The evening sky was awash with brilliant orange and red streaking across winter clouds as he stepped out of the hospital and into the snow, the frozen crystals crunching under the weight of his shoes. He fingered the medical journal under his arm, assuring himself of his grip on it and made for a waiting carriage. The edition held the newest trauma findings from America, they were making such headway in advanced trauma care. The carriage veered onto Baker Street, jostling him from his thoughts, and drew up to the front of his home.

Where brick and iron fencing normally greeted him stood a row of Irregulars, young lads, all motion and energy with some troubling thing. He sighed and laid to rest the idea of a night's quiet reading by the fire.

He'd only juat donned his hat and paid the fair when several lads surrounded him, the smaller ones pulling at his coat. All speaking at once, he heard only snippets of 'danger' and Holmes' and 'thuggies'. He rose his hands, balancing cane between pointer and thumb, to silence the frantic voices. Thankfully, an older lad of fifteen or so years stepped forward and removed his hat. Watson had seen this one before; Holmes had saved the boy from the yard more than once.

"Doctor Watson, sir, they've gone an' dragged Mr. Holmes away in a right state," he mumbled, eyes cast to the ground and feet shuffling nervously.

There were any number of explanations when it came to Holmes. With a nod he gently pushed through the youngsters. He took the steps quickly, his hand steady as he opened the lock and deposited his bag and journal in the foyer. The lock clicked into place yet again and he turned his attention back to the boys.

Once back on the street he shifted his weight heavily against his cane and listened to the young boys shout over the eldest, still mumbling to the pavement. When at last the boys indicated they could take Watson to Holmes, things became somewhat easier. He'd simply follow the younger lads as the eldest ran to fetch Lestrade.

The run was not far, certainly no more than a few blocks, though his leg throbbed as if he'd sprinted the length of London. The boys made a sharp left and slowed quite suddenly, eyes growing wide with fear.. Never had the doctor witnessed these boys cower. Most of the children had taken cover by this point, all their dirtied faces turned toward the same dilapidated structure.

Ignoring his screaming leg, Watson took a knee beside a small group of boys behind the rubbish bins.

"What's got you lot so cautious, now?"

"It's 'im, doctor, it's that man what's been pressing us for bobs to keep our knees if we sell papers on his corners. An they all 'is corners, they is!" The young boy whispered with disdain.

Hot fury shot through his gut, taking him by surprise, as he thought of any grown man threatening violence against children for a quick profit.

"Come lads, someone's got to show me the way. Who'll it be?"

He was surprised to see the smallest of the bunch clustered around him rise to his feet, his shoulders squaring boldly as he began marching forward across the cobbled street. John rose as quickly as his leg would allow and hobbled swiftly after the lad whose pace betrayed the terror that must have been nipping at the boy's heels. He walked as though if he paused, even for a moment, the fright would overtake him.

Thankfully the rusty door soon came into view and, with a point and a nod, he'd sent the boy back to the safety of the others. He checked his watch: a quarter past eight. Ten minutes time should bring Lestrade and his officers. The boy's fear told him he could not wait so long.

Pistol firmly in hand, Watson slipped through the door and into the darkness.

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o

Thunder woke him, pulling him against his will from the warm, inky-depths he'd slipped into. He despised the overwhelming exhaustion one experienced when regaining consciousness; as though he'd been torn from his first rest in days.

The thunder rolled again.

Only this time it decidedly hurt.

White shocks exploded across his vision as his stomach heaved. His hands moved to protect his head, the broken bones screaming back to life. He gasped at the power of the sensation. Cold-sweat slicked his brow as he trembled with agony and nausea. Where had the exists gone? He'd marked them nearly as soon as they'd given him his sight. How had he lost them?

When a boot made contact with his abdomen he retched, muscles locked in a long, silent heave. The agony was brilliant and all-encompassing, wrapping from his navel to the very center of his spine. Even now did the analytical portions of his mind grind data, marveling at the body's response to intensely painful stimuli.

Rough hands shoved him to his back, his shoulder flaring red across the darkness of his vision. Had he gone blind, now only to see the unique colors of pain? The same fingers that nearly chocked the life from him curled around the disfigured lump of his shoulder; the ball now well and properly out of place and grossly distorted. Pain arced like electricity across his chest, causing even his sturdy heart to stutter with the shock of it. How in fuck all had he gotten into this mess? The events were jumbled under the fog of pain now defining his body, his head throbbing with such zeal his skull very well may split open. His stomach rolled.

He had the feeling he was being spoken to, but the words came through cotton and floated away without meaning or form. The fingers left his shoulder, swiftly replaced by that damned boot again. The impact so forceful it pushed the air from him, followed by the sure snap of breaking ribs. He rolled to protect his gut, rendering him blind to the heel heading strait for his face. Copper filled his mouth as several teeth broke free. He spat as his airway flooded. He would not be found drowned in his own fluids.

A sudden gun-shot split the air.

He was done for. There would be no protecting himself against this new threat.

Good go of it, old boy, but we're done in.

There was almost a relief in the defeat, succumbing to that which he was too daft to prevent. He lay on his side, spitting the blood from his mouth while letting his eyes fall shut; the hope of a swift death making him feel ever more the fool.

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o

Watson found them in time to see the tallest man bring the heel of his boot down on Holmes' head with the relish of one stamping the life from some foul insect. His finger flexed with little thought, muscle memory flaring to life as the shot rang out through the cold, abandoned structure. Ears ringing with reverb, he advanced as the bruit screamed out and fell to the floor, cradling his shattered patella. Sheer terror for Holmes forced adrenalin through his arteries. He dropped the men with little effort, his medical mind screaming for his patient.

Several crates were blocking him from the detective, who was presently curled on his right side; his bloodied hands bound behind him at the wrists with twine. One wet, laborious breath made the doctor abandon shoving the crates aside to simply sprinting over them, pivoting his weight on the splayed palm of one hand as he hurdled the damn things. He drew his sword as he approached the trembling man.

"Holmes, it's me," he said, voice calm and steady and all the things he did not feel. The man gave no indication that he'd heard as Watson fell to his knees and threaded his fingers between Sherlock's and the blade of his sword, slicing through the bonds and freeing the man's badly broken hands. In a sure, fluid motion, John -who was sliding from 'terrified rescuer' to 'battlefield doctor'- rolled Holmes to his back. He wasn't seeing Holmes anymore; he'd be paralyzed if he did. What lay before him now was a body to be repaired as quickly as possible. Oh, how he wished he'd brought that blasted gladstone now.

The doctor's eyes raked over the length of the detective as he cast the cane aside with a clatter. Both of his eyes blackened, nostrils clotted with blood, obvious break at the bridge, jaw swelling rapidly enough to indicate a dislocation or break, lips split- probable tooth damage or loss, deep purple lines encircling his neck, shoulder grossly dislocated, chest...unequal.

Quickly, the doctor pushed Holmes' coat open, exposing his waistcoat. Clear, large bootprints danced across the dark fabric in muddy-brown. Rage boiled up only to be immediately cast from the front of his mind, he could feel rage later. As swiftly as possible his nimble fingers made short work of the buttons, the silky fabric sliding over the detectives sides to pool over his jacket. The oxford underneath was drenched through with sweat, exposing blooming areas of deep purple and red across the chest and abdomen. What concerned him most though, was the frighteningly large area on his right side that appeared to sink on every rattling inhalation and raise on each stuttered, shallow exhalation. His trouser suspenders somehow adding to the macabre nature of the injury.

"Damn," he muttered under his breath. He rose up on his knees and swiftly released the clasp of his belt and pulled, the thick leather sliding through the loops of his trousers. He caught the free end in hand and pulled the buckle taught so that he could slide the thing between the oily stone floor and Holmes' back. Sherlock's face pinched in a grimace of pain as he worked the belt as quickly as possible under his wounded shoulder; intensely sorry for the pain but prioritizing the treatment over comfort. The flailed section of rib was, thankfully, just below his axilla and he was soon able to bind the wound, careful to tuck a handkerchief between the detective's thin shirt and the buckle.

After a few breathless seconds of watching, Holmes' ashen lips began to pink-up though his respirations were still dreadfully shallow and rattling. With as much care as he could manage not jostle overtly, Watson eased Holmes into his lap to elevate his head and ease his breathing.

Where the devil was Lestrade?

Holmes came to with a start, shouting out quite suddenly and exposing his bloodied and broken mouth to Watson. The battlefield put the doctor beyond flinching, but his chest tightened in sympathy for the pain his friend must be experiencing.

"Easy, old boy, easy," John said as he gently restrained Holmes from twisting defensively from his grasp and injuring himself.

His left eye, along with most of that side of his face, was swelling rapidly. That beast's foot had come down with brutal force. John had seen his men in Afghanistan lost to swollen brains, concussed from nearby ordinance. His fingers gently combed through Holmes blood-matted curls, clinically evaluating for lumps he prayed he would find. When lumps appeared, the victims had a better outcome. A large and growing swelling at his temple and the base of his head both relieved and concerned the doctor.

"WATSON! DOCTOR WATSON!" Clarkie's voice exploded through the dank warehouse.

"Oh, thank god. HERE! I'M HERE!" John shouted, apparently startling Holmes to consciousness again. His eyes opened as much as the swelling would allow, darting unfocused and wild about the room.

He couldn't see, he was sure his eyes were open but he could not see. Someone was supporting him, he could feel the heat of another soaking into his back in stark relief to the freezing stone floor. Reflexively he shot his hand out, seeking sensory information his eyes could not give of this other body. A solid, strong hand grasped his wrist firmly in mid-air, spiking adrenalin through the detective. Someone was speaking, the sound whispering through the rushing pounding of blood in his ears.

Focus, Sherlock, he commanded of himself, struggling through the haze of confusion and pain.

"...mes, steady old boy...broken hands...ing to be alright...steady on..."

His focus waxed and waned, letting him clearly hear at times before sliding far away from the source of the words. The speaker, however, could not be confused.

Watson.

No, no Watson should not be here. He couldn't place exactly what the danger was, damn his addled mind! Quite suddenly his ears decided to work yet again. He felt a thrill of terror as the sound of several men's running footfalls registered. Watson! Watson! He had to alert his friend, who still had a firm hold of his wrist and, by the position of his knees, his back to the enemy.

"Wah.." the name died on his lips as white-hot pain erupted across his damaged jaw. Fuck did that hurt. The men were advancing; Holmes braced for the pain.

"WATSON!" he managed, unable to stamp down the audible whimper following. His warning shout set fire to his broken chest as splintering, crisp pain lanced his jaw. He gasp for breath like a fish cast from its bowl, but he could not breathe. The sheer injustice of suffocation twice in one day was laughably tragic, though he could not much appreciate the humor right then. How he loathed the base, animal panic the brain-stem produced as the lights dimmed.

Watson jumped as his friend screamed his name, his voice rough and gargling with warning. His stomach gave a swoop as he watched Holmes' face screw up in pain. It soon became clear the detective was struggling to breathe, whether more from panic or wounds he did not know. Holmes was arching his back against him, boots scrambling for purchase.

Watching his dear, infuriating, wonderful Holmes struggle for breath would forever remain in his mind among The Worst Things He'd Ever Seen.

"Easy, Holmes, easy. It's only Lestrade. Steady on, Holmes, easy. Slow your breathing good man," John spoke in a voice as calm and normal as he could manage. Holmes' color was fading as he struggled with wounded-mouth agape for air he clearly wasn't getting. Quickly Watson shifted him so that he was nearly sitting straight up. He could feel each desperate inhalation rattle against the arm supporting Holmes' back.

Moving Sherlock from the warehouse to hospital was a blur of freezing darkness splashed with lantern-light, hoof-beats and, worst of all, a great deal of physical discomfort for his friend to further endure. They were nearly separated upon arrival as several medical staff met them in the street, thanks to Clarkie's advance officers.

Watson injected the morphine himself once they got him into a room, as the medical staff bustled about. His chest unclenched somewhat as the drug relaxed Holmes' features from panicked-agony to blank-indifference.

Sherlock had confessed one night, wrapped in the warmth of darkness and narcotic haze while sitting in their rooms, that he'd feared suffocation above any other form of death. It was clear to Watson that Holmes was more upset having experienced what he saw to be an irrationally exaggerated fear, than the possibility of actually dying in such a fashion. After all, there are many terrible ways to die, why should that particular method preside over all others, he'd asked that night while plucking restlessly at his violin. Now, here the brilliant man lay, suffocating amongst the air.

This was entirely his doing, John realized with a large dose of self-loathing.

Holmes quickly progressed from difficulty breathing to not breathing at all. The surgeons wanted to try a radical new procedure that had thus far seen good results. They were going to pierce his thoracic cavity and insert a rubber tube, hoping to drain the blood and air from his chest to let the lung resume function. In addition, they would be wiring his jaw shut to mend the break and setting his broken fingers to rights.

Suddenly Holmes was gone, whisked away to the operating theatre.

The surgeons were at him until daybreak. Watson's hand bore the blisters of a nights pacing while leaning heavily on his cane.

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