**I do not own any of the Sherlock BBC characters**.

EVENING. 1700 HOURS. OUTER LONDON.

I held one of his black curls between my fingers. For years, I wanted to bunch my hands in his glorious hair, run my fingers through his locks and lay a kiss on that severe hairline. But, I'm getting ahead of myself. Sherlock's hair fell from my grasp as I moved on, fervently searching with my fingertips, gently prodding his scalp for the wound that was spewing forth so much blood, so much.

My heart was drumming in my ears, "Help, Help!" I yelled, sparing a glance towards the end of the alley, back toward the main road; with people, and cells with 999 just a button click away.

No one was coming, "Dammit!"

I slapped my friend's ashen face and pleaded with him to wake up, but in my rational brain, I knew it was not going to happen. He was suffering from cerebral trauma, causing swelling of the brain, and my analyzing his injury wasn't helping the situation.

"Sherlock, I don't know what to do," I told my unconscious partner. "I can't leave and get help because you're new friends might still be looking for us. But you're bleeding out! Please, tell m-me, I n-need y-you t-to-"

A sob was clawing it's way up my throat, and sinking it's tentacles into my lungs as I struggled to draw in a breath. I needed to stop panicking! Sherlock would be chiding me, what would he want me to do? I thought and tried to puzzle what Sherlock would do if the situation was reversed.

You have to leave me you, idiot. Sherlock's voice snapped at me in my head.

I knew what I had to do, but I did not like it one bit. I rolled Sherlock into a position where he could breathe easy; arms and legs propping his lungs up in the hope of his airway would become blocked, he would be able to breathe. I gently untied his soft cashmere scarf and lifted his head tentatively so I could thread it underneath and pull it snug, hopefully creating a makeshift bandage in some sense of the word.

I hesitantly rose off of my knees, kicking off the throbbing as blood rushes back into my lower legs. The Detective looked so broken, lying helpless on the ground, and I could hardly tear myself away until I saw the red spot seeping through the back of the scarf.

I went running towards the main road.

5 HOURS AGO. MORNING. 1200 HOURS. 221B BAKER STREET.

"John."

I scratched my scalp, a nervous tick of mine that occurred at irritating moments. I coughed again, not quite used to this new side of my flatmate.

"Eff off you prick."

Shite John was really angry. I've managed to piss off my one and only friend more times than I can count, sometimes resulting in a split lip, or black eye if it got real heated, but never, has John just shook his head and walked away. Not a word just, walks away.

And I didn't know how, but the cold disappointment I had seen in his eyes, well, it clawed at something deep inside me.

So here I was, standing at his door like a scorned child, still hesitating after being rejected twice.

"I... I brought you your coffee. You left it on the table when you started-"

"Leave it on the step."

I cursed in my head at my flat mate's stubbornness. I sat the mug and saucer on the landing with a clatter. I just wanted to talk to him face to face for goodness sake!

I turned to leave, smoothing down my rumpled blazer in the process, but paused- "I'm sorry John. I... it was not my intention to cause any pain for you. It was horrendously untoward of me."

I waited for a moment, hopefully listening for a response, but none came. I gave up with an irritated sigh and clomped back down the damned loud staircase.

"The problem is you never learn," John responded a minute later, more to himself than anything.

PRESENT. NIGHT. 1700 HOURS. OUTER LONDON.

Banging. Something. Was banging.
My head- BANG BANG.

It hurts. And it burns.

What- a shudder.
I'm... cold.
A warm hand- cupping my cheek, a weathered familiar hand.
Something.
It hurts John.
John?
Wasn't right.
I- I did something.
I need to fix.
I need to.
My fault.
It burns.

John...
BANG BANG.

My heart.
In my head.
Banging, banging.
I need to.
John!
Apologize.
My head,
Fire!
It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts.
Mycroft, why can't.
Why can't he fix-
THE FIRE.
It burns Mycroft!
Help me!
Help-
Help.
H-

MORNING. 1130 HOURS. 221B BAKER STREET.

My knees are killing me today. I think I need an aspirin. The steps are giving me hell, and all I have to look forward to once I reach the peak is my good old armchair.

"Yes, yes, that'll be all fine. Thank you for being so flexible with your time!"

I hear a voice inside the flat as I make my slow approach. Who the hell is Sherlock being so polite to?

"I hear your son coming- would you like to talk to him?"

What the hell? What is Sherlock talking to my mother for?

"No? I'll give him your regards-" I opened the door to the kitchen, seeing Sherlock immediately, who had been pacing around the living area.

"Good afternoon!" He closed the phone with a snap and turned to me.

I felt his eyes rake over me, taking in every detail of my hellish day and joint pain- "What the hell?" I interrupted my daily, one-way interrogation. "Sherlock, please tell me, you didn't just hold a conversation with my mother."

The fool had the audacity to look confused. "What's wrong with me talking to your mother? I'm sorry did I miss something?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose before I even knew I was doing it. It seemed to be an involuntary reaction whenever Sherlock was involved.

I refused to benign that question with an answer, and after a moment of tense silence, Sherlock slid my phone across the kitchen table to me. "You forgot your phone this morning."

"Yes."

Sherlock's confused expression was almost worth a laugh, accepting the fiery pit of irritation sat in John's gut.

"Your mother just called," Sherlock was trying to fill the silence which was quickly becoming awkward.

"I can tell."

He squirmed under my gaze.

"Sherlock, what did you do?" I sighed, starting myself a cup of coffee and sitting down at the table wearily.

My flatmate's eyes widened and he knew he was backed into a corner. He squinted and itches his head before blurting out,

"Your great Aunt passed away."

I paused trying to recall a face to my great aunt but failed. I stayed silent, and Sherlock continued on.

"The funeral is Saturday, and I informed her you have prior engagements."

My eyebrows rose, causing his to draw together. An exasperated sigh left me.

"The case is Piccadilly," Sherlock had the audacity to remind me. "I just thought since the tickets were already booked and you exhibited signs of excitement over the trip-"

I held up a hand and stopped his campaign of excuses there. I stood; shoving my chair back, and paced away from the table.

"Sherlock..." I sighed, completely done with my flatmate's idiosyncrasies. "Never assume you know my mind," I walked up to my looming friend and poked him in the chest.

"Family comes first."

Present. 1715 hours. Evening. Outer London.

"Yes hello? Yes. Yes, an alley off of-" I squinted up at the nearest street post. "Telumsie street. No. No! It can't wait for a spare. He needs the A & E! The swelling needs to be treated before his cerebral trauma becomes cerebral hemorrhage! Ten minutes? Thank you."

I hung up the pay phone with a clang. Of course, Sherlock just had to get pushed out of a window during the hospitals blasted rush hour.

Now, where the hell am I? I had jogged what felt like ages up Telumsie street, it being the dinner hour there weren't many people galavanting the outer reaches of the city. My luck was good when I stumbled across the tele box. I spun around trying to orient myself; my panicked heart pumping adrenaline through my veins, causing me to squint against the disorienting bright lights.

I dashed off the moment I recognized my surroundings; the flashing storefronts and blinking neon signs teasing at my gaze. In what seemed like years, I was back at the mouth of the alley. The first thing I registered was the squeal of tires and the acrid scent of burning rubber.

The second thing- the alley was empty.

I broke into a blind sprint, mind empty, legs pumping. Thankfully one had to keep quite in shape when working with a Holmes. I skidded around the edge of the alley, hand drawing out my phone and opening the camera of its own accord. In the blink of an eye, I caught the last sight of the car in a photo, the rear taillight and license plate thankfully attached.

"Oh my God," my hands flew up and ran through my hair. I could hear the ambulance's siren.

"Sherlock!"

5 hours ago. Afternoon. 1200 hours. 221B Baker Street.

I hung up the phone without letting the sales clerk utter a feeble "have a good day". It was most certainly not a good day. I returned my credit card to my wallet and tossed it onto the table, away from me.

I could still sense my anger at the unfair delegation of my friend's disappointment, but I pushed it down. When I contemplated it, I could see where John was coming from. I've been... difficult to handle lately. And John's practice was trimming fat, letting costly jobs go.

I have seen John worrying over paperwork, bringing an unprecedented amount home with him, and I inferred that he must be in danger of being let go, most likely because John was hardly at the office, I'm always pulling him away.

The guilt I felt chewing in my stomach was a rare guest, and only ever showed up when it came to John Watson.

I was feeling restless, there had been no problems for me to solve for over 72 hours. I had been occupying myself with toying around with Arillian's theory of reactions, but I had exhausted all my resources by trying to disprove it. John and I had been hired to protect a foreign diplomat in Piccadilly, the man was paranoid he was the subject of an elaborate assassination plot- I had found no evidence to prove this- but it paid well, and John had been itching to travel so I accepted the job.

I decided on a good strong cup of Earl Grey and went to make it. I could hear John walking about upstairs from the kitchen. The stride of his footsteps to his closet, to the bed, and back again told me he was packing. For the funeral no doubt.

I watched the water in the electric kettle begin to boil. My fingers drummed on the counter top. The tile was sticky from the ionic compound I spilled a week ago. I snatched a rag and stoically rubbed the spots.

That's when my phone began to ring. With an irritated groan, and a bit of hope it was Lestrade calling with a case, I drew it out.

I froze when I read the caller ID.

Shite. He's supposed to be dead.

Next chapter soon!