Disclaimer: nothing mine. Here is the unplanned for second chapter. Still reversing things. I hope you enjoy!

Waking up is awful. Sherlock falls off the sofa, and his alarmed groan wakes John in turn. Both have a splitting headache – par for the course after that night, but still. Despite that, the moment a soft moan signals that John is conscious, from somewhere near his feet comes the plaintive request, "Are you going to tell Mary now?"

John is half tempted to fake having forgotten everything that happened the night before and reply, "Tell her what?" but even annoyed he can't be that cruel. So instead he whispers, "When I can talk without feeling ill. Be a dear and get us ibuprofen since you're up?"

Now up might not be the most accurate description, but endearing himself to John is definitely on Sherlock's to-do list, so he complies.

It's only much later, in the early afternoon, when medication took effect and they've been fed (by a softly cooing Mrs. Hudson) and feel all around much better that John feels ready to face Mary. He brings Sherlock along for moral support, since he feels like a bastard calling everything off three days from the marriage, but there's no reason to make three people miserable. Of course he warns the sleuth severely against trying to be kind the way he was to Molly during the Moriarty affair. Or defending John should Mary lash out. "The blame is mine. I knew my feelings since years ago, and when you came back, I thought that I could just ignore them."

"No John, I'm at fault. I rejected you so long ago and I had to leave and all around I gave you the false impression that I could live without you. Which is ludicrous, of course."

"We can squabble over whose fault it is for years to come, now that we'll have them together. But first, Mary," John sighs.

She shows no surprise seeing the both of them come in, only smiling at them. She is confused because John rang the bell, though. "Please tell me that you have not lost your key in some unsavoury place he dragged you in," she only half jokes.

John produces said key. "No, no...but it didn't feel right to use it and barge in on you."

"You do realize that you aren't making any sense, love, right?" she replies, her smile faltering for a moment and leaving a worried expression in its wake.

"I'll explain, promise. Maybe it's better if you sit up for that," John says softly.

"John, now you're scaring me," she counters, letting herself plop down on the sofa.

Instead of sitting beside her, John stands in front of her, like a judge, hand unconsciously clasped in Sherlock's, drawing strength. "I'm so sorry, Mary," he starts, and he's never been more honest, "you're really a great woman and I hate having to hurt you, but I can't marry you."

"Don't be ridiculous, John. I'm the best thing that ever happened to you, remember?" she bits back sharply.

"Yeah, well...I didn't have all the facts when I said that," the doctor counters, a bit ashamed of himself but stubborn. Sherlock, by his side, smiles.

"Oh. So it's like that. I'm just the place-holder until he came around. Well, haven't I been understanding of whatever odd thing you two have? I can continue to be. To a point. But I'm afraid that relinquishing you totally is out of question, John. You're mine, you see."

"Now, Mary, be rational," John entreats, not knowing how to face such determination. "It wouldn't be fair. To either of the people involved. I mean, how can you want me still, knowing that there's someone else I would be loving more?"

Before she can answer, Sherlock – for the first time – interjects, "Easily, John. As long as she'd have you still. At least a bit."

"You would know," Mary snarls. "You understand, don't you? One does not simply give up on John Watson once he's in your life." She's calmer now, stating obvious facts and nothing more.

"But you can't force him to stay, either. It doesn't work like that," Sherlock replies, sounding almost compassionate.

"You see, Sherlock, that's were we're different." Mary smiles, and then the world is upended. Because she takes a gun out of apparently nowhere, aims it at Sherlock and very calmly states, "I hadn't meant to. I didn't want to hurt anyone anymore. But once you're out of the picture, things will right themselves back."

It's totally deranged a reasoning, of course, there's no way that John would love her again if she killed Sherlock, of all things, but there's no time to explain it to her. Mary shoots point blank range , and at the same time John throws Sherlock down and bodily shields him.

The world stops turning. John falls on top of his love, and Mary lets out a breathy, surprised and irritated, "Oh." This wasn't the plan. John was supposed to be okay. To be hers. In the meantime, Sherlock is trying to overcome his panic, remember what he should be doing, ("Put pressure on the wound," mind palace John echoes from a different lifetime) and endeavouring not to calculate the chance of John's survival (too bloody little).

For the first time, he's grateful that Mycroft gave his phone the chance to send an emergency signal, pressing whose key his brother would send people equipped to face any kind of disaster. He presses said key wildly. No time to call 999 and explain, now. When Mary leaves the sofa, he grits out, "If John dies you die. Slowly."

"I don't think so. All that work on Moriarty's web and you didn't even know that I existed, much less neutralized me. You won't find me," she replies, nonchalantly going past them. She wanted John, but now that he's going to die – her aim is always true – she might as well give it all up as a bad job and relocate.

Sherlock lets her go, unconcerned. Even if he has failed – he doesn't doubt her words; he knows this is not a lie, unlike before – there's Mycroft, who is probably tracking her already because she's John's, and seeing her leave nonchalantly the scene of Sherlock's distress signal is enough to have her brought in and questioned about why she's not trying to help, or at the very least bloody worried. Once they assess the truth of the situation, Mycroft will give her to Lestrade wrapped with a goddamned red bow and she'll be jailed. There's no need to worry about that.

No, what Sherlock is anxious about – and he's going to have words with Mycroft about that – is how bloody much more time will it take for help to get there? The ambulance is actually remarkably quick, in truth, but still considerably slower than thought (the only thing that would have appeased Sherlock). Then things are out of Sherlock's hands, even if they allow him to tag along. Seeing John code once on the ambulance, though they manage to revive him, does not help Sherlock's state of mind.

At the hospital, John is whisked away, and even if he doesn't believe – even if he's lost his faith decades ago – Sherlock finds himself praying to any god who might be willing to hear him out. Praying, begging and reasoning with Him. Explaining – in case He was distracted and missed it – that John Watson is the bravest, kindest, wisest and all around best man to ever be born, and hence the most deserving to live. And that Sherlock would gladly make the same trade that Moriarty proposed once again, no tricks this time, but John has to live.

God, if He exists at all, doesn't answer. But John survives anyway, and Sherlock is allowed to curl up in an uncomfortable chair by his bedside and watch him sleep. Taking comfort in each soft breath John draws. Sherlock is entranced by the mere fact of John living, which doesn't feel very granted anymore. He doesn't even notice that long hours pass before John wakes up with a, "'Lock," on his lips.

"I'm here," the sleuth hurriedly assures. "Oh John. I'm so sorry."

The doctor's reply is a vague interrogative sound.

"It's my fault that you got shot."

"I'm pretty sure it was Mary. Unless the drugs...?" John mumbles.

"She did shoot, but if I hadn't misjudged her we'd be prepared for it and I'd need no saving. Or... if I hadn't asked to choose me at all..." Sherlock confesses, dismayed. He tried to have John all to himself, selfishly, and he almost lost him. It scares him. Mary would never have hurt John if he didn't meddle.

"Don't you dare think like that," John bits back. "Even if you didn't love me, you shouldn't have let me marry her. She's raving mad."

"But you like mad, John," Sherlock counters. John would have never lasted by his side otherwise. Yes, Mary and he are different, but they're still more similar than he think he should probably be comfortable with.

"Within reason. And when I know what I'm signing for." Then, John abruptly adds, "Goodnight, Sherlock," and lets the meds put him into sleep again. When he wakes up again, Sherlock is still there, apparently not having moved a muscle. "Not that I'm not happy to see you, but did you move at all? Get a coffee? Chips?...Go to the bathroom?"

"You've been shot, John. I thought it was my turn to take care of you," Sherlock replies with an amused smile.

"Oh you will, and I'll enjoy it while it lasts. But you can't take care of me if you pass out."

"Point made. I'll behave. But we need to talk now, John. Set up some rules," the detective states, looking almost solemn.

"Fine. Which ones?" John is more curious than anything.

"You don't try to save me anymore, John. Not by shielding me, at least. There's dangerous, and there's unacceptable," the sleuth declares vehemently.

"If you still want us to be a couple, rules have to apply to the both of us, you know," John counters calmly. "Are you okay with not saving me, or shielding me, or however you want to word it?"

This makes Sherlock frown. "John...I don't think I can." It would break some sort of physic's law, he's sure.

"And what makes you think that I could?"

The fact that it's proven by evidence that John can and will survive losing Sherlock, for one, but the reverse isn't and will never be true. Not now that they've met and Sherlock knows what life with John is. But John's voice just now was sad, almost disappointed, and that must immediately be corrected. So, instead of proving his point, Sherlock lets it go with a shrug. "Another rule, then. You simply can't die."

John laughs. "I'll certainly do my best not to. And you agree that it applies to both, even if you keep wording things like that, don't you?"

"Oh please John. You know that I hate repeating myself. Of course I won't."

John grins widely at that. This is his Sherlock. And it's true now, isn't it? His Sherlock. Who will make questionable experiments in the kitchen, lead him on cases and now, apparently, take care of him. And love him. And kiss him. "Kiss me," he demands. Just to check that the new development isn't a fantasy. A morphine and alcohol induced dream. Sherlock is only too glad to comply.