shot the wrong one. || +deducingdemon.
That was the last thing John Watson could remember.
A searing hot pain running from his shoulder down to his stomach.
But why could he feel that pain? He was yet to find out.
The last thing he remembered seeing -- Sherlock, with John's gun in hand, facing toward Mangussen. He was going to shoot. He would get arrested and put away for the rest of his life for doing that, and John wasn't sure what he was thinking when he stepped out in front of the gun; feeling the bullet tear through his skin, sinking down to his knees in agony, before blacking out when his head hit the cold floor beneath him.
When his eyes next opened, he was in an ambulance -- he could tell by the sirens going off manically, which meant that John was in critical condition. He could feel something holding onto his hand, and he could hear a voice -- but he couldn't place the voice to a face, his vision glassy and hazy.
The next time he woke, he was in a white room, laying on a hospital bed, wearing a paper gown; covered by a very thin duvet. He still couldn't move.
Letting out a grunt, he leaned over to press the morphine button, to slow it down for a little while, he could take the pain, he'd been through worse. Pressing the button in hand to move the bed, he slowly found himself sat up.
And that was when he saw the ruffle of hair.
He knew that hair anywhere.
“Sherlock?
-- Is that you?”
He wanted to make sure, because if it wasn't -- then who else would be in his room at this time of the night? By the looks of things, it was at least early morning hours.
