Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock

Wow, I found this chapter really tricky! Mainly 'cause I wanted it to be good as possible, and I really hope it is! (I had to change the rating for this one!)

Enjoy!

Chapter 7: John

This was typical. Really bloody typical. John really should have seen this coming. Out of all the things Sherlock could do, he had to choose to get shot, didn't he? It wasn't exactly Sherlock's fault, he never asked to be shot (he didn't think), but the git just had to stick his nose into other people's problems and this was the outcome.

John never thought he would admit it, but Mycroft had been right. Sherlock should never have got himself involved with Charles Augustus Magnussen. The man was an absolute creep, violating his power to exploit people and their private matters. And peeing in the fireplace? John had thought Sherlock was taking this case just to vex Mycroft, but surely the idiot wouldn't run the risk of getting himself shot to annoy his brother, would he? Or was the shooting unexpected? Something Sherlock hadn't thought was a risk?

"You're a fool," he muttered, staring at the sleeping form of Sherlock, taking in the paleness of his skin and the disturbing stillness of his body. "I'm not even going to thank you for not dying on me 'cause I'm still too angry at you for getting shot."

John knew, of course, that Sherlock probably couldn't hear him, too exhausted and drugged up to stay awake for long. He remembered when he had been shot; the blinding white pain, every pain receptor aflame... And then the days afterwards; a blur that would never clear in his mind, caused by the drugs now flowing in Sherlock's veins.

John got up to close the blinds, the sunset over London irritating his eyes somewhat with its blinding quality. This time last night, John had been on his way to Magnussen's alarmingly big office building, his mind on Sherlock and what the hell the man was doing. Now, his mind was once again on Sherlock, but on what the man had been doing. What had occurred to cause him to be shot? John could name a few reasons Sherlock could piss someone off enough to make them punch him, but shoot him? This whole situation was giving John one hell of a headache.

"You seriously scared me this time, Sherlock. Getting shot, that was….a bit not good." He paused for a moment, and then scoffed. "Then again, who am I to talk?"

John Watson was not one to let emotions overwhelm him, but Sherlock just had to disprove this fact and lead John down a path of turmoil and throw him into a pool of anxiety and dread. But then, that's how Sherlock did things; dramatically. So John had braced himself, sitting in that uncomfortable plastic chair in the waiting room many hours ago, for the grief that may come from Sherlock's death, knowing how it felt, and so ready to fight against it a second time round. That was such a typical 'Sherlock' thing; making John mourn him twice.

A cold hand of fear had gripped his heart when he had seen Sherlock lying on the floor of Magnussen's apartment, it had tightened when he had seen the bullet hole, and had seemingly suffocated him when Sherlock's vitals had dropped further and further and he had been rushed off to surgery, without so much as a goodbye, and John had been left stranded, feeling totally at loss as to why what had just happened had happened.

John was glad that Greg had found him, hunched over on a waiting room chair, and sat with him for those hours that dragged, increasing his anxiety with the ignorance and helplessness John had felt with every passing minute.

The doctor had arrived just in time, for he had thought he couldn't bear anymore waiting. It had been hours, and he had consumed too much disgusting coffee, the caffeine fuelling his dark thoughts. Sherlock dead. Once again. For good this time. And then the doctor had said 'pulled through'. 'Flat-lined', but still alive. Alive. John could have almost wept with happiness (he wouldn't though), the angry monster of fear abated somewhat by relief and joy. The bloody sod had performed another miracle.

And now he was here, hours later, having not left the hospital in all that time, too sleep deprived for his own good. Sherlock had had many visitors and his heart had warmed somewhat seeing the number of people concerned about his best friend. It was getting late; he'd have to go soon, visiting hours coming to an end. And the thought of sleeping in a hospital chair was unappealing. Sherlock would cope on his own. Thinking of the incident with the drug den the previous morning, John didn't believe his own words. But then again, what had Sherlock been doing the past two years he was dead? Well, not bothering to think about John feelings apparently (though that was nothing new), but John had no clue as to whether he had been helped by anybody or had worked alone. He knew Mycroft would've supplied him with help, but the thought of Mycroft going off and doing….legwork almost made John giggle. Sherlock, after all these years, was still something of a mystery to John.

"Jesus, Sherlock, this whole thing seems…surreal. I haven't seen you in weeks and then….you can't stand life being boring, can you?" he said for the sake of saying something.

John looked down at his lap, breathing deeply, collecting his thoughts to put into words. He wasn't even sure why it mattered; Sherlock probably couldn't hear him anyway. But then again, who knew with him. But john couldn't stand being alone with the beeping of the heart monitor any longer.

"I'm not about to go all…sentimental on you, god knows you probably wouldn't get it anyway, but….." John coughed, figuring out how to say what he wanted without sounding like a besotted teenage girl, "what you said at my wedding, that was….well, something I didn't think you'd ever say, let alone admit you had feelings, but ermm…." John knew he was babbling and that, if he was conscious, Sherlock would roll his eyes and stop listening, "just… thanks, it was nice. Well, the almost murder wasn't. Oh yeah, you owe me a Wednesday." John chuckled a little, although slightly vexed about Sherlock's 'experiment'. What did he expect, though? The man himself just kept sleeping, eyes moving slightly beneath his eyelids.

John sighed, leaning back in his chair. His eyes glanced at the newspaper that he had bought in the hospital shop earlier that day. Sherlock's face was plastered over the front, and inside were written sordid stories about his best friend, claiming him to be a druggie. Another paper had written that Sherlock was 'unstable', and John had thrown it down angrily, frightening an old lady in the shop. John could only guess what 'habits' Sherlock had had in his earlier life, but he didn't want his best friend's name trodden into the gutter anymore than it had been. For two years, Sherlock had been the fake detective fraud, something John pushed to the back of his mind. That time was full of a darkness he didn't want to overwhelm him again. But now….now he had Mary, the one who had given him a new light to cling to, the one who was carrying his son.

"Christ, Sherlock, I'm going to be a dad. You wouldn't want to miss that, would you?" John chuckled again. The image of Sherlock with a baby was one John thought he'd never imagine, but...that was life. Things were changing at break neck speed.

Shaking his head John snapped his thoughts back to the present, the dimly lit hospital room present. John glanced at the bed, and was surprised to find Sherlock's eyes fluttering open, a frown on the man's forehead.

"Sherlock?" John called, leaning forward in his chair. Sherlock's eyes glanced unfocusedly around the room before landing on John, who gave his friend a small smile. Sherlock just blinked, looking confused.

"You're lucky; the bullet didn't hit anything serious, neither your heart nor your right lung, though it was close, too close." John stopped for a moment, taking a breath. "You're going to be fine, eventually; your readings are good. I mean, you have to be fine, you have no choice in the matter." John joked, but Sherlock just stared at him, still looking confused, and his frown increasing. John felt his own marring his forehead. "Sherlock, are you alright? Are you in pain?" John inspected the monitors; Sherlock's heart rate had increased somewhat.

Sherlock took a few moments to process John's words. It would have been comical if the situation were not as it was. Finally, he shook his head slightly, opening his mouth to speak.

"M'ry…" he whispered hoarsely.

John's eyebrows rose. "Yeah, you keep saying that." Sherlock didn't reply, just kept gazing around the room, as if searching for her. "I mean I'm sure she's flattered." John tried to catch Sherlock's attention, but the other remained agitated.

"Sherlock." John said more firmly, grasping the other man's wrist. Sherlock's gaze flicked over to him, looking as thought it was now fighting off the morphine and sleep. Sherlock must be exhausted. "It is important that you tell us who shot you, okay? Can you tell me?"

John wanted the person who had shot his best friend shut up in prison, but with the amount of death threats Sherlock received the list of suspects was lengthy. John wouldn't know where to begin, and at that moment Sherlock's well being and survival were more important to him.

Sherlock just stared at him with eyes half open, looking as though his thoughts were getting stuck before they made it to his mouth. "I….I don't…." he was becoming agitated, his heart rate increasing more. He shifted on the bed slightly, as if trying to sit up, but suddenly gasped with pain. John kept his hand on Sherlock's wrist, while he used the other to push Sherlock's shoulder back down onto the bed.

"Sherlock, stay calm, alright? Just breath…" John turned his attention to the morphine pump, still keeping his hand on Sherlock's wrist. He pushed the button to increase the flow of morphine. After a while Sherlock's ragged breathing evened out and his eyes fluttered shut. He remained tense, though, and John knew he was still awake. He hated seeing his best friend like this. Sherlock was normally so composed, when he wasn't moody with boredom, and never once had John seen him this distressed. It made his stomach clench.

"We can talk about that later, alright? Maybe you should sleep? I know how much pain you must be in right now, and believe me when I say that sleeping helps a lot."

Sherlock looked barely awake now, but John suddenly felt the impulse to say something, and it was probably better if his best friend was barely conscious for it anyway.

"Sherlock, I just want you to know that your vow, well….I feel I should reciprocate it somewhat…so, I will always be there for you too, okay? You're my best friend and…I'm glad I didn't lose you." John cringed; now he really did sound like a teenage girl. He looked over at Sherlock, preparing himself for the look of bewilderment coming his way, but the man was asleep, heart rate returned to normal, breathing even. John huffed. Typical.

Suddenly overcome with a feeling of affection that wasn't manly in any sense, John grabbed his best friends hand and squeezed it tight, feeling slightly embarrassed but not caring the slightest. He smiled fondly at Sherlock, knowing this sort of thing would not have been permitted if the detective was conscious.

"I'm really glad you're still here, mate." This time, the name was not used awkwardly, but with endearment. "…I really need to know if you slept with Janine or not."

Well there it is! hope you enjoyed this and please review etc! (I've wanted it to end like that since the beginning, please say if it was okay! Thought I'd get it in there!)

I'm not sure whether this is the last chapter or not. I didn't really plan on any other characters but I may feel the whim somewhen or get an idea, but if it is the last chapter...I want to say thanks to anyone who had taken the time to read my work, review, favourite, follow etc!

thank you!

Happy Reading! TheBritishBourbon x