Chapter 9: Ministering Angel

Sherlock closed his eyes tight, his ears ringing.

Nope. Even behind his eyelids, he was conscious of the spinning of the earth beneath him and all around him. The loud noise of the party and the music was no help, either. His shirt was damp with sweat and sticky with blood. He couldn't even lift his arms because of the heavy chains. He moaned, feeling incredibly ill, the beer's unpleasant taste lingering on his tongue. Why did people like beer, anyhow? It tasted like liquid bread.

Sherlock knew that he'd lost a lot of blood. He didn't need to live with a doctor to know this was detrimental to his (already poor) health, even though he did in fact live with a doctor. He also didn't need to live with a doctor to know that blood loss—a lot of blood loss, particularly on an empty stomach—was dangerous, and could mean an end to his life. He thought back to the noodle Moriarty had forced him to swallow, the toast left uneaten, and whined hungrily like a small child desperate for dinner. This whine very clearly begged: "feed me! I'm so hungry, I could die! Feed me! Feed me, please!" Sherlock knew all too well that the whine was meant to communicate these words. He thought them in his head even as the babyish sound passed his lips, and he felt tears come to his eyes.

Now, in later days when Sherlock was well again, he would look upon this moment with shame, thinking it a weakness. This self of later on would be grateful no one had seen him so pitiful—particularly not John, whose compassionate heart would have broke long ago, at the sight of his best friend's peril. At least, not—

"Sherlock,"

Sherlock lifted his weary head, more upon feeling the breath of another human being at his ear than the sound of his name. He opened his eyes, blinking away tears, to see Rose straddling his lap. Sherlock didn't have the decency or strength to feel uncomfortable about her rather sexual pose, nor did he have the desire to question it, as perhaps he should have. He only tilted his head back against the stone wall, swallowing thickly, his throat dry from dehydration. "Rose," he whispered at last, his eyes closing from fatigue.

Rose stroked his cheek. "Yes. I'm here. I'm so sorry, Sherlock. He's destroyed you. They all have." All these words were said against his ear, soft when the music was too loud. Sherlock made himself focus on her words, and this helped to ease his suffering—at least inside the deep depths of his mind palace.

When she began to cry, Sherlock lifted a trembling hand and placed it on her shoulder. Perhaps, a part of his overactive mind thought, he was beginning to feel pity or friendship towards her. More likely, he thought another second later, it may have been that dreaded heroism many claimed he had. Sherlock did not think of himself as a hero, did not appreciate others (John) thinking so, either. Heroes were not detached from emotion. They felt compassion, empathy, and were sympathetic to the human condition.

Sherlock did not like to admit that he was capable of feeling, never mind such dreadfully heroic emotions. But back to a scene in progress.

"Don't cry," his hoarse voice was of little comfort, but he was able to turn his head towards her ear so she could hear him over the noise. He observed, perhaps idly or lazily, that most if not all the patrons—Moriarty himself included—were sloshed and would not remember anything. Good. He could use his power over the girl to get the information he required. "Don't cry, please. I can't…deal with tears." The pain in his broken ribs still sometimes gave him trouble with breathing, but at least he could talk without gasping for breath every third word or so.

Rose chuckled and lifted her head from where she'd laid it on his shoulder. She wiped the tears from her eyes and smiled slightly at him. Leaning forward, she spoke: "I wish I could help."

"You…can," Sherlock breathed. "Tell me: am I still bleeding badly?"

Rose looked him over—no doctor, but she'd have to do—and shook her head. "Some cuts on your chest are, but not too badly."

Sherlock blinked slowly and sighed shakily in relief. "Good. See? You…you're helping." He coughed, wincing at the pain shooting through his chest.

"I don't like the look of this party," Rose whispered. "They're all sloshed. Somebody will do something stupid, get themselves killed."

Sherlock smiled and closed his eyes again. "Good. The less…I have to deal with, the…better."

Rose ran a hand through his curls. "I really like you, Sherlock. I don't want you to die."

Sherlock shook his head slowly. "Where's Mic?"

Rose seemed hurt. "Giggling like a maniac with Smithers."

"You'd…better go back," Sherlock shifted, trying to get comfortable. "I need…rest. Can't…think, can't do much of anything."

Rose sighed. "Okay."

"You'll be safer…" Sherlock managed to choke out before the blackness took him under.

He could never be quite sure if Rose had heard him or not.

Short chapter! Don't hate me! I promise more is coming! You people…-SH