A/N: Bear with me, please, sure in the belief that you know me as a writer. There are lines I do not cross; I wouldn't cross them now without fair warning. The writer-reader contract is based on mutual trust, after all.

Still not British, a writer, or at home. -csf


b.

Sherlock is tight-lipped and a pale knock-off of the electrifying detective I am used to following around in our cases. Absorbed in mysterious considerations he jealously guards to himself, the detective leans against the cold cab window as we head towards the London headquarters of a prominent British tabloid, one of those Mrs H buys as a guilty pleasure and one that Mycroft Holmes simply dreads dealing with. A tabloid that runs daily stories on adulterous politicians, criminal immigrants and, around Christmas and Summer holidays, has a special feature on randy ghosts or perplexed aliens.

How Sherlock concluded the connection to this media outlet, I don't know. I did ask, but strangely my friend answered with—

"I'm not explaining it all over again!"

I guess that Mind Palace John he says he keeps around for when I'm inconsiderately absent, such as working at the surgery, has taken my place one time too many. When the case is over, I will need to round Sherlock up on all his figments of the imagination and tell him that I will not be replaced by my imaginary twin.

Sherlock suddenly springs to action, ordering the cabbie to stop at the curb, already ushering him with cash and tip in hand. Must be another super-detective mind power to calculate cab fares. I'm fairly sure Sherlock didn't even glance at the cabbie or the bill racking up.

Sherlock hardly allows the cab to come to a halt before he's climbing out, a hand clasped over my wrist forcing me to follow him closely.

'Did you bring your gun, John?' he asks me, dangerously close within the cab driver's earshot.

'Who's the murderer?' I ask, fine-tuning my stupefaction to the dangerous situation at hand.

'The editor and spurred lover. It was all a set up.'

'Wait – how do you even know that?'

'John, conversations with you would be significantly faster if you just took my word for it. The editor is about to walk out of the building by the back door in 30 seconds and into the back alley. I f we hurry, we can intercept him.'

'So I should just follow you?' My sarcasm should have been a clear indicator of loss of patience, but Sherlock doesn't react.

I do follow Sherlock, rolling my eyes; promising to cut down on the sarcasm if it just puts me to shame.

'Why a gun?'

He glances at me sharply, as if he had forgotten his earlier summon. Yeah, no gun, Sherlock. We were just heading to the Yard. Lestrade has no legal fondness for my unlicensed gun.

He seems to be cursing under his breath. 'The editor is out to kill his secretary. He will break into her house and find her and her young child. We need to stop him, John!'

'Yeah, of course! But how did you know all that? How long have you known all that?'

Sherlock doesn't answer me, maybe he told Mind palace John that already too; instead he prods me on. Behind a couple of smelly bins there is a slight opening towards a side alley at the back of the office building. Sherlock sneaks through, still grabbing hold of my wrist. I follow like a rushed toddler following mummy on a department store sale.

'Sherlock, I'm a grown-up, I can perfectly well—'

He shushes me with a heavy hand over my mouth and another at the back of my head, making me shiver lightly. I pat his hands away, briskly, but know better than to break silence again.

Suddenly a fire exit door opens sharply and a man comes out in a jog. Sherlock smirks, lets him take two steps away from us towards the end of the alley, before announcing victoriously, his deep baritone bounding off the narrow brick alley walls:

'Ever thought of running a story on yourself as a depraved murderer's confession, Chandler?'

The man startles, spins on himself and I only have the time to see a quicksilver glimpse of a handgun before I am pushing Sherlock away from the gun's aim.

The bullet noise rips through the dead silence of the alley. Next thing I notice, Sherlock is falling behind another bin into some dirty corner, and I'm closing my eyes so tightly I see red behind my eyelids.

The contact with the harsh concrete doesn't hurt quite as much as the new hole ripped through my upper right leg. I have a moment of clear reasoning to admire life's sarcasm at giving me a real limp so soon after my psychosomatic one, before the pain takes over.

Heavy footsteps pounding at a distance tell me that at least Sherlock will be safe, as the criminal editor runs off. I hope Sherlock gets him; then I take it back, as a clear example of a feverish thought. I must be going into shock. I need Sherlock, now more than ever before.

'John? Talk to me, John!'

Vaguely I remember hearing my name in the few seconds that elapsed me, my mind going blank with the shock and the pain. I never said I wouldn't talk to Sherlock, and I try to tell him that, but only an incoherent mumble comes out of my strained lips. It sounds feeble and desperate even to me.

As if muffled by water gushing over my ears, I hear Sherlock shouting frantically at his phone and me – something about ambulances, countdowns and Sherlock's own murderous intents.

I sigh, resigned that I must do everything. Darkness now falling around me, I blindly reach out to Sherlock's free hand and slap it against the blood pouring out of my thigh. Keep pressure on it for me. And lift me up a bit. I need to see it.

I don't know or care how many of my slurred words made sense to my poor friend. His gaze is now locked with mine, and behind that horrible mask of sheer panic his mercurial eyes are following my every breath and heartbeat, and just about reading my thoughts with ease.

I try to think happy thoughts for Sherlock.

He presses down on the bullet wound and there's an inhuman howl of pain echoing in the narrow alley. He nearly backs away, but he knows better than to let me bleed to be one of his dead bodies at my own murder scene.

'John… Hang in there!' His voice is sharp against the blurriness in my mind. I latch onto it, my anchor in consciousness.

I try to nod, feeling really cold now, because I can tell Sherlock needs the reassurance.

'Youz doin awesum', I mutter. His eyes are oddly shiny as they bore down on me. His hands tremble, or perhaps it's the shivers racking up my body now.

'You can have my blood, John. Tell me how to do it.'

That's nuts, and so like Sherlock to be so dramatic. I'm… I'm… bleeding to death, I suppose. Oh. In that case, there's one thing I must make sure I do.

'Sherl… Promise me...'

'John, don't you dare!'

'...you won't… blame yourself,' I articulate forcibly. He needs to understand this. Not his fault. Not his decision. My decision, and I loved every second of us against the world. Only one small regret. I try to tell him that, all of that, but time runs out and the lights go out.

.

Next thing I know my alarm clock has gone off, and I can hear Sherlock pacing in the living room downstairs. A deep shiver runs down my spine and I transfix my empty gaze on the dismal white ceiling above my bed. Right.

Every morning is a clean slate.

.

I sat on the bed for a while, rubbing at my thigh until my skin was red. I could have swore a lingering ghost feeling remained of a wound I cannot have suffered. What a messed up mind of mine to come up with this calibre of a nightmare…

Calibre 3.5, to be precise. I could tell by the gunshot sound, more than anything I saw or felt.

Eventually I accepted I needed to go down and face the day, face Sherlock.

I find him in the living room, through the open door; pacing the rug, deep dark purple bruises under his eyes and a generally dishevelled appearance that is no good sign of a night well slept.

Two men haunted by the workings of their minds co-inhabit 221B.

'Do you believe in second chances, Sherlock?' I mutter absent-mindedly, as I set the kitchen table for breakfast. The kettle is set to boil, the toaster has started to release the scent of old, burnt crumbs wedged behind the grills. Just a typical morning at Baker Street, and yet—

'Don't skip breakfast, John. Your weight is adequate for a middle-aged man in England – regional differences apply, of course – and only slightly subpar for—'

I sigh inwardly, resting my weight on my hands, resting squarely against the kitchen counter.

Here we go again.

.

TBC


2nd A/N: Yes, I suppose it's a Groundhog Day fic. Is that Sci-Fi? I'm never sure. But, generally speaking, I will need a bit of your suspension of disbelief, please, or perhaps you'll prefer to just wait this one out. It's totally understandable and I wouldn't blame you. Ta. -csf