A/N: This was a request by shadowfireflame! I hope you liked it, because I enjoyed writing it. I, don't own Sherlock. Sorry if the medical stuff sounds wrong. Please tell me what you think!

The street lamp is the only source of light they have, throwing their shadows out of proportion as they stalk down the street. Their footsteps, quiet as they may be, disturb the quiet of the night. Cautiously they approach the den, Lestrade leading the way with his gun extended. John is right behind him, his military training useful in this tense situation. Even Sherlock is on high alert, wary of the dangers that this alley holds.

This was the first time in almost two weeks that they had had a lead on this case. Sherlock had deduced the location of the gang, and they were here to investigate further. Sherlock had warned them that the gang would be on alert, and were likely to go for the kill if they spotted them there. Still, the gang posed too much threat and would only grow more and more powerful, so it was the best to strike. Back-up forces lay in wait less than a block away, in case of trouble.

A shuffling noise makes Sherlock glance around again, suspicious of another person's presence. He taps John's shoulder but John only gives him a disapproving glare, annoyed that Sherlock is jostling his aim. Sherlock resists the temptation to roll his eyes, but lets the matter slide anyway. After all, it is probably his imagination. Lestrade and John have training, and their senses are more tuned to pick up alerts.

Even as he is thinking this, he knows that it is wrong. There is someone there, they are not alone in this darkness. As he turns to inspect further, he feels excrutiating pain hit him and then begin to radiate from his chest, numbing all of his senses. He feels like he is about to explode. He is vaguely aware of John calling his name, and Lestrade yelling something and taking off in the direction that they had come from, very nearly trampling on Sherlock's foot in the process. Sherlock is on the ground, John kneeling over him.

"Sherlock, please stay with me..." John mumbles. He is taking his shirt off for reasons that Sherlock cannot comprehend at the moment, for it is too cold to be stripping. He feels a sudden pressure on his chest, sparking the pain into a new level that Sherlock has never felt before in his life. He tries to roll away from John, groaning. John pins him in place with his hands, apologising profusely.

"I'm so sorry, I don't want to hurt you but you're bleeding too fast, and too much. Stay with me Sherlock..." Sherlock groans again but complies, gasping for breath. He is drowning in the pain, but is aware of Lestrade's returning footsteps.

"They got away, but I've called an ambulance. Back-up is proceeding to the den, now that we know for sure that they are there." Lestrade glances at Sherlock and the blood drains from his face. An ironic description, Sherlock subconcious says, since the blood is draining from his body. Yet, he cannot find the energy to voice this out loud. The darkness beckons, and is looking more appealing by the second.

"How is he?" Lestrade finally asks. He has moved to kneel beside John, and has taken his phone out to provide more light to the wound, so that John can see what he is doing. His other hand finds Sherlock's hand in the shadows, and squeezes it. For this Sherlock is grateful, the welcome distraction proving well from the pain that is quickly fading into numbness. This numbness is frightening, taking over his body at an alarming rate, and Sherlock does not like it much.

"Not looking good. I can probably keep him stable for a while, but what he really needs right now is a hospital." The shirt that John is holding to Sherlock's chest has is now soaked with blood. Sherlock feels bad, they just did the washing. Right now, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to be at home, warm and snug and surrounded by his experiments.

"Call Mycroft." Sherlock gasps out. He is unsure of why he has said this. Perhaps it is the pain driving him to delirium, but Lestrade seems to think it's a good idea. Without letting go of Sherlock's hand, he dials Mycroft's number and is immediately connected with Sherlock's brother. As he relays the dire situation, John tries to keep Sherlock concious. If he were less injured he would protest to John's efforts, but this time he humours John's countless questions about their location and century, the distraction welcome from the darkness that seem to be forcing itself on Sherlock. When Lestrade puts down the phone, he tells Sherlock that Mycroft will meet them at the nearest hospital, which will almost defintiely be St Bart's. As soon as he says this, they are greeted with the much welcome sounds of sirens, and an ambulance pulls into the back alley.

Stretchers are rolled out and Sherlock is hurriedly placed on one, a paramedic taking over where John was, and John falling back to join Lestrade. The last thing that Sherlock hears before he blacks out is John telling him to hang on, that they would meet him there.

When Sherlock next regains conciousness, he is in a room of white. Mycroft sits next to him, his umbrella hanging from a rung of Sherlock's bed. He is asleep, allowing Sherlock to better take in his surroundings before he is bombarded with questions from his overprotective brother. The white recovery room is decorated with various flower arrangements, and Sherlock recognises one from Lestrade's department. There is another one, full of shades of pink and orange, obviously from Mrs Hudson. John's coat is there, but he is nowhere to be seen. Where is John?

Mycroft chooses this time to snort himself awake, and is immediately aware that his brother is awake. He fusses over him, chiding him as he does so. Sherlock discovers that he has regained control of his limbs, and attempts to bat Mycroft away. He is unsuccessful.

John chooses this moment to walk in, and laughs at the site. Mycroft straightens and sniffs, trying to keep a shred of dignity despite the revealence of his domestic side. Sherlock too is smiling, and the flatmates are reunited. John swears never to discount Sherlock's hunches again, and Sherlock agrees that he shouldn't. John informs him that he has been asleep for nearly three days, and that the gang that they were pursuing had been taken into custody the day after he was shot. Sherlock is disappointed that he missed the end of the case, and is eager to start work on the next one. He pouts as John and Mycroft both forbid him from starting yet.

As visiting hours come to a close and they are forced to leave by the fierce nurses that control the hospital, Sherlock can't help but smile. He knew that with his...well, friends, he knew he was safe.