I'm Still Just Human

He's Warning Us

Greg drops the box he was holding, papers scattering over the floor.

"You're home..."

"Got home about an hour and a half ago." He says softly, slightly embarrassed, just realizing he hasn't put his shirt back on. Greg just smiles anyway, he's seen the now army man shirtless before.

"Well... If I may intrude on the happy couple, maybe the three of us could go out for a few beers and catch up with the last two years?" John just nods, and they head out. They spend the night out, and after just two beers Sherlock seems rather normal, no sociopath or random deductions, until a strange man walks in. At once he goes stone cold and speaks,

"Get under the table."

"What? Why?" They're both on alert, but don't react yet.

"That man is rigged. Get under the table. Both of you." Greg follows the order, but John doesn't. Instead, he stands and migrates around the other side of him, putting himself between the man and most of the people there. The man raises an eyebrow, John can hear a faint ticking getting faster, just seconds before it goes off, Sherlock leaps from the table, grabbing a cast iron pan, and jumps in front, throwing John out of the path of the blast, the building comes down. Everyone seems to be okay, the bomber lays dead, but Sherlock is nowhere to be seen.

"No." John's automatic response comes as he starts searching through the wreckage desperately, not minding the fact he was slammed onto the bar. He sees the sign from the front of the building throwing out sparks, and just one of Sherlock's bloodied shoes. He moves quicker, digging in that area as fast as he can with his bad shoulder. Greg comes over, finally, they find Sherlock wedged between a sheet of jagged iron and the beams of the sign. Completely soaked in blood, blood that can only be Sherlock's. Carefully, John pulls him out, supporting his weight

"Go get help." He rasps to Greg. Greg runs off to find help, but the pale body isn't moving at all.

"C'mon, Lockie." He murmurs to himself as he shifts to be able to check for a pulse. For a good while there's nothing, then a huge gasp for air rips from Sherlock's chest and he begins coughing hard.

"There we go. Let it out." He says lowly, holding him still, and keeping him from rising. He realizes Sherlock is coughing at a very certain pace, and very on purpose. He's making his own heart contract and beat until someone can get him aide. So John carefully lays him down and takes over chest compressions.

"Breath, Lockie. I've got you." Sherlock just focuses on breathing until Greg comes back with a paramedic, they make John keep pace as they gently lift Sherlock onto a stretcher, getting as much of his open wounds just patched for the time. Then one gets him on the pacemaker, and the other on an oxygen mask.

"You have to go now Dr. Watson. DI Lestrade will escort you to the hospital." He moves back, barely aware of himself as he turns and looks for Greg, barely controlled panic lacing his motions.

"Come on John." Greg helps him to the car. When they get to the hospital Sherlock is patched up nicely, cleaned, and surgery to repair what damage was done is already complete.

"He will kill himself."

The words come after a few moments and are said with such painful certainly that it hurts the doctor.

"Leaving Baker Street, and we'll have to do that, and being utterly reliant on someone else for some things... It's not going to sit well with him." Mrs. Hudson walks in at last

"That's not entirely true."

"What am I wrong on, Mrs. Hudson?"