"You're going to- Fuck!" I wheezed, gripping a handful of Sholto's jacket with my sweaty palm. He shushed me, putting one hand on the dip of my waist and allowing the other to hover over my leg, dangerously close to the protruding shards of metal. The bleeding hadn't gone down, and the little teeth had done more and more damage to my thigh the longer I continued to use it, but the thought of removing them filled me with dread. I knew that it had to be done. But the pain was fogging my mind, shutting away the doctor portion for the less reasonable one.

Sholto remained calm, spreading his fingers wide across my stomach and keeping his eyes on my injured thigh. "These are first."

"Sh-"

"We need to get these out, John. The last thing we need is for Sherlock to come home to you with a leg full of metal."

I croaked. He was right. And after your mild threat earlier, it was even more right. But as James' fingers grazed the surface of one of the teeth, I had to bite my cheek to keep from howling. I gripped the stained bed-sheets tightly with one hand and the cuff of Sholto's jacket in the other, letting my breath out with long hisses rather than noises, squeezing my eyes shut nearly to the point of tears.

Vocalization had always been my tendency and my biggest embarrassment, as Sholto had well known, but somehow I felt as if any inkling of sound was an intimate invasion. I made myself dizzy, trying to distract myself and yet not make noise and yet keep myself still under Sholto's hands. He gripped the flat sides of a tooth and pulled up. By the time the shard was removed, my hands were shaking so badly I could hardly focus.

"Breathe, John, you're almost purple." James leaned forward, studying me. I opened my eyes a sliver, swallowing deep, rushed breaths.

"Please, just leave them," I murmured.

"Do you have any painkillers?"

"Just Sherlock's prescription, and I don't want those." I contorted again, a fresh wave of pain washing through, and I pulled against Sholto's jacket. "Dammit, Sholto, it fucking hurts."

"I'm sorry, I have to get these out. At least the bigger ones."

"Jesus Christ."

I stretched out my back, arching my neck against our pillows. James seemed torn, but then again, so was my leg, and that took precedence. He pressed his palm against my chest, just hard enough to keep me from folding up, and held the other above my thigh with his eye on a particularly large and jagged piece. "Alright, John, take a breath."

There was no way I could watch without passing out, so I closed my eyes tight and tugged on Sholto's jacket. He pulled as smoothly as he could manage, but it still felt as if a chainsaw were being dragged through my bone. I made a mangled cry sound, wheezing in breaths, and he stopped.

"John, stay still," He said, quietly.

I groaned, forcing myself to exhale. "Stop, please."

"Relax a little." He rubbed my chest, sending my lungs into spasms. "It'll be easier if you loosen up."

"I can't," I panted.

"Just try." He put his fingers around the shard, bracing himself on me before pulling up. Trying to relax only made my hands tremble even worse. I let my mouth hang open, gulping in air, hearing my own breaths echo in my ears. I was either going to be sick or black out completely. My chest was tight and my muscles felt stringy, convulsion leading to weakness in my forearms and shoulders.

The shard hung a few inches from my skin, soaked a deep red, and I let out a long, wavering sigh, untangling my fingers as Sholto dropped it into a small metallic bowl where two other shards were already waiting.

"Oh, Christ, I can't do this," I muttered, wiping the sweat and grime out of my eyes. I looked back down at my leg, with the fabric of my trousers torn to pieces, exposing the shredded flesh beneath. The wounds were oozing and bleeding into the bedspread, and I knew I would need to bind it somehow. But the pain was coming back. I could feel it from the pit of my stomach, and I laid my head down.

James scanned across my leg again. "Only a bit longer, John."

"No." I put my hand on his wrist, pushing with what miniscule amount of strength I still had. "Please. I can't."

"You've got this far, you'll be fine."

"James."

"Relax."

"James."

"John."

He pressed harder on my chest and quickly gripped a shard, pulling up without warning. I shrieked, my torso threatening to jerk forward, Sholto's hand the only thing pinning me down. I clawed at his shoulder, but it did nothing to distract him or to help me. I rolled my head back, gritting my teeth, moaning and writhing away from him. The shard was not budging, and neither was Sholto, his pressure constant a brow slowly beginning to furrow with effort.

We both nearly snapped our necks as the door flung open and there you were, your eyes almost red with rage.

"What the hell are you two doing?" You asked, words sharp.

I fell back onto the bed, sucking in a breath. Sholto had let go of the shard mid-pull, and the new movement made the wounds sting. Shit, you weren't supposed to be home this early. But thank god you were. I let my eyes close again, feeling the pain vibrate throughout me, your footsteps flowing around the foot of the bed.

"He's injured," Sholto said, standing off the edge of the mattress to meet you. "I was trying to-"

"How the fuck did he get injured?" You exploded. "You were supposed to stay in the flat! Where were you!"

"Lower London," He answered.

"Doing what, exactly?"

"Looking for evidence."

"Evidence?"

"Sherlock."

I propped myself on my elbows, looking up at you with big eyes. You were visibly upset, and the last thing I wanted was for that anger to be directed at James. You turned to me, your eyes scanning across me before landing up near my gaze, taking a seat at my waist. "What happened, John."

"Sholto remembered something," I explained, cringing. "A friend of Macie's, who lived in London. We thought that she might've been the reason Jandi came to London in the first place."

"We found her name in the phonebook, with an address." Sholto added. "She runs a Wiccan shop and owns the flat above it."

"The store was dark, but unlocked. We found an extra key to get into the upper flat." The pain in my stomach spiked, so I laid back down. "We thought we were alone, but evidently there were a handful of bastards hunkered down in the back rooms. They were armed."

"John was grazed by grenade fire. The explosion threw lots of glass and broken metal his way."

"I can see that. How much metal were you able to extract?" You asked, moving toward my thigh. You still had your leather gloves on, so you were unhesitant to start prodding, narrowing your eyes to get a better view.

"Several pieces," James answered, showing him the bowl.

"It looks like there's still more embedded. We'll need to have this removed." You tsked, pulling your phone out of your coat. "Major Sholto, in our closet there is a large cardboard box in the far right-hand corner. In the bottom of that box is another box. Bring it to me."

You took your right glove off with your teeth and began punching in numbers. Sholto nodded to you and dipped out of sight.

After he was gone, you glanced up at me, still closed off but at least willing. "It sounded like you were having a good fuck."

I stared at you. "What?"

"You, groaning in here."

"You're a shithead!" I cawed, blushing rose red. "F-"

"This box?"

Sholto raised a black lock-box out of the closet door, and you nodded.

"Thank-you." Your phone made a muffled noise. "Yes, Molly, I need you down here at Baker Street."

"Molly?" James asked.

"Molly Hooper, she's from the hospital."

"Oh, no, it's no rush." You continued, tilting your head to pin your phone to your shoulder. "John's just had a bit of an accident. He's gotten himself pretty badly cut up and has some penetrating wounds in his leg. But if those corpses are being impatient, by all means, take your time."

"Corpses?" He looked at me.

"She works in the mortuary."

"He's phoned a mortician?"

"Thank-you, Molly, for being so accommodating. I'll start the job, but if you could bring some morphine with you, I would appreciate it." You switched off your phone and tossed it onto the bed past me, reaching down to unlock the box Sholto had brought. "I think now would be a good time to re-emphasize the usefulness of an emergency medical stock, Dr. Watson."

"Now is definitely not a good time," I seethed, rotating my wrist on the bedspread.

"Did you two at least find anything mildly interesting in your flirtation with the insurgents?" You asked.

"We did," Sholto replied, slowly. "There was a book in Ovleen's flat that belonged to Macie."

"A book? What's important about a book?" You discovered a scalpel, the sight of which made me flinch.

Sholto noticed it too, but refused to react. "John recognized it."

"It was the book that Jandi had brought, he showed it to us. James, go get it, I set it on the kitchen table."

He nodded, getting up and disappearing again into the next room.

"He's James now?" You murmured.

"He's always been James, asshat," I spat back.

You narrowed your eyes and poked one of the shards, making me yelp.

Sholto returned with the book, and as soon as you set eyes on him, your expression went to shock. You recognized it even faster than I had, and reached for it, examining the cover closely and then flipping through the pages, paying due attention to everything you could see. "Did it have all these markings and colors before? I thought it was mainly monotone."

"It was," I breathed. "The marks are new."

"Do you know what it could be?" Sholto asked, sitting in a chair beside the window.

"It could be a map," You answered, "Or it could be a code."

"Code?"

You fingered through the pages. "Most of this seems to be useless information. Friends, phone numbers, e-mail addresses. But then there are things that stand out." You put your thumb on one page and showed it to me. "Look at that. It's highlighted now, but the highlighting is fresh. No one would notice it usually, just a scribbled note, an absent doodle. But it's not an accident when there are so many. That's the Greek character psi. Could mean anything. Psychology. Tangential angles. But over here, also highlighted. A date, misplaced. Look at that."

"That was the year after I got out of Afghanistan," I said, looking up at you.

"There's more. Many more." You turned to the cover, and a fold of paper fell out, landing on the floor near your feet. As you bent to pick it up, you unfolded it, your face lighting up with glee. "It looks like my work is practically done. Look at that, John."

You held it in front of me. "A key?"

"A key," He flipped the page around, scanning through the entries. There were Greek letters, Afghan characters, symbols like triangles and crescents, numbers, and English characters. "It doesn't look complete, but it's a solid start. Anyone who would compose such a complex and detailed code as this definitely would have had plenty to hide, and plenty to record. Now we just need to find the manuscript that this key goes with."

"Ovleen's flat was torched," Sholto said. "The explosions must've caught something. Her library would be practically destroyed."

Your shoulders deflated like a balloon. "There's always something salvageable," You replied.

"But it came from Macie, it was Macie's book." I said. "Jandi brought it from Wales. If it were hers, wouldn't it make more sense if the key was for something from her library?"

"Like her journals," Sholto nodded.

"Journals?" You asked.

"Macie was a prolific journalist. She has hundreds of them, even from her teenage years, I believe."

You reinflated. "Then we've got to see those journals."

It was only about ten minutes before Molly arrived, her med kit in-hand, washed and ready to pick apart my leg looking for the remaining fragments of glass and plastic embedded into the muscle. You didn't want me in the hospital; you were already drawing out plans to go to Wales, and since I knew more about Macie than you did, I was a necessary accessory. A hospital trip could possibly take a few days. So you insisted that Molly do the best job she could with the supplies she had and that we would make due until we had gotten back from Wales.

You disappeared into the sitting room to work on the key and talk to Greg over the phone while Molly prepared. Sholto stayed, sitting by the window and flipping through one of the Afghanistan map booklets that you had gotten him, periodically glancing up at me and keeping an eye on our mortician. As polite as Molly tried to be, the honest fact was that she was used to working on bodies with no active pain receptors, and so it might be a bit uncomfortable for me. She kindly offered to shoot me up with pain reliever, however, which was nice.

I felt a bit like I was a living game of Operation. I was laying on the bed with my head cushioned by one of our pillows, dazed and sleepy from the morphine, but there were times when I would feel Molly's tweezers or scalpel crystal clear, and my whole body would constrict. My hands were still shaking, but I couldn't feel it well much less stop it, so I ignored it for the most part. I watched the ceiling and the wall, focusing on my breathing and trying not to drift too far.

Molly dropped another arrowhead of glass into the bowl and looked at me. I felt her hand gently brush against my forehead, but I couldn't focus on her. God, I hated morphine. It always managed to make me feel flowery, and although I could feel my other emotions rolling in my chest, nothing could break the surface.

"You alright, John? You're awfully pale," She said, studying me.

I mumbled something in response, but even I wasn't sure what it was. I was still shaking. My chest was still tight.

"I'm sorry, Major, could you go get Sherlock?" She asked. "John may need someone with him."

"Alright." He stretched up, moving slowly to get accustomed, and walked back into the sitting room. He was sore. Limping a bit. I briefly wondered if he was injured, too, and just not saying anything. After all those time finding him in the hall of the med ward after every other soldier had left, it wouldn't have been a surprise. But there was nothing I could do. I could hardly even lift my head.

He was back, now, standing over me, and I watched him, my eyes feeling full and heavy. "Sherlock said he would be fine if he slept. Can you sleep, John?"

"He's not responding much. Is he still on the depression medication? It might be interacting with the morphine."

"I think he took the panic medication, but he lost all his long-term medication in Glasgow, and he hasn't gotten another prescription yet."

"Oh, alright."

"Will he be alright?"

"Yes, he should be fine. Just a little drowsy until he sleeps off the drugs."

Another sizzle of pain snapped me out of my daze, and I suddenly heard myself whimper, my fingers twisting into the sheets, and Molly looked sad.

"Is there anything I can do to help him?" Sholto asked, turning to her.

"Well, I think it might help for you to just stay with him." She answered, dropping another shard. "If you'd like, you can try to make him more comfortable. Pillows, blankets, and such. He's shaking pretty badly, maybe some warmth will help with that."

Sholto agreed, and I felt him moving around me. Molly took a break to clean her tools and he gently moved me into a more comfortable position, with my neck and my back supported by several big pillows. He couldn't cover most of my lower body, but he draped a wool blanket over my chest and pulled my arms closer to myself. I briefly wondered where you had gone, and why he was the one left with this job. He didn't have to wait around for me, but he was there and you weren't. He brought his work in to where I was so that he would have an excuse to keep a close eye on me. Yet you made excuses to get away. It made me sick to my stomach.

"John." There he was, sitting beside me on the bed. He was leaning over me, testing the temperature of my forehead with the back of his fingers, swatting my cheeks with his thumb. "You're crying, John."

I twisted my head, catching my breath for the first time in a few minutes. I could feel the sleep, now that I was warm, and my eyes were swollen with salty fluid. The teeth of Sholto's jacket zipper bit into the side of my face, but I pressed my head into his chest anyway, my arm snaking up to his stomach. He didn't touch me for a few seconds, but his hand slowly came to rest on my shoulder, nearly swallowing it up.

"You want Sherlock, don't you?" He whispered, brushing his thumb. "I'm sorry."

I squeezed my eyes tighter. No, I didn't want Sherlock. I wanted Sherlock to get over himself.

"He knows you'll be fine. He just wants this case to be overwith. Like the rest of us."

Molly had to move me back over to work on my leg, but Sholto let me rest my head against his shoulder, drifting in and out of sleep while he continued looking through the Afghanistan leaflet. The warmth radiated out of the pages, soaking into the blanket that Sholto had now draped across himself as well, bathing us both in desert warmth. Yet my hands never stopped shaking.

You appeared at times, a shadow in the doorway, jutting your head inside to check up with Molly and shoot strange looks at Sholto. He noticed them, now. But you weren't very interested in hiding, either. Your shadow was unkind, narrow, abrupt. You disliked that he touched me, I disliked that you didn't. And then you were gone.

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Next update Thursday.