

John rubbed his eyes.

"It doesn't matter what a person's job is, Greg. Anyone can be capable of anything, if you think about it. And doctors would be especially skilled at killing someone. Trust me, I know; I am one, after all." He yawned and stretched. "We know every vein, artery, and capillary in the human body. We can name every bone and muscle without a second thought. We know how every organ works. I could on and on." He cleared his throat. "Anyway, my point is, we know exactly how to cause as much pain as possible. So it wouldn't surprise me if Sherlock was right and that this doctor is responsible for all of these horrible killings. In fact, I'm sure he's right. Hell, he almost always is."

Both Lestrade and Sherlock stared for a moment at the doctor.

"Right, erm..." Sherlock cleared his throat. "What he said. We really should be getting to the hospital."

John nodded.

"Sure. Can we grab some coffee on the way?"

Lestrade shook his head to snap out of his stupor.

"I, um... I have to finish some stuff up here. I'll grab some for you on my way to meet you."

John smiled.

"Thanks."

With one last yawn, he went out the door.

"Well that was frightening," Lestrade mumbled. "Didn't know he could think like that."

"That's what makes you so transparent, Lestrade," Sherlock said, matter-of-factly. "All you wish to see in people is good. You never stop to think that perhaps they are capable of great evil."

"But not John..."

"As he said before: 'Anyone is capable of anything'. And I've learned that in John Watson's case, that is most certainly true." Sherlock chuckled. "And you worry about me."

The detective then left Lestrade with his own stupefied thoughts.

John and Sherlock sat in comfortable silence for a while, the doctor contentedly napping while the detective busied himself with his phone and his mind palace. After about half an hour, John awoke with a yawn.

"Awake, I see," Sherlock remarked as he pocketed his phone.

"Yeah," John grunted. "How far along are we?"

"Nearly there. Ealing Hospital is an unfortunate distance from the Yard."

"Good," John said with another yawn.

"I do believe you frightened Lestrade," Sherlock smirked.

John looked over at the detective with a confused expression.

"How so?"

"Apparently, your dramatically worded spiel regarding this doctor we're after awoke the inspector to the reality that you could indeed be a frightening killer. That is, if you chose to go down such a path."

John could barely stifle his laughter.

"You're kidding. Me? A killer?"

"You've made quite clear to me your achievements in Afghanistan."

The smile playing on John's face abruptly disappeared.

"They're hardly achievements."

Sherlock brushed him off.

"My point still stands true."

"I'd never kill for the hell of it," John argued.

"I never suggested that you were at risk of doing so. I was simply explaining to you why Lestrade was taken aback by your impressive show of medical knowledge."

The doctor shook his head with some disbelief.

"Well... alright then. I guess I'm flattered...?"

"I would be. Not everyone is capable of psychopathy."

"Here you are," the cabbie suddenly interjected. "That'll be fifty pounds."

John sat and waited for the fare to be paid, but was made irate when his flatmate nudged him in the side.

Sighing, John took out his wallet and paid the cabbie who smiled and nodded a thanks.

After having sat in that warm cab for about forty minutes, John was shocked by the sudden blast of cold air in his face when he stepped onto the sidewalk.

"Christ," he muttered, rubbing his arms in an attempt to keep his circulation running effectively.

Sherlock glanced over at his shivering companion and, with an eye-roll, dug the man's gloves out of his pocket.

"Here," he said, tossing them at the doctor.

John, with his relatively quick reflexes, caught the gloves as they sailed through the air. He looked at them quizzically.

"You always forget them," Sherlock pointed out without so much as batting an eye before walking towards the entrance.

John looked down at his gloves, his confusion morphing into slight bemusement. He quickly slipped then on and jogged after his flatmate.

By the time John had caught up with the detective, the both of them were already inside walking to the front desk. A woman with obviously dyed red hair and pink acrylic nails sat facing the computer, gnawing away at a pencil. By the look on Sherlock's face, John could tell the man was having a field day deducing her.

John cleared his throat, prompting the woman to look up and bring her hand holding the pencil down to the table.

"Can I help you?" she asked, putting on the notorious 'I'm-tired-and-irritated-and-you're-the-last-thing-I-wanted-to-see' bitch-face that nurses were famous for pulling. That was the face of a woman who had not had enough coffee that day.

John, being experienced with this sort of person, put on a smile.

"Sorry to bother you," he apologised, "But my friend and I are looking for someone. A doctor who works here at your hospital."

"Doctor who?" the woman asked.

John resisted the urge to comment on her particular phrasing of that question.

"A surgeon; Doctor Carson."

"Do you have an appointment?" the nurse asked with a raise of her eyebrow.

"No, but we-"

"If you don't have an appointment, I'm not letting you back to see him. Come back when you need a kidney or something."

Sherlock pushed John aside and placed his hands on the surface of the desk, firmly gripping the edge.

"Your failed attempt at reawakening you sex life last night oughtn't have any effect on the manner in which you treat those who walk in here asking for assistance. This is a hospital, and your painfully simplistic job is to be helpful. And we're looking for help."

The nurse looked shocked.

"How did you know-"

"People have died; I have no time to stand here and tediously list off the number of clues you've left on yourself and your desk indicating your depression and irritation resulting from an unsuccessful date."

At this point, a few more staff members had stopped to watch the altercation.

"Who the hell are you?" the woman asked as she stood up from her chair, shaking with pent-up anger.

Sherlock dug out Lestrade's badge from his coat pocket and showed it to the woman.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Now, I suggest you show my partner and I to Doctor Carson; you're interfering with an investigation."

With tight lips and teary eyes, the nurse slowly stepped around to the front of the desk.

"Right this way, Detective," she said, nervously shuffling down the hallway.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock. Do you think you could have been a little bit gentler?" John whispered to his flatmate as the two of them followed the young woman.

"Three men and women were found mutilated in various isolated locations, most of their organs and a number of their limbs stolen from them. Do you really believe that we can afford 'gentle'?" Sherlock argued.

"Butchered, is the way I'd put it," John said, a chill running down his spine.

But Sherlock was right. Now was no time for feelings to be spared.

After standing in an elevator for a few minutes and waiting for it to go up to its requested floor, they followed the nurse down another hall until they reached Carson's office.

"Doctor Carson?" the nurse called as she stepped into the door. "There are two policemen who need to see you."

Sherlock and John caught up with the woman, getting a chance to look at the doctor who they had seen only the day prior.

He cautiously stood up from his chair.

"I see." He looked to the nurse. "Diane? Please leave."

The woman (now identified as 'Diane') nodded at Doctor Carson and turned around, shooting Sherlock and John a sceptical look before walking out.

"Mister Holmes, Doctor Watson," Carson acknowledged. "To what do I owe this pleasant surprise?"

"I believe you know," Sherlock said.

Carson remained frighteningly calm.

"Ah. The murders," He scratched his beard and grabbed his spectacles, gently placing them on his hawk-like nose. "Come. Walk with me and we'll talk."

He pushed his way between Sherlock and John and, after exchanging wary looks, they followed him out.

A few nurses bustled by with clipboards and medical trays as the three of them walked through the hallway.

"Now, tell me Sir; why have you chosen to visit me once more? And this time, at my place of business?"

"To further question you on the case," Sherlock said.

"But have you not already gotten from me all I had to offer?"

"It would seem that I haven't."

"What on earth do you mean?"

Carson opened the doors to the trauma operating room and walked over to the sterilising station, beginning to wash his hands.

"Doctor Carson," John said, "We have reason to believe that you're the one behind these murders."

Carson continued to scrub.

"Is that so? Ah well."

"You seem to be taking this news rather well," Sherlock observed, narrowing his eyes as he did so.

"Well, why would I panic? You are right, after all. If I were innocent, I would be rather insistent on presenting alibis."

He turned off the tap and shook his hands free of stray droplets of water before taking a hand-towel and taking care of the rest of the dampness.

"Why bother lying to us in the first place?" Sherlock asked, not really sure how else to respond to the unsettling calm of the situation.

"To test you," the doctor said as he threw aside the towel. "To see if you're as good as you claim you are."

"And did I pass your little test?" Sherlock sneered.

"Well, you obviously caught onto me. So I'd say you did rather well. I am curious, though; were you stalling for time? Or did you truly not know who was behind the killings?"

"More to the point; will you wait a moment for the lovely Detective Inspector to drop by and handcuff you?"

"And prevent me from carrying out the work I love to do? Absolutely not."

"Butchering people? That's what you like doing?" John inquired.

"Surgery. I do enjoy saving lives during office hours, but sometimes on the weekends I feel a bit... restrained; out of practice. All I need to sate my desire to dissect is a quick trip out to the local pub or park, make conversation with a nice man or woman and bring them home for drinks, and... well, the rest is very clear."

"Interesting," Sherlock remarked.

John gave the detective a look of pure confusion and disbelief.

"It seems your companion thinks otherwise," Carson said as he looked at John. "He might be an ex-soldier, but he still appears to be quite a delicate thing, doesn't he? So vulnerable and sensitive."

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"I wouldn't make such comments in my presence."

"It's a simple observation." Carson strode over to John, inspecting him. "You know, Doctor Watson, if you hadn't such ladylike sensibilities, you'd make a fine partner."

John wrinkled his nose in distaste and anger.

"Of course, you are short in stature, but you make up for that with your intelligence and physical strength. Honestly, it's rather a shame you didn't run into me first." He smiled at the shorter man. "Alas, chance is a cruel mistress. You really could have been fantastic."

"I'll take being sensitive and selfless over being a bloody psychopath any day."

"And who says I'm not selfless? I save lives."

"Yeah, to ward off your lust for blood."

"Anatomical research," Carson corrected. "And I must say, I make a considerable amount of money doing it on the weekends."

"Selling arms online. Crime really has reached a new low," John muttered.

"If that's truly how you see it, I'm left to assume you've been living under a rock for years. How dusty is your flat?"

Sherlock looked down at his phone.

"Inspector Lestrade is five minutes from our current location," he said. "So I suggest you get done with whatever it is you plan on doing."

"An excellent idea, Mister Holmes." Carson said. "Now, since I'm going to be arrested anyway, I've decided to make my last few moments of freedom exciting." He looked at John again, making Sherlock stiffen. "It's fortunate I have no patients to tend to now. A slow evening is always beneficial when I have mischief planned."

"Menacing," Sherlock said sarcastically.

"You're the last person I'd expect to act so flippantly, Mister Holmes." Carson turned his back to both him and John as he walked over to the tray of medical tools next to the operating table. "You are more than familiar with human anatomy, I'm sure, Doctor Watson."

"I should hope so," John retorted.

"Then I'm sure you're aware of the most vulnerable veins in the body."

"Of course."

"Statistically, what is the most vulnerable vein?"

John frowned.

"Why?"

"Humour me."

"The jugular. And again I'll ask: why?"

"Are you fully aware of the purpose it serves?"

"That's a stupid question," John bit. "Why are you asking?"

"John..." Sherlock warned him.

The warning seemed to go unheeded.

"It's always more fun to self-diagnose an injury, is it not? Of course, it makes the dying experience a bit more realistic and hopeless. But at least you can occupy your brain with more interesting thoughts than last-minute regrets."

"Excuse me?"

"John!" Sherlock shouted, trying in vain to save his companion from the inevitable.

John saw the scalpel come swinging, backhanded, right in his direction. He only managed to take a half step back before he felt its tip slice into the delicate skin on his neck, immediately drawing an incredible amount of blood. He brought his gloved hand up to his throat, clutching at the deep cut disfiguring his once smooth skin. Stumbling backwards, he felt his back collide with the wall and he slid down to the floor. He immediately began choking, the words 'severed trachea' ringing mercilessly in his head.

Through greying vision he saw his flatmate shoot him a more than concerned glance and watched as Doctor Carson fled the room, a devilish grin on his face. Sherlock reached out to John, calling his name, but John simply waved him off with what little energy he had remaining as if to say, "Go on, I'll be fine."

Reluctantly, Sherlock broke chase, but not before looking at John with an expression that asserted that he would return.

John clasped both of his hands around his throat, feeling blood bubble up at his lips. He could only barely get oxygen into his deprived lungs; obviously his trachea hadn't been fatally severed. But if he was going to survive, he needed medical attention. Down the hall he heard shouts from his flatmate, calling for security and Lestrade and, seemingly more important to the man, a doctor to go tend to John.

"He's dying! Someone help him!" John heard the detective cry.

Or at least he thought he heard the detective cry. At this point he wasn't really sure; the room was beginning to turn into nothing more than a washed out swirl of grey and white. Shakily, he lifted a hand in front of his face, barely making it out through his blurred vision, and he could swear his glove was dripping in red.

As he felt his lids begin to droop, he found a pair of foreign hands grabbing his shoulders, their owner shouting various commands to those outside. John heard frantic footsteps come trampling into the room (two more people, if he could actually trust his reasoning), and more hands were lifting him up and carrying him over to the operating table.

Convenience was a blessing.

He was aware of being gently lowered down and having his other hand pried away from his throat, the strange voices above him beginning to fade out in his ears.

But before he fell unconscious, John recognised the feeling of a hand slipping into his own, bloody, gloved one, squeezing it so tightly that he feared his bones would shatter. And then, he heard echoing throughout the room the sound of Sherlock, furious and so concerned at the same time, shouting his name, trying to will him back to the world of the living.

Sherlock had been roughly thrown out of the room, his body and overbearing nature apparently taking up too much of the doctors' space and energy. He relentlessly paced back and forth (as that seemed to be the only thing he could do at the present moment) in front of the doors, having at least won the right to not have to be forced back into the waiting room. Suddenly from down the hall came Lestrade, looking as dazed and as tired as ever. As soon as the inspector spotted Sherlock, he marched his way towards him and pulled him away from the door.

"Sherlock," he whispered harshly, "What the hell is happening?"

Given the firmness of the man's brow and the tightness of his lips, Sherlock could tell that he was thinking the worst.

"He slit John's throat with a scalpel," Sherlock told him, his voice quavering.

Lestrade exhaled sharply and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Bloody hell!" he cried out, kicking the base of the wall with an extreme amount of force. "I knew I shouldn't have let you two get a head start!"

Sherlock looked shamefully at his feet.

"I didn't notice it quickly enough."

"One of you always manages to get yourselves banged up, and then I have to come to the bloody rescue!" Lestrade growled.

He relaxed his shoulders and sighed.

"God, you two can't keep doing this kind of thing to me."

Sherlock looked at him with a lost look in his eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean having these brushes with death. You and John both do it way too much, and it scares the hell out of me every time. You just..."

He put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and gripped it tightly.

"You need to be more careful. Both of you; you need to keep a closer eye on each other. I know you both have this notion that you're independent and don't need a babysitter, but if I had a penny for each time I had to come here and worry whether or not one of you was going to make it out of surgery alive..."

Sherlock was clueless as to how to handle this. Lestrade was obviously emotionally worn, but emotions weren't exactly in Sherlock's wheelhouse. Awkwardly, Sherlock patted the hand on his shoulder.

"Don't try being sentimental," Lestrade said with a sniff. "You're only going to piss me off."

He stood up straight and let his hands come to his sides.

"What did they say?" he asked the detective.

Sherlock, easily switching gears, looked back at the room with a longing expression.

"They threw me out, so I've absolutely no idea."

"Christ, what did you do to get yourself thrown out?" Lestrade asked. He shook his head. "You know what? Never mind. Stupid question." Looking over at the doors as well, he let himself take a moment to breathe before speaking again. "Look, Sherlock, you aren't helping things by lording over the doctors in there, even if they did manage to put a door in between you and them. Why don't we both go into the waiting room and sit down? Maybe calm our nerves?" With a sick stomach, Lestrade added: "I brought coffee."

And for once, Sherlock actually agreed with the Inspector.

Sherlock stared at the floor, his head held between his hands as he relived what had just happened.

Carson grabbed a scalpel, the handle well concealed within his grip until he prepared to attack John. I warned John. Didn't I? Yes. I shouted his name. John, John, John... He stepped back. I saw that he stepped back. He must have stepped back far enough for the scalpel to avoid his jugular and carotid... right? He remained conscious long enough to suggest-

"Sherlock!" Lestrade whispered, shaking the detective out of his stupor.

Sherlock dazedly straightened up to look at the inspector.

"What?"

"John's in the ICU, mate. You ought to go home."

"But-"

"You're not family, and I won't have you harassing the nurses and doctors about whatever bloody entitlement you think you have. Now, go home, get some sleep, have some dinner; I'll give you a call when he's out of the woods."

Sherlock stayed seated.

"What if, while I'm gone, he does something as irresponsible as die?"

"He won't Sherlock. He's going to be fine. I just finished talking to the doctor, and she said John will most likely make a full recovery. He just needs a ventilator for a while."

"'Most likely', Lestrade; that leaves room for unplanned tragedy. I can't have that."

"Sherlock, are you honestly going to make me drag you back to your flat myself?"

Sherlock crossed his arms defiantly and burrowed himself further into his chair.

"I'm perfectly content staying the night here," he insisted. "Besides, sleeping is for the weaker-willed individual."

"Sherlock, he'll probably be able to have visitors sooner rather than later; it's really a pretty mild injury-"

"'Mild'? His throat was slit."

"But the scalpel missed any important veins and arteries; he stepped back just in time, apparently."

Sherlock could hardly hold back a sigh of relief.

Right as usual.

"I will return to the flat, Lestrade," he finally agreed, "But only if you instruct the doctors to, upon John's return to consciousness, inform him of my impending visit. The man is quite easily made lonely, especially in such a dreadful establishment," Sherlock said.

The inspector nodded.

"I can do that."

"Then, in order to avoid the inevitable pestering that would come with my disobedience, I shall depart." Sherlock stood up and straightened his scarf. "But I expect a prompt text when you receive news of John's improving condition."

"He's going to be fine, Sherlock," Lestrade sighed. "For the last damn time."

"Such a finite conclusion, unintentionally leaving an alarming amount of wiggle-room for the unexpected..."

"Just go," Lestrade told him.

And so Sherlock did, against his better judgment.

X

John sat up in bed, gently palpitating the sutures on his neck. It was strange to think that they were holding him together, like a rag doll with the stuffing overflowing.

The area was still quite tender.

"Jesus, John, you're worse than your flatmate," Lestrade said. "Looks like his stubbornness has rubbed off on you."

John bit his lip and brought his hand down to his side.

"How is Sherlock?" he asked, speaking at as low a volume as he could possibly manage; every time he tried using his vocal chords, he felt a sting of pain from his neck wound. Goddamn trachea.

"Physically, he's alright. Luckily I arrived just as Carson was making a run for it. Caught him on the landing of the stairs," Lestrade seemed to boast. "Sherlock didn't really stop to explain anything to me. He was too worried about you."

John raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Don't act surprised. You know just how much he cares about you. I mean, he might be a sociopath, but I've never seen someone capable of feeling normal emotions look so panicked before."

John seemed to blush as he looked down at his sheets.

"John, you scared the hell out of the both of us. I mean, once I had a good idea of what the prognosis was I was a bit less worried, but that doesn't change the fact that you could have died."

"I didn't."

"Yeah, but you could've." The inspector sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Sherlock couldn't shake that thought from his head."

"Where is he?" John asked.

"Back at your flat. But that's only because I made him. If I hadn't insisted, there's no doubt in my mind that he would've camped out here until he could see you."

"I would have," Sherlock suddenly said from the doorway, frightening both Lestrade and John.

"Forgot to tell you, John; he's coming to see you," Leatrade said with a laugh.

"Well, you've always been notorious for poor planning," Sherlock quipped as he walked over to John.

The inspector simply rolled his eyes and leaned back against the wall.

"Hey," John whispered with a small smile. He made a great effort to conceal the stitches with his hand, but all in vain when Sherlock gently ushered him to take it away by touching it.

The detective's face hardened into an awkward mixture of anger and concern when he saw the sutures.

"Relax," John assured him. "There'll be scarring, but that's all."

"Stop assessing the severity of your injury. It only allows you to use your voice and cause you further pain and distress."

"Sherl-"

"Shut up." Sherlock traced the pattern of the stitches with his slender, bony fingers, letting out a short breath that carried the word 'Fascinating' with it.

Lestrade cleared his throat.

"Should I give you two some privacy?"

Before John could decline the offer, Sherlock was adamantly nodding his head.

And so the two of them were left alone.

John sat there uncomfortably while Sherlock scrutinised his neck wound, most likely sizing up the extent of the damage. The doctor noticed as his flatmate's face became whiter and whiter the more he looked.

"The scalpel narrowly missed cutting into your jugular," the detective stated.

John shrugged.

"Guess you warned me in time."

"A second too late. If I had insisted-"

"Sherlock, don't do this."

Sherlock's eyes still remained locked on the wound, as if he were catatonic.

"Sherlock, please stop."

"What?"

"Kicking yourself. It's not your fault. Nothing about this is your fault." John swallowed painfully. "I shouldn't have to tell you this. You're the genius."

"Certainly I played a part-"

"Stop it. Seriously; it's fine. It's all fine." John closed his eyes. "Can you stop making me speak now? I just want to rest."

Sherlock nodded.

"I... of course." He shifted his feet. "Would you prefer it if I left?"

John shook his head.

"Don't have to."

"Then I'll stay."

"Y'might get bored."

Sherlock pulled out his phone and shook it in the air to draw attention to it.

"I've found a case. Perhaps you'd like to assist me?"

John chuckled tiredly.

"Give me an hour to nap. Then we'll talk."

Sherlock shrugged.

"Very well." He pulled a chair up beside the bed and sat down. "Would you like me to wake you?"

"Absolutely not."

"As you wish." Sherlock pulled up the case details on his phone. "Rest well, John. I would prefer it if you were well again sooner rather than later."

It only took three minutes and forty-eight seconds for John to fall asleep; Sherlock counted.

The detective looked up from his phone and gently placed it back in his pocket, returning his attention to the stitches on John's neck; they made his stomach turn. Perhaps it was the fact that he knew how close John had come to dying; how close he himself had come to being alone again.

But looking at the way John's chest rhythmically rose and fell brought him relief; it was a small sign of life, and therefore so often taken for granted. But in that moment, it meant the world. Because it meant that John was still alive. And that's all that mattered to Sherlock.

After all, a life without his blogger was a life he didn't wish to live.