Time 01:01 pm

"Anthea, dear, would you please check the CCTV footage of Dr Watson during the past month for appearances of this man. And find his current location."

"This man?" Two perfectly modelled eyebrows were raised.

"Yes, Mick Richardson. One of Sherlock's first cases. He was recently released from prison."

"As you wish, Sir."

Time 01:04 pm

Of course, the surgery was still closed. They usually had a two-hour-break before it opened again for their patients. Sherlock didn't even bothered with the front door; instead he strode with long steps to the back door, expertly picking this lock. Not for the first time he wondered about the low security of this door, but this time he was actually thankful for it since he entered the surgery within a minute.

John's office was directly in front of him, but when he tried the door, it was locked. It took him even less time to pick this lock and he opened it in an instant. He was greeted with a scene from his worst nightmare.

John Watson in a lake of his own blood.

He had never told anyone, but there was a time on the roof, when he feared that his death wouldn't be enough.

That Moriarty never intended to let his friends live.

That there was no John Watson to return to.

But Moriarty was dead. His web destroyed. John should have been safe.

Not lying in his office, dying.

Panicked the detective knelt beside the doctor, searching for a pulse. The rush of relief when he felt a weak fluttering under his fingers was followed by a rush of action. The source of the blood was quickly found. Using John's hands he pressed his left hand on the wound, hoping to stop the bleeding. With his other hand he reached for his phone.

"Mycroft, ambulance, he is bleeding out. Backdoor."

"Already on their way, I'll explain later."

Unceremoniously Sherlock ended the call, using both hands on John now. Five eternal minutes later he heard the footsteps of the paramedics.

Their work was quick and efficient. Only moments later John received an infusion while lying on a stretcher and pushed into the ambulance.

"You're his boyfriend? Want to ride with us?"

Time 01:15 pm

There were days when Greg Lestrade hated his phone. Those were the days when only bad news came in. And calls from Mycroft Holmes were never a good sign.

"I've just send you a file with a warrant and location to arrest Mick Richardson for the attempted murder of Dr Watson. I will be there for the interrogation."

There had been a time when he questioned the Holmes brothers, but he had long learned his lesson. (And Mycroft had said attempted. Attempted didn't mean success. That was good. Probably.)

"Donovan, follow me."

Time 01:17 pm

Boyfriend.

He didn't like the sound of this word. It was too juvenile. And too close to what he really wanted.

But he wasn't stupid enough to contradict the paramedic's assumption. And now he stared on John Watson's pale face, watching his infusion with saline solution.

He dared to take one of John's hands. It was so cold. John was never cold.

John hadn't been cold the last time they had hold hands. The situation had been far from ideal, but the handcuffed escape from the police was one of Sherlock's favourite memories, especially for those brief moments when their fingers had been intertwined.

He had to let John's hand go when they arrived at the hospital and John was rushed in one of their emergency wards.

Time 01:38 pm

Ten tiles on the floor from wall to wall. 37 between the two doors. 17 in the height of the walls. 247 in one row. Four doors on each side. Only one was important.

He tried to concentrate, tried to focus on the movements behind those doors. But he couldn't.

He paced along the corridor.

John was behind that door.

He sat down.

John dying.

He stood up again.

His pacing was stopped by a doctor. He hadn't noticed him emerging from John's room.

"Mr Watson?"

Mr Watson – he liked that. He liked the sound, the knowledge that it meant him. The happy feeling in his feeling crashed instantly. He would never be. But he nodded, laying a claim on this name.

"Your partner is stable. We stopped the bleeding and he receives now blood transfusions. We think he will be fine, but we'll know more when he wakes up. He was very lucky."

Time 01:43 pm

Mycroft watched through the mirror the interrogation of Mick Richardson. If interrogation was the right word for what was happening in front of him. Mick Richardson gloated with his attack on John, how he had followed him, realised his importance to the detective, how he left him on his office floor to die. To let Sherlock Holmes suffer.

Time 01:51 pm

The phone call was short.

John Watson had been used again to hurt him. Obviously it worked as well as all the other times before.

A gun against John's head.

John covered in explosives.

A knife at John's throat.

John lying in his own blood.

Maybe Sally Donovan was right.

He was dangerous.

At least dangerous to the man he loved.

He probably should leave him, maybe should have stayed dead.

Leave now.

But he was unable to move, unable to leave.

If John was a wise man he would send him away. Until that I'll stay.

Time 01:57 pm

This time he woke up to an annoying beeping.

The wet feeling under his back was replaced by rough cotton against his bare skin.

He felt the sting of an infusion in his left arm.

His right hand was painfully squeezed.

It took him ages to open his eyes, searching for the cause of his pain.

Sherlock. Sherlock holding his hand between his own.

Their eyes met.

A weak smile from the detective.

John's facial muscles hurt when he reciprocated.

They said nothing. The smile was everything that was necessary, they never needed words.

A memory. A beige ceiling.

Please God, let me live. I have to tell him.

He opened his mouth, but all his vocal chords produced was a hoarse rasping sound. In an instant Sherlock released his hand, giving him an ice cube to suck on.

The warmth in those grey eyes let him suck impatiently. He wanted to tell him. Tell him now. Before another lunatic tried to kill one of them.

When he opened his mouth again, he was stopped by a long finger on his mouth.

"You shouldn't speak. Just rest."

He didn't know what possessed him, but John kissed the fingertip on his mouth. The effect was fascinating. Instantly the finger was removed, a rosy flush covered pale cheeks and Sherlock's pupils dilated.

"John." The detective sounded breathless.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

He would always remember the sign of wonder on Sherlock's face.

AN: 1. The prompt was: Things left unsaid.

2. I have absolutely no medical training and a google search only covers so much, so the medical details are probably totally unrealistic. Just write this off to literary licence.