Author's note- Hospitals were not in fact healthy environments to go. The rich had doctors visit them and the poor went to hospitals to die. It wasn't until Nightingale came and cleaned them up after the Crimean War that they were any good. So Holmes is quite right to have some of the opinions I've given him.

HOLMES

The woman shouldn't point a gun at us; we're the ones who are going to help her.

A flash in the darkness.

A bullet wound to the shoulder… sounds familiar…

Not Charing Cross. Baker Street. No.. bound to get an infection there..

Watson.

LESTRADE

He probably opened his eyes to see me looking frankly concerned for him, as I pulled the makeshift bandage (my winter scarf) tighter under his armpit. A cobbled street was agony, I found myself pulling him closer to prevent further jerks. It was not the most dignified position for him I imagine, almost lying in my lap, but I supposed neither of us would do it in any other circumstances.

"It's all right, Mr Holmes, we'll have you to the hospital in a few minutes. It's all right, say." Holmes had let out a little whimper that was not like him at all. He licked his lips and tried again.

"We mustn't go to the hospital, Lestrade."

"Why, pray tell me, when your blood is making such a mess on the seat of our cab?"

"I must see Watson…"

"Watson will be contacted as soon as we get to the 'Cross."

"He is my doctor, Lestrade. Make the cabbie go to Baker Street."

"He's mine, too, Holmes, but he's a general practitioner, not a surgeon."

"He is a fine surgeon, actually. I should know- he was in the army, you know, Les- oh God… Get me to him, Lestrade, please!" He'd grasped my hand and was writing in pain now.

I sighed. "Cabbie? 221b Baker Street, please. Sorry about the change of course."

"That's orate, sah- we're on Oxford Street now."

"Lestrade!" Holmes gasped again "I'm about to lose consciousness-"

"-Then you don't need to speak, Holmes."

"No, I need to tell you something. Lestrade…" His voice lowered. "If this happens again, and no doubt something like it will… I must never have any doctor but Watson, you hear? Even if it looks like I'm at death's door. Especially then, actually."

"Well, all right, Holmes, but what if-"

"No 'what-ifs', Lestrade… It must..." He was right, of course he was right. He passed out.

TheTyrannyOfTheMysteriousLineDeleterContinues

The burly lad I'd selected for the task of helping me carry Holmes into the hospital now assisted me as I ruined Mrs Hudson's carpet. I'd let myself in- the door wasn't locked.

"Watson, Holmes is hurt and you've got to-"

"HOLMES!" Watson's cry from landing was quite moving. I think he leapt about six of the steps and thundered over the rest. "Lestrade, what happened?" He turned to the constable. "Get him upstairs, the first room on the left is my bedroom, put him in there." He didn't so much as pretend that I'd shifted the weight. The lack of Watson's diplomacy was disconcerting. He turned to me. "Anything besides the shot wound?"

"No, and he refused to have another doctor."

This prompted a soft smile from him. "No, I suppose he wouldn't. Come upstairs, Lestrade, if you'd like, I can see you're worried about him. I'll ask you both to stay in the living room for now, though."

"Thank you, Doctor." I didn't address him by his prefix any longer, but it seemed appropriate now. I followed him as he sprinted up the stairs. He hastened to his desk, where he kept his bag and disappeared into the bedroom.

I heard him mutter, "Oh, Holmes," before the door shut behind him.

Was getting a bit long for the average oneshot, so next chapter will be up this evening, hopefully. Watson's POV is to come.