A/N: Written for a shkinkmeme prompt: Good ol' fashioned angstfest H/C with emphasis on the hurting. Pre-Holmes/Watson relationship because awkwardness and UST makes me happy beyond words.

Anyway: One of Holmes' massively thought-out plans goes seriously awry and it leads to both Holmes and Watson getting gravely injured. How they manage to escape with their lives is a miracle in itself...

So not only do the two of them have to deal with recovering physically, Holmes is on the verge of a breakdown and possibly even suicide as he realizes he isn't infallible and he got them into such a fiasco where they were even lucky to survive.

Many thanks to mews1945 for suggesting the title.This is kind of long and rambling; I pretty much packed in as much angst as I could. Do I need to warn for drug use in this fandom? :p

_Ordeal_

Heedless of the considerable pain or the cries of consternation, he threw himself from the bed and staggered to the neighboring bed where his friend lay. "How is he?" he demanded, clinging to the bedsheets when numerous hands tried to pull him away.

"Mr. Holmes, please! Let us see to your injuries, and the other doctors will tend to Doctor Watson," said a voice behind his shoulder.

"How is he?" he repeated hysterically, feeling his consciousness fading though he clung to it like he did the sheets.

His grip was gently disengaged and he was dragged back to his bed. "He should be fine," came a whisper in his ear, and he had just a moment to panic about the use of "should" instead of "will" before his mind shut down completely.

"I know you're awake."

"Mycroft. Why are you here?" He kept his eyes closed, maintaining the pretence that he hadn't been feigning sleep.

"Someone must make sure you cooperate," he said with fond exasperation. "And since your Doctor Watson is not currently able to do so, here I am."

"Watson," he repeated, more a gasp than a word. He looked frantically for him, but all he could see was Mycroft sitting in a chair and an empty space for another bed beyond him. He started to roll over to check the other side, but Mycroft stopped him, unyielding hands on his shoulder and hip.

"You don't want to do that," Mycroft said firmly.

Indeed, the abortive motion had set fire to his back, and he stiffened. "How is Watson?" he demanded, trying to distract himself from the pain.

Mycroft sat back in the chair and folded his hands. "He endured a few broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder, but they will heal. However, he has not yet regained consciousness since you both were rescued and brought here."

"He hit his head," Holmes remembered. "When the explosion threw us against the bulkhead. How long has it been?"

"Two days," Mycroft said grimly. "The doctors tell me there is not yet cause for concern, but their voices say otherwise."

"But he was waking when we reached the railing, I'm sure of it," Holmes said.

"By the time you were both pulled from the water, he was barely conscious. You were completely unaware until after arriving here, at which point you got out of bed and demanded to know how Watson fared." Mycroft was visibly amused. "Tell me, Sherlock, what happened on that boat? I believe I have determined the course of events, but there are a few details that elude me."

Holmes grimaced. "After your telegram confirmed my information, I set a watch on the docks and monitored the Dutch steamship myself. Despite having arrived earlier in the day and their scheduled departure not occurring for a week, the crew was preparing the ship to leave. Of particular interest were three bundles carried aboard after nightfall, each roughly the size of a child. As you are aware, three children were missing.

"I sent a message to Lestrade and summoned Watson, and we were able to board in the guise of dockworkers assisting with the loading, and we hid belowdecks. We did not emerge until the boat had cast off, and tried to determine where the children were confined. The rear compartment where we were stowed had no traces of them. The crew were easily subdued and tied to the deck railing. They must have suspected something, however, for the front compartment was a trap. None of the children were there, just barrels upon barrels of explosives, and in stepping foot on that deck we triggered the fuse.

"I realized our danger too late. I tried to push Watson into the far corner, but we had not yet reached it when the first of the barrels burst. Watson was knocked senseless. Somehow I dragged us both back up to the deck and toward the rear of the ship. There was another explosion, most likely the boiler. After that . . . everything is unclear, I'm afraid."

Mycroft nodded. "The boiler did explode, and blew the ship to pieces. You and Watson were found half-drowned, clinging to some of the wreckage. Only two of the crew were recovered; one has since died of his injuries."

"The children?"

"Recovered by Scotland Yard in a warehouse not far from where the Friesland was docked."

"At least one part of this case wasn't a complete failure." Holmes sighed, his eyelids drooping with exhaustion. "Mycroft . . . how bad is it?"

"We needn't speak of it," Mycroft said stoutly.

Holmes quirked a smile. "Ah, I see. That bad." He hesitated, then shook his head slightly and closed his eyes. He didn't need to ask.