A/N: This one-shot is based loosely upon the ACD short story 'The Adventure of the Three Garridebs', specifically around the part where John gets shot. The passage goes something like this: "It was worth a wound - it was worth many wounds - to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask." You will have to seek out the text and read the whole thing yourself, I highly recommend it!

I want to thank Tarma Hartley for reading and putting in the emotion that this desperately needed! Thank you for your time and patience with me! If you have a free afternoon, I highly recommend reading her stuff! It's very good! Oh and have some tissues nearby as well!

Let me know what you think! I love getting feedback, as a fan-fic author, it helps me grow!

Sherlock Holmes stood slightly off to the right, using the wall as a natural hiding place, pressing himself as closely to it as possible. He and John were on the trail of a desperate criminal on the run and he was certain that to corner him before the time was right would be a mistake; cornered animals tend to fight when their back is against the wall and that was the last thing that he wanted. Preferably, he would be cornered when they were ready to take him down but, as he well knew, that often the best laid plans had some way of going wrong.

After some time had passed, Sherlock's eyes narrowed, his sharp ears picking up a soft, scuffling noise somewhere in the dark off to his right. He stared hard into the pitch blackness but couldn't see anything; it sounded like mice scampering about but he was certain that there weren't any rodents either here or in the surrounding area.

His heart started to beat faster. Then, that means- he never had a chance to finish the thought before two gunshots rang out in the darkness; a grunt followed by a thud could be heard, and Sherlock knew one of the men was down. In his heart, he knew it was John, but he hoped with all of his being that it wasn't.

His eyes darting around the area, Sherlock slowly stepped out of the shadows, silently making his way over to where the sound had come. He found Winter, the man they had been chasing, working his way through the file drawers, desperately looking for the documents that Sherlock had already confiscated and were safely tucked away inside his breast pocket.

Out of the corner of his eye, in a small, watery pool of dim streetlight, Sherlock caught sight of John's shoe and, turning slowly and silently, crept out of view and raced as quietly as he could to him.

"John," he whispered hoarsely, his heart beginning to beat faster. "John, tell me you're alright."

Silence.

"John!"

"Sherlock... here-" A moan somewhere in the dark alerted him to John's position and the detective hurried over to him. Sherlock caught sight of the dark spot that was growing on John's left side under his jacket and immediately took his scarf off, pressing it against the wound firmly.

John moaned in pain, his breath hissing through clenched teeth, his body tensing.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock pressed his finger against John's lips, firmly but tenderly to silence him. "Try to be still."

"I'm going to be okay," John whispered back, wincing as he moved slightly. White hot pain shot through his body. "Really, Sherlock; I'm... fine..." He gritted his teeth hard, trying to silence the cry that threatened to burst from him.

If Sherlock knew he was lying, he didn't call him on it. He grabbed his hand and pressed it against the scarf, trying to staunch the flow of blood from the wound. He brought his phone out, flipped it open and dialed a number with quick, efficient fingers; once he had finished talking, he snapped it shut and placed it in his pocket before turning to John.

"I have some unfinished business to attend to."

John nodded. "Yes, get the bastard," he managed wanly between grunts.

Sherlock smirked as he stood and headed back to where he had seen Winter, opening the door slowly and stepping cautiously inside.

The office where he had originally seen him before John was shot now stood empty but, in the next office over, he found Winter rummaging through a desk, cursing loudly.

Sherlock only hesitated for a moment before he brought brought his torch out, swinging it hard and fast at the man's head, a loud crack echoing throughout the silent room as it connected. Winter stumbled and nearly fell to his knees but managed to stay upright. Stars danced before his eyes and he shook his head, trying to clear it before he launched himself at the intruder but not before the detective slammed his fists and torch down squarely on the middle of his back.

Winter coughed, intermittently cursing him as he swayed on his feet. Sherlock had a fleeting thought about bringing a knee up and knocking the man out, but decided against it. After all, it would look better to the local constabulary if he had some defensive wounds.

"I have what you are looking for, Winter," he said coldly, pulling a manilla folder from inside his coat, his eyes narrowed in challenge, twisting it back and forth in front of him, taunting him.

"How the bloody hell did you get that?!" Winter screamed as he lunged at Sherlock who promptly tossed the file to the floor, its contents skittering and coming to rest in a wide arc around the room, a grim smile plastered on his face.

With a bellow of rage, Winter flew at him once again but Sherlock grabbed the man's arms and held him, stopping any forward motion. he twisted his body slightly to the right, throwing Winter off of him, watching in grim silence as the man stumbled backward into the desk, knocking it askance with a whine of protest. He made a much quicker recovery this time and came at Sherlock, swinging and bellowing in equal measure, his eyes sparking with fury.

One wild punch did manage to connect on his chin and that was all that Sherlock needed, answering with a swift right hook and knocking Winter, unconscious, to the ground.

Meanwhile, John had made his way slowly to where Sherlock was scuffling with Winter and arrived just in time to see him knock the man out cold. John started to hobble over to the man on the floor to check his vitals when his vision started to swim and he stopped, swaying uncertainly on his feet.

He felt Sherlock's wiry but strong arms wrap around him and guide him to a chair and he was dizzy enough that he let him.

"He's..." John started.

"Going to have a bad headache when he wakes up." Sherlock cleared his throat and took the scarf from John's side.

"It's, er, it's just a scratch, really... mmmm..." John wasn't sure if he was trying to convince himself or Sherlock. He clenched his teeth and closed his eyes. Damn, that hurts!

"You are losing too much blood for it to be just a scratch," Sherlock remarked tersely, pressing the scarf against the wound again and stood and walked to the office window. "I called an ambulance a few minutes ago. Why aren't they here?"

"I'm... okay, Sherlock." John winced again and sucked in air. He started to sway on his feet, a groan of pain escaping from his tightly clamped lips, pressing a hand against his forehead. "I should be horizontal..." He gasped again and closed his eyes, waiting for the dizziness to pass. "It's... it's the best for... now."

Sherlock rushed over to help the doctor stand, John using his arm for leverage as he stood and turned and knelt and paused.

"John, concentrate," Sherlock ordered, a sharp edge to his voice as he grabbed his upper arm and shook him. "You need to lie down."

John groaned and put his right hand up to his left shoulder.

"What the hell?"

Cursing softly under his breath, Sherlock carefully, and quickly, removed John's jacket, his brow furrowing when he saw the dark spot spreading outward on John's left shoulder.

"You are hit in the shoulder as well." Sherlock seemed most out about that for some reason, his eyes narrowed, his mouth turned down. "How did you not feel that?" He made quick work of John's shirt, carefully unbuttoning just enough to pull the collar over his shoulder to inspect the wound. It was bleeding profusely and appeared, to his skilled eye, to be in the same spot as his old wound that John had received in Afghanistan.

Sherlock made a noise of understanding as he looked at John and nodded, his stern expression softening somewhat. John smiled and his eyes started to flutter.

"John! John... you have to stay awake!" Sherlock shook the other man once more, John's eyes slowly fluttering open.

"What...oh...mmmm..." John took a deep breath. "Dammit, I am a soldier; I can endure this! What the hell is wrong with me?"

Sherlock gave a look of surprise at John's outburst. "John you've been shot at, twice. We don't know the extent of the wound on your side and I need something to stop the bleeding." He looked chagrined. "The scarf doesn't seem to do the job properly."

Sherlock made to rise but a cold hand that wrapped around his wrist stopped him. He seemed rather surprised by the unexpected action, his eyes searching John's face.

"Thank you, Sherlock."

"I-" He paused, momentarily confused. "For what?"

"Hggnnn...every...every... everything..." John doubled over in pain.

"No, John. Here; lie down." Sherlock took off his own jacket, balled it up and tucked it under John's head.

"The ambulance will be here soon," he said, his teeth working his bottom lip momentarily. He was about to speak again but, hearing the distant sirens, he snapped his mouth shut. John wondered what it had been that he was going to say. "Yes, here they come."

John's grip on Sherlock's wrist started to loosen and he readjusted to hold the his hand, which was cold and clammy.

John blew out a long breath and tried to speak but his teeth started chattering, much to his annoyance.

"Oh God," John winced, his head rolling back and forth. "You need... to.. to.. keep me... warm...nnnn"

Sherlock grabbed John's jacket that he had thrown to to the side and quickly covered him.

"Okay, now go and make sure the ambulance knows where we are," John ordered between grunts.

Sherlock shook his head stubbornly. "No, I should stay with-"

"Sherlock! Just go!" The doctor said with a little too much force. "They aren't much use to us if they don't know where we are!"

John saw the hesitation in Sherlock's eyes; for one moment, it was worth a couple of wounds to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. Those sharp blue-green eyes dimmed for a moment and he brought his hand up hesitantly and John could see, to his surprise, it shaking ever so slightly as it came to rest on his cheek.

For the second time in a lifetime, he caught the glimpse of a great heart, and a good man, with all of John's years of humble service, culminating in that moment of revelation.

He smiled... and Sherlock smiled back. It was genuine. It was like they were in the hallway of 221B, sharing a hearty laugh after a successful close to a case where they had been chasing some criminal all over London.

"I'll be alright..." A small surge of pain went through John, but he shrugged it off, trying to be strong for Sherlock. "I'm not going anywhere, I promise."

Sherlock took a deep breath, nodded and stood, jamming his hands deeply into his pockets. He left the room briskly and, as soon as John thought he was out of earshot, let out a long groan. The pain was almost unbearable, and he wasn't sure why. Maybe the bullet was still stuck inside him? He had suffered worse trauma in Afghanistan so why was he in so much pain now?

Damn it... His teeth started to chatter and he could feel his limbs slowly growing cold. He knew he had to fight the unconsciousness that he could feel creeping up on him but was having a hard time with doing that task since it seemed that all his traitorous body wanted to do was to fall into sleep.

I must have lost a lot more blood than I thought. John's inner voice sounded distant, even to him.

Another wave of pain washed over him a few moments later and he took a deep breath as he fought, tooth and nail, to stave off the encroaching darkness he could see approaching from below.

What's taking so long?

Another wave of dizziness fell over him; his head felt like someone replaced his skull with a bowling ball.

John groaned. It felt like the earth was spinning out of control and trying to swallow him. The dizzy feeling became unbearable, lights dancing before his eyes that hurt when he tried to look at them. In the midst of this chaos, he thought he saw a familiar figure enter the room.

Who...?

Was he underwater? Everything sounded like it was happening underwater.

Why...?

A voice, as clear as day and as serene as velvet, broke through the water to him.

"John, you have to be okay! You have to! Don't leave me!"

What...?

Sherlock's voice was the last thing he heard before John felt the darkness overwhelm him and he knew nothing more...

X-x-X

John woke with a gasp to dim lights and a rather uncomfortable bed that didn't feel like his own at home; it took him a few moments to realize where he was.

What... happened? I... was... somewhere... with... with... Sherlock. What... where... am... I?

He always woke before Sherlock hit the ground but, this time it seemed to his surprise, that it was he who was falling and not Sherlock. He looked around, turning his head slowly and discovered that he was lying in a hospital room.

What...am...I...? He drifted back into unconsciousness.

When John woke again, it was to the sound of loud voices and scuffling feet. He thought he recognized one of them as belonging to Sherlock, but he couldn't be certain.

When his vision at last cleared, he could see the door open and then shut quickly; he blinked a few times in order to see better and the first thing he saw clearly was the shut door... with Sherlock leaning against it, smirking at him.

John tried to smile but abandoned the effort when it only served to make him feel disoriented and dizzy, sending a fresh wave of pain through him.

"I just wanted to see for myself that you were okay," Sherlock said primly as he walked over to the bedside, sparing him only a sidelong glance and not looking directly at him.

John opened his mouth and tried to speak but only a hoarse croak came out; wincing, he snapped his mouth shut and shakily held out his hand.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but decided against it and, smiling faintly, he slowly reached out, his fingertips brushing against John's palm before returning to clasp it firmly, a curious expression on his face.

John squeezed as hard as his drugged muscles would allow, mouthing a grateful thank you to him. Was it his imagination or did he see the flicker of an affectionate smile tugging at the corners of Sherlock's mouth?

He squeezed back and then turned to go out but paused for a moment before turning back. Even in his drugged state, he could see the conflict throughout all of Sherlock's being, from his ramrod straight posture, that very curious expression he had on his face, the uncertainty he could see in his eyes and hesitant movement.

Strange, John thought as he watched him but made no further comment while Sherlock struggled with an unidentifiable something, he seems to be... uncertain... as to what to do... That was certainly odd for the man who had always appeared, to him, to know what to do in any situation.

Except this one.

John watched as he leaned forward and hesitated, grabbing his hand again as he leaned down, his mouth an inch away from his ear.

"Please come home soon." That was all he said but how much it meant!

Before John had a chance to recover from this wonderful surprise, Sherlock did something that he didn't realize that he was even capable of: he rested his cheek tenderly against John's.

John drew in his breath and closed his eyes; for long, wonderful moments, he felt at peace with the world, his heart full of joy. If he had died right then, he would have been the happiest man alive and, for a second, John thought he felt the dampness of tears as Sherlock pulled away.

Sherlock...

He let go of John's hand, adjusted his suit jacket, cleared his throat and wiped at his face, trying to cover his actions with bluster as was his wont. John smirked as his best friend walked out of the hospital room, a frenzy of nurses and security in his wake.