Author's Note: Here is my answer to one of PGF's challenges: "write a fic where Holmes or Watson are faced for the first time in their acquaintence with the other in some sort of danger or trouble." It's a one-shot, I think. ((tries to remember definition of one shot LOL)) Unless, of course, you guys want me to finish it. I'll take any and all suggestions as to whether or not to do so.

I decided to have Holmes hurt in this one. After all, really, I can't torture Watson ALL the time... lol. Hope you like it! ;)

Unexpected Complications

There is a horrible pounding in my ears, my body aches all over, and my temple is throbbing. Obviously, recent events have not gone as I expected.

"Holmes? Holmes? Can you hear me?" Watson whispers, his voice anxious.

"What went wrong?" I ask, trying to sit up and being summarily shoved back down.

"What didn't?" he replies dryly. "No," he puts one hand on my shoulder and the other pressing a handkerchief to the injury on my forehead when I again attempt to sit. "Stay still."

"Watson," I protest. The pressure on my shoulder increases.

"I said stay still!" I am surprised by his vehemence—have I finally pushed my fellow lodger past his limits?—but I see the worry in his face, his eyes, and I am relieved.

Having grown accustomed to Watson for nearly a year, now, I would be loathe to lose him as an associate.

"I told you not to come here alone!" He is still whispering, though he manages to get his feelings across quite well.

I blink—we are still there then? By the string of condemned warehouses? I glance about and take in the broken windows and the hulking, rusting machines in the murky lighting. Yes, we are certainly at the warehouses, though we seem to have moved inside one during a point I do not recall. My plans must have really gone awry—what did I overlook? Wait, what is Watson doing here in the first place? I was to meet the informant alone.

"Why didn't you listen to me?" I retort, keeping my voice lowered but no less fervent, as he has done. The headache that is setting upon me has done nothing to ease my mood. "You shouldn't have followed me. Is that what happened? Did they follow you here?"

His look of worry is replaced by indignation. "I beg your pardon, Holmes, but if I had not followed you, you would certainly be in a great deal of trouble right now." He doesn't let me interrupt him, but proceeds to answer my unvoiced question. "You were attacked. I-I barely made it in time to help you and I was too late for your colleague... I quickly dispatched six of them with my revolver and, in the confusion; I grabbed you and managed to hide in here. It's a deuced good thing there's more than one warehouse! So far, obviously, they haven't found us."

My injury is evident as it takes me a moment for his words to sink in. "My informant is dead?"

He squeezes my shoulder. "I am terribly sorry, I know how important the evidence he had was to your case. If only I had been a few moments earlier—"

His melancholic tone makes me shake my head—gingerly, as it still hurts—and say, "It isn't your fault, dear fellow."

"I wish I'd been able to get us out of here, but I wasn't able to go very far. Hopefully, we didn't leave a trail of blood."

It takes me a moment before I realize that it couldn't be my blood he means—he has the handkerchief to my forehead and anyway, most of my injuries are bruises and are not bleeding. "Are you injured, Doctor?"

"A shot grazed my leg. My good leg." He gives a wry smile. "What was my good leg at any rate—I now have a matching set of bad ones…which is why I could not get us all the way to safety."

"Let me see." I push his hand off my shoulder and sit, letting him help me when the dizziness arrives.

I peer at his leg in the moonlight and see he has tied his jacket thoroughly around his wound. It appears to be, as he said, a graze, but I have no doubt that it would hamper his movement, especially as his war wounded leg would have had to compensate. "It isn't serious?"

He smiles softly in the light. "No, a mere scratch."

I start to crouch so that I can explore our hideout, calculate our next move, but he pulls me back down.

"I say, Holmes, I mean it when I tell you to stay still. You've a nasty head wound."

"We cannot just sit here and wait for them to find us," I reply, gritting my teeth and starting to move away from him. A wave of nausea washes over me and I feel Watson gently easing me down, my back against one of the machines. I cannot help but feel grateful, if annoyed, that my fellow lodger obviously has proven that he will always be there to offer his help, whether or not I wish for it. He is another complication in my life that I have been unable to plan for.

"Inspector Lestrade should be here, soon, and I've no doubt he'll bring reinforcements."

"What?" I hiss. "You called in the dashed Yard?" Being rescued by a bunch of Yarders is not acceptable.

"I sent Lestrade a note before I came after you."

"I suppose you knew that my correspondence with the informant had been intercepted and you expected that we would be attacked?" I knew my tone was touchy, but really, how had he known what I had not?

"Certainly." I am speechless for a second at his easy reply, and he smiles. "One of the Irregulars came by soon after you left and I wheedled the information he had for you out of him in exchange for one of Mrs. Hudson's scones. The boy had been following the lieutenant of the gang as you ordered and had heard about plans for a large attack on a couple of 'snitches' tonight. You had told me that you were meeting your informant about the gang and so it did not take much effort to deduce that you were walking into a trap."

For a moment I just stared at him. "And so you grabbed your revolver, sent a note, and charged into the fray by yourself?"

He shrugged, looking a little embarrassed. "There was little else I could do, with a friend in danger."

A friend. Yes, I suppose that is what he is; a friend. Perhaps some things that are unexpected are not so terribly awful after all.