Walking unencumbered through the halls of the surgery was quite possibly one of the easiest tasks conceivable for a man of Sherlock's talents. Yes, it was well past visiting hours. Yes, the only family members supposedly allowed were the ones huddled in the waiting room, anxiously wringing their hands as they stared at the clock and the walls and their feet. Sherlock, however, bypassed all the tedious questions with a simple hunch of his shoulders and a half-empty Styrofoam cup. No one questioned him, obviously assuming that he was merely one of those huddled masses stretching his legs while he waited for news.

He slipped through the corridors, winding his way towards the last known location of John's patient. He didn't know exactly which room John had left Jim, but he could deduce the general location of it based on his knowledge of John's habits and his wish for secrecy. It would be a corner room, with the door tucked away as inconspicuously as possible. It would have blinds drawn over the window in the door, hence preventing any curious doctors from peering too closely. It would be as far from the reception desk as possible.

Ah. There.

Sherlock stood outside the selected door, his ears straining to hear any suspicious noises coming from within. He heard the hum of machinery, the half-muted beep of a heart monitor, and a voice steadily rising in falling in a one-sided conversation. Sherlock frowned, momentarily wondering if perhaps he had chosen the wrong door until he heard the speaking man rise and stretch, his voice picking up in volume as he moved about the room.

"I'm going out for a bit, Jim. I'll be back soon, though. Don't get yourself into any trouble while I'm gone." The words were tight, half-joking and darkly sincere. Sherlock quickly ducked into the nearest empty room as he heard the man's footsteps approaching the door. From his position, Sherlock was able to note that it was the same muscular brunette that he had seen earlier that day. Unsurprising.

Once the man was out of sight around a corner of the hallway, Sherlock quietly entered Jim's room. As illogical as it was, Sherlock was startled by how mundane Jim's accommodations were. His mind had expected dark drapings and overly-fluffed pillows, not the usual sterile whites and taupes and creams of the room. It was somehow disconcerting to see Jim, criminal mastermind, laid weak and vulnerable in such an utterly pedestrian fashion. Sherlock shook off his initial surprise and stepped closer, feeling ever so much like a cat sniffing to see if its prey were really dead.

Jim may not have been dead, but he certainly wasn't alive. Not in the way he was supposed to be, at least. He was supposed to be sneering derisively with an impeccable suit acting as armor, not laxly laid in a hospital bed with only a thin gown hiding his petite frame. His eyes were supposed to be lit with a restless black energy, not sealed shut over a pale and drawn face. It was wrong, from the tube of the ventilator to the bruises marring his chest and arms to his bare feet tucked under the covers. Sherlock instinctively winced away from the sight, confused by the mixed emotions now rising in his mind. It wasn't sympathy, and it certainly wasn't sorrow, but it felt like a peculiar sort of sadness. The kind like when you open a gift and it's not really what you wanted, even if you asked for it.

Sherlock stepped closer to the bed, his hand reaching out to pull back the covers. His eyes automatically began cataloging data and drawing conclusions, and for once he wished he could turn it off. Turn off the way his mind reconstructed every blow, analyzed the damage, estimated how much pain Jim had experienced as a result. He scowled in an attempt to rein in his usually impenetrable self-control. He didn't understand this; he should be happy to see the man that very nearly killed John unconscious and in serious danger of death. All he could think about, however, was the brilliant mind buried underneath the masquerade, and the possibility of losing that intelligence because of some random act of violence. It was sickening to see how people like them-geniuses, intellect untouchable by the masses-could be brought down with a shattering crash by the whims of those very same dull masses.

He took Jim's chin in his hand and gently pushed his face to the side, this time searching for a specific type of marking to confirm the hypothesis he had constructed based on Jim's file. He brushed his fingers through Jim's hair, pushing it out of the way so he could get a better look at the skin hidden below. He froze, however, when the sound of a door banging closed drew his attention to the rather large man standing in the room.

"Get the fuck away from him."

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

"Get the fuck away from him."

"Or you'll do what? You're outnumbered, boy. You'd do well to just turn away now and walk back to your car before we decide not to be so merciful."

Sebastian scoffed, leveling his gun at the leader's head. "Don't think so. I'm not leaving until each one of you bastards has a bullet embedded in your skull."

"Is that so?" The leader stepped next to Jim, gripping a handful of hair and jerking his head back so that Jim was staring into his eyes. "That's a good little doggy you've trained there, Jimmy. So loyal. That's hard to find these days, you know. Any one of these men would shoot me down just so they could climb a little higher in the ranks. But him, now he would rather follow along behind you and clean up these little messes you make. Very sweet."

Jim's response was muffled around the gag, so the leader jerked it out, laughing as Jim winced at the burn it left behind in his mouth. "I'm sorry. What was that you said?"

Despite being bound to a chair and sporting some fresh bruises, Jim somehow managed to appear unruffled and nonchalant as he responded, "I was just saying that sometimes a good shagging keeps them in line. You'd be surprised how closely tied libido and loyalty are." He gave Sebastian a leering, suggestive look which caused the gang leader to balk.

"That's disgusting. If that's how you run your enterprise, then it's no wonder you're going belly-up."

"More like bottoms up, but potayto, potato," Jim smirked.

"Jim..." Sebastian's warning look was lost on Jim; he was too busy assessing the situation to take note of such minor things. The binding had been a rush job, so he could escape the ropes rather easily if given enough time. He had already half loosened the ones around his wrists, but it was taking more time than he suspected he had available. The water sloshing against the wall behind him was enough to make Jim nervous.

"Tell me this, then, Jimmy: What exactly did you think infiltrating my gang would accomplish? You had to know it was foolish and wouldn't work."

"Oh, I don't know about that. Thus far, the whole thing's gone over rather swimmingly. Wouldn't you say so, Seb?"

"Jim, for christsakes, shut up."

"Now, Sebby," Jim purred, "you mustn't speak badly to me. You know it won't bode well for you in the bedroom tonight."

"What do you mean, Jimmy? I believe I have the upper hand here. You're the one trussed up like a Christmas gift. I don't think you have any room for gloating."

"No? Hm, that's strange, because I thought I was the one sitting safely while five of the world's best snipers have their sights trained on all the top members of a certain notorious London gang. Of course, I could be wrong on that count. Seb?"

On cue, little red dots flicked onto the chests of all the gang members gathered along the bay. They all froze, eyes staring down at their marked bodies. Sebastian smirked at the looks of fear and surprise glued to their faces.

"No, Jim. I think you got it pretty spot-on." Sebastian cocked his gun, making sure that the leader knew it was still trained on his skull.

"You see, dearie, there's nothing quite like a public execution to bring all the nobles out to play. And then, when they're all gathered like pigs lined up for slaughter, you kill them!" Jim giggled, unable to fend off his joy at a plan completed with nary a hitch.

"You utter bastard!" The leader snarled, spinning around to Jim. The sound of gunshots was lost to Jim as a fist connected with his chest, sending him toppling backwards.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

Sherlock gasped as a fist connected with his chest, sending him toppling back away from Jim's bed. He sprawled on the ground, staring up at his attacker in shock. Seeing another blow coming from above, however, Sherlock rolled to his feet and began blocking and dodging the strikes. The man was shouting at him, but Sherlock couldn't fully make out what he was saying through the ringing in his ears. Instead, he had to suffice with counter acting the blows aimed at his stomach and head.

One punch actually found its mark, making Sherlock stagger backwards into the wall and lose his breath. His chest heaved, desperately searching for more oxygen to pull into his lungs, as he ducked away from yet another punch. Finally regaining his breath, Sherlock lunged forward, throwing his opponent off guard with his sudden and brutal assault. They were now more evenly matched, Sherlock's trained attacks making up for being outweighed and less muscled. He pinpointed the man's weakest points (Left arm: recent but mostly healed break; Right calf: old gun shot wound) and mercilessly exploited those all the while striking precisely over the sensitive organs in his abdomen.

Sweat was dripping down Sherlock's brow as they both toppled to the floor, now rolling and punching at each other like school boys having a fight out in the yard. The fight had even devolved into the occasional biting when one felt that the other was getting too much of an upper hand. Sherlock vaguely wondered how long before one of them ended up with a knee between their legs as he clawed at his opponent's face. This thought didn't gain too much consideration, however, as the other man suddenly smacked him into the ground with enough force to leave Sherlock stunned. While Sherlock was unmoving on the floor, the man gripped his neck and began pressing into his jugular. Sherlock was snapped out of his reverie by the sudden memory of the last time he was strangled. His mouth twisted into a surprised O while his eyes blew wide in fear. He quickly gained control of himself, though, and subtly shifted his weight beneath the man. Once he was in the proper position, Sherlock threw his knees up under the man's chest and then forcefully kicked upwards, sending the man head-over-heels and away from Sherlock.

Sherlock sat up, gasping and rubbing at his neck while he looked about the room. Something was wrong, but his haze-filled mind couldn't figure out what it was yet. Instead, he searched for his opponent, finding him sprawled and groaning among a scattering of wires and machinery. Sherlock felt his heart stutter in his chest as he finally registered the montiors screaming in the background, mournfully screeching that a life was in danger.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

It took a few moments for Jim to register that he was in danger, the cold of the water having caused his nerves to scream and black out any coherent thought with their screeching. When he finally realized what was happening, Jim began frantically writing in the chair in an attempt to further loosed the bonds that he had begun wriggling free of earlier. This task was made more difficult, however, by the numbness of his fingers and the way the ropes were beginning to swell as they absorbed more water. He could already feel the tightness in his chest that commanded him to breath, to open his mouth and suck desperately for oxygen.

He was still sinking, the weight of the chair dragging him farther into the blackened depths of the river. He hadn't realized how deep it was here, had thought that it would be a sort drop to the muddy bottom. Terror gripped him as he began to consider that this might be the end, that he could be drowned like any common man. He'd never thought that he'd make it to old age; hell, he had personally done things to his body that would ensure he didn't make it past his thirties, but he certainly didn't think he'd die like this. Die cold, so cold it was burning; die with his mouth heaving in more water than his lungs could possibly expel, mouth gaping and crying out with the pain of all that icy cold water freezing his throat, his lungs, his heart.

He finally struck the bottom. He felt the dull squelch as he sank ever so slightly into the muck and filth of the river, but he couldn't be bothered with the sensation at the moment. Someone was swimming towards him, not from above as he had expected, but from the side. They were so close that he could feel the heat radiating from their body. They hovered just out of sight, the silty water making it impossible to see beyond a meter. Suddenly, though, they surged forward, snarling as half rotten hands gripped his throat.

Oh, god.

Jim began frantically writhing, fingers desperately clawing behind himself at the ropes that held his hands bound. He tried turning his face away from the grotesque sight in front of himself, but Carl wouldn't have that. He reached up and tore at Jim's face until he was forced to look back up into those deadened eyes. They were black, so flat and black and full of loathing, loathing that pulsed through his body and generated enough heat to burn where he touched Jim's skin. He could feel the burns searing through flesh, exposing his nerves and bones below while Carl crushed him, crushed the life out of his through his collapsing throat. Unable to control his terror, Jim tried crying out, pathetic little bubble streaming from his mouth as he managed only the most weak of screams.

Carl sneered down at him, his decomposing skin revealing far too many yellowed teeth. "Funny meeting you here, Jimmy boy."

Jim shuddered, even the words burning marks of hatred into his skin. He closed his eyes, futilely trying once again to block out the sight before him.

"No!" Carl brutally shook him, wrenching his fingers through his hair and forcing Jim to look back up at him. "I want to watch. See the panic in your eyes, watch you drown like I'm sure you watched me."

Jim felt the veins rupturing in his eyes, around his heart. Blood flooded into his lungs to mix with the water and ice. He was nothing, just a crumbling fortress collapsing to the ground as bombs tore it apart from the inside out. Jim felt his awareness drifting. Blissful oblivion was beginning to creep into his peripherals, overtaking his sight and clouding it in fuzzy layers of diffraction.

"No. You're staying with me the entire time, Jimmy. I don't want to miss a second of this."

He gasped as he was viciously jarred back into consciousness, those prying fingers ripping through his skin to force his awareness.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

John sat up, gasping as the crash of the front door jarred him back into consciousness. He moaned, rubbing fingers over his eyes to force his awareness. It wasn't unusual for Sherlock to leave the flat at absurd hours of the night, but he was usually courteous about doing so and didn't make a point of slamming doors.

John rolled out of bed, toes curling as his feet touched the cold floor beneath. He padded down the stairs and into the lounge, frowning at the mess still scattered across the table. He silently cursed Sherlock and began scooping the Chinese containers into the garbage. Clearly, he had overestimated Sherlock's capabilities in regards to common courtesy. He frowned as his cleaning led him over to the sofa. Papers were strewn all across the floor and the cushions like a bread crumb trail leading John through Sherlock's actions during the night. He finished collecting the empty food containers before beginning to tend to the papers. He pushed them into an orderly stack, only vaguely aware of what he was doing through his sleep-fogged mind. He snatched the file folder he saw sitting on the armrest, carelessly stuffing the papers into it in an assumption that this was where they belonged. Sherlock would straighten it out in the morning if he didn't like the arrangement.

John yawned and shuffled into the kitchen to put the kettle on before little flags began popping up into his mind. Those papers...

Oh, fuck.

Without a second thought, John ran to his room and hurriedly donned the uniform that Sherlock had stolen for him earlier that day. He then grabbed the file and ran through the door, allowing it to slam closed as it willed. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he chanted to himself as he hailed a cab and directed it to the surgery. He sat in the back, anxiously twisting the edge of his jacket.

Sherlock wouldn't kill Jim. He wouldn't. Not when Jim was unconscious and helpless. He would want to do it in a big showdown of some sort. Would want it as big and flashy as possible. Would probably even make sure it involved a waterfall for good measure. That's the way Sherlock would kill Jim. Big, flashy, and melodramatic. No, he wouldn't do it tonight. Probably just went to deduce how he had been injured in the first place.

He was just a few minutes away from the hospital when his phone rang, nearly causing him to jump as he was startled out of his own thoughts. "Hello?"

"John." It was Sherlock's voice, breathy and a little panicked sounding.

"Oh god, Sherlock. Please tell me you didn't kill him." The cabbie threw John a questioning look which John ignored as he listened to Sherlock's reply.

"What? No. Well, not yet. There's been a bit of an incident and his ventilator became disconnected. I wasn't sure what to do, so I called you."

"Fuck. Okay, how long has it been disconnected?"

"Approximately one minute."

John quickly did the math. The average human could survive eight minutes without oxygen. He was three minutes from the hospital, and it would take a few extra minutes to set up the ventilator once again. "Have you started CPR yet?"

"Obviously. Although getting the tube out was a bit tricky. You may have to take a look at his throat later."

"Alright, well I'm almost at the hospital. Have whoever is doing it keep up the CPR. I need you start setting up the ventilator again, though. I'll talk you through it..."

John reined in his reserves of military calm while talking Sherlock through the placement of wires and which switches should be flipped in which direction. He broke from the cab in a run, not even bothering to count out bills as he burst out of the door and into the hospital. He continued giving Sherlock directions, all the while jogging through corridors and running up stairs. His face was flushed by the time he actually made it to the room, but he had gotten there just in the nick of time. He pushed Sherlock aside, deftly finishing up his job and turning to Jim's bedside. He nudged Sebastian out of the way and quickly re-intubated Jim before flipping the switch on the ventilator. Their efforts were rewarded by the hiss and hum of oxygen being pushed into Jim's lungs. John checked his patient's pulse before wheeling around to glare at Sherlock and Sebastian.

"You stupid gits!"

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

"Jim, you stupid git, come on. Breathe. Please, Jim. Come on, breathe, godammit!"

Abruptly, Jim sputtered and began violently coughing and retching as Sebastian rolled him onto his side so as to avoid having him choke on the mess all over again. Jim gagged, curling in on himself in an effort to regain some body heat. He frowned as he felt himself being pulled up and backwards, only to find himself tucked against Sebastian's slightly warmer, albeit still wet and cold, form.

"S-s-seb?"

"Yes, Jim?"

"N-next time, you g-get p-pushed into the r-river."

"Right." They lapsed into silence, Jim's eyes roaming over the other men as they cleaned up the slaughtered gangsters. A smirk played at his lips as he saw that the leader had bullet holes riddled all through his chest.

"G-got a little over-z-zealous, then?"

"Nah. The bastard deserved it."

One of the other snipers stepped up, tossing a thick blanket to Sebastian. He adjusted his grip on Jim so he could pull the blanket tightly over his shoulders and tuck it underneath his legs. He then began rubbing his hands aggressively over Jim's arms in an attempt to bring back some of his blood circulation.

"Never learned how to swim?" He gave Jim a teasing smirk, to which Jim responded with an exasperated sigh.

"It didn't seem like a productive use of time. I never really liked water, anyway."

"Of course. You'd have been too busy learning how to build bombs using nothing but petroleum jelly and shampoo." He grinned and ruffled the blanket over Jim's hair to swipe the cold water droplets away. Jim gave an agitated sound, but otherwise didn't protest Sebastian's treatment. "Oh, and Jim?"

"Yes, Seb?"

"Next time, don't tell the gangsters I'm your bitch. I've got a reputation, too, you know."

Jim snickered, grinning up at Sebastian in a devious sort of way. "But it was so much fun to watch his face! You just know that he was considering what it'd be like to fuck you. And don't tell me you didn't see the erection he got afterwards. Oh, it was priceless! And all for my little Sebby." Jim nuzzled his face into Sebastian's shoulder, giggling hysterically.

He could always count on Seb to keep Carl away. Always.