The Days After

Guns, Blood, and A Loving Heart

A gun shot rang through the distilled air.

"SHIT!"

John screamed in pain as a bullet shot into his hand, knocking the gun out of it, before he could pull the trigger. John curls up and cradles his bleeding and bullet wounded hand. A sickly, dark red blood oozes out of the gun wound and begins to soak his favorite cream jumper.

"Ah, damn it!"

Noticing his favorite jumper getting ruined.

John reaches over, straining his arm as far as possible, to grab the plaid red and grey blanket that rests upon the head rest of his chair. He wraps his hand in the blanket and slowly gets up from the ceramic crushed filled ground.

"Oh bloody hell. Now Ive got to clean this up too. Where is Mrs. Hudson when I need her?"

Mrs. Hudson had moved out of 221 Baker Street after moving in with her boyfriend from the bakery just next door. She was planning on marrying him soon....but sadly, she didnt know that he already has two wives currently because Sherlock wasnt there to let Mrs. Hudson know.

John carefully bandages up his wounded hand, after removing the bullet from the fleshy muscle that is located right under the thumb. He swallows a few painkillers and makes himself a nice warm cuppa.

"Where in the bloody hell did that bullet come from? Who in the right mind would try and bloody shoot me!? Well thank god they had poor aim."

John chuckles at the slight thought of how Sherlock would smirk at a comment at this.

But the thing is, John was wrong. The shooter didn't have bad aim and didn't miss. Their shot was dead on. Right into John's hand as wanted to. To get him to drop the gun. To get the poor blogger to stop taking his life. To save the blogger. To save HIS blogger. To save His John Watson.

As John sips his cuppa and watches crap telly, for his thoughts of suicide vanish as quickly as the Chinese Smuggling Gang did in the security recording in the Blind Banker, Sherlock watches him from a distant building, gun in hand, one bullet missing from the full round. Sherlock had shot John's hand to save him. To save his only and best friend in the whole world. To save John Watson. But...to also save himself in a way. Without John, Sherlock will emotionally die. He already had it hard enough being separated from John, to make him think he was dead, and cant do anything about it. It had destroyed Sherlock's icy heart.

Sherlock had started to use cocaine again and continued to smoke more than ever. He would sit and watch John through binoculars to make sure he was okay and wasn't going to do anything stupid like kill himself. But Sherlock also watched because he missed seeing John. His adorable face, bright smile, and warm feeling. But most of all, Sherlock missed being and spending time with John every second of the day. But seeing John in such a disheveled state made him weep and cry. Sherlock is a high-functioning sociopath...but not for John. For John, Sherlock would do anything and everything to get him back. He would show his emotions and become vulnerable just for that loving, sweet, tea drinking, blog writing, jumper wearing, army doctor. Anything. As long as it was for or with John. Anything. Everything.

Sherlock hated to admit it, but he loves John. He does. With every fiber of his icy being, he loves him. He. Loves. John.