A/N: Hello. This is Knyle Borealis, the author. I'm finally figuring out how to make friends with this site, so please bear with me if any of the formatting/structural stuff doesn't make sense. I'll keep editing.

This is my First Fanfiction Ever. I love Sherlock and John with a passion that started back when Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was the only authority on the subject (not meaning to exclude Jeremy Brett, Basil Rathbone, or any of those other wonderful people who brought my hero to life), and ever since my seven-year-old self picked up a volume of "A Study in Scarlet," I have been in love with the world of Sherlock Holmes.

It's not Brit-picked AT ALL, so I apologize. I welcome any feedback that you feel like giving, nice or no, so please comment!

Disclaimer—none of this is mine! Okay, well, a wee bit of it may be mine… (Blood, Sweat, and Tears included) but all of the good stuff definitely belongs to Doyle, Moffat, and Gatiss. I thank them greatly.

I hope you enjoy it.

Note: I have noted many times that John Watson, pretty much the most famous side kick in the world (Step aside, Robin the Boy Wonder), is a pretty incredible BAMF. And a M.D. So I thought that I'd let him have some fun (I can almost hear him groaning in anticipation) for the next few chapters. Because I can obviously not show my love for characters without heaping some ungodly amount of abuse on them. ...I'm sorry, John...


John wondered what it was like to have a mate that wasn't constantly getting him into fights. It was a strange thing to think, when he was half out of his mind with anger and in the midst of trying to save his best friend from being skewered in his bedclothes. It was even stranger for him to realize that he'd gotten completely used to his thoughts being unordinary. And to the fact that he often thought about the wrong sort of things at inopportune times. Like contemplating his tolerance for erratic thought while he was busy hitting a big, not so friendly giant over the head with a two-by-four.

Coming around the corner of the alley, he'd seen the enormous man pinning Sherlock to the wall and started running. The knife had appeared moments later, and in that half-second, John had been transported back to a year and a half before. Back when he was still in the field, still conditioned for warfare, and still in possession of two strong, fully-functioning shoulders. With the alert mindset of a soldier and nerves acclimatized to being under fire came an ineffable ability to move quickly and quietly. Padding down the alleyway towards his flatmate and his massive attacker, John spied the pile of wood on his left and snagged a board silently off of the top, gripping it securely in both hands.

The stranger—he realized that it was Max the deliveryman and expected to feel surprised about it later—was saying something to his friend, but he wasn't paying any attention to the words or sorry for not hearing it. All his attention was on the knife. Then came Sherlock's ill-timed insult, and the big brute snapped. As the thug bellowed in outrage, John darted around behind him, his eyes glued to the weapon at Sherlock's throat. Just as he'd hoped, Max didn't simply increase the pressure with his blade to end things then and there. Driven by rage, he brought the knife back, desiring to deliver a deathblow with all the force of his fury behind it.

The ex-army doctor didn't pause to think. As soon as he saw the blade glittering vulnerably beside the bigger man's head, he raised the board and snapped it out, slamming it into the inside of Max's raised fist. Bones snapped within the grip of thick fingers, the knife went flying off to the side to get lost in the disarray of bins, and John reversed directions with his club. It cracked in half when it collided with the left side of Max's head, but the break made no difference in its effectiveness. For a second John even feared that he'd actually killed the taller man with the blow. He was certain that he'd knocked him unconscious; letting go of Sherlock, the hard-headed colossus practically toppled to the ground, hitting the pavement with the detective right behind him.

Seeing his flatmate slide limply down the wall in his peripheral vision, John realized the harm that Max had done. Anger flooded him, sharpened into a thousand points by his mood, Sherlock's unkindness, Ness's injuries, Sarah's infidelity—taken all together, the lot of it had him seeing red. Meanwhile, Max had somehow recovered from the blow to his head. Dazedly pushing himself up onto his hands, he started to crawl unsteadily away. The doctor could hardly believe his eyes. He'd literally just broken a board over the man's head, and it had done barely anything. Several warning bells began to ring in his head at the thought. Something—something beyond size and intentions—was not normal about his opponent.

Reaching the building and grabbing a handy windowsill, the giant hauled himself to his feet and whirled around, bringing his fists up. Uh-oh. Of course—why hadn't he remembered his thoughts from their first meeting? Max was out of his mind. John could see how wired he was. It wasn't alcohol, though. It was easy to see that the act of drunkenness from before had been shed along with the false delivery uniform. Circling slowly opposite the other man, he wondered which drug that Max had actually used before attacking the doctor's curly-haired flatmate.

Sherlock—the thought of him reminded John that he didn't have time to get into a row just then. His friend was hurt, possibly badly; he was still crumpled on the ground behind them and hadn't made a sound since the blond man's arrival.

As for Max, it didn't matter which pill had given him the buzz he was on. John knew how to handle him with or without a name; he'd let the ugly behemoth handle himself. As quickly as possible. With that goal held firmly in mind, the smaller man stopped circling and let Max come at him first, watching the inebriated colossus charge with cool calculation. Despite his anger, his mind was clear, his movements tight and controlled. True enough, he'd be crushed if his opponent managed to land even one hit. Unluckily for his wild-eyed adversary, though, the coordination required to accomplish such a feat was far beyond his bulky limbs until he sobered up.

Therefore unafraid, John waited patiently for Max to come, fully aware that the right time to strike at him would present itself eventually. Sure enough—Max left himself wide open. Just before the attacking man's arm came fully back to swing, John sidestepped him and ducked under his arm. He pivoted and reached out as he passed by, cracking Max in the back of the head with the half of the board that he still held. The drugged man was sent staggering once again, but considering how he had recovered before, the doctor doubted that the hit would do much.

As he'd expected, Max was so far gone that the pain he'd just incurred meant nothing. Before another moment had passed, the brute had caught himself and turned around, intent on having another go at the good doctor. John let the wood drop from his fingers to clatter on the ground, clenching his hands into fists instead. Max needed to be stopped, and the concern was no longer just for John and his flatmate's safety. There were limits that the body shouldn't be pushed to, but the larger man had obviously forgotten all about them. He was completely oblivious to the blood running down his neck, springing forth in red rivers from his nose and the various abrasions around his skull. If John didn't get him to stop soon, he'd kill himself by blood loss or disregard for his injuries.

Strangely enough, the doctor in him wasn't especially vocal about that fact. In all truth, the worry was barely even there, only loud enough to be registered in his mind; he was more occupied with cracking his fist across the taller man's jaw. He would probably feel bad about it later. Blessedly, his conscience showed no signs of interrupting as John felt a rush of fury lend strength to his attack.

Though up until then he had been completely calm and collected, as soon as he really started using his hands, the level of disconnectedness that had been sustaining his cool demeanor evaporated. His knuckles screamed, his shoulder burned, and it felt so good to vent his anger on a target that he had a legitimate excuse to beat into a pulp that he ducked Max's wildly swinging arms and hit him again in the nose.

And again, in the stomach.

And then once more in the face for good measure.

The high wasn't looking so mighty any more. Finally, John had knocked the big man on his heels, and before Max could recover again, the doctor stepped around beside him and hooked a foot behind his leg. The killer went down. On his knees, his neck was even with John's shoulder even when his back was hunched.

Fought bigger, the blond man noted blandly. Then, as soon as both the other man's legs hit the pavement, he brought his elbow down hard on the back of Max's thick, corded neck—hard enough to knock him out cold for the next few hours. Stopping there was a conciliatory gesture for his conscience—he could have killed Max with the blow. During his days in the service, he'd seen it done. He'd even done it himself, in one of those dark, dire situations that he tried not to think about.

He didn't do it there in the alley. With an inward sigh of frustration, John Watson shoved the anger burning inside of him aside and checked himself, stepping back from his opponent. He had enough nightmares from unholy acts to haunt him already. He didn't need to add any more to the list. The fight was over, anyway.

With a small groan, Max tilted forward and crumpled to the ground, unconscious, and the doctor ran a weary hand through his hair. Finding it damp with sweat, he sighed. In the freezing air of early spring, the moisture was already clammy and well on its way to chilling. Because he obviously wasn't cold enough. Fantastic. Shaking his head exasperatedly, John told himself to stay on subject and reached into his pocket to call for the police.

"Well, that was expedient."

And an ambulance. Good Lord, he'd almost forgotten about Sherlock.

Whirling around, John ran over and knelt by the side of his flatmate, scanning him over worriedly and dialing emergency services on his mobile. The call didn't ring. Looking bemusedly down at the screen in his hand, he just barely recognized the words NO SIGNAL before hanging up and dropping the phone back into the recesses of his jacket.

Sherlock would have thrown a fit if he got the police involved, anyway, and then he would be impossible to treat. It was a fleeting thought. John was nearly humming with worry. Sherlock was slumped against the brick beside Mrs. Hudson's back door, hunched up miserably, breathing in short, choppy gasps, and shivering in the cold.

The doctor didn't waste another moment, running his freed hands over his flatmate's cold flesh in search of major damage, assessing his condition as quickly and gently as he could. There didn't seem to be any life-threatening harm done, and he couldn't detect any broken bones in his upper or lower body. Some of his ribs were cracked, though. The definite knowledge of what was and wasn't wrong calmed John's racing heartbeat a little.

Even as his hands and practical senses went to work, John was watching Sherlock with sharp concern in his eyes. Though he had seen no end of carnage, he was still appalled by the sheer amount of injury that appeared to have been done to the taller man. The brunette was a mess. His clothes were ripped, dirtied, and bloody; his bandages were in disarray and discolored by the pavement and more blood; and his voice had sounded like he was speaking through a mightily swollen split lip. The doctor had seen soldiers step on IED's and come out in better shape.

"Are you conscious?" John asked his friend, unable to see for himself. Sherlock was so bent over that his face was hidden behind his drooping bangs.

Almost unnoticeably, a shoulder shrugged dismissively, and the detective murmured in a voice so low as to barely be audible, "Ahs of shis moment, yesh."

"How's your face?" Steeling himself for what he would see, John reached out and tucked hand under Sherlock's tucked chin, trying to bring his face into the light.

The brown head didn't budge an inch. Still managing to sound terse despite the fact that he was slurring every other syllable, the detective grumbled faintly, "Is' fine. Ah'm…fine."

No one was ever fine when they said that they were fine. It had taken John a while to spot the pattern, but after letting Ness pull the wool over his eyes already that day, he was having none of it. "You're fine? With blood all over you, enough bruises to blacken a building, and the wind knocked out of you?"

He was aware that he didn't sound the least bit sympathetic, but the world could only expect him to take so much in one day. Besides, if Sherlock got angry enough, he'd look up at him on his own. "Are you certain that 'fine' is the most appropriate word?"

"Yesh."

So much for goading him. The brunette's reluctance to show the doctor his countenance only made John more anxious still about what his flatmate was hiding. Giving another gentle tug on the side of his friend's face, he commanded, "Sherlock, look up."

Stubbornly resisting and keeping his face held down, the brunette mumbled, "Leave me 'lone, John. Ah'm fine."

"Well, you can be fine in the house," the doctor told him, already reaching into his pocket for the house key. "Can you move?" Once again, Sherlock gave a faint shrug. "All right, then. Lean on me."

Assuming that his shrug had meant that moving wouldn't kill him, John wrapped a careful arm around his friend's lean frame and helped him up to his feet. Sherlock was almost a dead weight, groaning softly when his flatmate's hold on him squeezed his aching ribs. He slumped on the smaller man's shoulder in uncharacteristic silence—thanks to his lack of air, probably—as John turned the key in the lock and let them into Mrs. Hudson's flat, ushering the taller man over to her kitchen table and sitting him down in one of the chairs. The battered detective could hardly sit up on his own, wincing and hissing with each movement he made to situate himself.

As soon as he was sure that the other man wasn't going to fall out of the chair, John bounded up the stairs, snatching up his medical kit from Sherlock's room. Then he paused. Perhaps he needed more than a doctor's range of tools for the job ahead of him. Somebody had just attacked his flatmate in the alley, after all.

After a moment's hesitation, he ran up to his room as well, snatching his gun out of the bedside table, jamming it into the back of his waistband, and then hurtling back down to Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, using the bannisters to swing himself around the turns faster.

Setting his black bag down on the table at his friend's elbow, he went to the cabinets next, looking for linens that he'd need to tend to his friend and stopping up the sink so that he could fill it with warm water for them. As he hurried, he sent frequent glances in Sherlock's direction, growing more concerned by the minute.

He was too quiet. Where was the ever-ready quip, the rapid-fire analysis of who and how and why? Even without sufficient air, Sherlock was not the type to keep his mouth shut for long. John had seen him continue to talk and make his incessant comments even after he'd been strangled.

Strange how some of the most annoying things in the world could be missed through just one absence. He had already been missing havoc and mayhem—why not the running commentary that always seemed to accompany it as well? Really, though, the silence was getting to him. He couldn't help but look over at his friend every other moment, and it was making his search for supplies for tending to the other man all the harder. For heaven's sake, where did Mrs. Hudson keep her rags? He must have checked every drawer she had by then.

As John went from cabinet to cabinet, Sherlock's head was listing to the side, and he was all but laying on the table instead of just leaning on it. Finally grabbing the right door handle, the doctor tossed a handful of rags into the water in the sink, threw his supplies on the table, and started pulling the blue dressing gown off of his flatmate's still-heaving shoulders from behind. Sherlock made no move to acknowledge his presence.

His shoulders stopped moving entirely for a moment—an easy thing to detect, when their owner had been working so hard to draw air just seconds before. Pausing with the collar of his friend's ruined garment pulled only halfway down one bandaged arm, John felt a small knot of pure dread condense inside him.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

Even his wordless mumbles sounded annoyed. John found himself rolling his eyes. At least Sherlock was awake to make noise. It was the wordless part that had the doctor worried. Moving with skillful urgency, John pulled his friend away from the table, reached around his shoulders, and finished pushing the dressing gown down his arms on both sides, carefully extricating each hand from the sleeves. It was an odd day when John was relieved to hear his patient growling at him every time he laid a finger on him, but considering their household, the doctor had long before come to accept that 'odd' was about as close to mundane as his days could get.

Nudging Sherlock gently on the neck, he reached for his stethoscope and inquired, "Can you raise your arms?"

With a grunt of affirmation, Sherlock did as he was bid, allowing John to listen to his breathing and ascertain if his cracked ribs were in danger of puncturing his lungs. With an expert ear, the doctor checked with the stethoscope from behind and then and moved around to listen to his friend's bound chest as well before he decided in the negative.

There would be heavy bruising and lying on his back would hurt a bit, but the detective would have no harder a time moving around than he'd had before with only his burns to slow him down. Certainly, there were no rooftop runs or street chases in his near future, but he could manage to pace around the flat well enough.

With that diagnosis out of the way, John tucked the stethoscope away and cautioned the sitting man, "I'm going to have a look under your dressings now, but then you're going to have to let me see your face." Before he could be met with another lie about the physical state of his friend's head, he pointed out, "I know that it's hurt; I can see the blood on your chin. Now, can you sit up a bit straighter? I need to get at the end of the bandages."

Unwinding all of Sherlock's bandages in five long, painstaking minutes, he tossed them aside and started to work, cleaning, disinfecting, and making note of any areas that deserved a second look once he was done. Just as it had before out in the alley, looking at all Sherlock's wounds actually helped him feel better.

As all the dirt and grime and blood were cleared away, it became apparent that the severity of the detective's condition wasn't nearly as bad as he'd feared. Getting ready to clean out some of the worst cuts on the other man's arms, John felt the tightness in his chest begin to release. Though more damage had been done than there was before Max's assault, it did not appear that his flatmate was due for a visit to the hospital. His mind and his sanity were in the clear.

About fifteen minutes later, he replaced all of the dressings on Sherlock's arms and chest. The brunette's head remained the most important thing left untreated. John had noticed blood in his hair that needed seeing to, and he still hadn't seen his face, thanks to the detective's stubborn maintenance of its downward-facing position. Deciding to stave off that battle a little while longer, the doctor parted several chunks of stained dark curls and found the source of the bleeding on the back of Sherlock's skull.

It wasn't terrible. Head wounds always bled profusely, yet the amount of blood had been unremarkable. Based on that knowledge, he saw what he expected: only a small abrasion, stitches or glue unnecessary. It wouldn't need much tending; he saw to it immediately. The most worrisome thing about it was the proof it provided of Sherlock sustaining a blow to the head.

It was time to for the inevitable, then, John conceded with a sigh. His friend would unlikely feel like cooperating by then, but the doctor had to take a look at his face. He could examine the cuts on Sherlock's legs, but by rights he should have checked for signs of a concussion or brain injury ages ago. He couldn't put it off any longer in good conscience. And if there were any deep cuts, they needed to be dealt with sooner than later.

Hopefully, he'd be able to look his flatmate in the eye without punching him.

Fishing fresh linens out of the sink, he wrung them out and reached a small flashlight as well. Leaving Sherlock's side, he jerked another chair out from the table and sat across from his friend, staring resignedly at the top of his curly head. He already had a syringe full of water ready and waiting from earlier cleaning, so he pulled it closer for convenience and commanded his flatmate uncompromisingly, "Look up."

Throughout the whole time that he'd been working, Sherlock had remained quiet. Since he was still sitting up straight and leaning to help John reach where he needed, the doctor had known he was conscious, and he assumed that the detective wasn't talking out of some mulish desire to prolong their argument from earlier. Amazingly, though, his order wasn't ignored. Sherlock raised his head—grudgingly, certainly, but he did raise it—and looked John in the eye without a hint of a challenge in his expression.

He almost looked…blank. Far away. Distant. Mind Palace, John would have thought, but since Sherlock had a head injury, he didn't want to jump to conclusions. Nonplussed, the doctor nevertheless scanned the bloody mess spread that framed his friend's gray gaze and started working. It was automatic; he knew that he'd be sorry if he didn't take advantage of Sherlock's mysterious willingness to listen.

First things first. "Follow the light with your eyes."

Flicking on the flashlight, John checked the brunette's pupil reaction, quickly going through the tests for detecting concussions or neural complications. The way Sherlock just did as he asked was unnerving. It hardly seemed as if he realized that John was there at all.

He wasn't even glaring. Perhaps he really had gone to his Mind Palace. Figuring that the taller man drifted off into one of his long, wordless spells in which he would neither speak nor eat nor sleep for hours on end, John pursed his lips in irritation. If the numpty thought that he was going to cart him all the way up to their flat without any help…

Sick of the driver, he made himself focus on treating the transport. Sherlock's face was in complete disarray. From what John could tell, he didn't have a concussion, all his teeth were present, and no bones had been broken—the famous cheekbones were still in fine form. He just couldn't quite determine what needed looking after until he got rid of the top layer of dirt and other detritus that clung to his friend's skin.

There certainly was a lot of blood. With the wet cloths, John carefully scrubbed away the matter blocking his view. As he did so, he unearthed several shallow cuts on the left side of Sherlock's eyes that offset a particularly deep gash high up on his right temple, which was the source of the appalling red mask that had covered his remarkable features. His verbal incomprehensibleness was evidently thanks to the combination of a swollen lip and bitten tongue, neither of which would require anything more than ice and a few days to heal.

The gash needed stiches, though, so once he was done disinfecting, he gave Sherlock an injection to numb the area around it and looked at the other damage while he waited for the drug to take effect. The syringe he used to clean out all of the cuts, flushing them with water, and then it was short work to patch up the slighter among them.

By then Sherlock's forehead was numb enough for him to start sealing it. Taking a sterilized, bent needle, and clean silk thread, he closed up the wound with quick, neat stiches. Then all that was left was to cover it up and administer a shot of antibiotics. All told, the injuries were slight, compared to some of the damages that John had previously seen on his flatmate's visage.

All that remained were the scrapes on the detective's knees; John crouched and began to roll up his trouser legs with a faint feeling of a battle nearly won. Though he doubted that he'd receive an answer, he remarked, "You managed to get out of this one fairly well."

Sherlock stirred, his eyes flicking down to watch the doctor minister to his bleeding legs with a sort of clinical disinterest. "So did he."

Frowning, John looked up at him sharply, wondering what on Earth Sherlock was on about. Assuming that 'he' was Sherlock's attacker…well, he'd left Max out cold in the alley. There was no way that the man was in any better condition than his friend, drugs or no.

Seeing that the silver gaze that he'd meant to meet with his own was directed elsewhere, he turned and looked where Sherlock was staring. Mrs. Hudson's lace curtains hid most of the outside from view, but he could just make out the shapes of people moving out in the alley. They were standing directly over where Max lay unconscious.

John didn't hesitate. Leaping lightly onto his feet, he whipped his gun out of its hiding place and ran to the back door, tossing back over his shoulder as he went, "Sherlock, no matter what you hear, stay put."

Turning the handle quietly, he swung it open and peered around the door jamb, silent and ready. Two men were there, hauling Max's limp figure up between them. They were dressed in simple black clothing, muscled like prizefighters, and he could see the shapes of shoulder holsters beneath the one's jacket and his friend's knit jumper.

Not the Yard crowd, certainly, and probably not just concerned passerby. A black, unmarked car waited at the mouth of the alleyway, its back door open and waiting for them and their
unconscious cargo. Altogether, there was far too much black for John's liking.

By the time he'd decided so, the men had already started walking towards the vehicle with their burden. John was fairly sure that he didn't want Max leaving that way. Stepping out of the doorway, he leveled his gun at the men's retreating backs. Keeping half an eye on the threshold he'd just abandoned in case the strangers had a volatile opinion of taking orders, he directed with quiet authority, "You two. Stop right there."