Sherlock Holmes and his colleague Dr. John Watson had tracked down the deviant who had been selling artificial smallpox vaccinations that had unfortunately led to the deaths of six people who were given the false immunity and had fallen victim to the dreaded illness. Scotland Yard had traced the sales to a single underground clinic but were unable to identify the 'doctor' who had been treating the unfortunate patients. Sherlock, however, had pieced together the identity of the assailant and had located his safehouse in an abandoned apartment building in the dreariest slums of the city.

"You have nowhere to run Jacobson." Sherlock shouted as he and John entered the poorly barricaded room on the ground floor of building and eyed their suspect who had his back pressed up against the far wall. "We know you are in charge of the clinic and that you distributed the fake vaccines."

"BACK OFF!" Richard Jacobson, a young con-artist and now murderer shouted as he picked up a loaded and unmarked syringe and held it in a tight fist. "I'M NOT GOING TO PRISON!"

"I'm afraid you are." Sherlock stated calmly as he and John walked into the decrepit apartment, using their bodies to obstruct his only way out of the small room. "I've already contacted the police, they shall be here shortly to take you into custody."

"No..." Jacobson held the needle of the syringe up and dangerously close to his own throat. "I'm not going to jail!"

John stepped forward as he tried to talk to the dangerously desperate man out of taking his own life. "You don't want to do that." He spoke softly as he approached cautiously, his cane in hand doubling as a potential weapon. "That's not a way out of this. It never is."

"Better than rotting in a cell..." Jacobson closed his eyes and reeled his hand back to ensure that the needle penetrated his neck before he injected the drug.

"NO!" John shouted as he tried to rush toward the man, but Sherlock was already at Jacobson's side and pulling on his arm to keep the needle from his neck.

"Let it go!" Sherlock ordered as he wrestled with the man's arm and tried to pry his hand open the get the syringe out of his grip.

"No! Let me go!" Jacobson begged as he and Sherlock struggled for the syringe in a desperate bid for control.

"I can't let you do this!"

"Yes..." Jacobson managed to pulled his arm free of Sherlock's grip but in the process the two men fell back against the wall. "you can!"

The syringe fell against the wall, the needle becoming embedded into a surface as the struggle suddenly ended as quickly as it began.

The door to the office was suddenly swarmed by two police officers with their guns drawn with Inspector Greg Lestrade in the middle of the two.

"FREEZE." Lestrade ordered as he aimed his own gun at the man's chest. "It's over."

Jacobson began to whimper as he slowly raised his hands upward to surrender as Sherlock remained slumped against the wall.

"Holmes?" John didn't like the way his partner was so still and quiet where he stood against the wall.

The two officers cuffed Jacobson and led their suspect out of the apartment and escorted him to the nearest precinct.

"Holmes?" John repeated his name as he watched Sherlock's eyes close slowly and his body slide down against the wall in nearly unconscious heap. "Holmes!"

"My word! What's happened to him?" Lestrade asked as he holstered his gun and took in the aftermath of the chaotic scene.

Dropping his cane John knelt down in front of his friend and pressed his fingers to the side of Sherlock's neck to register his pulse. Slow and weak. Gently he put her hands on either side of Sherlock's face to tilt his head back as he lifted his eyelids to check his pupils. Partially dilated and sluggish response to the overhead light.

"Holmes?" John ran his hands over his arms and down his chest to look for any injury before he spotted the source of Sherlock's unusual condition jutting out of the side of his right thigh. The syringe had been stabbed into Sherlock's leg and the full dose had been injected. Carefully John pulled the syringe from Sherlock's leg and and held it out for Lestrade to take. "He's been drugged!"

Lestrade took the syringe and prepared to back out of the room. "I shall summon a carriage to transport him to the hospital."

"...No." Sherlock managed to find the strength to speak. "...No hospital."

"Holmes, you've been drugged with an unknown substance!" John argued logically as he picked up his hand and wrapped his own fingers around Sherlock's wrist to monitor his pulse. "You need to go to the hospital! We need to figure out what you've been injected with."

"...No need." Sherlock's voice was lethargic and halted by the powerful drug now coursing through his veins. "...it's Chloral Hydrate..."

"How do you-"

"...I assure you Watson..." Sherlock's voice became heavy and his words slurring together as the drug took its full effect. "...I know my sedatives..."

As Sherlock's head lolled to the side John pressed his hand to the side of his face and studied his pallor. "He's unconscious."

Lestrade was still standing in the doorway watching the scene unfold in a solemn fashion. "Hospital or not?"

John shook his head. "Sherlock said 'no'. And I don't want to go against his wishes."

"Even though he's been drugged?" Lestrade questioned with absolute bewilderment. "Doesn't like the proper course of action."

"You're right." John agreed as he picked up Sherlock's limp arm and draped it around his shoulders while balancing awkwardly against his cane. "But he has his reasons, even if they don't appear to be wise from our perspective. Help me get him back to the flat. I can keep an eye on him."

"You're certain?" Lestrade asked as he put himself on Sherlock's other side and mirrored John's movements.

"Yes."

"Okay then." Wrapping his arm around Sherlock's waist Lestrade was able to heft the deadweight of the taller man up from the floor and into a very pathetic standing position. Knowing that Watson's limp would make it difficult for him to carry Sherlock while he was unconscious Lestrade shifted most of Sherlock's deadweight against himself. "Remember if you need any help..."

"Yes, I know." John nodded as he kept his fingers pressed to Sherlock's wrist as they walked. "I just wish he knew that, too!"

After hailing a carriage John and Lestrade hefted Sherlock into the cab and instructed the driver to cart them to their flat of 221b Baker Street. Shortly thereafter Lestrade returned to the precinct to process his newly arrested suspect. It was an awkward walk up the stone steps into the brownstone but John managed to lead Sherlock inside the warm flat, up the seventeen steps to the study and laid him down on the red sofa.

Mrs. Hudson had been asked to the flat as per Watson's request. An outbreak of smallpox had affected hundred, if not thousands of Londoners and it was the elderly and very young at the highest risk. Having the housekeeper safely in the country with her sister was both a blessing and unfortunate for the doctor.

"Alright ol' boy, let's get you more comfortable, shall we?" John stated as he pulled open the button on Sherlock's vest and loosened his tie to expose the button down dress shirt beneath. Slipping off Sherlock's iconic deerstalker cap John set it down on the stand beside the sofa and pressed his hand down on Sherlock's chest to feel the strength of his respiration as well as his heartbeat. "That's good. Remain much like this I suspect you'll be back on your feet in no time."

Sherlock of course didn't respond as the powerful influence of the sedative kept him unconscious and under John's care.

John pressed his hand to Sherlock's forehead as he watched his chest slowly rising and falling in rhythm with his deep breaths. "How I wish you weren't so stubborn." John lamented as he again lifted Sherlock's eyelids to check his pupils.

"...I thought my stubbornness was an endearing characteristic." Sherlock's voice was low but discernible.

"Only when you're working on a case." John explained as he sat on the edge of the sofa near Sherlock's legs. "How do you feel?"

"...Like a sloth. Swimming through muck."

"At least you're still lucid. That's a good sign."

"...Yet you felt the need to check my heart to ensure it is still in fact beating?"

"Just a precaution." John affirmed honestly. "While I suspect it is safe to confirm your deduction of the sedative as Chloral Hydrate we still cannot be sure of the overall concentration of the drug, or of the dose you received without a blood test. And I know you won't permit a trip to the hospital for that test."

"...I will not."

"Why? Why are you so adamant about avoiding hospitals?"

Sherlock sighed deeply as he refused to answer the question. "...Was Jacobson arrested?"

"Yes." John shook his head as Sherlock deflected the question without hesitation. "He's being processed as we speak."

"...Good." Sherlock's voice suddenly dipped as he fell unconscious once more. "...Another case... solved."

"Holmes? Holmes!" John patted the side of his face lightly but failed to provoke a response. "Please. Do not let this case be your last."

Choosing to air on the side of caution John hastily made his way to his private chambers to retrieve his medical bag, while also placing a few choice vials of medication and other instruments inside the old, worn leather bag. Returning to the study where Sherlock was laying helpless and unconscious he rested the bag down on the floor beside the sofa in case it would be required later on.

John spent the remainder of the evening watching over Sherlock as he slept a deep, almost corpse like sleep. Pacing about the study on his cane under one hand with his pocket watch in the other he counted Sherlock's respiration and would occasionally pressed his fingers against Sherlock's wrist to measure his pulse.

Night crept in and brought with it an seasonable chill. Taking it upon himself to stoke up a warming hearth John sat in one of the two armchairs allowing the comforting heat to wash over his tired form. After a brief moment of calmness and relaxation John thought about how Sherlock must also feel cold and decided that he should get his friend a blanket.

Retrieving a thick quilt from the hopechest that Mrs. Hudson kept in her sewing room John returned to the study and draped it over Sherlock's resting form before sitting down once again at Sherlock's side on the sofa.

"This should keep you warm." John declared as he put his hand down Sherlock's chest once again. But a strange lack of motion formed a knot in John's stomach that seemed to tighten as each passing second of stillness told him that something was terribly wrong with his friend. "Holmes?"

Pulling back the quilt John placed his hand down firmly against Sherlock's chest and immediately felt a chill up his spine as he failed to detect any respiration or heartbeat. Leaning his head down he pressed his ear to Sherlock's chest and heard exactly what he had felt: nothing.

"Holmes!" Instincts kicked in and John put his hand under Sherlock's head and neck as he pulled him from the sofa and onto the hard surface of the wooden floor. Kneeling down over Sherlock's body John placed one hand over top of the other and laced his fingers together and used his hands to compress the center of Sherlock's chest in a controlled manner of both strength and speed. "You cannot die like this. Not because of some fool who was muddling around with medicine!"

Sherlock's heart remained still despite John's manual attempts to force the stopped organ back into motion. With each compression Sherlock's body would rock slightly from side to side in response. Sherlock's ribs began to buckle under the relentless pressure being applied until at last two of his ribs fractured.

"Damn it..." John cursed to himself as he felt and heard the breaking in Sherlock's chest. "I am so sorry, but it is a necessary evil, ol' chap."

Ceasing compressions just long enough to check for a pulse John's fingertips pressed against the side of Sherlock's neck and still felt nothing.

"No." John shook his head before bringing down his fist once very hard in the center of Sherlock's chest and resumed compressions. "You won't give up now. I will not let you!"

As John focused on counting his compressions he turned his head slightly, unwilling to look down at his friend's lifeless face and locked onto the medical bag setting just a few inches from his hand.

"Of course!"

John quickly tore his hands from Sherlock's chest and grabbed onto the handle of the bag and pulled it over to his side, pulling it open in the process. Reaching inside he took a sterilized syringe and pulled out a small vial of medication marked Epinephrine. Loading the syringe with a proper dose of the potentially life saving drug John pulled open the dress shirt to exposed Sherlock's chest and aimed the needle of syringe directly over Sherlock's stopped heart.

Holding his own breath John brought the syringe down into Sherlock's chest, into his heart and injected the medication. Retracting the syringe his hand instinctively returned to the side of Sherlock's neck to check for a pulse before beginning a third round of compressions.

"Come on!" John nearly begged as he resumed C.P.R. "That was a stimulant that should counteract the sedative that has caused this mess! Please, let it work..."

A sudden shuddering gasp from beneath John's hands caused the doctor to rock back on his heels as he felt Sherlock's heart beating at last, his chest rising and falling rapidly with deep, cleansing breaths.

"Good show!" John praised the reaction as Sherlock revived before his eyes. Placing his hand under Sherlock's head he lifted his friend up from the floor and let him rest against his arm as he patted his chest. "Just breathe..." Beads of sweat formed on his forehead near his hairline and threatened to drip down into his eyes as he too began to take quick breaths to regain his composure. "I shall do the same."

Carefully John managed to pick up Sherlock's body from the floor and lay him back down on the sofa with impressive ease. Pulling the stethoscope from his medical bag John used it to carefully listen to Sherlock's breathing and his heartbeat for a few seconds. Satisfied that Sherlock was no longer in immediate danger, his cardiac activity stable and his vitals had improved exponentially compared to how he had been previous faring John pulled the quilt back up and over his sleeping friend.

"Now, let us hope the rest of the night goes off without a hitch. I don't think I bear the thought of a second scare. I fear my own heart may not be able to withstand the strain!"

John pulled the second arm chair from the hearth and placed it beside the sofa as to allow him to sit at his friend's side for the rest of the night. Only able to sleep for a few minutes at a time John restlessly monitor Sherlock's condition with regular pulse checks to the wrist. As dawn broke through the usually thick clouds that often hung over London there was a stirring from the sofa that jolted John wide awake.

"Holmes?"

There was a slight delay before a groggy voice responded to the name. "...Watson."

"You're awake." John leaned forward in his chair with a grin on his face. "How do you feel?"

"...My chest hurts." Sherlock admitted as he pressed his hand to the center of his ribcage. His breath hitched painfully in his chest as he spoke, no doubt a result of the fractures from the C.P.R. performed just hours before. "It feels as though I had been... crushed."

"In sense you were." John stood up from his chair and leaned down over Sherlock. "The sedative had slowed your heart to a dangerously low rate and subsequently you had slipped into cardiac arrest."

"Ah." Sherlock weakly lifted a hand and rested it on the back of the sofa, he hadn't the strength to move any further for the time being. "Fortunately you keep a supply of medication on your person here at the flat and not just at your practice. Epinephrine is a wonder."

"How did... You were unconscious, near death!" John nearly shouted in surprise at Sherlock's keen revelation. "How could you possibly know which medication I had used to revive you?"

"Aside from the undoubtedly fractured ribs causing my discomfort as a result of your compressions," Sherlock's hand rested over his heart and his palm flattened down over his bare flesh. "there is a burning welt that is attributed to an injection. Based on its location and of its necessity due to my previous condition I can surmise that it was a type of stimulant to increase my heart rate. The most common stimulant to be used would in fact be Epinephrine as it is the most prevalent of the prescribed stimulants available to physicians in the United Kingdom."

"Sometimes I think you spend more time reading up on medicine than I do." John laughed at Sherlock's completely accurate observations. Offering a hand he helped Sherlock to sit upright on the sofa as the weary detective pressed his face down into the palms of his hands. "Headache?"

"Indeed."

"I shall remedy that." John stated as he rummaged through his medical bag once again. "Holmes, I must ask again: why do you dread being admitted to a hospital?"

"You know as well as I Watson that tragedy often befalls those who require a hospital's services." Sherlock stated as held out an opened palm to accept the two offered pills provided by John. "To set foot in such a place is to admit defeat."

"Is that how you view my profession?" John asked as he heavily sat down beside Sherlock on the sofa. "A mortician or ghoul who merely puts on a show for the family?"

"Of course not." Sherlock popped the two pills in his mouth and swallowed them ravenously. "It is not the doctors nor the nurses that unsettle me, it it the building itself in which countless people have been born and countless more die. Too much history. Too overwhelming. It is too alluring for those of an unsavory character."

"I see..."

"Watson," Sherlock put his hand on his friend's shoulder. "do not misunderstand me. I have nothing but the highest respect for you and your profession. It is through this very respect that I so vehemently pursued our suspect who dared to take advantage of the desperate and the ill just line his own pockets. Out of an undeniable sense of self preservation I cannot bring myself to enter a hospital and subject myself to the care of a stranger. Why should I when my dearest friend can save my life from the comfort of our home?"

"True enough, I suppose." John eyed Sherlock's breathing and lightly pressed his hand against Sherlock's ribcage. There was a slight swelling as a result of the surrounding muscles reacting to the compressions as well as the fractured ribs. The pain was undeniable as Sherlock visibly flinched in pain beneath John's touch, his entire body shuddering with the intense discomfort. "Are you having any difficulty breathing?"

"No." Sherlock leaned back slowly against the sofa and took in a deep breath. "But it is a tad more painful than I previously recount."

"Allow me to bandage your ribs." John insisted warmly. "I'd hate for you to catch pneumonia."

"As would I." Sherlock agreed to his friend's suggestion. "As my closest friend and my doctor I trust you implicitly."

"But you will still not allow me to escort you to Charring Cross?"

"Not even on my deathbed Watson." Sherlock flashed a serious stare to his otherwise gentle colleague. "I shall remain under your care here, in our flat."

"Very well." John accepted Sherlock's terms with an amused smile as he pulled his medical bag up from the floor and began sifting through the materials inside. Isolating a roll of clean, white bandages as he placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder lightly. "Let us get this underway, then."

-The End

Author's Note: C.P.R. dates back to 1740. The modern technique used today, was first developed and accepted by the medical community in 1960, by Dr. Peter Sofar.

The term 'Epinephrine' was coined in 1898. Actual origin date for said drug is beyond me.