I HATE FORMATTING!

Zan: You are awesome and are the recipient of 1000 brownie points!

An: LOL, I get lazy myself. Still, brownie points! But only 700. Sorry about the flow thing, but I'm having issues w. the formatting business. I have an idea on how to fix it this time around…

Igbogal: Wow, thanks! I took a bit from House for chapter 7, but the way I see it, House took from Sherlock Holmes. House, Holmes; Wilson,Watson; Moriarty…well, the writers weren't even trying by then! I can't believe House's shooter is named Moriarty…well, I'm off topic! Anyway, thanks for the lovely review!

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Andrew eyed the samples suspiciously, as though it were a living entity. "Couldn't I just mug myself with chloroform? Same thing, right?" Feet propped on the table, he read the pamphlet while keeping the sample at a safe distance. "If I'm not careful, you'll mug me. Wouldn't put it past those medical Frankensteins." He glanced at his watch and did the math: he'd have to take the pill in the near future if he wanted to wake up on time and considering the fact that he couldn't operate properly under the influences of exhaustion, the pros outweighed the cons. Andrew threw back the pill and flopped on the couch. His last conscious thought was, "I had better wake up tomorrow morning."

Next he knew, Andrew was exclaiming "Son of a bitch!" for no readily apparent reason. Then it hit him - literally. A solid object rammed itself into his stomach, leaving him breathless and gasping for air. Fighting the medication, he forced his eyes open and struggled to focus his vision. Two large, dark figures; one armed, the other adequately dangerous with his fists. "Who are you and what do you want!"

They snickered and the unarmed man noted, "Andrew Holmes, the famous detective wants us to explain to him!"

The other: "Heh, ironic."

Holmes, though a mean fighter, knew when he was outmatched. Two fully conscious mean verses a half-conscious one - terrible odds. "Take what you want and leave."

The men started toward him. "It's your life we want, Mr. Holmes."

"That'll be a problem, since I've come rather attached to it. I've had it my whole life."

"Smartass, this one. Cut him nose to navel!"

Holmes heard the click of a butterfly knife swinging open and knew he was done. His eyes were slowly adjusting, but the man had started for him and Holmes only had about fifteen seconds to formulate a plan. Holmes reached for the blanket and flung it in the air, buying himself the extra time to nail the attacker in the groin and slip in for a leg sweep. Surprised, the attacker fell like a ton of bricks and with a sharp whack to a pressure point on the wrist, the knife flew out of his hand and skidded across the floor. The other man was sharp and anticipated Holmes' moves. Playing on the Andrew's apparent blindness, the man pocketed the knife without being seen. He came from behind, and as Andrew whirled around, the man cracked him across the face. Holmes couldn't react fast enough as the man reached into his pocket, and in one deft move, carved a slash across Holmes' face.

Holmes let out a startled hiss. He thought the man had blinded him with the last slash, but he wiped the eye and realized blood was dripping into his vision. This discovery came too late, however. Heavy, quick footsteps meant that the men were escaping and there wasn't a whole lot he could do about it in his condition. He was losing blood quickly, so he grabbed a rag from the kitchenette, hopped into his car, and hoped that the adrenaline didn't wear off until he got to the emergency room.

Yet another late night for Doctor Watson. As a general practice doctor, Watson always figured that he would have a regular nine to five: ear infections and other mundane activities, but with a stack of charts in front of him, he started having doubts. Ten O'clock and he hadn't gotten a chance to start on them. Broken bones, the flu, and an inconveniently placed Lego - the ER was a hopping place earlier that evening and chronic understaffing had him on duty tonight.

Cup of coffee, loosened tie, lab coat…somewhere else and he finally got cracking on the laborious process. "A distraction. I would sell my soul for any distraction."

"Hey Watson, you busy?"

"Oh thank God, I was just wanting an excuse to stop charting." As he was finishing his thought on the paper, a drop of blood covered it, causing Watson to look up. "Holmes! What happened to you!"

Holmes was indeed a sight to be seen. A deep, bloodied gash on the right cheek and a smaller one over the eye, purple and blue contusions, and a badly mangled right fist. He was hunched over - most likely due to a punch to the stomach, though it could have been a kidney punch. "Hired a hooker. They get so feisty when you point our their herpes. Patch me up and I'll tell you along the way."

"Yeah, sure, follow me."

In exam room one, Holmes held an ice pack to his face as Watson stitched. "So you woke up to these guys hitting you?"

"Yeah and technically, this is your fault."

"Whatever."

"I was sleeping and the next thing I know, I'm being pummeled by Moron McHugepipes. I'm not even sure where else they got me. I just know that now everything hurts."

"I'm going to make sure there's no internal damage once I'm finished here." Watson stuck his tongue out in concentration.

"I'm fine." Holmes gritted his teeth and hissed in pain.

"Yeah? It'll be a lot less fun when you need to give a bloodied stool sample."

"Carry on, then."

"Any reason?"

"For bloody stool? I'd rather keep away from bowel movement conversation."

Watson broke concentration long enough to fix him with a glare. "For the beating."

He gave a tiny shrug, being careful of hurting himself. "No idea. I should call Sabina first thing tomorrow."

"Is she cute?"

Holmes rolled his eyes. "I tell you that I almost died tonight and you're worried about getting laid?"

"If I cared that much, I wouldn't have gotten married. And I was thinking of you. Maybe you and her…move that ice pack a second."

Andrew gave a dignified snort. "You have got to be kidding. I mean, sure she's cute - five foot six, probably about 125 pounds, blonde hair, blue eyes, proportionately built. But she's a writer and I'm a cop."

"Detective," Watson corrected.

"Right, detective. Still…."

"I've heard all your excuses before and I'm not going to let you be alone the rest of your life."

"There's no spark there. There's a big nothing."

Watson finished the last of his stitches and looked him square in the eye. "You don't allow yourself to feel. You can't love if you have this hardened cop attitude. You're a detective now - your line of work is safer. Give it a go. She says no and you haven't lost, but she says yes and you can at least have a bit of fun. Promise me you'll at least think about it."

"If it means that much to you, I guess I can THINK about it."

"It does. Now I'll get to that eyebrow, we'll check for other damages, then I'll bring you to my place and you can take the guest bedroom for the night."

Holmes arched an eyebrow. "And your wife won't mind?"

"Who knows? Hell, she'll deal. She'll probably run screaming at the sight of your face."

"Love the bedside manner."

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A/N: I had originally intended to get further with this chapter, but I'm getting all anxious with it. I've broken the 1,000 word mark, so naturally I have to post. It just wouldn't be me, where it not for ridiculously short chapters. I've already decided this story needs a rewrite, so I'll be lengthening chapters in that phase, but that only comes once I finish. Which looks pretty close to never. On the upside, I know where chapter 9 is going to go and I rarely have a clue, so I'm making progress. Please review!