Sherlock fell against the brick wall of the alley, his bloodied hand staining the red-brown bricks. His knees buckled as he leaned his right shoulder against the sturdy building for support, his other hand gripping onto his abdomen as blood flowed freely against his will. He took an unsure step forward, grunting with effort, before falling down to one knee.
Heavy footsteps stalked closer to him from behind, and the sound of deep disgruntled voices echoed through the chill night air. They spoke in a foreign tongue, something Sherlock could hardly focus on as he attempted to stall the bleeding.
His ragged clothing caught against the roughness of the wall, scraping and tearing slightly. His worn pants were torn here and there, but nowhere too inconvenient against the cold. Sherlock dragged himself forward another shaky step, half crawling against the dirt and blood covered ground.
The subtle sound of light footsteps running from behind pulled at Sherlock's consciousness and he listened intently as the men fell to the ground with a loud thud and a stifled scream. The light footsteps, barely audible, came closer to his kneeling form until a pair of black boots came into his blurry vision.
"Will you accept my assistance now?" a feminine voice asked from above him.
Sherlock groaned. "I can do this on my own," he managed to say in between deep breaths. "You can tell Mycroft I don't need a babysitter."
The woman crouched low, meeting Sherlock at eye-level. Her fiery-red hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, a few strands hanging loosely around her face. A lightly freckled face and grey-blue eyes stared at Sherlock with annoyance.
"Look," she started, a frown marring her lips. "As much as I'd love to be sipping some hot chocolate in front of my fireplace right now, I can't because I've been assigned to keep you from dying." She poked at his left shoulder, earning a moan of pain from Sherlock in response. "And I believe this to be part of the dying process, no?"
Sherlock moved back from her but bit back a groan when the wound at his abdomen caused greater pain. "I've been doing fine without you," he mumbled through gritted teeth.
The woman's eyes roamed over Sherlock's bent over form, a look of scepticism washing over her. "Right, you're doing a mighty fine job, aren't you?" she said, her voice rising in frustration.
Sherlock strained his neck, struggling to tilt his head back to glare narrowed eyes at the woman in front of him. He frowned visibly. "A patch up, and that's it," he relented.
A sigh formed out from her lips as the woman rolled her eyes. She stood up, taking a quick glance up and down the alleyway, before bending forward and pulling Sherlock up to his feet as gently as possible. "You should really stop trying to run away from me, too," she whispered, grunting as Sherlock leaned over her shoulders and pressed down against her with his weight. "Can't hide from me, you know."
"I assure you," Sherlock half-whispered, "I can."
The smell of fresh brewed tea roused Sherlock into a state of half-dreariness. He blinked and stared up at the ceiling for a moment, allowing his mind and body to be assessed. The pain in his abdomen was now dull, almost gone, and his head no longer wished to pound needlessly against his skull. His vision also became clearer as he continued to inhale the smell of tea. The feel of soft silken fabric brushed against his naked body, tempting him with more comforts of sleep.
Lifting his head slightly, he took in the room around him. Soft, thick red covers over a large bed. A small fireplace sitting directly across from him, about less than ten feet away. Dark wood walls surrounded him; no paintings in sight. The red-headed woman sat in a chair to the right of the bed, staring at him with a small grin.
"Made you some tea," she said, gesturing toward the tea by the bedside table with her chin.
"Obviously," Sherlock said, sniffing the air noticeably. "This isn't your place."
The woman raised a single, delicate brow. "Well, obviously," she said, mimicking Sherlock's tone. "You know where we are, right?"
Sherlock frowned at her before turning back to the ceiling. He slowly pushed himself up to rest against his elbows, the covers drifting down his chest exposing bandaged wounds, once again taking in the room. No paintings. Dust on the mantelpiece. Dresser made of old wood. Bed covers were recently washed. "Ah," he said to himself, "One of the many safehouses you had deemed appropriate."
Sherlock moved to sit up straighter when a pain shot out from his abdomen and he moved to fall back down on the bed. "I suppose you'll be caring for me while I am indisposed," he mused aloud.
The woman scoffed, "I'm not your babysitter. You'll be able to move soon."
"Good," Sherlock replied. "Did you manage to obtain anything useful?"
"I always do," the woman smiled. She rose from her chair and moved toward the dresser. On top were several folders, loose pages neatly sorted within. She came around to the left side of the bed, sitting slowly at it's edge, and faced Sherlock before placing the folders beside him.
She shifted through the folders before picking one from the pile and opening it. "You were right—"
"Of course I was right," Sherlock interjected. "I'm always right."
"Will you let me finish?" the woman said, scowling down at him.
Sherlock scowled back at her. "Fine, continue."
"You were right about him and his many... interests. He's been seen out and about in that district for days at a time. However, because you were taking your precious time 'acquiring information'," she rolled her eyes reflexively, earning another glare from Sherlock. "Another target has arrived and the recruitment date is now only three weeks away."
"Another target," Sherlock repeated. "Perfect. Kill two birds with one stone, as they say."
"Well, it would have been perfect if you hadn't gone to get yourself stabbed in the gut," she poked at his abdomen, rolling her eyes when Sherlock winced. "This will prevent us from getting an invitation in time for the recruitment."
"Us?" Sherlock pushed himself back onto his elbows once more, swatting the woman's offending finger away from him. "I will be fine in a few days, plenty of time to get an invitation."
"Sorry, you," she said. "Sure, you'll be able to move around in a few days but you won't be able to handle any of the intense physical tests they'll be sure to have. If you die out there, it'll be on my head."
Sherlock pulled back the covers slightly, lifting it enough to look down at his injured abdomen. The bandage work was clean and sufficient for the materials and time she had at her disposal, causing him to hum and nod in acknowledgement of the young woman's work. The cut wasn't deep enough to cause major or permanent damage, but it was enough to deter excessive movement. He dropped the covers, and looked at the woman sitting beside him.
"What was your name again?" he asked, head tilted slightly to the left.
The woman stared at him blankly, eyes unblinking. "Do you honestly just forget, or do you do this just to annoy me?"
"I only keep information that is useful," Sherlock stared back.
"You are very antagonistic, you know," she grumbled, still staring unblinkingly at Sherlock.
"Just honest," he countered.
"I haven't known you long enough to know that," she mused.
"Thankfully," he grinned.
The woman sighed and threw her hands up in defeat. She shifted in her seat, moving to fully face Sherlock with a look of determination. "How about we start over?" she proposed, a genuine smile on her face. "Clean, blank slate?"
"Whatever for?" Sherlock asked, moving to sit up straighter.
She held out her hand, offering a handshake. "Just humour me, will you?"
"Why would I want to do that?"
"Because, like it or not, I'm going to be around for the duration of whatever it is you're doing so we might as well tolerate each other," she replied, hand still hovering near Sherlock.
He looked down at her hand. Steady. Combat trained. Prefers rifles. Calloused. His eyes dragged up toward her face. Determined. Intelligent. Lonely.
Sherlock reached out and shook her hand, face calm and stoic. "Holmes," he said, eyes unblinking. "Sherlock Holmes."
She shook his hand, firm and enthusiastically. "Ayers," she said, mimicking Sherlock's introduction. "Adrian Ayers."