The Wolf's Cry

The man's cries of pain were dwindling. Not from his tormentors' lack of trying, but by his own exhaustion. His long body had been stripped and sported a variety of bruises, abrasions, and wounds. Blood ran in streams down pale skin. His hands were chained overhead, locked in a high hook that was on the side of the dimly lit barn wall.

Across the room, strapped to a chair, was a woman. She knew the man intimately. He was, perhaps, one of her only weaknesses. They'd been working these duel missions together for years now. But this was one of the first times the whole mission hadn't gone as planned, one of the first where they were in a position they couldn't get out of. They shouldn't have been there. He should have retrieved the information, she should have retrieved him, and they should have been making use of a hotel bed by this point.

The information was sensitive, and pertained to a planned terrorist attack. Hundreds would die if they didn't get the details. Hundreds of lives, hundreds of families would be affected if they failed.

"You can listen to him scream until you tell me where you hide my files. I'm not bothered by the sound, as you seem to be, m'lady. Even if you try so hard to hide it." Their captor's accent was thick. He made a motion with his hand, and the henchman standing next to the other captive lashed out with the whip. It cracked as it made contact across his thighs.

With a pained cry, Sherlock Holmes lost his footing and fell, the chains that bound his arms above his head caught him, leaving him hanging from ravished wrists and almost dislocated shoulders against the barn wall. His head sagged forward and only the panting of his chest let her know he was still alive. They'd been at this for almost an hour now, far longer than any of her usual interrogations took. And far longer than Sherlock should have spent being abused this way.

Natasha Romanova sent a fierce green-eyed look to their captor. She'd done the battle math already. In addition to the four goons in various places around the room, there were two gunmen stationed on a second-floor loft, weapons pointed at her and Sherlock. She could undo her own bonds and start the fight to get out…but the moment that happened, one or both of them would die. And it was more likely to be Sherlock.

Hell, it might happen anyways. Was it better to risk it? Is that what Sherlock would want? She didn't know, and couldn't make the call.

"I sent them away already. You missed our third man. The files are already in the hands of the British Government," Natasha snapped.

"As you've said, but I don't believe you. There was no third man. If there was…he'd be here right now too. Bearing the pain that eluding my questions brings."

Sherlock only whimpered that time as the whip snapped across his chest. Blood welled up from the sliced wound.

Natasha was a fiercely strong woman, she'd been through hell and back, but seeing Sherlock in that much pain was almost too much. She was struggling and it took it's toll on her. She loosed a nasty insult in Russian. "I'm going to kill you myself," she growled.

The man chuckled. "Go ahead, I look forward to your attempts. Perhaps you can guess how it might end?"

"You're….a sick twisted…idiot," Sherlock spoke finally, his low baritone a broken whisper. One last ditch effort to turn the tide, draw their attention away from Natasha.

It was as if he knew, because the moment after his head tipped up with his words, the distant sounds of the local police sirens and a helicopter met everyone's ears. Two, maybe three minutes out. Anything could happen in that time.

Sherlock's clear blue pain-filled blue gaze drifted over Natasha, finally meeting her green eyes. Deeply. Apologetically. Lovingly. He was trying to communicate without words, as was their specialty. Natasha didn't know what that meant and it worried her. Sherlock deduced something was going to happen.

Their captor began shouting orders in their native tongue when they heard the sirens, ending with pulling out his own gun and pointing it at Natasha's head as everyone else started moving. He clicked the safety off. "I don't shoot women, no matter how they insult me," he said, turning the gun on Sherlock instead. His soulless eyes never left hers. "Good luck."

His finger squeezed and a .45 caliber bullet pushed its way through Sherlock's body.

Sherlock sagged against the wall and a new burst of blood spurted out from his upper chest up by his shoulder. The gunman was not as good as he must have thought. Natasha sprang into action only a second later. She didn't bother telling Sherlock's murderer that he'd just made his last mistake. Chains loosed, legs out. She was a wolf with a killer instinct and had one thing in mind. Time was of the essence. The men were moving, one had started a fire in the far corner to destroy the evidence. Flames already licked the old wood and dry straw of the abandoned barn.

She didn't know if Sherlock was dead or alive at this point, either way he would be gone soon and she could not let that happen. The shooter tried to get away after pulling the trigger, but she was faster. A knee to his groin, an elbow to his jaw then his back, and he dropped like a stone. It wasn't too much work to take the gun and shoot him in the groin. He'd live long enough to burn to death. She didn't think twice about it.

Smoke filled the open space, the fire crackling and filling her already muted ears with white noise. She stumbled forward. Everyone else had gotten out by that point. Leaving Sherlock hanging from his chains like a piece of meat.

Natasha closed the distance with long leaps. "Sherlock?" Her voice cracked, it was higher pitched than usual, but she didn't notice. By the time her hands touched his bloody chest, she could tell he was still breathing. Thank God. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

Still breathing, heart rate irregular, unconscious. Bleeding out. Not dead. Natasha pulled Sherlock down from the tortured hook. His body was so broken it would be a hellish recovery if he survived this. Chances were slim. But even still, Natasha pushed all thoughts of the possibility of losing him and focused solely on getting them both out of the burning barn.

Later she wouldn't quite remember the escape. The details of pulling Sherlock's body up off of the ground and hauling him out would be fuzzy. She wasn't Thor nor did she have a super suit, but she did have training and a lifetime of taking care of people bigger than she was. She carried Sherlock out of hell.

Once they were a safe distance away from the burning barn, to the middle of the driveway, Natasha lowered them down in a controlled collapse.

"Sherlock? Baby please, wake up." Natasha had one hand on his gunshot wound and the other on his face. Pleading. Begging. Bargaining with whoever was listening. Tears streamed down her face and she shook him. "Love, I can't lose you, I won't make it. Don't die, please…"

The helicopter landed behind them. The whoosh of air and the constant thumping of the blades seemed so distant as her attention was focused solely on the dying man in her arms.

Hands wrapped around her shoulders, even as the medics came in on the other side. A shouting John Watson at the lead, followed quickly by Mary Watson. They were going to take him away, Natasha couldn't let him go, but the hands behind her were insistent. And a distant logical part of her brain told her she couldn't keep him.

"Natasha." The female voice in her ear was familiar. There was another familiar one shouting orders. Male. Brother. British Government. There was a crack in his voice.

Naomi Holmes wrapped an arm around Natasha and guided her to the helicopter. Mycroft Holmes had his headset back on, likely contacting the closest hospital. Everyone was a flurry of activity to save Sherlock Holmes.

Almost all of their family was there…they could watch him die together. Watch a giant hole be shot through their family's heart. Only seconds later, but could very well have been hours, they piled into the helicopter and were in their air. Destined for who knows where.

Through the whole of it, Sherlock's broken and beautiful heart kept beating. Stubbornly so. John worked as hard as he could to save his best friend's life.

Natasha sat still, watery eyes fixed on his mangled body. She didn't quite notice Naomi's hand on her leg, reassuring, but it was there. The ex-SHIELD, now CIA agent, who'd married Mycroft many years previously, was one of her oldest friends. But there was no comfort to be found here and now. There wouldn't be until Sherlock was out of the woods.

Once at the hospital, John went away with the emergency staff and Mycroft drifted to take care of the paperwork end of things. Both men looked spent, battle worn, and there was a hollowness to their eyes that few would notice.

Naomi did. She was the only one able to keep a calm about her. More so because she had to be the foundation when everything was in turmoil. A nurse showed them to a family room, where there was a bathroom and couches, set up for waiting in privacy.

It was there Natasha finally allowed herself to break. There in the quiet and in the uncertainty that Sherlock would ever wake up. Tears came even if she didn't want them to. Naomi pulled her into an embrace, tucking Natasha's head under her chin and wrapping her close. Mary was behind her, rubbing her back and whispering reassuring words. Natasha clung to her friends. Mycroft and John came in a time later and everyone sorta collapsed into silence.

The waiting began.

Three hours, thirty-eight minutes, and twenty seconds later, a nurse delivered the news.

She walked in on the Holmes clan. By this time everyone had been cleaned up. John had left to call the babysitter but returned to pace by the door and check his phone every five minutes. After the information had been recovered, Naomi had curled up with Mycroft on the couch, quietly comforting each other for what was the umpteenth time Mycroft had waited on his brother in the hospital.

Natasha sat by herself. Knees pulled up to her chest and green eyes fixed on the door.

Everyone perked up once the door opened. Her name badge said 'Donna' and she was still dressed in light grey surgical scrubs. There was just the briefest of smiles before she spoke. "He's pulled through, the doc patched everything up, including the surface trauma. ICU will wait to see how things go, but he'll be awake by tomorrow if all goes well. It's going to be a long road ahead, but he'll pull through."

The collective relief could nearly be heard in the various sighs and shifting bodies. Naomi curled her arm around her husband and pressed a kiss to his temple when his eyes closed. John had to sit down. And Natasha…she stayed right where she was.

Her thoughts were still buzzing. She should have been the one to take the bullet. It should have been her. The only reason Sherlock wasn't dead was chance, and the distance of a few millimeters.

True to the nurse's word, Sherlock was still alive. By the time they'd been allowed to see him, he'd been transferred into they Intensive Care Unit. They filed in as quietly as they could. The body in the bed wouldn't have looked like William Sherlock Scott Holmes save for the immediately recognizable mop of dark curls on the white pillow. Everything else was wrong. His skin was too pale, his bruises too dark, his body too still.

Natasha stepped forward first, effectively cutting Mycroft off. She stood by the bed, slipping her hand into his. Limp and cool as it was. She couldn't speak. In any language, the words wouldn't come.

Naomi came up along side of her, one hand holding onto her husband's. "We'll have to get some rest soon. I've booked a hotel." She paused, squeezing Mycroft's hand. "We can go in shifts. Because I know you all. Someone can stay with him, everyone else needs to take care of themselves."

"I'll take the first one," Natasha said without hesitation. No one wanted to argue with her.

They went through their rotation three rounds in the time it took Sherlock to wake and stay conscious.

Natasha was right there. She'd been curled in a nearby chair, green eyed peeled. Waiting for any change. Any indication he would wake up. Her heart dropped the moment he shifted, the moment his breathing changed. And she jumped up out of the chair. Her hands taking Sherlock's head as his eyes fluttered open.

"You're an idiot," she said, never minding the shaky voice and the trembling lip. Her eyes were wide and on his. "You're a bloody idiot and I almost lost you."

"Mmm sorry." Sherlock couldn't keep his eyes open and his head tipped against her hands. "Mm your idiot."

Natasha just held him, pressing her forehead to his and breathing in and out as he did. "I love you so much, I can't lose you," she murmured. "Don't ever do that to me again."

Sherlock raised his hand, the effort feeling like lifting a stack of bricks, but he latched long fingers onto her jumper and held on. "I dun't wanna be lost," he said, struggling through the drugs to focus his mind. "I'm here."

Natasha thought about what she should do. Call Mycroft. Text John. Tell the nurse. But she couldn't bring herself to let him go just yet. She could have been lowering him into the ground today. She could have held him for the last time. She could have watched him die and never held him again.

Sherlock noticed, and even had the gall to make an amused sound. Deductions. Or intuition. Or maybe because they'd be partners in love and life for too many years. "I'm not going anywhere, I promise."

"You better not, we all need you," Natasha finally pulled away so she could look at him proper. His features were relaxed, free of pain, and while he was bruised and broken, he was going to recover. Natasha would have traded places with him in a heartbeat. But he didn't want her to. He was just as protective of her as she was of him.

She closed the distance and pressed a gentle kiss to his dry lips. "I need you."