NorthernMage here!

Despite the fact I watched Sherlock a while ago, I never really got to writing something for it, and when I finally did, it took ages.

The scene where Sherlock was choked kept bugging me. He seems to almost shrug it off, seeing as in the very next scene there's no way to tell that he was attacked by the Black Lotus.

So, I decided to change the situation a bit.

Seeing as this is my first attempt at a Sherlock fanfic, I'd like feedback on how I did. Getting the characters right was a struggle...

Also, sorry for not having posted in a while. I thought life was going to calm down, and it didn't, not really...

John: NorthernMage doesn't own Sherlock.

General POV

'Oh stupid, stupid!' Sherlock muttered. 'He's still here.' Looking around warily, he pushed aside the divider, only to be grabbed from behind, a thick white cloth rope wrapping around his neck. He slowly went to his knees, choking.

'Any time you want to include me...' John called, glaring through the flap in the door. Surely it wasn't that hard for Sherlock to just come to the door and open it! Leaving him outside had better not become a habit.

'John...' Sherlock choked out, his vision going dark. 'John!'

Outside the door, John shook his head, frustrated before spinning around dramatically. 'No, I'm Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone because no one else can compete with my massive intellect!' he yelled through the flap. Why didn't he let him in if he was going to bring him along? He had heard noises coming from inside the house, but he hadn't been able to tell exactly what.

Sherlock gasped for air, and upon not receiving any, went limp on the ground. The man attacking him, frowning, pulled the cloth tighter around his throat.

The noise inside was fading, and John rang the doorbell, feeling somewhat like a broken record.

Glancing up at the noise, the man hurried up. He'd been told this man was the companion of Sherlock Holmes - a detective investigating them. Perhaps a dead friend would be enough to discourage him, on top of not being able to lead the police to them. Quickly, he placed a black paper lotus in the pocket of his jacket, and exited the building.

John sighed in frustration. 'Sherlock?' he called, thoroughly annoyed. What reason did Sherlock have to wreck the house? At least, that was certainly what it sounded like. At least the noise was gone now.

...wait, wouldn't Sherlock be coming out if he was finished? John thought for a moment, trying to figure out why the detective had suddenly become so quiet, and was still in the house.

'John...John!' The cry had gone unnoticed at the time, but now...

'Sherlock?' John called out, concern mounting. If that hadn't been Sherlock wrecking the house, then it had to be something else.

Something else that had also incapacitated the detective.

Making a decision, John stuck his hand into the mail slot, hissing as the sharp metal hurt his wrist. Fumbling, he managed to grab the door handle and unlock it, quickly pulling his hand back as it swung open. Panic mounting, the ex-army doctor rushed into the house.

As he entered, John turned into the next room, and stared.

Limp on the ground, with some white cloth tightly wound around his throat, was Sherlock. His eyes were closed, and he was somewhat spread-eagled. His arms had fallen to his sides, pointing outwards to a degree.

'Oh...' Hurrying to the unconscious detective, John quickly knelt down and pulled the knot in the cloth towards him, and began to untie it. Glancing at Sherlock, he noticed that, worryingly, there was no movement as far as breathing went.

As the cloth fell away, John pulled it out from under his friend's neck.

'Sherlock? Hey, can you hear me?' When he didn't respond, he linked his hands together, and began pushing down on his chest repetitively, making sure to keep count of the compressions in his head. CPR seemed the best option at the moment - with no signs of life present, he had to assume that this was definitely a life or death situation. However, as he had gotten to Sherlock relatively quickly -

sixteen, seventeen, eighteen

- there was still time, enough time for John to put his medical knowledge to use. Lack of oxygen was a danger, but only if Sherlock didn't start breathing soon.

Something about that thought made him pause. Sherlock, die?

John had seen a lot of death, that much he would admit. Afghanistan, not being able to save everyone despite his training...

There is a difference between a bullet and being choked.

Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one.

Sherlock isn't one of the people who died back there. If I start doubting myself now, he's got next to no chance.

Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five...

'Sherlock?' he called out, worry and panic replacing the professionalism that had been present ever since seeing the man unconscious.

Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eig-

There was a strangled coughing noise, and John moved back as Sherlock rolled over on his hands and knees, coughing loudly and trembling. He moved back in, putting his arms around the detective's chest to support him.

'Sherlock?' he asked. 'You need to sit down, you can't stress yourself too much.' Almost dazed, he did as John asked, sitting against the bed in the room. He was looking at the ground, hands dropped to his sides.

'John?' he croaked after a few moments. 'Thought...y'were outside.'

'Yeah well, I was until you didn't come out.' John muttered, reaching for his phone. 'You probably need to get checked out by someone.' He began to dial the number of Bart's.

'No, we can't afford to slow down. Pointless, anyway.' Sherlock told him, grabbing the phone and exiting the call screen. Reaching into his own jacket, he frowned upon finding a black paper lotus.

Bit of a preemptive move - putting a calling card down when you're not certain your job is done. Overconfidence is a weakness, Sherlock thought, before realising something.

'John, how did you get in? The door was locked.' he asked the doctor, who was glaring at him.

'Stuck my hand into the mail slit, then reached around and unlocked the door from there. Anyway, what did you mean it's pointless to get you checked out?'

'You're a army doctor turned blogger who worked in Afghanistan, I would assume that would provide a clean bill of health.'

Sherlock stood, shakily at first, before striding to the door.

The milk's gone off, and the washing is starting to smell. Someone left in a hurry. Opening it, he knelt down to pick up a letter left abandoned on the doorstep.

Soo Lin

Please ring me

tell me you're okay

Andy

'John?' he called. The doctor quickly came over to him.

'What is it?'

'Soo Lin Yao. She left here in a hurry three days ago. The milk's gone off and the washing is starting to smell.'

'Well, we don't know where to look.' John said. Sherlock pointed to the words printed on the corner of the envelope.

National Antiques Museum.

'We can start with this.' Hm, maybe I should have waited a bit longer, but too late now, Sherlock decided even as he trembled just walking out of the house and down the footpath.

'Sherlock, you can't push yourself too much!'

'I'm fine, let's go.'

I'd imagine it would head straight back into the normal episode from here.