Sherlock lay on the ground, wavering in and out of consciousness. He could see nothing, nothing at all. He could feel a terrible pain, radiating from his leg, and could also feel a heavy, shaking thing weighing him down. It was pressing down on him, crushing him. He tried to shove it off, but some part of it was attached to him. He tried to speak, but found he couldn't Something was cutting off his windpipe.

Then he finally caught up with the situation, and realised the thing connecting that dead weight to him, and the thing slowly strangling him was one and the same. The thing had fingers. It was a hand. The thing on top of him was a person.

His mind snapped back fully to the present, and he cried out in shock, but it came out as a strangled gurgle. His vision was slowly returning, and he could see blood, a lot of it. It was raining down on him from above. There was a choking, gurgling laugh.

His father. He recognised that laugh. Of course he recognised it. It was that laugh that had gone with beatings, had gone with threats and punishments. He would never forget that laugh. Now he could see the face, twisted into a ghastly smile, a smile of triumph. He's going to win was Sherlock's wild thought. He twisted in the deadly grip, but couldn't control his limbs properly. The father was above him, strength leaving him along with the blood - blood that poured from the gaping hole in his chest and erupted from his lips in a sickly froth. He was laughing and pressing his weight on Sherlock's throat.

Victory was so nearly his.

Sherlock fought ineffectively, the small amount of strength left in his limbs not enough to move the desperate and determined father. His vision was fading again, and his fingernails scraped desperately on the hand that clamped his throat to the floor.

His father had won, and that hurt almost as much as his impending death.


Mycroft was sprinting forward, tossing his gun and umbrella to one side, joining Anderson in a frantic heave to remove the father from Sherlock's feebly twitching body. The grip on Sherlock's throat was tight, every last ounce of strength intent on choking the life out of him. Mycroft grabbed him by the neck, and Anderson grabbed his hands, and together they managed to lever him off an ominously still Sherlock.

"FREAK!" spat the psychopath, blood erupting from his lips in a foul tide. His legs buckled beneath him and he collapsed onto the pavement. John finally managed to find his feet, and stumbled over to flop next to the bloodied detective.

The psychopath laughed, blood gurgling out of his throat. Mycroft stared at him in disgust.

"Too late, big brother," the father croaked, bubbles of blood bursting out the corner of his mouth, "Didn't save him then, and you can't save him now."

Mycroft's face screwed into an expression of pure rage, and his neatly polished shoe crunched on the father's outstretched hand. There was a snapping noise, and the father choked a little. Mycroft bent down and grabbed onto the psychopath's lapels.

"I hope," he spat in the father's face, "that you die a long and horrible death."

The father laughed, long and loud. The string of laughs died away, replace by weak coughing. The psychopath was drowning on his own blood.

Mycroft shoved him away in disgust, and turned to John. John was holding his fingers to Sherlock's neck. His face was blank, and Mycroft squatted down next to his brother.

"How is he?" he asked. John looked up at him. There was a pause, and suddenly John was a fever of activity, pumping down on Sherlock's chest, and placing his mouth on top of his, fingers pinching the high-bridged nose, breathing for him. Mycroft felt his stomach swoop. John placed his hands over Sherlock's still heart.

"Don't- Even – Think - About it." He hissed, and then plunged back in to blow another breath. The lungs filled in response, but not of their own accord. John shook his head.

"Bull - shit." Pump, pump, pump, breathe. No response. No response, god, no response.

"Not – a – fucking – gain." Pump, pump, pump, breathe. Come on.

"Come - on - Sherlock." Pump, pump, pump breathe. Just breathe. Just bloody breathe.

John was growing desperate. Mycroft was going to intervene, in that second, that pause in his activity, when he knew John had reached his limit. He could take over, let John sit aside. God knows they had all had enough exertion to last. John looked as if he were close to fainting, and Mycroft started to speak.

But John was already pumping the thin chest again. Tears were running down his face. Last time Sherlock had lain, dead on the ground, and John hadn't been able to do anything about it. Or at least, Sherlock had seemed dead. But this time, John wasn't going to let him die, wasn't going to let him go. He would save him, him, personally. Dr John Watson, a lost man who'd been saved from a horrible, boring life by the world's only consulting detective, his best friend. This time it wasn't faked. This was real. No-one, no psychopath, no gun-wielding maniac, no umbrella wielding government official, however well-meaning was going to stop him. This was his friend, right here, right now, and Sherlock needed his help.

He was nearing the limit. He could feel his limbs shaking. Lestrade was next to him, face white and terrified. Sally had her arm around his shoulder, steadying him. Greg still hadn't fully recovered from the blow to the head. Anderson was holding the psychopath still. The father's jerking movements were growing weaker. He was laughing, and laughing as John tried desperately to resuscitate his son. Foam was gathering at the edge of his lips like he was a mad, rabid dog. Blood was welling up his throat, from his ruined lungs.

There was a loud, retching cough.

But it wasn't from the father.

John cried out in relief, as Sherlock's eyes widened, and he sucked in huge, gulping breath. John collapsed onto his chest, energy spent. Sherlock coughed for a little longer, grabbing onto his throat, the memory of the father's hands still lingering there. His vision slowly restored itself from it's previous blurred shambles, and he looked around. Greg was pale and shaken, but the relief on his face blazed through the darkness. John was crying on his chest. Sally and Anderson even looked relieved. Mycroft was just watching him.

Sherlock let his head rest on the pavement, and he placed a hand on John's shaking shoulder.

"You're late." He said accusingly to Mycroft. His voice was soft and rasping.

"You didn't know I was coming." Mycroft replied, a relieved smile breaking over his face.

"Yes I did." Sherlock said weakly, "Of course I did. I'm not stupid, you know."

"Who'd have guessed?" John said, his voice muffled by the scarf and folds of coat. He felt Sherlock's hand squeeze his shoulder, and the relief was almost too much for him to bear. He sat back up, smiling widely at Sherlock. Sherlock raised himself onto and elbow, and grinned.

"I'm just bleeding to death here," he said sarcastically, but the effect was ruined by his smile, "If you don't mind."

"Not at all," John said in reply, and started to staunch the horrible wound on Sherlock's leg. There was a lot of blood, but John didn't think it was life threatening. It was bad, but right now, John was more focused ont he fact that his firend was alive. Sherlock lay back, eyes closed, tired relief playing over his face.

Lestrade had tears on his cheeks, but he managed to choke out, "I told you it would have been smarter to stay behind."

Sherlock closed his eyes, fear and pain and a near-death experience sapping his strength.

"Yes, well. We got him in the end, right?"

They all turned to look at the psychopath, now a crumpled figure on the ground. He wasn't laughing anymore. His eyes were glassy, lips still stretched in that vindictive, ghoulish smile. Blood dripped from the mouth corners. Mycroft leant over and pressed his fingers into the nape of the man's neck.

"Yes," he said quietly, "We got him."


A/N: Thanks for your comments. I wasn't sure if anyone would like bad ass Mycroft from chapter 11. It was a little leap of the imagination… But hey, they're brothers. It's as close as they get to brotherly love. Defending your brother from a psychopath. It has some merit.

But, of course, only after your brother's been shot. Not before. That would just be embarrassing.

There will be more chapters, in which little details will be explained… like how he got on the roof…just wait.

I'm loving the reviews [ hint hint, leave me one ;D ]

Please give me your opinion. Just anything you feel like saying, even 'Wow that was totally crap you suck.'

Well, no, because it's supposed to be constructive criticism. Oh well.

Oh, and quick warning, you may not get another chapter for a while. I mean, you might. But you also might not.

-JC