Hello there! This is an updated version of this chapter. I have made some edits to grammar and such. I didn't take note of what authors note I had on here, but I hope you enjoy the story. I will be updating. Sorry I took so long. My writing style might have changed a bit. This one is the same chapter but a bit reviewed.


It's been almost a year since Sherlock fell from the rooftop at St. Barts. John feels numb. John thinks about Sherlock every minute of every hour of every day. He still isn't over his best friend's death. He doesn't think he will ever be over it. Being over it isn't an option. John doesn't like feeling anymore. Yet that's all he does. He feels and feels, and he can't stop feeling. His hands shake, and when he talks, his voice cracks. Tears can't help but escape from the brims of his eyelids because it's just all too much. This was never supposed to happen. It's been almost a year. It's been too long. Too long was a second after Sherlock died. A year is like an eternity.

John is walking home Monday night from Mike's house when he hears a gunshot. For a moment he considers ignoring it. For a moment he doesn't. Someone could be hurt. Someone good. Something terrible could be happening. John's heart starts racing like it used to during chases with Sherlock. He stops walking and hears another loud gunshot before he starts running towards the source of the sound. What an idiot, John. You're going to get yourself killed. He turns the street corner and spots a man lying on the ground. Across from him is another man sitting with his left leg extended and a knife in his left hand. The man lying on the floor groans and attempts to get up, but fails.

John reaches into his coat pocket and takes his gun out. He pulls the safety. He takes a deep breath and makes a run towards the injured man lying on the ground. Stupid stupid stupid.

When John sees who's lying on the ground, it leaves him breathless. Suddenly he is very glad he has an addiction to danger. Suddenly he can't understand. John can't breathe. There's a killer with a knife and possibly a gun, and bloody Sherlock is lying on the ground, and his hands don't know what to do about Sherlock's rapidly bleeding wound and Sherlock is groaning and the man is getting up and Sherlock looks up at John and John just stops feeling after so long. Sherlock's hair is plastered to his face with sweat, he's gasping in pain, and he's staring up at John who's about to start crying.

"John." Sherlock groans and grabs him by the wrist abruptly.

"John, please." Sherlock attempts to straighten his leg, and he screams. His breath quickens, and he feels delirious. This was not supposed to happen. This was all supposed to be under control. He feels so weak in the current situation, and he's thankful that it's only John. It's John whom he confides in.

"I need you to trust me. Kill this man."

"Sherlock, hold still. You're hurt." John reaches for the scarf Sherlock is wearing and unwraps it from his neck. He begins to wrap it around Sherlock's shoulder as fast as possible; he covers the wound quickly, and hopes to stop the bleeding. It's all so surreal, and it almost feels like John is watching himself from the sky. Like his body is kneeling beside Sherlock but his mind is far away.

"John, now. Please." The detective groans, and John nods quickly. Sherlock hands him a different gun, and for a second he is able to see the current situation with great clarity. John gets up and aims the gun at the man who is limping towards them. His hands don't shake, but his mind does, and he hesitates. Trust Sherlock, John. John shakes his head. Don't trust him. Remember how he betrayed you. What he made you suffer through. Why are you helping him? John takes a deep breath and shoots. So simple. So fast. The bullet hits the man right in the center of the chest, and he falls back with a dull thud. John stops. He just stops. He feels himself going insane. Can you even feel yourself going insane? It's all a bit too much right now.

"John!" John slowly brings the gun down. Sherlock is in extreme pain. He thinks his leg might be broken, and he has a cut on his shoulder that feels like someone is repetitively stabbing him. John kneels beside Sherlock and starts unbuttoning Sherlock's top.

"S.. Sherlock. Y.. you need a hospital."

"I can't, John. I'm dead. Please, hand me my mobile phone from my right pocket. This is urgent." John hands him the phone, and Sherlock quickly types a message.

"Alright… Listen, I'm going to carry you on my back. I need you to sit up." John explains hastily as Sherlock pushes his torso off the ground with his arms. He hisses at the pain.

"John, my leg."

"It's okay, it's all fine, give me your arms." John faces away from Sherlock and squats down, taking both Sherlock's arms over his shoulders. He slowly starts to pull up, and Sherlock starts screaming.

"Sherlock, relax, please."

"I'm sorry, I can't... It hurts so bad John."

"I know. I know, Sherlock." John pulls up completely; until Sherlock is on his back. He bends forwards a bit, and Sherlock buries his face into his neck. He begins walking as fast as possible towards the flat with Sherlock's harsh breathing at his neck. Three minutes later, John is reaching into his pocket for the keys. Sherlock has been quiet the whole time, so John hesitates as he unlocks the door.

"Sherlock? You alright?"

"Yes, please John, hurry." John opens the door, closes it, and quickly climbs the stairs with Sherlock on his back. Sherlock is biting his lip so hard he thinks it might be bleeding. He feels so out of control in this situation. He can't walk, and he just wants it to stop hurting because it hurts so bad. John sets Sherlock down on the toilet seat cover, and the detective quickly lifts his leg off the floor.

John is home. At the flat. He needs to take care of Sherlock. Sherlock is hurt. John leaves quickly and brings back a blue backpack. Sherlock is whimpering, and he feels so pathetic. John proceeds to remove Sherlock's clothing. He starts rapidly at his white top and finishes unbuttoning it, slides off one arm, and takes scissors from the bag. He cuts up the bloody shirt and slides it off Sherlock's arm, over the scarf on his right shoulder that is stopping the bleed. The right side of Sherlock's chest is bruised. John quickly runs his hands over the younger man's chest, feeling his ribs.

"I'm going to take off your trousers." Sherlock nods, and John starts removing them slowly, sliding them as gently as possible over Sherlock's injured leg. Once Sherlock is only wearing pants, John pays attention to the fairly large cut on Sherlock's shoulder. He unties the scarf, and tosses it on the floor. The cut is still bleeding, and it's pretty deep.

"Sherlock, it needs stitches." John states, and hesitates.

"Your leg is obviously fractured, Sherlock..."

"John, you're making me nervous." Sherlock breathes fast and shallow and his throbbing leg isn't helping and it still feels like someone is stabbing his shoulder. His body aches, and he's just glad that all of this is over.

"I'm going to give you something." John opens the blue backpack and takes out a vial full of clear liquid and a syringe.

"What is it?"

"Morphine." John states as he opens the syringe wrapper and takes the cap off. He flips the tiny glass bottle over and draws the liquid in.

"I'm giving you a low dose so you might still feel pain. If you feel faint, tell me. If you start having trouble breathing, tell me. If you feel anything strange tell me. Don't mention a word about this to anyone, Sherlock."

Sherlock nods and John ties his belt on his upper arm. He warns Sherlock and pierces his skin with the needle. He draws back a bit and blood enters the syringe, and then he pushes down, injecting the medication.

"You alright?"

Sherlock gasps and visibly relaxes back against the wall.

A few seconds pass, "Better".

John reaches in his bag again and takes out a suture kit. He washes his hands, and begins cleaning around Sherlock's shoulder area and the wound. He runs clean water from a bottle in his bag over the cut and holds the instruments in both hands.

"I'm going to stitch now, don't move." Sherlock turns his head away, and John goes from the left to the right, tying the string multiple times.

"Ms. Hudson?"

"Don't know. Don't move. Relax." Sherlock keeps quiet. John finishes quickly and cleans over the outside of the wound, over the stitches.

"Alright, it's done. I need you to be laying down for this. My room is closest." John helps Sherlock up from the seat; Sherlock supporting himself on his good leg and on John. They slowly make it out of the bathroom and into John's room. John helps him down onto the bed.

"I'll be right back." John voices, and walks out of the room, towards the bathroom.

Relax. Relax. Relax. Relax. It's all fine. Sherlock is alive, John. Relax. Relax. Why are you crying? John rests his head on the wall of the hallway and cries. Sherlock is not dead. It's all too fake, yet it's all too real. He needs to keep up his composure. Sherlock is alive. Alive. Alive. Alive. He grabs the backpack, and returns to the room, wiping at his eyes before entering.

"I'm going to straighten out your leg now. It might hurt... You listening?"

"Yes.. John.. I'm sorry." Sherlock replies, staring at the ceiling. John kneels on the bed: at the end near Sherlock's feet. He gathers the materials and pours water from a bottle into a small cup. He ignores Sherlock's statement. I can't cry right now.

"I hope this heals correctly Sherlock. I'm only doing this because it's necessary."

John presses down on Sherlock's leg, feeling down the front, back, and then around. The leg is bruised and obviously deformed. John places himself in line with Sherlock, and gently pulls on the leg downward.

"AH, John." Sherlock winces and bites his lip.

"It could be much worse if I hadn't given you the morphine." John states, as he pulls further, until he hears a pop, and the limb no longer looks deformed. He holds the leg in place, and starts applying a soft layer over Sherlock's leg, followed by the layer of plaster. He wets the plaster, and it dries hard. A few minutes later, he believes he's done.


"Thank you." Sherlock whispers. John grabs a thick blanket and covers Sherlock.

"It's nice to see you again..." John takes a deep breath and sighs.

"You too."

"You'll sleep here.. I'll be close, just call me.. If you need anything.. " John states, and starts walking away.

"John.. stay with me?"

John hesitates.

"... Alright."

John walks over to his bed and kicks off his shoes. He slowly drops down on the bed next to Sherlock. The detective moves the blanket over both of them and reaches out to hold John's hand. John feels it. Sherlock's warm hand on his. Warm and not cold. Alive. He hears Sherlock breathing in the deep silence of the room. He feels Sherlock rubbing his thumb over his hand and he cries and Sherlock looks at him and John just shuts his eyes really hard because Sherlock is just staring. John doesn't know what to feel.

"I've missed you so much", he cries.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."