"And so you see, Watson," Sherlock Holmes said as he wound down one of his long, rambling lectures, "the stories that have given rise to the popular vampire myths we know today can all be explained away by proven scientific principles. All the old legends are just that: legends. Of any of the creatures that sustain themselves by sucking the blood of their victims, none could ever turn a human into such a monster as we fear vampires are. As a matter of fact, what good would it be to a creature to destroy it's own food supply? Only humans are so careless, but even at their most reckless it is a certainty that no humans have ever found the secret to eternal life by growing fangs and drinking blood."

Holmes grunted in satisfaction as he obtained a chemical reaction he'd been seeking. "And therefore," he concluded, "we can take it that the reports of a bloodsucking, vampire-like creature killing sailors in dark alleys is pure rubbish fueled by fear and paranoia. Whoever believes the deaths are of supernatural origin should be locked up in Bedlam. When the culprit is found, I am certain we will find the deaths have been committed by a human hand with the wounds dressed up to play into superstition. Even Gregson will come to that conclusion without any intervention from me. Vampires are nothing more than just another kind of monster meant to scare children."

Watson said nothing in reply, a fact which Holmes ignored for he did not expect one. His friend didn't always respond to his ramblings, nor did he need him to. Sometimes, it was just nice to have an audience, and Watson was always polite enough to at least pretend to listen to his impromptu lectures. Holmes' entire attention had been fixed on one of his experiments as he'd rambled, and so he hadn't seen the look on Watson's face while he spoke, and didn't until he was finished.

He glanced up as he began to clean a beaker, and his hands stilled when he caught sight of his friend for the first time in... well, he didn't know. Half an hour? More? Too long. Why hadn't he glanced up before? Why hadn't he realized something was off in the room?

"Watson?" he called, and his voice which had been so sure during his speech was suddenly strained and cracking. "Alright, old man?"

He asked on instinct, but it was clear Watson wasn't: his face was pale and his eyes, which were aimed in Holmes' direction, were vacant. His mouth was hanging open slightly, and his left hand was extended as if he'd been about to get up and ask for help but was struck motionless mid effort. Worst of all, his right hand hand was clutching at his chest oddly, right above his heart.

"Dammit," Holmes breathed, and he dropped the beaker mid-wipe as he rushed around his chemistry table so quickly he struck his thigh against the hard, sharp, wooden edge. He heard glass shattering behind him and vaguely knew a corrosive acid was now soaking the table, maybe even corrupting his notes and the rug below, but he didn't pay it any mind. Pain shot through his leg, enough to nearly make him stumble, but he didn't waste brain space on that, either. Not when Watson needed him.

Sherlock Holmes had never seen someone have their heart stop, but it was common enough that he knew the basic symptoms, and he could think of no other explanation for what he was witnessing as he looked at Watson. Worse, he wasn't sure he knew what to do to help. Did he know what to do? His thoughts raced, trying to think of something, anything! Hadn't Watson ever told him what to do? He couldn't remember! He disregarded any medical approaches and utilized his own best strategy: he took Watson by the shoulders, shook him, and called his name.

Watson didn't respond, and Holmes pushed away the panic the non-response welled in him. He pushed Watson gently, making him lie down on the couch where he was seated. He then leaned over his friend's prone body and began to unbutton his collar, quickly running out of things he thought would help.

That was when Watson blinked rapidly and Holmes' could see he was back in his own mind. Holmes didn't have so much as a moment to breathe a sigh of relief, however. Watson's eyes widened, his mouth opened more, and he let out a strangled cry as if he'd woken from a nightmare into hell. He raised both his hands to Holmes' chest, still covered by his heavy chemistry apron, and shoved him with what was an impressive force considering he'd just been immobile.

Holmes, who hadn't been expecting to be pushed and therefore had taken a rather unstable position hovering above his flatmate, fell unsteadily backwards and hit the ground hard. He stayed there, staring at his friend. Watson, in turn, stared back, his eyes wide as if he was looking into the eyes of a killer instead of those of a dear friend. They stayed that way for a long time. Holmes could hear Watson's heavy breathing, see that Watson's hands were trembling minutely. The sight of him made Holmes' gut tighten in odd ways. He wanted to help him, to give him some comfort and restore the real, regular Watson. He wanted to, but he didn't know how. And so he simply sat and stared and waited for the raw fear to leave Watson's countenance.

Finally, Watson's breathing evened out, and a few moments after that he slid off the couch so he was on the ground with Holmes. He reached his hand out and Holmes' took it immediately.

"I'm sorry," Watson said.

Holmes shook his head, took a shuddering breath. "What do we do, Watson?" he asked. "Should we go to the hospital?"

Watson's eyebrows knitted together and he surveyed Holmes intensely in the way that he always did when he was looking for an injury. "Why? Did I hurt you?"

"No, Watson, not for me. For you. Is there anything they would be able to do to help you?"

"No. There's nothing," Watson said with a sad little shrug. "I'll be alright, Holmes."

Holmes swallowed hard. "What do we have to do to make sure it doesn't happen again?" he asked.

"Nothing, Holmes. I told you, I'll be okay."

"But surely there are things we can do," Holmes protested. "I'll stop taking cases, '' he declared, "And we'll eat better, both of us. I've never liked sausage anyway."

Watson turned his head slightly, staring at his friend. "What are you talking about? Why should we stop taking cases? That's absurd. And you love sausage, Holmes, so what are you on about?"

"Well, maybe not give up cases altogether," Holmes said with a shrug, "but isn't that what they say about these kinds of things? Stress and diet? My cases are stressful, so we'll slow down. I'll do whatever it takes, even giving up cases. Even giving up sausage. I promise you I will."

"I think you and I are talking at cross purposes," Watson murmured with a small tilt of his head. "What are you referring to?"

"You're heart failed, Watson. Of course I'm going to take that seriously, especially considering your family history. You won't die of a broken heart, not if I can help prevent it.

Watson shook his head. "Oh. Holmes, I'm so sorry I frightened you," he said, "but that wasn't heart failure… also how did you know my father died that way?"

"That wasn't it? But... you were clutching your chest. Isn't that what they say happens? Due to some arterial failing or similar? If it wasn't your heart, what was that, Watson? Some other condition?"

Watson grimaced. "I suppose it is a condition," he admitted. "It's not widely recognized or studied, however. The prevailing theory at the moment is that it's a physical reaction brought about by non-physical stimuli. It's called 'spontaneous lost memory recovery.' Something like that, at least. Something tonight made me remember an old injury, and I was having a physical response I couldn't control. That's all. I was clutching at the old injury, not at my heart. I really am sorry about all this. I didn't know it would happen."

"Has it happened before?"

"No. Nothing like this. You've... seen everything else." Watson averted his eyes sadly, and his voice was no more than a whisper.

Holmes swallowed hard, knowing Watson was referring to his all-too frequent outbursts and reactions, the kind which were common among those soldiers who had seen combat and yet no one seemed to study in earnest. "And are you referring to the circular scars on your chest?" Holmes asked, partly to change the subject.

"Yes," Watson said slowly, clearly not wanting to discuss it.

Holmes nodded, and reached his other hand out. Watson took it, placed his feet flat on the floor, and the two of them used each other to lift themselves up. Holmes, finally allowing his brain to wander away from a friend in need, hissed in pain as he felt a stinging sensation in his leg. Watson looked down and frowned.

"What happened to you?" he immediately asked.

"Hit it on the chemistry table. Why?" He looked down, too, and realized his trousers were ripped and his leg was bleeding. He must have hit the corner very soundly indeed."It's not as bad as it looks," he said quickly. "It doesn't even hurt." But he could already see the guilt flash across his friend's features.

"Let me help," Watson said. "I'll get my bag."

Holmes didn't argue, cutting away the fabric and letting Watson wash the wound and bandage it. While Watson did, Holmes studied him intently. What could he have said to make Watson so upset? Had it been something he'd said? Or something else? And what were the circular scars on his chest? Holmes had seen them on occasion, but he hadn't gotten a good look because, naturally, he hadn't been trying to get a good look. Why should he? That was Watson's business. Watson hadn't volunteered anything about them, and so Holmes hadn't asked. He'd been curious, of course, because nothing had come to mind as to what could have caused them. There were four of them, spaced out randomly and each about the size of a hay penny. Usually, Holmes would have been able to deduce what had caused a scar, but not with these. It didn't matter, though, because why should it? Holmes had been curious, but he'd let it go. Now, he found he couldn't. What had happened? It still wasn't anyone's business but Watson's, but he asked anyway.

"What are they?" he said as Watson finished the bandage.

"Hmm? What are you referring to?"

Holmes swallowed hard, suddenly uncomfortable. "Nothing," he said quickly, but Watson had already turned away from him after realizing what he wanted to know.

"Watson, I…"

"I'm going to bed," Watson said softly. "Let me know if you need me."

Holmes didn't call after him, just let him go. There was nothing to be done for now; pushing the issue or trying to address it right now wouldn't yield anything positive. So, he simply listened as Watson retreated and then began the arduous task of cleaning his broken and spilled chemistry equipment. He would apologize in the morning, he decided. Hopefully, Watson would be alright in the meantime.