He opened his eyes, cotton-mouthed and gasping on the floor. His limbs were leaden, slow to respond. Â
 Sherlock was crouched over him, warm palm cupping his cheek, the tips of his long fingers just barely brushing against the hair at his temple. His other hand was up against Johnâs neck, a light pressure, measuring his pulse.
 John worked his jaw, struggled for words. He tipped his head to the side. His vision swam.
 The red rug was scratchy under his cheek. There was grit caught in the fibres, little bits of dirt and gravel. Sherlock could probably identify where it had all come from, could map his steps through London by the dirt heâd left behind.
 He blinked once, hard, struggled to focus. The room was very bright. There were clouds behind Sherlock, grey clouds, thick and rolling along the far wall.
 No. Not rolling. Static. Patterned. Wallpaper.
 "Wind,â he said, because it seemed important. His voice was slurred, his tongue heavy and sluggish in his mouth. âEast wind.â
 Sherlockâs grip tightened on him. He slipped his hand from Johnâs pulse point to brace against his back, helped him to sit up. The room righted itself with some reluctance.
 John shifted, groaning a little bit, frowning as his hand pressed up against something sharp. Glass. Broken glass all around, a jagged mosaic surrounding him on the floor, and the ugly red rug seeping out beneath him like a bloodstain.
 The chair was tipped on its side, one cool metal leg pressed against his right arm.
 There was a breeze. The sound of birds, of light traffic. John turned his head, slowly, and looked at the sliding glass door.
 It had been shattered. Knocked half off of the frame.
 Well, that explained the glass on the floor.
 Sherlock still had not spoken. His eyes were quite wide. There were tiny cuts on his hands, thin rivulets of blood where the glass had bitten. He hadnât wiped it away.
 His hands were shaking.
 There was a pink line just over his left eyebrow, new skin, freshly healed. Barely noticeable.
 John had put that line there. So. He noticed it.
 The silence had grown heavy, strange. Sherlockâs face was pinched in a way that John could not recall ever haven seen before. He was not wearing his coat, nor his suit jacket. He did not typically go out in just his shirtsleeves, even in warm weather.
 John craned his neck, found the coat and jacket on the ground, tossed aside. A hasty, careless pile. Not at all the way Sherlock normally treated his clothes. John stared. Sherlockâs gloves were slumped lifelessly by the door. They were torn, dark and wet at the edges of the frayed leather.
 He looked again at Sherlockâs hands, at the blood smeared on his knuckles.
 "Iâm not dead,â John said, just to have something to say. "That'sâsurprising.â His throat was dry, and his voice emerged graveled and hoarse. It seemed very loud in the close stillness that had enveloped them.
 Sherlockâs right hand went back to his pulse point, smoothing along the skin at his neck. His fingers quested, stilled as they found their target. His eyes did not leave Johnâs. He shook his head, once, slowly.
 "Sherlock,â John said. "Youâre scaring me, a bit, now.â
 Sherlock blinked. Paused. Blinked again. His grip tightened, released. Life crept back into his face, his eyelids fluttering. He drew a breath.
 "This was in your neck,â Sherlock said. His voice was very quiet. He lifted something from the floor, pinched between his fingers. A dart.
 "She shot me,â John said. She had been holding a gun. A real gun. Of that, he was certain.
Sherlock jerked his head in the direction of the toppled chair. John shifted, craned his neck.
 There were two singed holes in the chair back, the white leather curling outward. Someone (Eurus) had taken a knife to it, had split the fabric in a jagged grin beneath the holes, a grotesque parody of the smiling face on the wall in 221B. Chair stuffing poked through, soft and gauzy, not unlike clouds.
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