A/N Hey My Lovelies!!!! Here's another chapter!!! Sorry that took so long...kinda been a stressful week so the creativity has been a little slow lol...I don't think this book is going to be too long, but you never know lol...(I'm not 100% happy with this so I may revise it later....) Enjoy<3

John blinked his eyes open, groaning as he felt a throbbing pain in his shoulder. As his brain started working, he noticed the mold and cracked paint on the walls, he could smell the telltale scent of rot and decay. He pushed himself to his elbows in hopes of figuring out where he was.

His vision turned white and fire burned across his shoulder and chest as he cried out, falling back onto his back. Right, she hit me. Fucking bitch-

"The bullet missed all major arteries." An unfamiliar voice came from somewhere beside him, and he flinched, trying to find his gun. "Your gun is still in the car. It's empty anyway, you wouldn't be able to shoot me if you wanted to." His eyes finally landed on the person that was talking to him

It was the young man, Sherlock Holmes, the one he had been tasked to bring in.

"You- you're still here." Sherlock raised his left hand, revealing a glinting pair of handcuffs chaining him to the bed. That's not right. I was out by the time he-

"You needed medical attention, and I was not going to be charged with your death as well as Moran's." John tried once more to push himself up, keeping the weight off his shoulder. He glanced around the room they were in. Clearly it was an abandoned building of some sort, but the personal effects that cluttered the countertops told John that someone lived here. "It's an abandoned hospital. The perfect place to hide out if you're injured or don't want to be found." Understanding flooded John and he glanced at the young man.

"You live here." Sherlock nodded, glaring at the floor and avoiding John's gaze. In the harsh lights of the hospital room, Sherlock looked even younger than John had originally thought. "Your file said-"

"My file is wrong. Lestrade wouldn't let me work unless I could give him an actual address, and I can't keep a place of my own, so I just gave him an address and Mycroft arranged the details." Sherlock shrugged, picking at the hem of his shirt and blushing lightly. "Sometimes New Scotland Yard makes helping them feel like more trouble than it's worth." John laughed at that, unable to resist the amusement that bubbled in his chest. Bit of a nutter isn't he?

"So, if your brother is wealthy enough to triple what The Yard is paying me, and has the connections to fake information in your file, why doesn't he buy you a flat?" Sherlock's face twisted into something John could only describe as disgust.

"Because then I would owe him, and he would Lord it over me for the rest of his days, the fat fuck." John snorted and started picking at the bandages that were stuck to his shoulder, wincing as the skin stuck. Ask Sherlock about James Moriarty.

That name kept popping up, and something about it set off warning bells in the back of John's mind. Whoever he was, he was bad news, Mary Morstan's presence told him that much.

Sherlock had done a decent job of patching up the wound, but he would need to get some better supplies or get to a hospital sooner rather than later.

He glanced back at the boy, still cuffed to the bed, and his mind started screaming at him.

The boy was chewing restlessly on one of his fingers, his knee bouncing and his breathing slightly erratic. There was a thin layer of sweat on his skin, and John could see the harsh red scratch marks on his arms where he had broken the skin.

"How long has it been?" John asked, nodding towards the cupboards across from them, just out of Sherlock's reach, that the boy kept eyeing desperately. Sherlock's eyes widened in shock and he met John's gaze for a moment before his cheeks darkened and he dropped his gaze to the ground.

"Ten hours and twenty-five minutes." The boy mumbled, scratching at his arm and shifting uncomfortably. "I'm trying to quit. It was going fine until you showed up." John beat down the apologetic words that tried to fall from his lips and swung his legs off the bed, re-wrapping the bandages on his shoulder before reaching for his shirt.

"Why did you stay?" He asked as he buttoned his shirt, turning to face the boy again. He didn't really care, but he hated empty silence, and needed to know what else The Yard had wrong about Sherlock Holmes. "You could have patched me up and left." Sherlock blushed and bowed his head, still scratching at his arm.

"Because I'm safer with you." John furrowed his brow, wincing as he reached for his jacket. "Since he has a Bounty Hunter after me as well, the probability of me surviving out on the streets just dropped to less than ten percent. If I allow you to take me in, my chances go up to almost fifty." John laughed lightly, feeling in his pockets for the keys. "Not that it's going to matter once I get to prison, it will take him less than a week to have me killed. But that is a week longer than I would survive on my own, so-" Sherlock shrugged looking pointedly at a spot on the floor.

John's medical training kicked in when he noticed the boy starting to tremble, his body screaming for drugs. He pulled out his keys and leaned in to unclasp Sherlock's wrist, he needed to get some sugar into the boy's body before he went into shock.

He reeled backwards as chapped lips brushed against his own.

He didn't get the chance to react before the too-familiar sound of a gun firing filled the air, the wall beside Sherlock's ear splintering as the bullet connected.

Sherlock flinched violently, his hands covering his face as he curled in on himself. John crouched and hurriedly undid the cuffs, dragging the boy off the chair as more shots rang out.

This kid was going to get him killed.

Here's hoping.