A.N.: So this is something I wrote a while ago, as a kind of practice for when I first got into Sherlock. I wrote it before I watched series two, and I think that shows... Also, it's based on the final scene of the second season of Leverage.

Warnings: Reference to injury, blood, possible spoilers for the end of season two of Leverage.

Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock.

"So…" John smiled, looking from Sherlock to Sarah. "Now that that's all over…" He held his arm out to Sarah. "Wanna get out of here? Maybe go for a drink?"

"Excellent idea, John, though maybe a drink isn't quite in order."

John turned, glaring at Sherlock. The taller man seemed unaware that he was getting in the way of what could still be a wonderful evening with Sarah. Still, Sherlock turned slightly and gestured for the two of them to leave.

"Uh, actually, Sherlock…" John began, but his addressee cut him off.

"John," he insisted. There was an odd touch in his voice, a kind of emotion that he had not heard Sherlock possess before.

John sighed, smiling awkwardly at Sarah. "S-sorry. Maybe another time?"

"Definitely," she nodded. "I'll see you later."

"See you later," he grinned, following Sherlock up the street and round the corner, jogging to keep up with his bandy legs. The taller man stopped when they were around the corner, leaning against the brickwork with his hand still inside his coat. "What was that?" John exclaimed, opening his arms wide in frustration and indignation.

"John…" Sherlock began.

"No! I could have gone off to have a drink with Sarah and had a lovely evening-"

"John."

John stopped talking. He lowered his arms slowly to his side and looked up at Sherlock. His face was illuminated by the streetlight nearby in a way that it hadn't been when they had been standing with Sarah. He noticed that his skin was pale, in a stark contrast with the dark hair on top of his head.

"What?" he asked, the residual anger causing the word to come out as a bark, perhaps harsher than he had intended.

Sherlock licked his lips. "I'm afraid I may need to make use of your medical expertise." Slowly, he took his hand out of his coat; it was shaking slightly, and it was covered in blood.

John remembered when they were running through the museum; he remembered hearing the gunshot. He had thought that the gunman had missed them all. Yet it would appear that he had been wrong.

"Oh… my…"

Sherlock began to slide down the wall, but John caught him, wrapping an arm around his middle and supporting him.

"We've got to get you to a hospital," he said, dragging the injured man along the street with him.

For once, Sherlock didn't argue.