A/N: I'm not entirely sure it makes sense, though, but this is what it came out like. -csf


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I bang shut the bathroom door behind me. In the kitchen, my flatmate lifts a curious forehead from the crouching stance over his beloved microscope. He flexes his neck like a flexible cat, eyeing me suspiciously. Waiting for my next move.

'Sherlock, there's an octopus in our bathtub. A live octopus.' If I sound incredulous, can you blame me?

He focuses back on the microscope eye pieces, nonplussed.

'Hush now, John. It's just visiting.'

'It gave me the evil eye too.'

'I'll have a word with the guest. Will you drop it now? Tea does not make itself in a delectable self-conjuring act, you know?'

I blink repeatedly.

'Fine, but stop redirecting me, I'm onto you and your eight armed friend', I hiss.

Sherlock smirks. 'Is this still about Anderson assisting me at the last crime scene?'

I flash him mental daggers. Yeah, I got jealous. I've had a good night sleep since, so I'm fine now.

I'm not usually that insecure. I think. Am I? Nah.

I shake my head minutely as I head for the kettle. Tea can put any early morning start back on track.

Sherlock is once again observing a mysterious sample. It's a sickly black-green.

I hope that bathroom octopus is not ill.

'I will collect you from your hospital shift later on, John.'

'Hmm?'

'And I'll reunite you with your gun, if you care to join me in a little adventure', he almost purrs. Then breaks in honest constriction. 'If you are not too tired after your shift.'

Good point.

Lockdown has been partially eased, but it's still important to keep a nice 2 metres social distance from other people. Sherlock and I have talked it over and figured my gun was a good old fashioned way of imposing some distance in our confrontations with criminals. I still don't want to shoot, particularly an unarmed person, but that is something the criminal freezing and getting their hands up in the air won't necessarily have to know.

'Buy me a cup of coffee and I'll be right as rain, Sherlock... Does this have anything to do with the octopus in the bathtub?'

My friend looks mildly surprised. 'No, of course not, why would it?'

I grin. 'No reason, just checking... Mrs Hudson won't let me drive her car, after the stories on my driving you've been spreading, and you said you would give me a ride to work...' I check.

Sherlock nods, very serious.

'For optimal traffic congestion avoidance, we will leave in exactly six minutes, thirty seconds, John.'

I blow on the surface of my tea mug, trying to cool it faster. It'd figure my friend had a mind map route already planned out. So far he's outdone the performance of several ordinary internet applications. Although he once drove straight through a construction site, and twice through business parking lots.

Who said having a genius for a flatmate did not come with practical use?

'And your case?'

'I will tell you all about it upon your collection from the hospital, John. I don't want to be the cause of a distracted behaviour during your doctoring.'

He really thinks himself that high and mighty, huh?

He's right on this account. It's escapism at its best, and something to look forward all gruelling day long.

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Sherlock is impatiently waiting inside Mrs Hudson's posh car, as if he had been born to ride it and now he was being grievously inconvenienced by my delay. I smirk at the familiarity of the scene. It's Baker Street every day of the week, through and through.

I shrug off some weighted exhaustion from my shoulders, knowing only Sherlock can cast away the shadows of a hard day so quickly.

Just to mess with my mate, I head to the back door, and get inside declaring: 'Take me on an adventure, cabbie!'

He's startled so bad he actually does a double take on me. I worry at once.

'Who did you think it was?' I protest, stretching to climb to the vacant seat at the front.

He shrugs. 'Jim Moriarty's ghost?'

Now I know he's trying to aggravate me, and succeeding. He smirks at my reaction.

'For the record, John, only you can surprise me in such manner. You dull my senses, you have become background noise. It's most inconvenient.'

I don't think that is a nice thing to say. At the same time, I'm too confused to claim it's a bad thing to say.

The moment I buckle up, Sherlock steps on the gas.

And he claims he can drive better than I can.

I reach out to the book he negligently put aside. I gave him this copy long ago. The Solar System. It hardly looks thumbed.

'New hobby, mate?'

'Thought it might come handy, help pass the time. We are doing on a stake out, John.'

Oh. That's a bit boring. Did I hurry through thirty seven patients for a stake out?

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'And the octopus case?' I remember, shifting restlessly at the damp soil behind a garden bench, at the end of a newly built property.

Sherlock is standing so close I can tell apart the scent of his high end shampoo from the odorous scents of the honeysuckle trails on the fence behind us. Sherlock is wood and spice, complementing the wet earth dampening the cuffs of my trousers.

It's nice to be out and about.

'The killer used octopus ink to leave a message at the crime scene, taunting the police. Although he was a vicious and sadistic murderer, he did not harm any sea creature in the aquarium.'

'And the octopus in our bathtub?'

'Witness protection, John. I trust you don't mind.'

Baker Street is a safe haven to anyone in distress, we're a last recourse to anyone whose other hopes have failed them.

'However', Sherlock adds timely, 'last time I checked, the octopus was no longer there.'

'Where did it go?'

He shrugs. 'How should I know?'

Great. Now I'll have to look in the sink before doing the dishes, in the kettle before I make tea, and on that rain gutter at the back that is always clogged anyway.

'Sherlock, you mean to say you lost—'

My friend stops our quiet banter with a brisk hand on my forearm. He's spotted danger. About time, too.

I look on up, squinting at the peaceful suburban house. I see no signs of activity.

Sherlock is still quite intent, gazing at the house with such intensity that I gather he's trying to use some x-ray vision superpower he doesn't own. A bird flaps its wings, taking off from the edge of the roof, my flatmate lifts a curious set of wild dark curls. The atmosphere grows tense.

Barbers are still closed for business, and Sherlock's hair is turning into a very appropriate wild mane, in keeping with the personality. I quite like the longer locks, on Sherlock that is. I know he's not too keen on the grey hairs strewn among the dark inky curls, but that doesn't bother me either. It makes his look uniquely distinct, as it should be, for Sherlock Holmes is one unparalleled brilliant person.

You just can't ever let him suspect that, or he'll collapse under the weight of his own ego.

'John, a favour?'

'Sure!'

'Will you stop eyeing me during this stake out and watch the suspect's house instead?'

Oh.

'You're watching it already', I diverge.

'And you're the military man, taught surveillance tactics.'

'Nah, I was there because in a war you never run out of patients. Job guaranteed.'

Sherlock smirks, knowing better than to take me seriously.

I glance at the high windows again, the shadowy corners of the sloped roof. Good timing too, for I think I see something there, something wrong. A shadow, a movement?

I lay a hand on Sherlock's arm, insisting he keeps low, and cock up my gun in my right hand, my shooting hand.

I definitely feel awake now, adrenaline hitting my veins, travelling everywhere.

'You sure this guy is the triple killer, mate?' I whisper. He nods. I raise my anger level another notch. I'll fire if I have to.

'What is he doing up there?'

'Setting up a trap for his next kill.'

'Sherlock!'

'I see them, John.' The detective's voice is clipped, angry.

'He's got someone with him!'

I glance Sherlock's way for an instant alone. A flaw to the genius' plan. He's squinting hard, trying to make out the scene at the window. The killer seems to be pulled in by our curiosity, or just trails to the window in unsteady steps as he fights a new victim. Damn! I get up in one fluid motion, gun held securely in an outstretched arm, and pull the trigger.

The killer drops the knife, releases his choke hold on the blond lady, staggers under the blossoming red stain in his sweater.

I lower my gun, breathing hard. Sherlock storms past me, rushing to the house, running wildly towards danger. Before I can run after him, save his sorry behind, I miss the killer's movements up there, I'm a second too late to see him raise a gun – what? he was a strangler with a knife, now a gun? – and point it towards me. I try to duck, but I know, I sense, it's too late.

I hit the soft grass as the noise of a firearm discharge thundering halts. I groan as the first wave of pain slams me hard.

I vaguely watch Sherlock double back, livid. He snatches the gun I've dropped, that fits daintily in his large hand. He aims it to the high window and fires revengeful shots at the escaping criminal.

I can't be bothered to tell Sherlock that's my gun. He can gave his fun with it.

Which he does, emptying the chamber uselessly. Brick and mortar flick off the façade and the window smashes. Finally Sherlock loops the gun on his belt on his lower back; are you nuts? It's burning hot from the shots you fired!

Sherlock flinches slightly, but oblivious to his own actions, he's transfixed on his partner sprawled on the ground. Man down.

'John!'

'Just a scratch. I can walk.' I strive to push him away and analyse my bleeding arm. My left arm. It stings badly, and I feel nauseous, but I think it's mostly sensory memory of far worse gunshot wounds. My memory wants to mash past events with today's.

I blink hard to focus. Some skin tissue damage, mostly a predictable long scar, mostly harmless. Some disinfecting and stitches and I'll be alright.

Adrenaline overflow is keeping the pain levels down.

Damn it. The killer got away.

Sherlock did not pursue; he's busying himself holding me up, cursing me, spluttering my life stats at me; in sum, having a meltdown.

Can't blame him, I'd have one too if I were in his shoes.

It's even a bit endearing.

'Cut it out', I choke, my own head a bit dizzy. 'I'm fine, Sherlock. The blonde woman, she needs help, you're going to have to call Lestrade, get him to fix this mess.'

'Why should I care?' he derides. He looks as if his world is crumbling apart.

I take my hand against his cheek, and the touch seems to appease the millions of whirlwind thoughts (and recriminations) swirling in there. His shiny blue eyes focus on my own eyes, as if searching for recognition.

'Thanks for the backup, you know, with my gun', I choke out. I'm starting to shake in earnest. Bloody shock.

'Ambulance?' he asks me.

I'm still the doctor. What is my diagnosis?

I shake my head. Gunshot wounds are trouble, they need to be reported to the police and investigated. Involving Lestrade would be paramount to have the officer in charge look the other way.

'I'm alright. Besides the blonde woman may be hurt. We need to check she's alright.'

Sherlock lends me his scarf. I'm touched. For one it's much too warm to wear a scarf. This is a sign of my friend's neediness to follow a routine, keep his iconic look, hide in superiority – you never see him breaking a sweat. Until now. He looks frazzled and lost, as he helps loop the expensive fabric around my bicep. I wind it tight, stemming the blood flow.

I get up in trembling legs, a rush of blood to the head quickly dissipating. I feel better now, and try to indicate that to Sherlock by means of pushing him away.

'I'll get the car', he promises darkly, not without a quick assessment look around us to see where I can hit my head if I keel over. Soft grass, mostly; I thought of the same thing.

I see the detective still bending down and picking up something off the damp grass. Something embedded. From the location I gather it must be the bullet. That's very thorough, can we do the same for my bullets scattered all over the side of the house? Last thing I need is an invoice for the damage my gun has caused.

Sherlock is clearly still fighting his instinct to stick by my side as he jumps the high fence with flexibility due for a circus acrobat. I shake my head – I'll use the front gate, thank you – before I take off on my own, towards the house.

The blonde woman, I need to check on her. Sherlock is freaking out over my wound, but I have no such excuse. I'm a doctor, she's a patient, and even though I feel weak and need to cup my hand around my wound to keep from leaving a blood droplets trail behind me, I must check up on her.

Scarlet trickle blossoms between my fingers as I open the front door.

'Hello?'

No answer. Great. I must go in. Sherlock will kill me, when he finally catches up.

He's a genius and he knows me better than I know myself. It won't take long.

'Are you okay?' I shout to the open stairwell.

I think I can gear a small groan from above. I relentlessly climb those steps, senses engaged, alert. Adrenaline drowning everything but that tingling excitement of danger around me. 'Hello?'

As I reach the top steps she falls on me, as if she had been hiding from view but decided to trust me suddenly. I almost fall backwards on those steps but manage to grab hold of her and myself in the last second. My palm leaves a red imprint on her sweater.

She blurts out, tears of relief streaming down her eyes: 'You saved me!'

Alright, she will be fine once the shock wears off her system too.

'John?' It's Sherlock. I find him at the bottom of the stairs. He's rolling his eyes at me, impatient. He doesn't fool me. He's not happy with me.

'Sherlock, this is not what it seems.'

'Just drop it, John. Just drop it.'

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I'm sat on the bathtub edge, my open first aid kit pieces scattered about on the floor. Sherlock hands me a clean piece of gauze with a dark energy in his eyes, an a contained violence that is electrifying the air.

'It's only a flesh wound, Sherlock', I warn him.

'I can see that', he states flatly.

He's he promising to drop this quietly?

I press the gauze to the battered skin and sigh. Close call.

Sherlock's eyes narrow, just before he turns around to help me pack up the unused items. I watch his diligence, feeling grateful.

'No need to talk about it any more, all done', I add, trying to get my shirt sleeve back up my arm.

'Almost all done', he mutters, a storm brewing in his words.

'What did I miss?' I ask lightly.

He tosses a little specimen jar my way, with a piece of amalgamated metal inside. I recognise what this is at once. It's still oblong, but now dull and tarnished. The bullet that nicked me.

It had my name on it, I suppose.

'It's remarkably preserved', I comment, coolly. It dug into the garden's soft turf.

Sherlock's eyes narrow dangerously further. Uh-oh.

This is the meltdown we barely managed to avoid before. Jumping to the forefront.

Right.

'I knew the risk, Sherlock. It didn't keep me away', I remind him, crossing my arms – well, hiding that flinch it cost me – in kamikaze captain Watson style, I'm facing this argument head on.

'Indeed.'

'I've known about the stake outs, the chases, the science experiments, the lot, from the start. None of it ever pushed me away. Tomorrow I'm back to work as normal, and so are you.'

'So you say.'

I squint.

'And we'll get the strangler-shooter that got away.'

Sherlock waves off dismissively. 'Lestrade has caught up with him. Someone had beaten him up in an alley after he left the scene.'

My senses go on high alert. No... really?

'How? You've been at my side since I got shot. You just went for some more gauze in the living room stash... and you took your while...'

He flashes a smirk.

'Great', I say sarcastically. 'I held the sobbing victim, you beat the killer. We both broke all rules about keeping safe distances from those you don't live with.'

He looks indecently smug about it.

'I could not stop myself from ensuring you were never to be harmed by that person again. As much as you couldn't leave a potential patient untreated. Now what do we do?' he asks me plainly, under the cover of fake constriction.

I sigh. 'Maybe we can't take cases yet. My reflexes are slow. I got shot. And you took a reading book to a stake out.'

'Oh, it was a boring book...'

'You never read a page of it!'

'I read the credits and copyright page.'

'No wonder it was boring!'

'You can write better than that, John. Perhaps you should teach me about the solar system.'

'You said the same thing about the new microwave's instructions, and look what you've done with it!'

Sherlock smirks. He looks happier, content. Comforted by our crazy banter. This is what he needed.

I sigh. This is what I needed to.

'So we weren't all that good with adjusting our cases to social distancing measures. What do we do now?'

'We try again, John. Do better. Live our lives once more.'

I nod. Sure, it's weird though. The virus is still about, and we regroup to live our lives. Things go back, but they are far from the same.

Sherlock and I are out of practice. We'll have to keep an extra eye out for each other. But it's exciting. It's a new start, maybe with a hint of peril, and I find I like that.

We can make a difference in this world, and we wouldn't want to step back now.

Much in the least because a bullet grazed me. Most likely it won't have been the last.

'How about some tea, Sherlock?' I suggest, with a soft smile.

He smiles too, slowly, deliberately, and I take what I can get. I'll see those shadows lift from his haggard face yet.

'I'll get the kettle going', he offers, getting up, taking the first aid bag with him.

I sigh, tiredly, blankly massaging my sore arm.

I'm going to be okay.

Then I look up, and my jaw almost drops.

How did that runaway octopus get in the corner of the ceiling, clinging on arms arched wide like an ominous spider?

I get up with a cold shiver and walk out of the bathroom on tiptoe, banging the door shut after me.

'Sherloooooock!'

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