OK, sadly I had to post this fic a second time, don't know why the first post wasn't working anymore, I'm sorry about the lost reviews, though :( thanks for those btw :)

Anyhow, here it is, hope to be finished soon with the second chapter. And I was thinking, maybe a third? the first is Holmes pov, the socond will be Watson, maybe someone else? like the doctor screaming waiter-whatever? Well I'm not sure yet, have to get the second finished first anyway :)

Oh, and I changed the 'duh' part Marie Nomad :)

This time it's not even really movie based, I guess it could be from the book as well, but it would definitely pre-movie, cause there is no Mary.

It's just a short one about their friendship, with a little hurt/comfort thrown in because it just seems fitting . Will be in two chapters.

I want to take a moment to thank my reviewers again, because your comments really mean a lot to me, I'm still very insecure about my writing, even if this is my fourth fanfic. Especially thanks to you guys that I can't send a PM to, because I can't thank you personally, like Mulder, for instance . And of course thanks for the favourites.

Ok that's it, here is the first part, and don't forget, english is not my native language.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed since he set out from the Themse right after his little confrontation with the three thugs that stole the blue-star jewel from his client. But he had finally reached his goal.

Holmes sighed in exhaustion and leaned heavily against the house he was standing in front of, taking a much needed pause. He took a quick glance at his left side, just above his hip, and was glad to see that the bleeding had slowed a bit. He pressed his right hand, already stained with bright, red blood, back to the aching wound.

Of course, from his many studies of the human body and medicine, he was certain that the injury wasn't life threatening, merely a flesh wound caused by an 3.5 inches knife with an wooden handle, oak, if he wasn't mistaken, which he never was, and of course a six feet and two inches muscle man who managed, despite his clumsy fighting technique, to get through the detectives defence while he was distracted by a five feet three inches thug, dark brown hair, big nose and grey eyes, who was throwing stones at him. Stones. What happened to the old fashioned, fair, hand to hand combat?

Anyway, while this damage to his body was not perilous, at least not if he stopped this bleeding in the near future, it was admittedly bothersome. Add a stinging head wound, which thankfully stopped bleeding some time ago, that was causing his vision to occasionally tilt in directions out of the norm, and the consulting detective was convinced enough to seek a little help. Of course only one person comes in question for this said assistance.

Even if this person earlier mentioned he that was unwilling to lend his support tonight.

Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes as he contemplated the case that was presented to him by an older Lady, approximately 67 years old, grey hair, figure rather small and plump, who was constantly dabbing a kerchief to her leaking eyes. Obviously very distraught by the disappearance of the family heirloom.

This was no case he would usually accept, that was for sure. This crime had a definite lack of mystery, there was no puzzle to solve for the genius man, everything was painfully clear to him in a matter of little time.

The grandson of the Lady, Joshua Cambridge, was well known for his drinking, gambling and loving the expensive women. He was also known for being in debt to many dangerous people. This added by the fact that two individuals the grandson was noted to be with very often, were seen during the assumed time of crime, lingering in front of the house of the Lady…well, it was no mystery at all.

And if Mrs Cambridge wasn't so naïve to believe that being family rules one out as a suspect, he was sure the jewel would already be back at it's normal place.

But despite this, the detective couldn't deny that the timing of the assignment was unblemished. And that was the only reason he accepted, making Mrs Cambridge cry more, with happiness now.

He send the annoying woman, who kept on thanking him over and over, even though he had done nothing yet, on her way and skipped over to the room of his flatmate. Suddenly in a very good mood.

"Watson!" he knocked loudly on the door, "Watson, come on. We have a new case. The game is afoot, old chap."

He took a step back when the scowling doctor came out of his room, straightening one of his best suit jackets. "Holmes, what are you talking about? I have already told you a week ago that I am having dinner tonight with three friends from my old medical school." He said, and went to retrieve his coat and cane.

"Really?" Holmes sniffed and shrugged his shoulders, "Must have slipped my mind."

The doctor gave an exasperated sigh and threw him an annoyed glare while fixing the collar of his coat. "Holmes. I told you twenty minutes ago that I'd be leaving in half an hour. I'm sorry," he didn't sound very sorry, "but you will have to work on this one alone."

"So you would rather go to an unimportant social gathering, instead of bringing justice to the streets of London? Your home?"

"Holmes," Watson pinched his nose in frustration, "I have brought enough justice to London already. I deserve one evening off with my friends!"

Sherlock only raised an indifferent eyebrow to the other mans agitation. "Is it really justifiable to call people you haven't seen in what? 10 years? Friends?"

"What the devil is wrong with you? Are you jealous or something?"

"Preposterous! Why would I be that?" the detective crossed his arms, and looked suspiciously like a petulant child. "I am merely trying to save you from a dreary evening with equally stodgy company."

"Whatever." John threw up his hands and left for the stairs. "I don't know when I'll be back, good evening Mr Holmes."

But the detective wasn't giving up yet and followed to the railing of the stairs, "So you would let me walk alone into a situation that could have the possibility of being potentially dangerous?"

This actually halted the leaving man in the second last step. But in the end he turned and looked up to the other man with a look that was not amused, "Holmes, if this could be dangerous, take a damn Yarder, ask Lestrade or Clarky. You will not ruin my evening Holmes. You have survived without me before, you can manage now as well." He reasoned non to gently and walked on, ignoring the glare he was receiving. "Later, Holmes." And he walked out. "And take your revolver!" came one last muffled shout through the door.

"You take your revolver!"

And so it came to be that he went alone after the henchmen, he had a reputation to uphold after all. And no matter how boring, he'd accepted and would not go against his word no matter what.

So Holmes had tracked them down with little difficult to the house of one of those men, right by the Themse. He had even called for Lestrade, so he could arrest the criminals, but as always his promptness in appearance leaves something to be desired and he didn't want to wait around while the thugs walked away to sale the jewel for the best price. Thus the fight.

Well, he had left the five unconscious, unprofessional fighter there for Scotland Yard to find and set out with the missing heirloom safely in his pocket, it was his case after all, to 'the NewMoon', the premise Watson wanted to meet his…acquaintances tonight.

Really, what did he need those conceited doctors for anyway? Wasn't one haughty detective enough?

Anyhow, the bleeding wouldn't stop on it's own, not that it could with Sherlock walking around, so he needed a doctor. His doctor.

He pushed himself away from the supportive wall and pressed his hand a little harder on his wound, hiding the unpleasant sight with his black jacket before going as dignified as he could over the street and to the entrance of 'the NewMoon'.

He has been here more than once with Watson already, but he never liked it very much, the tables too close to each other, the personnel wasn't attentive enough for his liking, and the food was only sub-prime.

Not to mention that his assistant is dining with those people here…but that didn't matter to him.

Panting, Holmes made it finally into the restaurant. But scanning the crowded place for Watson proofed to be a little difficult with his vision swimming in and out of focus, and the room seemed to sway from side to side…or was it him? Well, it would be very beneficial if the bleeding could be stopped soon.

He squinted his eyes, running his gaze over the people, but if he was honest with himself, they were looking all the same to him. Everything way to bleary.

"Excuse me, sir. Can I help you?"

Wow, Holmes took a step back from the…blurry blob beside him, where did he come from?

"No," he mumbled, turning back to search for Watson, maybe he should just call his name? "I'm just looking for…"

"Oh my Lord, sir, you are bleeding!" So much for stating the obvious. Deciding that standing around won't help matters, he pushed the babbling employee out of the way and stumbled to the tables. At least that was the plan, but the world gave a tilt and he found himself crashing into the first one, then to the floor.

He heard people screaming, probably the ones whose dinner he'd just destroyed, and saw many crowding in on him. Then the waiter, or whatever he was, again. "Hello! Is a doctor present? We need a doctor!" he was screaming way too loud in the detectives opinion, but he had other problems at the moment. Like picking himself off of the floor with unruly legs.

The man got it wrong. He didn't need a doctor. He needed his doctor.

"Watson?" his intention was to call out, but it sounded more like a whisper, pathetic to his own ears. He felt thirsty and the one word was scratching his throat. "Watson." Trying again didn't bring any improvement. Maybe his calculation had been a little off and he had already lost more blood than he expected.

He looked down to his side, no still seeping with the same speed as before. Left hand to his head, oh yes, that had started to bleed again. A hand to his shoulder pushing him down…where did that come from. Ah, the annoying doctor caller once more. "A doctor!"

"No," he said in voice that couldn't be recognized as his own, "I don't need a doctor…"

"Sir, please lay down again. You are hurt and confused. Ah yes," he saw the maybe-waiter look up to three other hazy men, before he looked back at Holmes. "these man are physicians, they will help you, sir." He didn't want their help! Couldn't they understand that?

The people came down and loomed over him, making him even more dizzy as he tried to follow all three of them. "Watson." Hands were beginning to prod at his head, his side, seemingly everywhere, way too many. Feebly he tried pushed the hands away but they were in the majority.

Protesting words like "Keep your hands away." Or "Leave me alone." Were falling on deaf ears…or just unintelligible, he wasn't sure, but it did annoy him. He didn't want their help, what were they doing anyway? This wound poking wasn't very productive. Yes he had two bleeding holes, where no holes should be, for doctors that should be obvious without prodding.

He squinted up to the strangers, for none of those doctors was Watson, of that he was sure, and finally he couldn't take it anymore. Holmes pushed them away with sudden adrenalin like strength and scrambled to his wobbly feet, stepping away from the crowed of people that were surrounding him.

Still they didn't get it, advancing on the detective like hunting animals, saying something he couldn't understand. Sherlock backed away further until his back hit something solid, presumably a wall.

"Watson!" he called again, and this time he was sure it came out with more volume.

One of the people grabbed his arm rather forcefully, trying to pull him? Push him down? He wasn't even sure what the man wanted, but he sure didn't want it. He was about to let instinct take over, to knock the guy over if he wouldn't listen any other way, when someone else interfered, taking the hand from Holmes arm by grabbing the others wrist.

Sherlock's vision still wouldn't allow him to discern anyone by the looks, but the newcomer looked non too pleased, and when he turned his back to the detective to direct his annoyance to the bunch, almost physically pushing them away to give the wounded man room to breath, Holmes knew he had finally found the man he came here for. Only one man would go against a crush of people for him.

Sherlock now allowed himself to sag against the wall behind him and slid down towards to the floor slowly, but he was halted once again by a hand on his arm, firm, but not painful like the last, he had no doubt of who had a hold of him so he managed a smile.

"Always nice to see you Watson…well, if my eyes wouldn't betray me, that is."