"H…Holmes…?"

The dust that had clouded around the fallen bricks was burning his eyes, and with each breath he took, an agonising pain forced his body to lurch forward, he was suffocating. The jacket that he wore was pulled up over his mouth, in attempt to filter the debris that had caught in the wind.

"Holmes?!"

He called louder, receiving no response from Sherlock was sickening. His ankles twisted with almost every step and he tried to keep balanced amongst the rubble, Please god…let him be alive. What would he do if he wasn't? What would happen if he had found his companion under the weight of a tower he had collapsed? Desperation fuelled him now, there was no reason to feel guilty, there was no reason to worry, because Holmes…Holmes would be ok, like always, finding his way out of trouble.

He tripped, knees and arms coming into contact with the hard, and uneven wreckage. He cursed under his breath, with anger, with anxiety…with fretfulness. He turned around, seating himself upright as he pulled slightly on the thick length of rope that had caught his shoe. He jerked on the cord hurriedly, to free himself from the snake like coils that had wrapped around his lower leg, slowing him in his search. Come on Holmes…

He stood in place, brushing off his clothing, scouring the surroundings for any sign of him. It was then it caught his attention, a bright flicker of light amongst the fallen masonry. He bent down to observe, the darkness playing tricks on his mind. The watch…Reardon's watch, something that Holmes had always carried with him. Panic hit as he realised, he's buried under the bricks…

"No"

John threw himself down into the stone and pulled away the broken remains of a stronghold that had moments ago been standing. He lifted a large lump of cement, with a great amount of effort and gasped at the shock that lay in front of him. What have I done?

He stared for a moment taking in his seemingly indestructible friends injuries. Sherlock was crushed, an overwhelming portion of his face blackened by the impact and weight of the concrete fragments. He reached out a hand, running it softly over the gash that stretched from the centre of Holmes' forehead, and continued a way into his hairline; hidden under tattered strands that stuck to his skin in the already drying blood.

"Holmes…?" – He tapped him firmly on the cheek, but received no reply. Watson gripped what was visible of his bleeding friends coat and pulled him closer, shaking him with more insistence. "Wake up Holmes…" Tears formed in his eyes as he received no answer yet again; his throat tightening as he found himself reaching in search for a pulse.

He placed pressure on his unresponsive friends body…there was no rhythm, no sign of life. A whine escaped him as he hugged Holmes close to his chest…you can't be… Watson's body trembled under the weight of the situation, grief replacing his rational mentality.

"Its al- always nice to s-see you Watson…"

John held him at arm's length, staring into drowsy eyes, his own vision blurred by the tears that had formed. Disbelief was all he felt….how? How did he… he had no, pulse? He could feel his head shaking side to side, only Sherlock Holmes.

"You scared me to death…you bastard"

A small smirk appeared in the corner of his friend's mouth before it was replaced with a grimace.

"W- Watson, the hook… the hook pull it out…"

Holmes clenched his jaw and moaned, eyes firmly closed. Hook, wha-

A large piece of Metal sat against the right side of Sherlock's chest, at first glance he thought it had been just another piece of debris caught in his friends clothing; but in inspecting further, found that the steel curved inwards…into the flesh.

"How deep is it?"

"It's deep" He said with gritted teeth. Holmes' erratic breathing was beginning to upset him, doing anything to ease his pain would be better that leaving him to suffer.

"Is it safe to remove?"

The question seemed to aggravate his beaten friend.

"I don't care if it is! John just pull it out, now, please…"

He gripped the rope and used his weight to pull the barb from it place, causing the wound to bleed intensely, and Sherlock to writhe amongst the dirt in pain. His friend had a tight grip of his jacket, leaving bloody handprints, each breath he took becoming more and more shallow.

"I'm glad I found you Holmes…"

"You didn't find me…you collapsed a building on me…"

He let out a chuckle, even now you have a sense of humour.

"Come on old boy, let's go find Simza"

Keep your feet, focus Sherlock, and keep your goddamn feet. The forest floor was uneven, but he did his best to continue running. Every stride he took was like hell for his shoulder, and the blood loss was getting to his head. Small pieces of bark and splinters were catching his face, and imbedding in his skin, making it impossible for him to ignore the massive pulsating ache in his skull. The Germans calls were growing louder behind him, they're catching us.

He looked to his left, to where one of his French comrades was hit…he couldn't stop, Moriarty could not win. And he wouldn't let him win. To his right was John, naturally more slender, longer legs…faster. He was clearing ground, like a hunting dog on the scent of a rabbit, with such swiftness and ability one might not believe it. It was times like this he knew that such ability was the result of the time Watson had spent in Afghanistan. It had been tough on him, the dreams, the injury…he would have liked to have known his close friend before the war, when he was, whole.

He was pulled from his thoughts by a blast of hot air that threw him backwards. This was it, they would be caught, he was too injured, and the rest of the group that were left were too tired. As he lay amongst the debris of ash and splintered timber, he was struck with a realisation. Mary…

Holmes had ruined their honeymoon plans, that wasn't fair at all. If you're not going to fight for yourself, then fight knowing that John has someone to go home too. He stood himself upright amongst the others who were now lifting themselves from the dirt.

Watson will see Brighton.