"Lestrade! Inspector!" The sharp, if somewhat unsteady, shout cut through the darkness, and I forced my eyes open and immediately began to wonder why I was staring up into the pale face of Inspector Gregson.

I also wondered why he suddenly looked relieved. I opened my mouth to ask, but stopped as blinding pain shot through me.

We were on a case, I remembered. We had been told in no uncertain terms to drop it if we wanted to live. Of course, we had refused to give in.

Gregson was talking to me, I noted dimly. I was trying to remember how I had gotten where I currently was-

Where was I, anyway? I seemed to be lying on a sidewalk, too close to the street for comfort. It was dark, and wet.

We had been walking down the street at three in the morning. Gregson, Sherlock- Where was Holmes? Was he even alive? We had been attacked, somehow; I couldn't remember exactly what had happened. But Sherlock, what had happened to him?

I tried to move, and couldn't stop the cry of pain that escaped my lips. Gregson stopped rambling, and looked down at me in alarm.

"Best to stay still, for now, Inspector." He said, eyes wide with concern. "Mr. Holmes went to get the doctor."

The doctor? Would Doctor Watson even be up at this hour? Would he even come? True, he had tagged along on a few of Sherlock's cases since that first (not this one, thankfully), but surely there were better options.

We weren't that far from Baker Street, I realized. I also realized I was cold. And wet. And thinking was making my head throb even worse.

I forced myself to look up at Gregson. He was still far too pale, and his left arm-the one that wasn't on my shoulder- hung limply. Had he been injured too?

Following my gaze, the Inspector forced a smile. "I'm fine, except for my shoulder." He explained. "You caught the worst of it. Mr. Holmes may have injured his wrist." He supplied. "They should be back soon. Holmes said you have to stay awake until then."

How bad was it? I couldn't sit up, could barely move without the pain making me nauseous. My head hurt, my ribs ached, actually, most of my body hurt. And Gregson was scared; there was no denying that.

Suddenly the doctor was kneeling over me, feeling for a pulse, muttering that he wished he had some light. "No, you did the right thing in not moving him, Holmes." He threw the assurance over his shoulder as he began poking and prodding to find the extent of my injuries.

I clenched my teeth and tried not to utter a sound as he worked, instead trying to distract myself by studying the doctor himself.

He looked wide awake, as if he hadn't been sleeping when Sherlock called him, but also didn't have the haggard appearance of one who has been unable to sleep that night. He was fully and immaculately dressed however, furthering the impression that he had already been awake when Sherlock had arrived.

He moved swiftly, purposefully, and his entire countenance was both deadly serious and yet calmly reassuring at the same time. I wondered distractedly how he managed that.

Finally he stood, and turned to Sherlock. "He needs to get out of the cold and wet. We should be able to move him now, at least as far as the flat. I can do more for him there."

Sherlock nodded wearily in agreement. The doctor directed him to kneel beside my head as he and Gregson took their positions by my feet.

I never knew if they managed to pick me up or not, for with that first beginning movement the pain overwhelmed me and everything went black.


Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.