Sherlock knows that calling Mycroft and resorting to his contacts at the clinic is becoming something of a habit by the third time he does so but feeling John's limp weight against his chest is enough of an encouragement.
'John keep your eyes open, are you concussed?' Sherlock offers as he brushes a hand through John's unruly hair.
John blinks up at him confusion written on his face. 'Don't know, head hurts though. I really don't want another concussion' he mumbles.
'How many hits?'Sherlock asks as he allows his gaze to cover his friend who looks decidedly worse for wear.
'Six…I think… one to the face… probably four to the chest and I think… uhm… three in the arm… not sure though… it hurts.' John states hesitantly.
The car that turns up is kitted out like an ambulance but has none of the standard markings making it obviously out of the ordinary. However Sherlock doesn't really care as the medics seem qualified and they are willing to accept his request to go to Mycroft's clinic. In fact they seem to have been instructed to go there already.
Sherlock has his arm bandaged by a stern looking nurse and is then allowed into John's room. John looks unwell but then he has been looking unwell for the past couple of weeks. Sherlock approaches his side brushing a hand over his head carefully.
'Sherlock?' John asks as his eyes flicker open.
'Yes. How are you doing?' Sherlock nods down at his friend.
'I'm ok, sleepy though' John mumbles struggling under the influence of the painkillers.
A second bed is wheeled in for Sherlock and they both settle down for the night. Sherlock is surprised at how tired he finds himself as he stretches out next to John who is curled up on his side, a peaceful look on his face.
The next morning they are both released into Lestrade's supportive care. He grumbles about their stupid behaviour in going off to examine John's presumed stalker on their own, yet he knows they will continue to do so, so his complaints are mostly for show.
'How badly are you hurt? Do I need to be worried?' Lestrade asks eyeing the two men before him.
'I'm fine but John was shot by nine rubber bullets, not six, you miscalculated.' Sherlock says fixing John with a stern glare.
'You got hit too, that arm has got to hurt.' John retorts but is faced with Sherlock's questioning glare.
'I got hit once, you got hit nine times, including in the head. I'm not the one who's been woken up all night to check for concussion.' Sherlock argues and Lestrade eyes them both with a worried look.
'John, I really think we should put you in some sort of safe house, get you out of Baker Street, you really don't look to good.'Lestrade says looking his friend over. John is looking decidedly worse for wear. Not only is his leg in a walking cast and his face is sporting an impressive red stain from where the bullet hit but he is very pale and has lost a considerable amount of weight.
'No, absolutely not. If I'm not out and about he will go after someone else, my sister, Molly, one of my military buddies, I'm not letting that happen.' John comments sternly. He hobbles past Lestrade who looks at him questioningly.
'I've already had this conversation with him.' Sherlock offers as he follows John out the door. 'It's useless. We have to catch this guy, it's the only way to keep John safe.' Sherlock looks genuinely sad as he says this and Lestrade doesn't know if it is caused by John wanting to keep others safe over himself of by the threat to his welfare existing in the first place, probably both. If Lestrade is pained by seeing the decline in John's health he knows that Sherlock is bound to feel even more worried, after all that had been the intention of the mysterious attacker in the first place.
Lestrade isn't the only one to notice Sherlock's concern. Upon returning to Baker Street John lock's himself in the bathroom to get away from his flatmate for a short while. He can tell how upset Sherlock is and it is driving him mad. He hates the fact that the man's plan is working so well. His whole world seems to have turned dark and depressing but the final blow is seeing that it does in fact influence his friend as well. John, is no fool, he is a doctor and he can tell without needing further diagnosis that he is slipping swiftly into a state of depression but what is driving him even deeper toward that slippery slope is the fear that Sherlock might be about to follow him down that path. The fear and pain in his flatmate's eyes has been growing increasingly prominent over the past few weeks.
John sits on the toilet seat staring at the door and hating the fact that he does in that instance despise himself for not being able to fight this man. He knows with his rational mind that it is not his fault, that someone else is doing this to him but it doesn't help. The cruel taunts from his colleagues, from the blog, from the e-mails they surface without him willing them to and he feels stupid, he feels fat, he feels irrelevant, and pointless, and unattractive, and puny, and just utterly useless and without wanting to he starts to cry, shaking with the force of his misery. He wants nothing more than to hide away from the pain. Not the physical pain, that he can handle but the feeling of being utterly useless, of being helpless and unable to control his own life, that is what is driving him into the ground.