John and I are shoved ruthlessly into a room and we hear the door shut with a cruel click. I vaguely see John run up to the door and bang on it and rattle the knob, but it mercilessly refuses to budge.

Finally, John stops, resting his forehead on the door and breathing heavily. My lids begin to feel heavy, and I fight to keep them propped open.

"It's no use." I say weakly. Gosh this trip has taken a turn for the worst on my ego.

John turns to look at me. "And since when do you give up, Savanna Jackson?"

I take my eyes away from his and look at my leg; a spiteful laugh escaping my lips. "Since I became a human pincushion."

John shakes his head and walks to my bedside. "Mind if I take a look?"

I shake my own head and lay back on the flat bed. John tries to pry away the blood-soaked scarf on my leg with his bare hands, but blood has dried around the knot I had made, making it virtually impossible to remove without the aid of tools. I wince as he pulls a bit hard at one point.

"Why did you tie this knot so tight?" John asks, pausing his work to look over at me.

I shrug slightly. "I thought it would stem the blood flow."

John nods. "Yes, but you should've stayed put once you had tied it. You shouldn't have walked all the way to the hospital in this condition."

I sigh. "I didn't walk by myself. I had help."

"Oh yeah? From whom?" He asks absently, looking around the room for scissors, I assume.

"Sherlock helped me walk here, remember?"

"Right, right." John says, opening a drawer underneath a sink and flourishing a pair of silver scissors.

"No." I say suddenly, sitting up and pulling my leg, still bound with the scarf, closer to me.

"No, what?" John asks, and glares at me for moving so suddenly.

I sigh, as if the answer is completely obvious; which, for him, it isn't. "You're not cutting my scarf."

John looks exasperated. "I don't have a choice! Your blood has literally matted the material of the scarf together. There is no other way for me to get it off."

I shake my head again, not moving from my current position. John walks over to me, sitting on my bed and placing the scissors on his lap. "If I'm going to cure you, I have to do this."

After a minutes hesitation, I loosen the muscles in my leg slowly and painfully, sliding it out from me and bracing myself with my arms behind me. "Get it over with." I say, gritting my teeth and narrowing my eyes.

The truth was, that scarf was my most precious possession. It had, believe it or not, kept me alive more times than I could count, and had been with me on every single one of my cases. Telling John to "Get it over with," was like sentencing a dear friend to death.

John nods again, not saying a word as he brandishes his scissors like a weapon and goes in for the kill.

All right. Overkill, I know.

He makes a couple clean cuts and my makeshift bandages fall off my leg and onto the bed, in two neat pieces. They seem fossilized to the curve of my leg, making them look like halves of a cast rather than a scarf.

My jeans, as you probably have imagined, look no better than the scarf. In fact, if it's possible, they look worse. The hole where the bullet entered my flesh is not visible through all the matted blood, and I wrinkle my nose at the smell of stale blood.

John stands up, taking the halves of my scarf with him to the sink. He plugs the drain, and begins to fill the basin with hot water. He places the halves of cloth in the water and lets them soak, while searching the underside of the sink for something. I assume its a clean cloth to clear my leg of the clotted blood.

My now dull blue eyes search the room, and land on a linen closet directly across from John. I weakly lift a hand and point to it. "Try in there."

John lifts his head abruptly; which results in him banging it on the sink. "What?" he asks irritably, rubbing his forehead. He sees where I am pointing and opens the closet, to find nothing but white sheets and a bottle of medicine, most likely left behind by some surgeon.

He turns around with a triumphant smile. "Seems your luck has finally turned, Savanna." He says, taking a sheet and the bottle in his hands and bringing them over to me. He sets them on the bedside table and brings out his phone, texting furiously.

"Why's that? What's in the bottle?"

"A drug to put you to sleep. It'll make removing the bullet easier on both of us." He says, placing his phone back in his pocket and ripping a long strip of material from the sheet and placing it aside.

"Bloody brilliant. Perfect." I say, laying back down on the hard mattress. Suddenly a rather random thought strikes me and I laugh ruefully.

"What now?" John asks.

I shake my head slowly. "You'd think they'd have more comfortable beds. You know, especially when people in pain need to use them."

John chuckles. "Are you hinting that you'd like to move to that bed?" he asks, pointing to a really fluffy, mechanical one sitting in a corner.

I grin. "If you don't mind."

John rolls his eyes and lifts me from the first bed to the second. "Happy?"

"Very." I say, fluffing the pillows behind me and laying back in them. I sigh. "Better."

John shakes his head again and transfers his new supplies to the next bed. "Good. Then I expect you to be quiet as I work."

I narrow my eyes. "You're going to knock me out. I don't get much more quiet than that."

John laughs and unscrews the plastic lid on the bottle, pouring a bit of the contents into the lid and handing it to me. "Swallow this."

I take the cap in shaking fingers and down it in one gulp. I screw my face into a look of extreme dislike as the room immediately begins to go fuzzy. "Tastes like pond water." Is the last thing I remember saying before I fall into sleep.

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John looked at Savanna for a moment, debating what to do next. Finally, after he was sure she had fallen into sleep, he took the silver surgeon's scissors in his hand and began cutting the material of her jeans with expert hands, exposing the wound. He ripped the material as gently as possible away and set it aside on the bed table.

Next he soaked a piece of sheet in warm water and began clearing away the clotted blood to expose the bullet hole. His face was screwed up in concentration as he worked his way through the mess.

After he had successfully cleared the blood from the wound and exposed the pale skin, he located the hole where the bullet had made contact and entered her leg. He gazed at the wound for several minutes before deeming the bullet not too deep and retrieving a pair of tweezers from the same drawer the scissors came from.

With care and expertise that could only be utilized by a doctor, he gently opened the wound a bit more and searched with his eyes, looking for the bullet. It took a minute, but once he located it, it was only a matter of time before the bronze bullet was lying on the bedside table and wrapped in a small section of cloth. He moved away from the bed and began to quickly search the drawer for a needle and thread to close the wound and quicken the healing process.

He cleaned the wound once more, clearing Savanna's leg of the fresh trickle of blood and began to sew it closed. He bound it tightly with the clean sheet strip he had prepared earlier, and his work was finished.

He breathed a sigh of relief, and covered Savanna with another sheet. Next he began cleaning and sterilizing all the tools he had used, just to pass the time until Savanna woke, or Sherlock and Anthoni came to get them out.

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A/N

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