Late Nights

It's all gonna be okay

The previous events of the day ran through Sherlock's head as he was sitting outside John's hospital room. No one was allowed in yet, but it didn't stop Sherlock from trying. In his mind he saw John leaping to the right in order to survive. He saw the bullet piercing through the skin on the left side of his stomach. He saw the vicious grin plastered across James face, even after Sherlock had filled him up to the edge with bullets. He heard the police men running up the stairs, going from the sound of the shots. He saw them lifting John into an ambulance while some cop held him back. He heard them accusing him for being the one that shot John and he remember their faces at his reaction of their accuse.
Dumping down in the seat beside him, pulling him out of his own head, Lestrade offered Sherlock coffee. He stared out in to the air for a couple of seconds before accepting it.
"How are you holding up?" Lestrade questioned, after taking a sip of his own mug. He seemed nervous for asking. "Depending on how he's holding up." Sherlock's voice was unsteady, and Lestrade smiled halfheartedly down at his coffee. "They said he was getting better. At least that he'll make it."
Sherlock sighed loudly in relief at the response, letting himself relax a bit more. "Thank God," he murmured quietly, but Lestrade still caught it. 
"I'm heading back to the station to sort out everything on James North, but I guess there's no need in asking if you want to come," Lestrade said while getting up, and starting taking on his coat. "I'll see you later, George," Sherlock said, hiding a smile. Lestrade shook his head at him, walking away and out of sight.
If Sherlock had bothered keeping track of time, he would've noticed he'd been there for over 4 hours, and soon he had to leave. A nurse walked up to him, slowly, way too familiar with these situations.
"Sir, we're closing soon. Maybe it's time to go home."
Sherlock looked the woman directly in the eye. "My home," he snapped. "Is where he is." He pointed in at John's room. His eyes softened with his voice as he pleaded, "Please, just let me in to him before I go." Unsure at first the nurse couldn't refuse when she saw how vulnerable Sherlock was in that moment. Reluctantly she did, in the end, let him in, but only for a few minutes.
Sitting down in the chair beside the hospital bed, Sherlock's eyes rummaged John. He stretched out for his hand, but the nurse stopped him. "Next time," Sherlock whispered. "You let me take the bullet."
With that he was about to get up and leave, but then he heard a weak voice speak behind him. "Never," John whispered. "I will never let you take," he cut himself of by coughing. "I will never let you take another bullet, Sherlock."
In awe, Sherlock made his way back to the bed, kneeling beside it. Ignoring the nurse's protests, too caught in the moment to realize what he was doing, he leaned down and planted a soft kiss on John's lips. Surprisingly, despite his condition, John kissed back his pink lips moving slowly against Sherlock's. The detective laid a protecting, soothing hand at his companion's cheek, putting as much passion as he possibly could into every movement.
At last they broke apart, their noses barely touching.
"Never," John repeated locking eyes with the other man. Staring at each other like there was no tomorrow, the two of them just sat there, holding hands until John passed out again, and Sherlock had to leave.