Chapter 1

It was this noise that woke him up. It sounded kind of strange but also common. As if he had heard it before. He sat up straight in his bed and had a look outside the window.

Nothing, it was still the dark night. He sighed and decided to get out and have a look. Entering the hallway, he noticed that Sherlock has also gotten out of bed.

"You heard it as well?" John asked going into the living room.

"There was nothing that could be overheard," Sherlock answered shortly and both of them took a look outside.

"I don't see anything strange," John commented and tried to make something out. The street lamp in opposite of their flat was broken and there was only the little light of the full moon and the other two street lamps about thirty yards away. For a short moment he thought he would have noticed a little blue light but it was gone so fast that his mind must have fooled him around again.

"Like always, John, you notice, but you don't see," Sherlock muttered and put on his dark blue bathrobe.

"You're not going out like this, are you?" John wanted to know but rather preferred to stay inside and watch Sherlock from the window. The detective has just left the house and crossed the street. He seemed to be turning around a few times and then headed toward the other street lamp that must have been recently gone out as well.

Suddenly, Sherlock was swallowed by darkness. John's mouth dropped open, where has his friend gone? He couldn't spot him anymore, he was out of sight.

"Oh Sherlock," he murmured to himself and sat down in the armchair. He played with the thought of following, but knowing him, he surely was already far away, haunting some ghosts under the full moon shining down on them.

He did that, taking every opportunity to get a distraction from boring life, although it didn't seem boring to anyone else. But like every sociopath – John still preferred to think about him as partly psychopathic as those were 'easier' to calculate, actually meaning the exact opposite – he got bored pretty soon and when he was, he could do things that John would have never dreamed about.

He shook his head, "I should go back to bed," he told himself knowing that Sherlock would appear in the morning, telling some fascinating story including of course his fantastic sense of deduction…whatever. John was tired and he wanted to sleep.

But when he got up from the armchair, he heard that sound again. He must be getting old.

Trying not to fall over some books lying across the room, he made his way to the hallway when he thought he'd get crazy. This was the third time this damn noise was fooling him around and playing with the few nerves he still had when being woken up in the middle of the night.

Then there was another sound, a pair of feet running up to the house. The door was slammed against the wall, something that Sherlock would surely only do when being in an bloody good mood – or in a miserable one. There were voices, someone moaned and the light was going on.

John walked backwards trying to have a look on what was crawling up the stairs. And then his speech was gone once more: It was Sherlock, being hold up by an unknown person, carrying him upwards.

"Sherlock," John muttered in surprise. He could barely hold himself on his feet and the other guy dropped him softly on the couch. John put on the living room lights and nearly frightened to death.

Sherlock wasn't himself anymore, his hair was short, not that curly anymore. He looked older, his cheekbones were more intense and his skin was paler than ever.

All over his black clothes – which weren't his pyjama anymore – were stains of dark blood. Coming closer, John realized that some of the spots were dried but that his friend was still bleeding from serious wounds all over his body.

"What happened?" he asked both in disbelief and disgust.

"I – I'm sorry but I think he got in some trouble…well, we did," the other man said as Sherlock was obviously in too much pain to answer. John eyeballed the guy, despite the fact that the short-brown haired, handsome guy was wearing a neat suit, he was also covered in blood and its spots were growing bigger although he hardly seemed to notice.

"Who are you?" John asked while slowly staggering toward Sherlock. He sat down on the couch next to him and felt the pulse at his neck. It was slow, too slow.

"John," Sherlock moaned and tried to reach up his hand. It looked nastily burned and trembled seriously.

"I'll get you in a hospital, both of you," he decided when tearing the detective's shirt apart and noticing how many bruises and burns he had.

"I don't think that's a good idea," the unfamiliar man said, seeming to also have enormous pain although trying not to admit that.

"And who are you to decide? What your name anyway?"

"Well, I'm the doctor," the guy said immediately.

"The doctor?" John asked.

"Poor choice of words, I know."

"The doctor who? And if you are so, why couldn't you help him?" John asked upset jumping up to search something to cool the wounds.

"Not that kind of a doctor," the guy said and intended to follow him into the kitchen.

"Doctor," Sherlock suddenly moaned and the guy rushed back to the couch. John shook his head. Whatever Sherlock has gotten himself into this time, it was damn serious and he'd better have a good explanation. He grabbed a cloth from the kitchen table and soaked it with cold water.

He came back into the living room and found 'the doctor' bending over Sherlock who seemed to whisper something into his ear that John couldn't understand. Not interpreting too much into this, he came forward and pressed the cold tissue on Sherlock's most severe looking wounds. He screamed the lungs out of him but it was necessary. "No argument, Sherlock. We're driving to the hospital. You need to be checked by a doctor."

"There're two here," he answered still trying to cope with the pain.

"I mean a doctor with equipment and enough assistance," John said and helped Sherlock sit up although that even caused him more pain. "What about you?" John asked and looked up at the guy calling himself 'the doctor' who just has been standing there all the time watching them.

"Oh, I can't come with you," he responded quickly.

"But you're hurt, you need medical assistance," John argued and tried to help Sherlock up. The last time he carried him into his bed he hadn't felt that heavy, he thought while putting his arm around his shoulder.

"Oh, it isn't so bad. Not even far enough for a regeneration," the doctor joked and John didn't understand a word although he was relieved that at least Sherlock was smiling.

"You also come to hospital, doctor," John added, "no argument."

"Come with me," Sherlock muttered and looked up into the unreadable face of the still to John unknown man.

"And the master has spoken," the doctor answered and helped carrying Sherlock down the stairs and while John still tried to get a taxi, Sherlock muttered a few words but then fell unconscious in the doctors arms, holding him softly and placing him on the ground where he tenderly touched the detective's pale skin.

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