CHAPTER 1

"John, are you alright?" A shivering Sarah asked as she ran forwards and bent down beside a bruised and bleeding Watson – gently examining the still weeping gash to the side of his head. Tears still glistened in her orb like eyes, drying where they splashed against her pale cheeks – she had clearly been traumatised by her ordeal, but somehow she still managed to maintain some small semblance of composure as she gently untied the bonds which were keeping John tightly strapped to his seat.

Her delicate fingers shook nervously, her breathing shallow, as the shock – both physical and mental – began to set in, and the realisation of what had just happened to them began to sink in. There was still a fire burning behind her blue eyes however, saying much about the young woman's strength, and Watson could clearly see in that moment that there was something different about her. She could stare death in the face, look into the eyes of those who had tried to kill her, and not let it break her.

She might have made a good army doctor, Watson thought.

Sherlock meanwhile still sat rasping, and coughing a hacking, unproductive cough in the corner – his hands reaching for his throat surreptitiously to claw at his neck beneath his scarf. John watched him as he rubbed at the evidentl raw flesh, although little could be seen in the dark light of the cavern.

"I'm fine." Watson gasped, grappling to catch his breath and gulping in air once she'd freed him of his bonds. "Take care of Sherlock."

Sarah's watery eyes were uncertain. She looked back at John – her face close to his – with nothing but concern for him upon her face. He reached out to touch her – his hand finding her cold, damp cheek and cupping it within his clammy palm – his thumb stroking a stray tear from her eye. She nestled her head into his gentle touch, and he nodded to her, his gaze unconsciously settling upon Sherlock in the corner.

Something with him didn't seem quite right John observed as he allowed himself a moment to compose himself and to take a few deep breaths. Sherlock was still coughing intermittently in the corner, swallowing hard at intervals, and sucking air in hungrily in greedy rasps. He had still made no effort to get up.

As Sarah approached him – still a little unsteady on her own feet – she bent down beside his hunched form and placed a reassuring hand upon his shoulder.

"Here, let me take a look." She offered tenderly, but John watched as Sherlock immediately flinched away from her gentle touch – an angry scowl upon his face.

"I'm fine." He croaked impatiently.

He was still massaging his neck – burrowing his fingers into the soft skin beneath with a pained grimace. He was evidently in some distress, but true to form Sherlock would not accept any offer of help. John hadn't noticed whether their attacker had had time to tighten the noose around his friend's throat, although the rigid and uncomfortable way that Sherlock was now holding himself certainly suggested so.

His complexion was pale – more pale than usual – and a fine veil of sweat glistened against the ghostly white of his damp forehead. John could see that Sarah evidently wasn't having much success in trying to coax Sherlock into letting her take a look at his injuries, but finally he managed to rally himself, rising unsteadily to his own feet, and slowly and stiffly made his way over to join her at his friend's side.

"Here, let me." He offered, bending down beside Sherlock – only to be met with the same angry glare.

"I've told you I'm fine John!" Sherlock scowled. "I just need a moment to catch my breath! God, why must you people always insist on crowding me! You can see I'm alright – all body parts are intact… my head isn't about to drop off."

He gasped, choking on his words, and John could tell that he was already struggling to maintain his façade – his walls were beginning to crumble, but he knew that he wouldn't trust Sarah. It may be that John could eventually coax him into speaking the truth, but not now, and not here.

His voice still sounded uncommonly forced and hoarse, and as he staggered drunkenly to his feet – both doctor's standing aside to give his uncoordinated body space to move – he stumbled and fell backwards against Sarah – momentarily too weak to stand. Fortunately the young woman saw his unsteady legs wobble and, pre-empting what was about to happen, she caught him before he hit the ground.

John was immediately back at his friend's side, gently teasing the scarf away from his throat – determined not to be swayed from seeing the damage beneath.

"I've told you John, I'm fine!" Sherlock snapped, batting away the doctor's searching and probing fingers, and wincing as they found a particularly painful patch of black and purple bruising. The doctor gently traced the angry red track marks of the makeshift noose with his fingers.

"No you're not Sherlock!" John exclaimed, prising the man's own hands away from the wound and guiding them back down to his side. He was rapidly beginning to lose patience, and the stress of the evening's events was making him short tempered. Contrary to Sherlock's frequently voiced opinion he didn't actually enjoy getting cross with him, especially when he could see that he wasn't well – but his friend wasn't exactly a model patient, and he didn't make John's job any easier.

The soft tissue damage was relatively extensive, and Sherlock's throat was raw and extremely tender. Alhough John couldn't see much he could tell that his friend's injuries were severe as he gently palpated the area.

"God Sherlock, this is bad!" John concluded, standing aside to allow Sarah to take a closer look. Sherlock glared at her as she again bent down beside him, but he did nothing to resist her probing hands.

"Come one John, it's not that bad." He scowled, flinching as Sarah's fingers found a particularly painful patch on his injured neck. "I've had worse." He grimaced.

"What? You mean this has happened before?" Watson asked.

Sherlock nodded. "Quite frequently actually. You'd probably be surprised." He remarked casually.

"Well, when was the last time something like this happened?" John demanded.

"Yesterday." Sherlock replied.

"Yesterday?" He exclaimed – incredulous – and then he remembered how when Sherlock had answered the door of Sue Lin's flat the day before his voice had been equally hoarse and gravelly. He'd been unusually quiet for the rest of the day, and when he had spoken his voice had been broken by a strange variation from high to low pitched tones – in hindsight a possible symptom of damaged vocal chords.

It was all beginning to make sense to him now. That the Black Lotus had been watching them seemed to go without saying – it would certainly explain why they had come to mistake John for Sherlock. Someone had beaten them to Sue Lin's apartment, and as Sherlock had entered through the open window upstairs they'd probably lay in wait and then attacked him.

"God Sherlock! Why didn't you tell me?" He demanded, leaping to his feet in exasperation as he rubbed at his tied eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Sherlock shrugged. "It wasn't important." He coughed into the palm of his hand.

"Not important?" John exclaimed, incensed by his friend's alarming lack of concern for his own health – remaining as he did apparently oblivious to the potential implications of such an assault.

'Did he not understand the seriousness of it all?' John asked himself. 'How close he'd come to losing his life?' 'Or did he simply just not care?'

These were very dangerous people they'd been dealing with! They meant serious business, and here he was treating being strangled as though it was nothing more than a paper cut!

"Not important! Not important Sherlock? You could have died! Do you not realise how serious these injures are?" He asked him.

Sherlock just looked at him, and the sound of sirens wailing in the distance caused John to breathe a sigh of relief – Sherlock must have had the good sense to inform Lestrade of where he was going before he arrived.

He hoped that Lestrade had also had the good sense to call an ambulance – there was now a glassy, blank glaze to his friend's eyes.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" John frowned.

Sherlock still seemed to be having some difficulty talking, but he nodded to John that he was.

"Right then," John nodded, "that'll be Lestrade! With any luck he'll have thought to call an ambulance…"

"I'm not going to hospital!" Sherlock shook his head.

"Sherlock!" Watson growled – his patience now seriously beginning to wane as the deep gash in his forehead started to throb. "You were strangled… twice!"

"I know, but I'm still not going to hospital!"

Watson wished that he could get his friend to understand the seriousness of the situation – to put aside all of his preconceived and quite erroneous nonsense about hospitals and see sense. Despite what he might have thought of himself he was still only human after all, made of flesh and bones, and with blood running through his veins. He was just as breakable as he or Sarah, and at the moment he seemed the more seriously injured out of the three of them.

"Perhaps…" Sarah – who'd managed to get a good look at Sherlock's injuries – faltered quietly. She looked from John to Sherlock and back again as she got unsteadily to her feet and helped Sherlock to do the same. "Well, I agree with you John, he really ought to see a doctor." She explained. "And probably not one currently suffering from a probable concussion himself."

She turned to Sherlock as he opened his mouth to say something and held up a hand to stifle his words – shaking her head. He immediately closed it again.

"I've managed to take a look at his injuries though." She explained. "And they look painful but not currently life threatening. He's been very lucky. He'll have a sore throat for the next few days, and you'll need to keep an eye on him for swelling, or any changes to his breathing… but of course you know that already. He's certainly not out of the woods, but I don't think we can force him to see a medic if he really doesn't want to John."

John realised of course that she was right.

Watson was silent – his expression blank and unreadable, but intentionally so. Sarah was always such a voice of reason – the little voice in the back of his mind which had so far kept him calm in the deep ocean of complexity which was his life with Sherlock Holmes – but still he didn't want Sherlock to see that he was wavering.

He finally he nodded however – despite his reservations. Sherlock smiled – a little too self-satisfied for John's liking. This was a matter of his health and wellbeing – it should not have been twisted into a battle of wills between doctor and patient. Whatever Sherlock might have thought now John wasn't going to let him off that lightly – he was still concerned.

"Very well." He agreed, with a reluctant nod. "But when we get home I'm giving you a thorough examination! No compromise!" He told him.

"They're getting closer." Sarah sighed quietly, her relief evident as she referred to the sound of sirens.

He didn't say anything, but Sherlock's face fell.