A/N: This was based on another "snapshot" piece of a man torn from his place in life most violently. Given the fact that this story has re-written itself into this fandom almost completely already, updates should not take very long.

Here is where some of my OOC warnings need to be heeded. Again, this is quite obviously AU and not originally meant for this fandom. It is not how I view these characters, as I love their original versions dearly. But this is what happens when characters decide to take up residence in the same asylum as my muses.

ac·cep·tance (k-sptns)

The act or process of accepting.

The state of being accepted or acceptable.

Favorable reception; approval.

Belief in something; agreement.

Prologue

Blood...

There was so much of it.

Even now, hours later, there it was staring back at him mockingly. The carpet, the table, the blankets, the settee...Watson.

He could see it dripping slowly, mocking him as it slithered in lines from the tabletop to the floor of their sitting room. He could not take his eyes off it, or the man from which it flowed.

His friend.

Oh God...Watson.

"Really, Holmes," Watson sighed as he carefully tied off another stitch. "You're making too much of this. You've had worse by far."

Shaking himself thoroughly, Holmes turned his glare back to the man seated on the coffee table calmly stitching what appeared to be a cavernously deep, long gash across his ribs from just under his left arm to across the right of his chest. He shuddered again recalling how very easily that knife could have buried itself in those ribs and heart beneath. In a haze of shock, he had barely spoken more than a dozen words since that time other than to argue that Watson belonged in a hospital. He never doubted the man's medical ability, but the sight of so much blood and his friend sitting there so deathly pale terrified him.

Yes, terrified. He could think of no other word to fit the feeling of his blood freezing to ice in his veins at the sight of the doctor curled in upon himself on the floor of that house as if to hold the warm flow of blood inside his writhing body. Swallowing back the bile that even now rose to the back of his throat, Holmes returned his attention to the present.

"...and some rest, provided there's no infection, and I will be fine in a few days," Watson concluded.

Gathering his wits and putting off the delayed reactions of shock, Holmes rose from his chair to begin making the settee into a bed.

"There's no need for that. I can sleep well enough in my own room. Mrs. Hudson is already going to have fits when she sees the mess," Watson headed him off, tying off the last of too many stitches.

"In here I can at least observe you for signs of fever and infection," Holmes returned, unruffled.

"As if I cannot determine such for myself?"

Ignoring this, Holmes turned to help wrap the fresh bandages around Watson's chest. Moments later he fled up the stairs to retrieve a night shirt and a dressing gown.

"This really is unnecessary, Holmes. I'm quite able to take care of myself," Watson growled, snatching the shirt and dressing gown out of his friend's hands.

Feeling his own anger rising, Holmes tried to clamp his mouth down on the next words that came to mind.

"It's not as bad as it looks, and I'm too tired to deal with your case review right now."

"Are you implying the concern for another's well-being is exclusively your prerogative in this partnership?" Holmes asked coldly. "Or is it that I don't carry a wasted medical degree?"

In the act of shrugging into his dressing gown, Watson's back went rigid to the point Holmes wondered that he didn't hear it snap. A moment later he pulled it closed around his too-thin body and tied it off. His every movement reflecting rigid self-control as he very deliberately kept his back to Holmes. His face a thunderhead of fury, Watson finally spun with military precision as he swung around to confront Holmes.

"This, coming from someone who takes even the soundest medical advice right along with his latest dose of cocaine?"

Watson's too pale face and dark rings under his eyes did little to dispel Holmes' foul temper. Flashes of memory of those horrific minutes spent in the confrontation swirled behind his gray eyes as he now faced off with the very same man who...

"While you accuse me of toying with suicide, you may take the time to consider your own actions of late, Doctor."

Holmes' use of his title with so much venom stung. He had only flung himself at their attacker to prevent Holmes from being stabbed. Holmes, half dazed and breathless from being hurled across the room and into a bookcase, had left him little choice. Either he watched as Holmes was stabbed mercilessly, or he took on their attacker himself. There was nothing abnormal about it in his mind. He was simply doing as he had always done; provided backup and support for Holmes. Why now did it evoke such a violent reaction after all these years?

"If you consider saving your life to be suicidal, then I suppose nothing has changed."

"Bah!" Holmes waved a hand angrily in Watson direction moving back toward his place by the fire. "You really have need of some hobbies, Watson. This constant focus on my activities is maddening. It's a wonder I haven't drowned myself in cocaine to escape your constant-"

The slamming of the sitting room door effectively cut off whatever it was Holmes had started. Stung even more deeply this time by the obvious allusion to his presence being so unwelcome, Watson could think of no other reaction that did not involve physical discomfort to one or the other of them. Storming up to his room, he carefully positioned himself on the bed in preparation for another long, sleepless night.

Still in a fit of temper, Holmes waited only long enough to hear the bedroom door slamming above him before snatching up his Moroccan case. Even the anger at this point could not effectively banish the memories of how close his friend had come to dying tonight. He forced his shaking hands to perform their usual ritual as he filled the syringe with more than his average dose. Tonight he would need it, if he was going to find a way to banish those images and mentally prepare himself for another case come morning.