Where to begin! Right, this is my first serious fanfiction, I hope you readers enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! So, onto the formal stuff:

Title: Que Sera Sera

Rating: M

Disclaimer: If Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson belonged to me, I wouldn't be the one writing, Watson would be =]

Warnings: The rating for the entire story is 'M', although there will be chapters that don't accurately reflect this rating. There will be blood and disturbing content, perhaps even slash, I haven't totally decided yet. My updates will be sporadic and far apart, and will switch between the good Doctor's and Holmes's point of views. Anyways, on with the show and what not! ~Tips hat to you good readers~

The beginning of the end of all things rational

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I write this here in my personal diary, my honest account of the incredibly strange series of events that have taken place in our place of residence, 221B, Baker Street. I fear that if I do not write down my inner-most thoughts here, then our strange secret will weigh me down to such an extent that my mind would then choose to not properly function, and I simply cannot let that happen, more so now then ever. May god have mercy upon us all, especially you who read this.

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I glanced down at my pocket watch, forever aware of my room mates extended absence. I attempted to enjoy the warmth of the fire as the streets of London were subjected to a particularly violent downpour. I shuddered and wrapped my dressing gown tighter about me; Holmes would hopefully arrive home soon, and I had little doubt in my mind that he would bring the rain and cold in with him. He had rushed off with little explanation yesterday morning; twenty four hours had passed without word from him. I will admit, I was a little hurt that he did not wish for my assistance with whatever puzzle had caught his mind this time around, but I dare say this was hardly a new habit of his. He had been away for days at a time before now without so much as a word, but something about the weather and aura of the night put me ill at ease.

I was dragged from my morbid thoughts by a sharp knock, or should I say kick, on our sitting room door; I had been so lost in thought I had not heard anybody climb the stairs. It was well past the first hour of the morning, but my mind buzzed wide awake, fuelled by confusion and panic. A moment or two later, the door was kicked open to reveal Inspector Lestrade and another officer whom I had never met before, both straining between them to keep the unconscious third man upright.

''Holmes!'' I cried, rushing to their aid, regardless of my inappropriate attire and the time of the morning. ''What in the lords name happened?''

Lestrade spoke first, but avoided my eyes, opting to stare at the floor. ''It was supposed to be a simple task. It all began a few days ago with the escape of TRT, perhaps you read of it in the morning paper?''

''Yes, I am familiar with the... publicly released details.'' I answered as they moved to position Holmes on the sofa. I cringed as I took note of his skin's colour, or perhaps lack of would be a better description. I put my fingers to his wrist, and was relieved to find a pulse, although it was very weak. I took note of his breathing; shallow, rattling. His temperature was bordering on high, his clothes were dripping wet from the weather outside. ''Everybody out. These clothes will attract a chill, and I need to examine him further.

Nodding, both men took leave of the room, leaving me alone with Holmes. I rapidly removed his clothes as quickly as I could, averting my gaze as much a possible and then cast them aside into a soaking pile that would surely earn me a stern look from Miss Hudson in the morning.

I had seen Holmes in this state of undress many times before now in similar situations, but none of those times were he in such a sorry state without showing any signs of physical trauma. His skin clung to him pathetically, a bloodless white sheet over a skeletal frame. Although there were no visible wounds that I could see of, it was clear that he was physically weakened, but where this weakness came from I had no idea. This fact I brooded over whilst continuing to assess the damage, or apparent lack of.

Oh Holmes, what did you get yourself into...

He started to shiver, goosebumps assaulting his skin in waves. Gritting my teeth, I retrieved a blanket and placed it over Holmes, and it was then that I happened upon a single pin-prick upon his neck. I stared at it with a critical eye and much curiosity. I couldn't treat him without knowing more about how he got into such a state, there would be plenty of time to loose my temper later. I called Lestrade back into the room, wanting to speak with him and him only. I glared at him, raising my arm in Holmes's direction. ''Explain! What went on to leave him in such a state?''

Lestrade stared at the floor once more. ''There have been certain... 'developments' concerning the TRT, ones that haven't been released to the press. Take a seat and I will explain everything I know for certain.''

Blinking, I pulled up my writing chair next to the sofa, not wanting to be far from Holmes lest something happen. Lestrade looked up and for the first time since his arrival, sorrowfully met my gaze and began his story. '' Three days ago, we received an anonymous tip-off that a local warehouse was being used to house a well known criminal group that had recently escaped confinement on their way to a better holding facility. This criminal group was one that Holmes helped to catch and put away a few weeks earlier. They went by the name of 'The Waterside Trio'', or TRT for short-''

''What do you mean 'They went'?'' I cut in. Lestrade gave me a reluctant look. I nodded wearily, recalling the case he was referring to. The group Lestrade spoke of consisted of three professional thieves with a taste for breaking into the estates of wealthy elderly widows. They had dubbed themselves TRT, as most of the break-ins took place near, or at the side of local rivers or lakes, and they had used these as a means of transporting goods by boat.

''Naturally, once we received this tip-off, we alerted Holmes. We felt it only right that he should be kept informed, and he, as always, felt his involvement was necessary. Like I said, it was supposed to be a quick and simple task, rounding these three men up. They were still shackled. Can you imagine our shock when we arrived to find the freshly deceased bodies of the three men we were hoping to detain, as well as a body of a woman.''

''The three men being TRT? What of the woman? Who was she?''

Lestrade closed his eyes, the colour draining from his face. ''We... We can't tell Doctor.''

I stared, slack-jawed. ''What can you possibly mean?''

''There wasn't much left of her to identify... All that remained were her clothing and other... pieces.''

I tried to restrain the violent shudder that racked my body, but to no avail. The viciousness of the world never failed to shock me, even after my time abroad in Afghanistan. I walked over to the cabinet where Holmes and I keep our alcohol, and shakily poured myself a glass of brandy. Thankfully, Lestrade said no more as he waited for me to recover. Finally, I took a deep breath and regained my composure. Brandy has always been the best remedy for shock.

Lestrade coughed. ''As I was saying... We arrived to find four bodies, although it was only the body of the woman that had been left in such a sorry state. The members of TRT had been killed by what Holmes deduced to be blunt force, although for once his explanation was a massive understatement. These men, Doctor Watson, had their skulls caved in.''

Being so close to the fire with a brandy in hand saved me from a second shudder. I reluctantly nodded for the inspector to continue.

''Holmes wasted no time tracking down the fiend that killed those men and the woman. After about an hour of searching, he was hot on the murders trail, that is at least until a strange thick fog began to billow into the ally we were all running down. He ran into a side ally, shouting something about the weather, when suddenly we turned a corner and he was nowhere to be seen. We lost sight of him, until we heard him...'' Lestrade visibly gulped. ''That is, until we heard him scream.''

Anger flooded my mind, directed at too many people for too many reasons. Why hadn't Holmes included me in this case? Would Scotland Yard have lost sight of him if I had been there at the side of him? Why hadn't Lestrade and his men kept up, and why in lord's name did Holmes not possess a single concern for his own safety?

''We rushed down the ally to find Holmes in this state at the end. There was enough evidence to suggest Holmes caught up with the villain, and a fight of sorts broke out. It must have all happened at once, for we thought we weren't many steps behind Holmes. Either the fiend caught him by surprise, which is unlikely as he had time to shout out, or Holmes was further ahead then we first thought.''

''So he was exactly like he is now when you found him?''

Lestrade nodded numbly.

''Then what, pray tell, do you make of this, inspector?'' I said a little too forcefully, pulling back Holmes's blanket with a flourish to expose his neck. Lestrade regarded the single pin-prick wound with a blank stare, which quickly changed to a look of confusion.

''Well... I didn't notice that when we first found him. What is it, a dart wound?''

I took this opportunity, now knowing of the events that led up to where we stood, to examine the wound further.

''The puncture is too wide for a simple dart to have caused this, and from his symptoms, he doesn't appear to have been poisoned. In fact... All of his symptoms can be contributed to concussion and his poor eating habits.'' I said to nobody in particular. I didn't need to let them know any more. ''I myself haven't the slightest idea of what would cause such a wound. Our best course of action would be to keep him warm and comfortable until he wakes up naturally.''

Lestrade nodded, took one last look at Holmes, then bid me farewell. Sighing, I took a hold of Holmes's wrist and checked his pulse. It was still worryingly weak. Holmes hadn't shown any signs of waking up so far, so I resigned myself to staying awake the entire night, brandy at hand.

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I had been constantly vigilant of Holmes's condition throughout the following weeks, worry eating away at my nerves as his condition simply refused to improve. Much to my horror, he had obviously slipped into a strange coma of sorts, and me and Miss Hudson had reluctantly inserted a rubber tube down his throat so that we could keep him fed with weak watery soup and water.

As a doctor, I had no trouble dealing with his bodily functions, a trip to the rest room was quite naturally out of the question, but as a friend and colleague of Sherlock Holmes, I struggled greatly. To see him in such a state, uncertain as to whether I would ever again see him conscious was most distressing, I was loathe to leave his room even for a moment lest something change. My reluctance by now was quite visible; I grew a beard to accompany my moustache.

I had taken to sleeping in hourly increments; Mrs Hudson was so kind enough to keep an eye on Holmes as I rested. Bless her kind soul, she never objected to bringing my meals up to Holmes's room so that I might keep my vigil.

All cases that were sent to Holmes via letter or any other means were replied to by my own hand. I would write the same reply each time, regardless of the circumstances of the case, regardless of how unusual or exciting it appeared to be. Soon, I had written a base reply, and would simply copy it out, changing the names of the recipients each time. It read:

Dear ~ ~ ~,

I am sorry to inform you that Sherlock Holmes is currently abroad on a case of dire consequence, and as such he can not take your case at this time. Upon his return, your case will be handed to him for further examination.

Many apologies,

John Watson

About a week and a half into his coma, I began to smoke his tobacco within his room, hoping the smell and familiarity would wake him from his slumber. Of course, his tobacco was much stronger then mine, and I found it a difficult task at first, but after a day or two, I found I could smoke it almost as easily as my own. It had no effect on my dear friend.

Another week passed in smothering silence, the quiet only being broken by Lestrade making a sudden appearance and Miss Hudson demanding that I eat. I had long lost my apatite, but I reluctantly nibbled on the corner of a slice of toast anyway, and took a sip of the tea she provided.

Four days later, after one of my 'meals', I dashed from Holmes's room in desperate search of something stronger familiarly then his horribly potent tobacco. Looking around the sitting room, my gaze finally rested upon his Stradivarius. I couldn't play, and never before had I thought of taking it up to play, as I knew this finely crafted instrument was so precious to the man upstairs I considered it to be almost a part of his very soul. I smiled at this thought; Holmes would no doubt mock me relentlessly if he ever were to hear me say such a thing.

Picking up the violin from where it lay, I carried it upstairs with the amount of care you would usually expect to find in a mother carrying her newborn child. Holmes was as I left him, no better, no worse, and this thought filled me with black sorrow. I only hesitated once, before standing on the left hand side of his bed and drawing the bow across the strings in a single experimental stroke. The sound created was, of course, far from beautiful, but I resolved to keep playing until I improved. I was sure I could wake him with this method.

An hour later, Holmes stopped breathing and his chest ceased to rise.

At the sight of him no longer breathing, I dropped my brandy in shock and rushed over to his side, ice-fear paralysing my limbs and draining the colour from my body. I took his pulse, panicking when there wasn't one to be found. I removed the tube from his throat a little too quickly and began to force air into his lungs.

Don't you dare give up on me, Sherlock Holmes! Don't you dare...

I put timed pressure on his chest over and over, hoping to revive him. It was no good, my world came crashing down around me in a haze of silent destruction, I was powerless to save him. He was gone.

I screamed in a rage and collapsed onto the side of his bed, unable to stop my heart racing, the tears that flowed freely down my face nor the choking sobs that wracked my body until I was too exhausted to care for breathing. I had failed him when he was most vulnerable, and in doing so, I had lost him, the greatest mind I had ever the pleasure of knowing, for a second and final time. Reichenbach was a mere shadow in comparison to loosing him here.

Suddenly, as if some unknown deity I had never taken the time to believe in recognised my pain, Holmes drew in a deep shuddering breath, his eyes wrenched open as though none of this dreadful affair had ever taken place, as if he had just awoken from a nightmare! I quickly took his pulse, or tried to, but I could not find it. Euphoria dismissed my worry quickly; I would try again soon when I was less excitable.

At that moment, I threw my arms around his shoulders and crushed the air from him. I was amazed he found the oxygen to speak, but when he did, I shamelessly began to sob once more. He had not even shown a single sign of waking for the last three weeks, and oh how I missed something as simple as his voice, rasping as it now was!

''Watson... What on earth are you doing?''

At the sound of his own cracked voice, his hand shot up over my shoulder to his throat, shock evident on his face. Obviously, he hadn't had much use for it over the past weeks, and I grinned foolishly at the thought of the great Sherlock Holmes being able to surprise even himself. ''I do believe, or so I have heard from many people, that it is called something like a 'hug' old boy!''

If Holmes wasn't surprised before, he was now, and the surprised expression on his face was a delight to behold after watching it expressionless for so many days. His hand remained at his throat a I released him from my hold, and it suddenly occurred to me that he would be in dire need of a proper drink. ''Would you like something to drink Holmes? Having a tube stuck down your throat for three weeks has surely taken its toll! How are you feeling?''

''Three... Three weeks?'' He exploded, his mouth agape. It was then that he took in his surroundings, the evidence of three weeks worth of time, care and mess lay about the room. He gave me a puzzled look, then his eyes settled upon his Stradivarius, eyebrows raised.

''Yes, yes I am fine... and a drink sounds delightful, if only you would care to explain what happened to me whilst you pour one!''

I nodded and jumped from the bed, instantly regretting it as the old wound in my leg ached unforgivingly as I landed a little too hard. I grinned as Holmes made a small noise of concern. How I missed the man! I quickly walked over to his desk, embarrassed by the sheer volume of papers that had accumulated from my near-constant writing, and poured him a glass of cold water.

''One day short of three weeks ago, Lestrade and a new member of Scotland Yard carried you through the door downstairs. You were unconscious... or so I first thought, and were in a terrible condition. Although you didn't sport any of the typical physical injuries, a fact which, might I add, I found to be most surprising, I took note of a small pin-prick wound on your neck.''

I paused to hand Holmes the drink. Whilst I had my back turned, he had fully sat upright against the headboard of his bed, and was now in the process of stretching. When I spoke of his only wound, he comically paused mid-stretch so that he might devote his entire attention to what I was to say next, only moving to take small sips of the water I had handed to him.

''The wound itself was perfectly circular, and I would have been tempted to assume it was created by a dart of some kind or another, if the wound itself didn't look as though it was made by an object that started thin and incredibly sharp, and ended thicker and somewhat blunter.''

He rubbed his eyes, deep in thought as his mind processed this information. I took this opportunity to press two fingers to the pulse point underneath his jaw, surprised when Holmes didn't wave my attentions away. Frowning, I removed them again after a moment. I could still not find his pulse, a phenomenon that was beginning to worry me to no end. I then decided to try the one on his wrist, but it yielded the same result. I didn't wish to alarm Holmes, so I did not mention it yet, the man had just awoken from a three week slumber. He seemed to recognise there was something odd with his condition, but whether he didn't mention it for my sake or his own I didn't know. Instead, he broke the silence with another question.

''Watson... Why is my violin here? Surely I left it in the sitting room?''

I nodded wearily, then pulled up the seat from his desk. It was then that his question brought to mind one of my own. ''What is the last thing you remember Holmes?''

He closed his eyes, bringing his fingers up to massage his temples. ''I remember... I remember going to sleep here as though it were any other night. I do not recall waking since then, other then now.''

The shock on my face must have been remarkably evident. ''Holmes, not only have you remained in a coma-like state for the last three weeks, it appears as though you have lost your memory of the day leading up to when Lestrade brought you home.''

He eyed me critically in silence. Sherlock Holmes's mind was his own greatest treasure; although he showed no outward signs of fear, I was certain he did feel it. Instead of pursuing this trail of thought, I dropped it in favour of elaborating more upon what I knew of that night.

''Lestrade said you and the Yard were in hot pursuit of the criminal group named TRT. Your searches led you to an abandoned warehouse, where the bodies of the three members, and the body of a fourth were found.''

He nodded for me to continue, his eyes still wandering about the room a though he had never seen it before. ''After a little while, you found the murderers trail and tracked him down. Your search took you to an ally, but you and Scotland Yard were separated by a sudden bout of mist. Lestrade found you unconscious at the far end of the ally, with no marks upon you other then that curious neck wound. They brought you home and Mrs Hudson and I have been constantly watchful of your condition ever since.''

He steepled his fingers together, his eyes still closed. ''I remember nothing.'' His response was pitifully simple, although something in his tone led me to believe he knew more then he was telling me. I decided not to press the matter. ''I ask again, why is my violin not where I originally left it?''

I chuckled silently, shaking my head. It was not an understatement when I before said his violin was a part of his soul. ''I brought it in here, along with your tobacco, in hopes of reviving you.''

He frowned in confusion, prompting me to elaborate further, and I did so. ''With coma patients, familiar objects, particularly those with a distinct smell or sound, have been shown to stimulate the brain. In some cases, even a person's voice may rouse the patient from their sleep.''

Propping himself up with a pillow, his gaze turned towards the ceiling of his room. ''I had no idea you could play, Watson.''

''Oh don't misunderstand me Holmes, I have never played a violin before.''

At this, he made a ghost of a smile. ''I think I should very much like to hear you play.''