"It was worth a wound - it was worth many wounds - to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation."

Assistance needed, John. SH

John. SH

John! SH

…Could be dangerous. SH

Where? JW

"What did this guy do again?"

Sherlock sighed, note to self, take John to all crime scenes otherwise risk explaining numerous times.

The Consulting Detective and his trusted Doctor companion, who was supposedly only meant to be helping pay the rent, were stood with their backs against a bare, peeling plaster wall. John was closest to the door, his Sig handgun held securely in both his hands and pointing downwards at a slight angle. Sherlock was next to him. He'd abandoned the woolen trench coat and scarf in favor of having a little freer arm movement. The building around them was the site of the first rape and murder crime scene. A dingy little old house with peeling walls, mildew and abandoned upturned mattresses. The whole place reeked of death and desertion.

"In this room, McCarthy raped his first victim before killing her and removing her womb." Sherlock said, in a voice much too cold and isolate for what he just said.

John swallowed heavily, his throat suddenly dry.

"God, I might throw up." John thought it fair he provided warning.

"It'll only make more of a mess for Lestrade to clear up when I text him."

The two men were silent for a moment, listening out for their prey to enter the ramshackle building. Then John broke the silence.

"Rent's due tomorrow." He mumbled softly.

"We'll stop off at the bank on the way home." Sherlock replied, his baritone gentle and even. Mindless conversation, but at least it was better than the tension that built between them earlier at Baker Street. Tension which had only grown with each of their silence.

A creek from somewhere in the house below them brought both their attentions back to the present. Sherlock's piercing glance catches John's and he presses his finger to his lips in a motion of silence. John nods once, his breath exhales smoothly and evenly. Under pressure and loving every second.

Seconds later, McCarthy strolls calmly though the doorway. He is a short man, shorter than John, with small quick eyes that contain a sadistic sparkle and sharp features. No matter how fast his mind, he did not notice the two men hiding in such plain sight until John's gun pressed forcefully into the back of his neck.

"This would not kill you. It would paralyse first and you would still be conscious. It would kill you later." John's voice was as calm as a millpond and it sent a motionless haunting shiver down Sherlock's spine.

A dark chuckle abruptly sprouted itself from McCarthy's mouth. "The army doctor and the world's only consulting detective working for the police. What a novelty."

"Working with the police most of the time, McCarthy. Although they are yet to receive knowledge of our successful endeavor cornering you here today. You know what they say, should never return to the scene of the crime." Sherlock's tone was teasing but McCarthy's smile was wiped with the sound of John flicking the safety of his handgun. "They also say if the killer returns to the scene of the crime he wants to relive the pleasure of the act. Did you not get enough from your little souvenir?"

John ushered the smarmy man to turn around. To his credit, McCarthy did as he was told and even took the measure to place his hands behind his back. But his smile was taunting and John had already placed the Sig back into his waistband.

Like a flash of lightning and just as deadly, McCarthy pulled his own revolver from nowhere and fired. Hot searing pain, as if a branding iron had been pressed to his thigh, flooded though John, every nerve ending alight with ferocious anger. The doctor twisted and fell. Sherlock stepped forward and ripped the handgun from John's waistband.

The gun that was so familiar to his eyes somehow felt plainly wrong in his grip. But Sherlock held on tighter still to the handle, watched the killer shrivel under his hard gaze, brow creased and venom in his eyes. Sherlock focused his stare down the barrel and between McCarthy's. He glanced at John, who had fallen to the floor to take his weight off his wound.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was strained with worry, noticeable if you knew how he would normally rumble John's name. "Say that you are okay."

John chose his moment wisely to look up into the eyes of his best friend and flat mate. Eyes that normally bore a clear, hard glare were dimmed and his firm lips were shaking. It was worth both the gunshot wounds, worth a thousand wounds, to see the depth of loyalty behind the cold mask and a great heart in what he simply saw as transport.

Without letting his relief and realisation of that great heart be reflected into his face, John grunted, in reply.

"Umph." Sharp exhale. "I'm alright, Sherlock."

Not dead. Obviously. Good. Gunshot wound to the leg.

Bit not good, though. Sherlock turned his attention back to the criminal in front of him and raised his chin.

"If you had killed John, you would not have got out of this room alive."

With that, Sherlock flipped the handgun over in his hand, so that his elegant fingers grasped the barrel, and brought the handle down across McCarthy's jaw, knocking him to the ground.

Stoop and kneel, check pulse. Steady. Slight amount of blood where the handle made contact. Out cold and for the count. Stand. John.

Sherlock refocused his attention to his friend and knelt down beside him as John righted himself in a true sitting position, wincing in pain as he did.

"Alright?"

John glared at him.

"No. You're not. You've just been shot."

John makes a noise of indifference, "I've had worse."

Sherlock's gaze focuses momentarily on John's left shoulder and the war wound that resided there which brought the good doctor to him. Sherlock felt an odd amount of fondness for the ugly scar tissue, without it, he would not have his soldier.

Their gazes meet and hold longer than strictly necessary. Then Sherlock breaks the tension, pulling out his phone and firing off a message to Lestrade.

Ready now. Murderer cornered at first crime scene. - SH

After a show of gratitude from a rather exhausted looking Lestrade and the waving off of various annoying paramedics ("It's merely a scratch and I'm a Doctor, I can patch myself up, thank you very much.") in much kinder tones than Sherlock would have preferred, Sherlock and John clambered into one of London's invisible cabs.

"Baker Street. Fast as you please," barked Sherlock before settling back to gaze out the window. He sat on the small pull down window seat in the hackney cab, allowing John to rest his wounded leg on the fully sized seat across from him.

The pair were silent for a moment, watching the passing streets and people. Various groups of tourist lined the streets, cameras in hand snapping away happily.

The tension in the cab was almost pliable, converging around the two of them like a real force instead of an abstract notion.

"Are we going to talk about it?" John asked, his voice almost timid.

"About what, John?"

John let out a long breath through his nose, Sherlock knew what. Upon the noise, the detective focused his attention upon the solider, curiosity on his face. At the sight of John's expression, though, the curiosity faded. Replaced by something that made John's stomach turn. They were not going to be discussing it at all. John screwed his face up to let his disgust be known. He'd have to formulate a different plan to get Sherlock to talk.

By the time Sherlock was finished cleaning the superficial wound on John's thigh, John had prepared his plan. It would go into action over the course of the next few days. As Sherlock pressed the taped into place the gauze over the shallow wound, John spoke.

"We never made it to the bank."

The words are very softly spoken, but, for just moment, they still freeze the slender finger on his leg.

"Given your incapacitated state I'm sure Mrs Hudson will forgive us."

"Not if you blow any more holes in her bloody walls." John mutters and it causes a grin to break out on Sherlock's face, a smile that is so rare only John ever really sees it.

Sherlock continues to rub down the edges of the tape over the gauze and John stifles his sigh, because it's all he wants. Domesticity. With Sherlock. Sherlock's fingers stop and their gazes catch. The flow between them is almost tangible. The flow of something unidentifiable at the moment. But it is the same type of moment that passed between them earlier, over breakfast, before the McCarthy case. It lasts for a fleeting second that seems to stretch on forever. Forever. Forever could be eternal, or it could be a fleeting second, it was constantly changing and always happening.

"Yoohoo."

The flow was broken.

Broken by Mrs Hudson. Sherlock broke the gaze and quickly stood up.

"Doctor Watson is good as new again, Mrs Hudson." And like that, it was gone again.

Sherlock stared blankly ahead as he accepted the cup of tea being offered to him. He took a sip and then frowned at three things; one, John had forgotten to add the sugar to his cup, two, why was John making tea, was he not shot? And three, John's hand gently caressed the back of his head down to the nape of his neck. The touch was very un-John-like and if he'd not been concentrating Sherlock would have missed it, as it barely skimmed his curls.

Sherlock glared down into his mug trying to process that touch. What was John up to? He watched as John sat in his own armchair and gulped down tea before grimacing and standing up again making his way back to Sherlock. He pulled the mug out of his hands and replaced it with the sugar containing tea he had mistaken, before running his hand down Sherlock's shoulder and apologetically smiling at him.

Sherlock gaped. What was happening?

He had never been one for love, sentiment and emotions, but Sherlock Holmes knew affection when it was displayed. Only, John had never displayed this much affection. A caress may be simple enough, but it's a long shot from the oddly endearing 'fantastic' comment about his deductions. Plus, the adoring comments had become minimal recently, replaced instead with "Sherlock, you're showing off again."

Sherlock took a contemplative sip of his tea; it was of course perfect, and watched as John picked up the latest book he was reading. Sherlock was also trying to read what he though was an open book, but was starting to reconsider that evaluation. A small smile danced on John's lips, Sherlock was clueless and, he hoped, would remain that way…