Marill: Another kink meme fill! (it's a wip that I plan to be finished with very soon ^^) It's basically Sherlock-whumping using six random words, which are: antidisestablishmentarianist, mushroom, wine, carnation, precipice, and shoelace. Enjoy!

/

Sherlock rapped on his keyboard, sending four emails off and instant messaging simultaneously.

John entered, a harrowed expression on his face. "Sherlock, why do you still have the shoelaces from Carl Powers' shoes?"

"It's an experiment," Sherlock answered mechanically, as he informed a woman that he would not be taking up her request to search for her missing earrings. That they were most likely in her teenage daughter's ears at the moment, the daughter of course, trying to look older to get into a bar.

John sighed at the habitual response. "What kind of experiment?"

"I'm testing the potency of the botulinum toxin in regards to its incubation and dormancy over the last twenty years." Sherlock closed his laptop and turned to face John. "Problem with that?"

"That depends," John said, scratching his arm, nervously. "What are you testing it on?"

Sherlock smiled. "Just some blood cells…for now."

Somewhat satisfied that neither his nor Sherlock's health was in immediate peril, John nodded. "Right. Do you have anything on?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered, gathering up his greatcoat. "I'm meeting Lestrade at the scene of an auto accident. It seems that the driver drove it off the edge of a steep overhang, yet somehow managed to wind up in the boot of the car." Squeezing nimble fingers into his black gloves, he asked, "Are you ready?"

"Oh, no, sorry," John said, flushing. "I was actually going to have Sarah come over. Just wanted to know if you'd be clearing out, that's all."

Sherlock looked perplexed for a moment before retaining his stony composure. "Right. Well, do give her my best." He stalked out of the room and shut the door. "And don't wait up for me!" he called, descending the stairs.

/

Sherlock arrived at the embankment off the main road before Lestrade did. The resulting phone call to Lestrade's office had informed him that a potential bomb threat was holding the officers' attention, and that Sherlock should have a look around while he waited for them.

He looked closely at the tire tracks that led to the precipice over which the car had plummeted. He took a picture with his phone of a particular incriminating stretch of the tracks.

He followed the trail to the edge of the cliff, looking down at the car in the thick forest trench. He spotted the blue acura, halted in its decent by a broad sessile oak. Sherlock took out his Blackberry once more to snap a photo of the car before trying to map out the best way to trek down into the ravine.

After that, things seemed to happen in reverse order. He found himself falling down the sharp ledge, scraping himself against rocks and bruising himself like a peach against the harsh impacts he was making. It was only after he became aware of falling that he felt the wound on the right side of his head. Some short time after that, he heard the gunshot crack through the air, the shot that had struck him and made him pitch over the edge of the cliff. He was numb for the entirety of his fall down into the ravine, aware of the rocks and trees banging into him, but not really conscious of the effect they were having.

Sherlock finally rolled to a stop at the point that the hill sloped levelly. His brain managed to compute his situation, despite the fog of injuries swarming around it. He had just been shot in the head, just grazed, but obviously a frightening concept. He was awake, which was a terrific sign that he wasn't too badly hurt, although his ankles, ribs and arms seemed to dispute that. Suddenly a cascade of liquid poured over his right eye. He squeezed the eye shut and touched his fingers to the liquid, pulling back to discover that it was blood.

It was probably a good idea to stop his gunshot wound from bleeding out, regardless if it was minor. That particular area of the body was notorious for profuse bleeding, and dammit that was his Ionly/I white shirt…

Sherlock ripped part of his pant leg and pressed the fabric to the side of his head. He lay back across the damp earth and gazed sideways at his now uncovered ankle. It was twisted, growing enormous and frightfully dark. The other one was assuredly in the same state, if the level of pain was any indication.

Unfortunately for him, he had dropped his mobile somewhere along the drop. It also didn't bode well that it was growing dark out, and there was someone with a gun out there who wanted him dead.

It was no use trying to climb back up the hill in Sherlock's condition. His current stock of injuries included a gunshot wound to the head, two twisted ankles, battered ribcage, a broken middle finger on his left hand and a sprained elbow, among a whole host of bleeding scrapes and blackening bruises. The head wound had at least stopped bleeding, but was very tender at a certain point, as if some fragment of something was still embedded in there. He was getting cold, starting to shiver and ache in the dying light.

He wondered how far up the hill his phone was. It may be possible to reach that or throw something up there that would cause it to fall…if he knew where it was…

He froze when he heard footsteps rustling the crunchy leaves a few dozen metres away. "Shit, Matt, what the hell were you thinking?" a panicky voice demanded.

"You know who that is, don't you?" another less panicked voice yelled back.

"Course I know who it is, you git! It's Sherlock bleedin' Holmes!"

Well, they certainly had the bleeding part right.

"That's why I shot 'im!" the second voice exclaimed. "If he's lookin' into this, we'll get caught for sure!"

"And you thought killing him would throw the bobbies off our trail? Now they'll be sure to find us!"

The voices were almost upon him. Sherlock saw no better choice than to play dead and hope that they wouldn't try to finish him off. He certainly was in no condition to try overpowering them.

"That's some fall he took," the first voice commented. "Bet if he wasn't dead from the shot, the fall did him in."

"Cor blimey…" the second man muttered.

Sherlock had slowed his breath to minimal movements of his lower abdomen, making sure that his facial features were deadly still. He felt a foot probing at his side, digging into injured ribs. The man made a movement to stoop down next to him, feel his pulse perhaps, when an electronic beep sounded from a couple of metres away.

"The hell was that?" the man said, returning to his full height, forgetting about Sherlock.

The first man answered from a little distance. "His mobile. Must've dropped it when he was falling."

"Think we could sell it?"

"I don't see why not…"

"Let's get back to the truck before any of his pig friends show up."

Sherlock didn't think that it was very likely that Lestrade would be coming to look at the scene when it was so dark out. The beep of his phone was probably an apology for not showing up. He had probably gotten distracted and decided to drive out to the cliff in the morning.

Sherlock almost stopped his assailants to ask them to take him with them. Almost.