Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, be it the movies or the books. I am merely an admirer.

He faintly remembered a figure dressed in an officer's uniform sprinting towards him, before his knees buckled and his world went black.

Constable Clarke reached John Watson seconds after he collapsed and dropped to his knees beside him. He placed a hand on his shoulder and gently shook him.

"Doctor Watson," he called, "Sir, you need to wake up!"

Watson muttered and managed to slide his eyelids open. Still looking hazy, Clarky shook one of his shoulders more roughly, but immediately let go when the doctor cried out in pain. Bright green eyes gazed up at him before moving past him to look around. The three of them were sprawled on the lawn of Silverstone's burning manor, and Clarky knew they needed to move urgently.

"Wha's happened?" Watson slurred.

"You just got out of Lord Silverstone's mansion, Doctor... Mr. Holmes is unconscious."

"Holmes?" Watson asked, raising his head weakly. Blearily, he looked around for his friend, and once he found him he cautiously rolled onto his stomach, wincing as he did so, and crawled towards him.

Upon reaching him, he immediately put two fingers against Holmes' neck whilst putting the other hand underneath his nose. Watson's mind was beginning to wake up, and he could think clearly as he assessed the injuries. Wiping away the blood that was trickling down his face and ignoring the searing pain in his head, he concentrated on diagnosing Holmes.

"Still breathing, but faintly, so carbon monoxide poisoning isn't imminent," he muttered to himself, "Unconsciousness most likely caused by blood loss." As he spoke, he opened Holmes' shirt to examine the long cuts along his chest. He gently probed Holmes' ribs, and found that none were broken, though a few were cracked. Buttoning up his shirt, Watson next inspected the bruises forming on his face, and closely scrutinized the gash on the back of his head. Once he'd finished, he lightly tapped Holmes on the cheek and tried to wake him.

"Holmes," he called, "Can you hear me?" Watson could see Holmes' eyes fluttering behind their lids, and continued to coax him back to reality.

"I know it hurts old boy, but you need to wake up." he said softly.

"Doesn' hurt," the detective whispered, eyes still closed.

"Well then open your eyes." Watson teased.

"Can't. 'm tired."

"All these excuses." Watson muttered quietly.

"I heard tha'" he said. Finally, the brown eyes opened and Watson smiled comfortingly at him.

"Can you sit up?" Watson asked.

"'Course I can." Holmes answered. He got halfway between lying down and sitting before gasping and falling back to the ground, eliciting another wince as his head hit the grass.

"Stubborn idiot." Watson said and gently raised his friend into a sitting position whilst watching him closely. Holmes noticed this and rolled his eyes.

"I'm not about to catch on fire." He said without realising the irony of the situation.

It was Watson's turn to roll his eyes and he looked behind him at Clarky, who was stood a few metres away, and asked him to help him get Holmes up. Together, the two men had Holmes standing on shaky legs and leaning heavily against Watson.

"Do you think you could call a cab?" Watson asked, fighting the dizziness that had returned as he'd stood.

Clarky turned around, gazing at Silverstone's driveway, before facing Watson and Holmes.

"There's already a hansom waiting for us." he answered.

Watson nodded and slipped an arm around Holmes' waist, whilst placing Holmes' arm across his shoulders. Slowly, he moved them both across the lawn, Clarky leading the way, and eventually reached the road. It was a little difficult getting into the cab, but soon enough Holmes and Watson were sat on one side, with Clarky on the other. Without speaking to the driver, the hansom began moving and soon they were on the main road travelling to some unknown destination.

"Mycroft's?" Holmes asked, eyes scrunched closed against the pain.

"Yes, sir. Your brother sent me."

"How did he know we were here?" Watson asked.

"Probably some form of telepathy." Holmes muttered, no sarcasm in his voice. Watson noticed the change of tone, and only now saw that Holmes' was battling a very large headache.

"Do you feel nauseous?" he asked.

"Why would I?" Holmes asked sardonically.

Watson ignored the jibe, "I'm serious, Holmes. You inhaled a lot of smoke, and I'm sure the gash on your head doesn't help. Put your head between your knees." he said.

"I'm not doing that." Holmes answered stubbornly.

Well then I'm letting you explain to Mycroft why his carriage is covered in vomit."

Holmes quickly ducked down.

"What did Lord Silverstone want?" Clarky asked them.

"He wanted Catherine Collins' engagement ring. Did he tell you why?" Watson directed this last question at Holmes, who spoke from between his legs.

"It's a key that will unlock a volt which holds the designs of all the buildings that currently are housing royals and world leaders."

Watson and Clarky stared at him in shock.

"Why?" Watsons stuttered.

"Oh, it's simple really. Apparently, it's because 'this world is wrong'."

Watson raised his eyebrows. "Who would've thought the man had morals?" he muttered.

"Mmm." Holmes said in agreement.

"What sort of key?"

"Haven't the faintest." Holmes lied.

Soon the hansom stopped, and Clarky looked apologetically at Watson and the slumped form of Holmes.

"Erm, Mr. Holmes senior has asked that I report back to him." he admitted.

Holmes said nothing, but waved his hand at him. Watson nodded at the constable as he left and went to report to Mycroft.

The carriage continued travelling and Watson addressed Holmes.

"Do you feel any better, or worse, for that matter?"

"'m fine." he mumbled.

Watson sighed. "Just answer my question, for once, Holmes."

Holmes sighed also. "My ribs hurt. That's it."

Watson nodded, sensing that Holmes was finished with this conversation, but his doctor instincts were overriding him, so he continued to prod.

"What else, Holmes?" he asked, knowing he hadn't been given a full answer.

"Nothing. I'm fine." The detective muttered.

"Holmes, your head is–"

"I said I'm fine!" Holmes shouted, raising his head from his knees to glare at him. "I am trying to concentrate and I cannot think clearly with you constantly badgering me with petty questions! Dear Lord, can't you just keep quiet for a few minutes?"

"You may not have a 'few minutes'! You may not be concerned for your own welfare, but I am!" Watson shot back, "You have no idea of the amount of times that I think you've died on me, whether from initial damage or from the after effects, and Goddammit, I cannot lose you again!" He hadn't meant to say that last part, and quickly averted his gaze to the window so he would not see Holmes' condescending look. However, nothing prevented him from hearing the 'harrumph' that the detective made as he too looked out of his own window.

Neither of them spoke for the remainder of the journey, and an hour later they arrived at their destination. The two of them stepped out of the hansom and it soon drove away, leaving them staring at what seemed to be a warehouse. Both of them visibly shuddered as memories flooded back, and Holmes suspected that Mycroft was most probably making a tongue-in-cheek reference to the night Holmes had plainly let go of his emotions. He would have to have words with him later.

As they made their way towards the warehouse, the only difference to this one from the last one they had been in was this building had only just been abandoned, the new wood and intact windows showing that it was not old and decaying. As they entered the small entrance, the long room was filled with long, metal containers reaching all the way across the floor, creating an impossible maze for anyone who should venture between the narrow gaps.

Wordlessly, Holmes made his way upstairs, and Watson followed suit, blinking away the dizziness that came with every step. Once there, they were greeted with a horizontal corridor reaching from one end of the room to the other, and housing three doors along one side. Holmes walked towards the nearest one and stepped into the room. Inside was a wooden desk and chair, and three thick afghan blankets spread lazily on the cold ground. Watson left Holmes there and went to inspect the other rooms. Inside the next was a small kitchenette, with a wooden table in the middle and a black stove towards the back. The last room provided the bathroom, complete with a tin bath, washbowl, a stool and a tall mirror propped against the wall. Watson entered the bathroom and went to one of the cupboards. He opened it and rummaged around inside until his hand clasped an old cloth, bandages, a needle and thin string. He stuffed the objects in his pocket and, picking up the washbowl as he did so, left the bathroom and quickly went downstairs. Exiting the warehouse, Watson looked along the street until his eyes fell upon a water pump outside a house.

Returning to the warehouse, he carefully and slowly made his way back up the stairs and into the first room. Holmes was gazing out of the window, most likely ignoring him, but Watson paid him no attention and placed the washbowl on the floor next to the desk. He noticed out of the corner of his eye Holmes turn and subtly watch him, but again Watson carried on with his task. He drew the chair from the desk and placed it in the middle of the room. He moved the washbowl across to the chair with his foot, sloshing water about as he did so, and spun to face Holmes' back.

"Holmes." he called. Holmes grunted in response.

"Holmes." he said more firmly, causing the detective to twist.

"Sit." he pointed to the chair. Holmes scoffed and faced the window.

"SIT!" Watson shouted, trying not to smirk as he saw Holmes jump. Like an animal with his tail between his legs, Holmes dragged his feet across the floor and reluctantly sat down.

"Thank you." Watson said sarcastically. He took the cloth out from his pocket and dunked it in the cold water. Ensuring it was thoroughly clean, he rinsed out the excess water and began to dab at the wound on Holmes' head. He noticed the hiss that came from Holmes' lips, but decided not to damage the man's pride by commenting on it. Holmes kept his eyes on Watson, glaring at him as he drew out a needle and string and began to stitch the wound together. He said nothing and continued to scowl as the doctor began to undo his shirt and applied the bandages around his ribs, ensuring they were tight and supportive.

Once he was finished, Watson cleaned the cloth and needle, and silently picked them up and left the room. Holmes remained on the chair, and heard Watson enter a room a few doors down. He sighed, and placed his head in his hands, rubbing the tiredness out of his eyes. He hadn't meant to shout earlier. Watson had managed to somehow save them both from a burning building, and he repays him by yelling at his concern? He was going to have to do something about his temper. He was suddenly interrupted in his thoughts by a sharp yelp, followed by a splash, from down the corridor, and he was up in an instant, rushing across the top floor to the bathroom.

When he entered he saw a pale-faced Watson throwing contents that Holmes couldn't see from the washbowl out of the window. When he turned and saw Holmes, he smiled sheepishly.

"Threw up." he explained

Holmes mouthed a silent 'Oh', before frowning, "Why?"

"I – er – I managed to put my shoulder back in its socket."

"You alright?"

"I'm fine."

"Your head's bleeding."

"My–?" Watson span to examine himself in the mirror, and cursed when he noticed the trickle of blood running down his face. He bent to pick up the cloth, but hesitated when it hovered over the dirty washbowl. Holmes stepped forward.

"I'll clean it." he suggested.

Watson smiled his appreciation, but refused, leaving the room and entering five minutes later with a washbowl full of water. He stooped to pick up the cloth again, but Holmes snatched it before he could.

"Let me," he said, "Sit down," he gestured to the stool.

Watson tried to grab the cloth and opened his mouth to argue, but Holmes moved it out of his reach and cut him off.

"Sit!" he raised his voice, mimicking Watson's earlier words. The doctor huffed and sat on the stool, and allowed Holmes to clean his wound. He hesitated as he reached for the string, and Watson saw this as an opportunity to stop him.

"It's alright, Holmes, it's not that deep." he assured.

"You were thrown against a wall and then hit with the hilt of a knife."

Watson could think of nothing to say to this.

Holmes smirked and picked up the needle. He fluently threaded the string through Watson's skin and soon had the wound closed tightly shut. Watson looked in the mirror to see the stitches and raised his eyes in surprise at the tidiness of it.

"I'll make a doctor of you yet, Holmes." he said as he left the bathroom and returned to office. Holmes smiled and followed. When he entered the room Watson was already laying out two of the blankets. Night had approached quickly, and Holmes' pocket watch told him it was eleven o'clock. To think that it had only been twenty-four hours since Clarky had first appeared on their doorstep unknowingly drugged.

Holmes moved over to the window and looked outside. The streets were quiet with only a few couples walking home, most probably from a trip to the theatre, and the lamplighter was steadily illuminating each road. No sign of any assassins.

"Holmes?" Watson called. He was already lying on the floor with the heavy blanket draped over him. "Are you planning on sleeping tonight?"

"Doubt it. Someone needs to keep a look out, just in case. Not you Watson," he added as Watson sat up and began to remove the blanket. "God knows you need to sleep." he muttered.

Though still unsatisfied with this arrangement, Watson lied down and closed his eyes.

When he awoke, he was on his own. It was still dark, but Holmes had left the room, and the blanket beside him had not been touched. What could he possibly doing in the middle of the night?

"Holmes?" he called out warily, "Where are you?"

When there was no answer, Watson quietly snuck out of his blanket and padded in his socks across the room. He pressed his ear to the door, and his heart plummeted when he heard a voice he did not recognise, followed by the strained voice of Holmes. It sounded as though this man was threatening him, and Watson wasted no time in flinging open the door and brandishing his revolver.

Confirming his fears, there was indeed a man there, but as soon as he saw Watson he had roughly spun Holmes round to face the doctor and put a gun to his head. Holmes was on his knees and was steadily watching him with a warning look in his eyes, urging him not to do anything rash.

"One more step, an' 'e gets it." the stranger rasped.

Watson held up his hands, "I'm not going to do anything, I'm just–" Involuntarily, he took a tiny step forward, and the man panicked. With a loud flash, the crack of the gun went off and reverberated around his ears. Watson cried out, and sprinted towards the slumped figure of Holmes. The man had mysteriously vanished, leaving just him and the detective.

When Watson reached his friend, it was with a broken heart that he reached out and rolled the cold body onto its back. Lifeless eyes gazed up at him, and he couldn't help but let out a sob. The look of betrayal on Holmes' features ripped at his heart, and the echo of the gunshot continued to taunt him, Holmes' blood on his hands burning on him like a cruel fire.

"NO!" he started upright and searched about him in a panic. Tears streamed down his face, but he made no noise as his elevated breathing increased when again, he saw the blanket with no occupant.

Suddenly a pair of hands gripped his arms and he jumped violently, but calmed somewhat when he saw the very concerned face of Holmes swim into view. The same hands cupped his face and forced him to focus on those brown eyes, all the while muttering words of comfort that Watson could not hear. That damned echoing of the bullet ricocheted around his head and he couldn't shake it away. The tears continued to fall down and over Holmes' hands, but he had no way of stopping them.

"H-Holmes," he stuttered. "I t-thought... he s-shot.. it was t-too fast... I couldn't–" Holmes shushed him and ran his thumb along his cheek soothingly, but Watson wouldn't calm. He was still breathing far too quickly and his eyes were out of focus as if he were reliving the nightmare. Holmes moved his hands down to his arms and gripped him tightly, but nothing could shake the doctor from his reverie.

"Watson. Watson!" he gently shook the doctor as his breathing soon turned to hyperventilation, and began to panic when nothing would soothe him. One method entered his head, but he was cautious to use it. The outcome was too risky, and he didn't want to forfeit their friendship. Still, it was known to have the best effects and most people did it in these situations, but again, he couldn't gauge what Watson's reaction would be and he didn't want the doctor thinking any less of him. All this entered his mind as a steady flood of tears fell down Watson's face and the breathing reached its maximum. Pride be damned, Holmes thought.

He hugged him.

Holmes could feel Watson stiffen immediately in his grasp, but on the plus side the hyperventilating had stopped. He closed his eyes in anticipation, and almost breathed a sigh of relief when he felt Watson's arms slowly wrap around his waist. His breathing was still hitched though, and he could feel him shaking in his arms, so he slowly rubbed his back up and down and muttered comfortingly. After a few minutes Watson's breathing returned to normal and the doctor rested his head on Holmes' shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Nonsense," Holmes replied, "It's hardly your fault."

He was beginning to see why people did this. Though he would always prefer to stay solitary, he had to admit the embrace calmed him too. Eventually, the two pulled apart, and Watson gave an awkward smile. Before either of them could say anything, however, a muffled bang from downstairs alerted the two to the fact that someone had just entered the warehouse.

TBC

A/N: Again, I know this isn't the most exciting of chapters, but it's got to get worse before it gets better, right. I was a little unsure as to whether I should include the 'hug scene', but I imagined myself in Holmes' position and that would be the only thing I would think to do. However, I do know that it is Sherlock Holmes we're talking about, so feel free to tell me if you think he or any other characters were out of character. Please review, you know how much I love reading them, and thanks to those who have also favourited or alerted ;)