A/N: This is my first foray into the Sherlock fandom and I would like to see how many prompts I get to keep this going! All requests (other than slash) are accepted. I'll start it off to get the ball rolling – review or PM your prompts to me and I will fulfil them to the best of my ability.

The Game, my friends, is on!

THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

RATED: T

CHARACTERS: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson

WARNINGS: Mild violence

GENRE: Hurt/Comfort & Friendship

Slight AU to 1 x 02 – The Blind Banker: John hears the scuffle in the home of Soo Lin Yao and breaks the door down to find Sherlock unconscious from strangulation. Further injuries make themselves known due to the fight

House Call

Clothes, slightly damp – Sherlock gives the whites a sniff and screws his nose up at the smell. Mildew – the clothes were washed but Soo Lin must've left before the load was finished.

The doorbell rings and Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes.

'Do you think maybe you could let me in this time?' John calls, his voice muffled by the front door.

The consulting detective continues his exploration of the house.

Milk – expired. 3 days, possibly four.

'Could you please stop doing this to me please?' The doctor's voice reaches his ears, clearer than before.

He must be calling through the mail slot. Sherlock thinks distractedly.

'I'm not the first.' He calls to John, by way of response.

'What?'

Frustrated, Sherlock raises his voice. 'Somebody's been in here before me!'

Obviously not loudly enough, the ex-soldier asks for clarification. Minor hearing damage – gun fire and explosives.

The detective doesn't make a third attempt.

Instead, he takes notes aloud. 'Size eight feet…small, but athletic.' He stands, stepping into the bedroom, his quick eyes scanning, swallowing every detail. He notices a framed photograph on the nightstand. It's old and the glass is marked – three fingers, like a caress.

'Smeared…strong hands – our acrobat.'

Sherlock frowns, because something has only just occurred to him. 'Why didn't he close the window when he left-' he pauses, because for the world's best (and only) Consulting Detective, he has been incredibly, incredibly – 'Ohh stupid, stupid…obvious ; He's still here…'

He looks around again, stepping cautiously toward the oriental change screen – quite an exquisite piece but wholly unnecessary for one who lives alone. He can still hear Watson yammering on outside as he reaches forward to move the partition aside, although not really expecting much because it's such a glaringly obvious hiding place and the killer is far, far too clever, but still it doesn't hurt to eliminate all possibilities.

He pulls it aside quickly, and this guy is even better than Sherlock initially deduced, because now there is something around his throat, tightening and dragging him to the ground. He lets out a strangled yell as the fabric is pulled tighter still. He's panicking now, really panicking – because this man has absolutely no issues with killing innocent people. Sherlock pulls weakly at the fabric – noose – his over active brain supplies unhelpfully, and as he struggles, his kidney is very painfully introduced to a very solid knee cap.

What little breath that remains is shoved from his lungs, and his vision is going gray at the edges.

'J-John!' He gargles, the movement of speaking tightening the fabric further. His attacked lets go with one hand, but somehow manages to keep the deadly pressure against his throat.

The blood is rushing to his head now, it's like a hurricane in his ears – but all other sound is ebbing away. His face feels hot and Sherlock is vaguely aware of a gloved fist slamming into his side over and over. An unnecessary action, really, given that the likelihood of his death was increasing by the second. He's really starting to regret not letting the doctor in, because he could really use some back up.

Something snaps – he feels the searing pain in his chest and unconsciousness is starting to look a lot closer.

'Joh-JOHN!' He tries again, his legs kicking feebly. The fist that just snapped three – god – four of his ribs slams into his face with such force that his head bounces on the floor.

Stay conscious…the gray has turned to black now and all he can hear is the sound of his heart slowing and…

His eyes slip closed, limbs weakening – death is close. Lips are numb; fingers bloodless…wood splintering….

It takes him far too long to process the absence of his attacker, because the fabric – noose – has been tied tight. He manages to open his eyes, very slowly. The masked man has been replaced by a different face, a friendly one with worried eyes and a furrowed brow.

Small, but talented hands fumble at the intricate knot that prevents him from breathing. Sherlock lifts a leaden arm and grasps weakly at that black jacket and the stupid sweater vest and why in God's name is he wearing a tie?

'J-hn,' he gasps, tears of strain leaking. He can't hold it – his eyes roll back again…

Then, miraculously, the pressure is gone – sound returns with a sonic boom and John, dear Doctor Watson is both calm and panicked in the same breath.

'Sherlock – Christ! You sodding git! Breathe!' He orders – he was a Captain, so he is very good at giving them. The Detective complies and is dragging in oxygen like it's a drug, but dear God it hurts.

He gags, and coughs deeply – jarring his oxygen deprived lungs and the damaged ribs that are scratching against them.

'Easy, easy does it,' John switches tone abruptly, soothing and gentle. How long have they been living together now? Surely long enough to make the stroke of fingers against his brow acceptable…

Sherlock winces as he shifts, coherence slowly returning as John removes his scarf – frowning deeply as his fingers brush the already darkened skin. That was awfully, terribly close.

'J-John,' He manages a bit better now, allowing the Doctor to assist him into a seated position.

'I'm here Sherlock-' The detective sways, the change in position causing the room to spin. 'Shit, mate – you need a hospital. I'm calling an Ambulance.'

Sherlock shakes his head. 'You-you'll do…' He wraps an arm around his damaged ribs and the Doctor tuts impatiently.

'Let me take a quick look and I'll decide whether or not you need a hospital.'

John shifts the Belfast coat and lifts the white button down Sherlock is wearing, wincing at the bruising on his side – which is almost as prominent as the ring around his neck. He presses down and feels this shift in the bone, trying to ignore the sharp intake of breath and the pained grunt that follows.

'Damn it, Sherlock – I don't feel comfortable skipping the hospital. One wrong move and you'll puncture a lung,'

The Detective shakes his head again, and attempts to stand – but he was so close to dying, and the bloody pain in his chest is excruciating.

Just before he checks out, he hears John calling his name frantically.

He takes a shallow breath, lids trembling as he slowly wakes – the Mind Palace is a horrible broken place at the moment and Sherlock can't stand it a moment longer.

Throat tickling, he coughs and immediately regrets it – the pain is fire, and he needs something to extinguish it.

He hears a rustling from nearby and a warm hand rests on his brow.

'Sherlock – are you awake? Can you hear me?' It's John – and his asking stupid questions again.

'Obviously,' he grounds out through clenched teeth as he opens his eyes. Surprisingly, he's situated on the couch at Baker Street, not in a hospital bed at St Bart's.

'What do you need?' The Doctor asks patiently.

'Bloody hell – something for the pain, if you can manage,' he bites out, expecting the Doctor to flinch.

John just smiles, and produces a syringe – it looks like the good stuff.

Without a word, and just a little pinch later, Sherlock is feeling much better and quietly wondering if he stole it from St Bart's the last time they were there.

Sherlock manages to mumble his thanks to John, before slipping back under.

I hope you enjoyed! I can always do a part two or come back to it later – it's your call! Please drop a review if you'd like to see more!