Sherlock age: 21

Sherlock ran down the hall at top speed, looking over his shoulder, swearing.

"Sherlock, that was a bad idea, a really bad idea. Don't you ever mess with the under lords of the city, just don't. Now you've gotten yourself killed. Smooth. Real smooth. Bugger." He tried a door, turning the handle this way and that. Locked. Of course. He rammed the wood with his shoulder, and the door opened. "Shit shit shit. Not good. Not good at all." He closed the door with a snap, turning the lock. Turning he looked around the darkened room, just making out the shapes of school desks and chairs. "Shit." He ducked behind a desk as something banged against the door.

"Mr. Holmes. I know you're in there, you can't just hide, you have to face this like a man. Unearthing secrets of the under lords that do not concern you is a serious crime. And now you have to pay for it." An accented voice called from the other side of the door as more banging continued.

Sherlock whispered more profanities. He stealthily positioned himself to where he had an advantage. The door burst open and a large man waltzed in, gun poised, searching the room. Rolling on the floor, Sherlock leaped up in the hallway and took off down the hall, hardly making a noise. The man heard him none the less and followed after him, with the occasional gunshot down the hall.

"Shit." There was a dead end, the hallway ended. The white tile blocked all ways out. He turned, coat tails twirling, to face his assassin, arms raised. "Look, I'm sorry. I really am. I didn't mean to expose you, or to put your boss in jail. I'm just a guy who... makes a living. You wouldn't really shoot me would you? Stupid question, course you would kill me." he sighed and looked the dark skinned man in the eyes, "Just make it quick okay?" The man laughed and raised the gun,

"If you say so Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock. My name is Sherlock." he closed his eyes and braced for impact. A shot rang out and a splash of blood. Sherlock sank to the floor, his life force bleeding out. He groaned in pain. He wasn't dead. He wasn't going to die. At least not until he reached the hospital, till he told the cops what he knew. He looked up, and the man was gone. "Shit." He side hurt so bad, he felt like he was dying as he dragged himself down the hall, trying to pull his phone out of his jacked pocket. Blood soaked the side of his coat as he propped himself up against the wall, shouting out in pain. He dialed the number,

"Yeah, I need an ambulance. On the double. No, I'm bleeding to death right now. Been shot. My location? Honestly? Can't you trace the call? No, I don't know my exact location. I was chased and then shot at you imbecile. Well of course I'm irritable, I've been shot!" he shifted a little, sending another ripple of pain through his body, and he screamed again, "Oh bloody Hell. Forget it, let me die." He flung his phone against the wall. It would only be a matter of minutes now. That assassin was a lousy shot, either that or he knew that it would be more painful to to die like this, alone, in a school, and bleeding. His vision started going black at the edges, and he blinked hard, trying to clear his head. "Shit." he muttered one last time before allowing the darkness to take him away from the pain, just as sirens started getting nearer.

Sherlock tasted blood as he rose, like someone emerging from a deep sleep, or from the bottom of a pool. His eyelids felt heavy as he tried to lift them, trying to observe like usual. Scents bombarded his nose, anesthetics, air freshener, and other sterile smells burned his nostrils. So, hospital then. White blinded his eyes as they opened for the first time in several hours, which finally faded until only the walls were white. The sound of a clock was distantly heard, overlapped by the sound of tapping. He turned his head and then immediately wished he hadn't.

"Mycroft. What the Hell could you possibly want?"

"Is it so wrong to want to see my younger brother, hoping he hasn't managed to get himself killed?"

"Yes." He looked back up at the ceiling, brooding, wishing that if he ignored his brother, that he might actually leave. "So what is it that you really want?"

"Why did you get yourself shot at Sherlock. And don't bother lying to me, I can always tell when you're lying." Sherlock sighed, and then wished he hadn't. His ribs hurt when he breathed to deep.

"I stuck my nose into something I shouldn't have. Happy? Now you can poke fun of me and use this event to your advantage and my expense."

"Do you want me to clear it up for you?"

"Like you could do anything. And I don't need your help." Mycroft looked at Sherlock meaningfully,

"Don't need my help? You can't even get out of this bed without help."

"Then I'll stay here until I can. Until then you can leave me alone."

"Sherlock. You are arrogant and totally ignorant. When will you finally admit you need your family?" Sherlock looked at him for a moment,

"Mycroft. Never. At least not until they admit they need me. Which will be never. I can do things myself. I'm fine. I don't need anyone."

"Yes you do." Sherlock shook his head in disagreement,

"That will never happen. I can hold my own."