Sherlock Holmes was a practical man. As such, he knew that one day death would find him and take him from the mortal plain. He always expected, were he not to outlive the man, that John Watson would be the one to watch him go. Holmes could not help but smirk in dark amusement when instead of Watson's piercing blue gaze, it was instead the dark eyes of the stalwart Yarder that gazed into his as the famed detective's blood covered the cool cobblestones upon which he lay.

Loyal Clarky. He was the only Yarder that Holmes could bring himself to be summoned by; all others were ignored outright. Some were driven mad by the detective's methods and sharp tongue. Only Clarky could endure Holmes at his best, and his inevitable worst, second only to Watson.

The events that had led to Holmes bleeding to death in the street with Clarky at his side were simple. Inspector Lestrade had sent Clarky to summon Holmes, and Watson had surprisingly decided to accompany the detective, their dual curiosity aroused at the little that Clarky had been able to tell them. A young woman butchered, the third in as many weeks. Watson had grown tired of examining dead women, so he trailed after Holmes as he had done so many times in the past. Their quarry had stayed at the scene, or perhaps returned. A question to ask of the man, if Watson could catch him.

He had spooked like a rabbit, perhaps not expecting Holmes to sniff him out so easily. The chase had already gone for several minutes when the shot had been fired. Holmes had been hit and immediately winded, but he had goaded Watson on, reassuring his friend that his injury was minor. The good Doctor had charged onwards, the chase in his blood, assured that Holmes had only been grazed by the bullet that was now killing him. Clarky, not too far behind, had been just in time to catch Holmes as he dropped, blood already drenching the detective's shirt.

So, this is to be my end, Holmes thought as Clarky looked down at him with alarm flashing in his dark eyes. Studying the world, seeing all it had to offer, was Holmes's one gift, and his curse. He used that talent now to study Clarky, watching him with an intensity that was unnerving at best, and downright chilling at worst. The Yarder, aware of the scrutiny, narrowed his eyes in minor annoyance before his head snapped up at a sound not far away. The red in his carefully trimmed moustache flickered like fire, giving away the Irish in his blood. His face, shadowed slightly under his helmet, was almost serene, but the taut lines gave away the concern and anger radiating through his body. The slight tremor in his hands where they cradled the mortally wounded Holmes spoke to a feeling of helplessness. His overall stance, hunched, watchful, revealed the Yarder's protective nature, a trait that had no doubt led to his chosen career.

The biggest shock awaiting Holmes was what lay in those piercing dark eyes when they returned to his own. Within Clarky's watchful gaze was a sincere pain, the edges lined with grief, and a certain sorrow as to the detective's fate. Holmes caught his breath, taken aback by the emotion in Clarky's eyes, not noticing the pain that radiated through his chest as he did. The clack of boots on stone brought Clarky's head up again, and from the corner of his gaze, Holmes saw a rookie Yarder stumble to a stop a few feet away. The senior Yarder instantly barked a command at the shocked rookie, and even Holmes trembled at the intensity in Clarky's tone.

"Get the Doctor, now!" Clarky's Adam's apple bobbed as he spoke, and his voice brought the rookie's gaze from the bloody Holmes to his superior.

"Sir, he's fairly far ahead. I don't think I'll be able to catch him." The rookie's voice shook, and his entire body trembled anxiously. The younger man jolted in shock when Clarky half-rose, laying Holmes gently upon the cobblestones as his dark eyes flashed with Irish wrath. Even the detective was surprised at the harsh tone of the usually unflappable Yarder's voice.

"Then you'd best run as if the hounds of hell were after you, because if John Watson catches wind that you stood here blithering about while Sherlock Holmes bled to death, he'll kill you himself. Now MOVE OUT!" Clarky snarled, his eyes blazing beneath the edge of his helmet. The rookie Yarder shot away like a ball from a cannon, indeed running like hell was following him. Clarky's gaze returned to Holmes, and he winced as he examined the detective's injury more closely. Holmes watched the Yarder's gaze turn thoughtful, then he shook his head in self-reproach. Holmes spoke without thinking, understanding Clarky had thought of something.

"Clarky. Do it. I'm dead either way." Holmes's voice was weak and ragged but clear. Clarky's eyes returned to his but still he hesitated, needing to put voice to his fears.

"It'll hurt like hell and it could make you worse." Surprising even himself, Holmes reached out, grasping Clarky's hand with the little strength he had left, trembling at the effort.

"As you said, Watson will be most displeased if you do nothing. So, do something. He will not fault you for trying to save me." Holmes and Clarky stared at each other for a long time before Clarky squeezed his hand, gently laying it aside as his gaze went back to Holmes's injury. The Yarder ripped the dark scarf from around his neck, winding it about his hand before pressing down hard on Holmes's wound, laying his other hand across it to add pressure.

Pain exploded in the detective's mind, his eyes rolling nearly all the way back as he weakly tried to scrabble away from the Yarder's pressing hands. He barely heard Clarky trying to reassure him and keep him still as darkness threatened to swallow him. What he heard, quite clearly, was an echo from another time, a familiar voice screaming his name as a waterfront slaughterhouse exploded all around them. Then he fell into the darkness and away from the pain.

"HOLMES!"

A/N: So...the Muse has graced me with this little devil of a story. I recently watched both Sherlock Holmes movies and enjoyed them immensely. I am sad that stalwart Clarky has received so little attention in the world of fanfiction, so this one is for him and for the man who so skillfully portrays him. There are perhaps one to two more chapters brewing. This is not going to be a long, drawn out story. The Muse has other projects that await.

As always, love if you will, hate if you must. I will take whatever you care to dispense.

Until we meet again...

Kani