THIS IS THE 'FIRST' MISSING SCENE!

I'm sorry if this disappoints... part of the next chapter isn't in the movie too though.

Hi again. I'm not too sure if this chapter boring... not sure how it turned out really... the medical stuff in here I am DEFINITLY NOT sure of, sorry for any mistakes... please enjoy... I WILL HAVE BETTER MISSING scenes along the story, I just felt this one had to be in it even though it's boring for the story to progress... please do review, otherwise there not much point in writing... thanks. Oh AND what do you want the next chapter to be about? Well the next scene obviously... anyways, leave you interesting and creative reviews!

Rescue IIII

"Lie still Holmes! And don't scratch your wound!"

Sherlock groaned with a roll of his eyes to match his mood. He currently lay in one of the guest at Mycroft's mansion, whilst Watson stood above him, poking and prodding at his injury as he simultaneously complained about Holme's rash actions, the consequences of those rash actions, and the final results of the consequences lead by those rash actions to begin with. Even though the bed he lay on was soft, and comfortable- allowing him the much needed rest he truly deserved, Holme's could think of only so many places he would rather be at this certain moment.

"One last time Holmes! Lie still or I will jab you with the nearest needle! And I don't care what's in it!" he yelled, as he finished examining the wound. Sherlock noted he had a rather concerned look on his face as his eyes trailed of the large slash shaped injury near Holme's shoulder. "Looks like it's deeper than I first thought..." he spoke aloud, but it seemed more as if he had been saying those words to himself and accidently voiced his thoughts. "This is dangerous Holmes. I have no idea how you managed to survive this long, but you're going to have to be very stationary right now or it's going to get worst..." he trailed off, meeting the other's eyes for a moment,

"Doesn't it always?" Sherlock mumbled, sighing in the process. "Well get on with it, will you Watson?" he asked in a rather rushed manner, his tone slightly strained.

"Holmes, are you sure you don't wish for any sedatives? It will be an excruciating process without them..." he looked up and met his gaze once more, urging him to take the better and safer option.

"Honestly, old boy, I'll be fine. I've had worst..." he slightly chocked on his words before playing it off and hoping that Watson didn't see his strange demeanour.

"Holmes! This is not a completion for can go through the most agonizing pain before screaming! It is not some damned contest! If it were I'm sure you'd win anyway, seeing as so you're so familiar with the entire topic!" He cringed at his own words and immediately regretted the harshness at which they were delivered in, yet made no attempt to draw them back.

"Believe me old friend; I've had enough pain and screaming for time being..." Holmes flinched slightly but cleared his throat and stared hard into the doctor's deep eyes. If it was possible Watson regretted his choice of words even more, however made no attempt to apologise.

"I'll begin then. I've cleaned the wound but not completely. I'm going to need to make sure that there are not splinters or dirt embedded into it. Now Holme's, I will not lie to you, this will hurt but not much... well not much compared the rest..." he stopped talking and pulled out some medical equipment, whilst beside him was also a jug of water and a clean cloth.

Watson carefully looked over the wound. Using the surgical equipment owned by Sherlock's own brother, Mycroft, he continued to inspect the wound vigilantly. A few minutes later, after a continuation of poking and prodding, Watson found himself lightly smiling.

"Well, I'm glad to say that there are absolutely no more splinters or dirt, meaning that you're wound is perfectly clean, the final stage of cleansing it would be making sure the outside surrounding skin is also sanitary..." he mumbled, pulling the bright white sterile cloth and light dipping is into the jug of fresh water before dabbing it around the wound itself, making sure that it was absolutely nothing but hygienic. The two didn't bother with lowly conversation and instead settles for a long drawn silence. Soon Watson was finished and the final part of remedying the wound would be complete.

"Wait a minute Holmes, I'm going to need the help of your brother for this since I'll be needing a hand to hold you down." He spoke simply, earning a groan from Holmes, "And yes, before you even bother to ask, he does need to be involved in this, because since you're not taking the painkillers I'll need some help in keeping you from thrashing around too much."

Sherlock just exhaled noisily ad just nodded. He watched as Watson walked over to the room and stepped out the door before gently closing it behind him. Holme's glanced at his wound; he wasn't even sure if it actually needed stitches.

So what... it's deep but it's not that long... hmm... and why must he acquire assistance from Mycroft himself? Holmes could only sigh in answer to his rather logical questions and decided, that whilst Watson was trekking down the mansion that he'd probably get lost anyway and take a good two times the original time of getting back, so he thought to take in his surroundings properly.

He glanced around. The room was large, and quite classy. The wallpaper was a crimson red- he cringed slightly as he thought of the colour- whilst laced with gold at the both the top and the bottom. A grandfather clock lay to the side, made of a dark elegant brown. The bed he lay on had originally dashing gold quilts and sheet made of the finest satin- but to perform the procedure properly- Watson had assured both Sherlock and Mycroft that regular sheets be set due to the comfort of the patient and the fact that he did not want to ruin the fashionable bedding.

Holmes continued to stare around him until he caught sight of a large wardrobe to his right, made of the same wood of the clock opposing it. Other than a clearly over sized window with yet more cherry red and golden curtains illuminated the moonlight, there was nothing more to the otherwise simple room. Holmes had insisted he stay in a regular guest room rather than his brother's own, for he was sure it would have deem too large and exclusive to suit his own taste.

He waited and waited. He was sure at least five whole minutes had passed since Watson's gentle departure and he'd been anticipating his return ever since; but only because his wound, even though had stopped bleeding for the time being, had begun to itch drastically and it was extremely easy to say that it was ticking him off.

Well hurry up Watson... he thought to himself. His will against raising his fingers and scratching the wound was steadily decreasing, whilst his urge to relieve his itching madness was highly rising. He closed his eyes for a moment and replayed all the events that had taken place in the past few days...

His mind wandered as he tried to recall it all, yet once darkness welcomed him, all he could hear was Moriarty's harsh yet slick voice mocking him,

"Who is the fishermen... and who the trout?"

It was as if he could feel all the pain and torture from what the dark, cruel professor had put him through. His eyes snapped open almost instantly at the thought. He clenched his teeth tightly as his hand subconsciously trailed over the painful wound. And for a second, he ignored all the itchiness, all the pain and his thoughts were cleared just to the contemptuous question which played over and over in his head, until-

"Didn't I tell you not to scratch that?"

Watson's apparent voice echoed through his ears as he blocked out all dark thoughts and offered a short poorly presented smile. He saw Mycroft emerge from behind John and give a light hearted yet worried wave and added a smile to go with it.

"Brother, I believe it would be wise to listen to the doctor, after all, he does know what he's doing" his voice flared a little. Both Holmes kept eye contact for a moment- but only a moment, until Sherlock abruptly turned away,

"Well, we should be getting with this then, no?" The humour wavered from his voice but the fake and plastered smile did not however. He sunk further into the bed- if possible- and readied himself. He heard their footstep becoming closer until they were both in his line of sight. He could see that Watson was readying the surgical thread which he now held in his hands after picking up from a small tray nearby, whilst his brother positioned himself in a fitting gap between the head of the bed and the back wall where the window was, and curled his fingers around Sherlock's exposed arms, leaning in only slightly. This prevented him from moving his entire torso all together whilst also giving the doctor enough space to work comfortably on his patient.

"Holmes, are you sure, are you completely positive that you don't want anything to numb the pain?" Watson asked the younger Holmes one last time, hoping that he would miraculously change his mind.

"Positive" was the only respond he got back in return. Sighing softly Watson moved the needle to the top of the stab wound,

"Well, here I go" and with one quick movement, the thread had punctured Sherlock's skin. A sharp, hitched intake of breath was heard as Watson continued. Holme's breathing continued to become gradually more uneven and coarse, however he did not let out a single noise.

Mycroft watched as his younger sibling continued to attempt to fight of what was short to be killer pain, however decided it best not say anything and so did not comment on the situation. His hands held Sherlock in place gently, making sure that he did not move around too much. He watched as Sherlock's hands fisted in the sheets tightly, then unclench slightly, as the same course of movement took place at his teeth. The elder Holme's sibling drew a deep intake of breath himself as he felt Sherlock flinch beneath his touch since Watson as just arrived to a particularly bruised area near the centre.

The only sounds which echoed through the room were the loud, now becoming bothersome, ticking of the antique grandfather clock, the feathery slashes of the thread and needle stabbing into flesh, and Sherlock Holmes uneven breaths.

Mycroft took this time to think. Watson had told him the extent of his more youthful brother's injury. It's was why they had taken so long to get back to him, simply because Mycroft asked well more or so demanded what had happened to Sherlock, and why he was cradling a large hooked and bloodied wound that could have easily been the death of him. The doctor had explained to him, very vaguely, about what events had taken place. He was bothered yet glad that Watson hadn't gone into more detail, as he wasn't sure if he had wanted to hear more of the terrible torture that had occurred, or even listen for more detail concerning Sherlock's tormented screams. This had also lead to him being bothered; since Watson had refused to go into more precise aspects it must have been so much worse than he had let on.

He clicked out of his mind's universe though after some time of both musing and contemplating the given situation.

I'm not going to let Sherly out of my side just yet.

He was no detective; none as good as his brother at least, but didn't need to be one to realise that not only did Sherlock need to rest but also his companions. He had met them abruptly at the door of his mansion, two others being with his younger sibling and the doctor. One was a woman, and the other a man. He was assured that they were the reason that both Sherlock and Watson were alive and well, although not one was that well. Upon their arrival, he had instructed that Sherlock be taken to his room, but then in a small tired voice his younger brother had told him that it simply was his style and that he would prefer someplace simpler. Sherlock's injury was cleaned hazily cleaned out at that present moment before being bandaged. Watson, the woman by the name of Sizma, and the other man whose name he did not catch had bathed and were to sit by the fire or rest in a guest room. Watson had been more hesitant on the idea, yet Mycroft had urged him the Sherly would be fine for now, and that it would be insecure to place a patient's life in a doctor's hands; whom was tired and vulnerable for making mistake at the given minute.

He was slurred from his thoughts when he heard an unmistakable groan and the retreat of a needle from skin. That had taken quite a bit of time, yet felt like it had gone for twice as long...

"All done!" Watson smiled gleefully as Sherlock opened his eyes,

"Thank you old boy" Sherlock returned the smile yet not as eccentric as Watson's was. He nodded in thanks towards his older brother whom nodded in return as announced that he was going to leave so that Sherlock could get some rest whilst Watson packed up his surgical equipment.

"Are you alright Holmes?" the question certainly took him by surprise. His eyes fought to keep open yet Watson seemed as if he took no notice, too engrossed in packing up the medical equipment and essentials.

"In what terms?" he joked with a smirk, ignoring the sigh given to him by the doctor, as if speaking to him in volumes and saying 'You-know-what-I-mean" "Well physically I'm fine, thanks for asking." He turned his head, not willing to answer any more questions but heard,

"What about mentally?"

"What about mentally?" he of course knew what Watson had begun to speak of, but did not feel like sharing.

"Holmes..." he paused, finally finished the equipment. He dragged a wooden chair from the corner of the room which Holme's had surprisingly failed to notice before, and placed it by his bed by the side, "You can talk to me Sherlock..." that had taken him by an even bigger surprise.

"What about?"

"Oh I don't know, you getting torture to near death perhaps! Or maybe the taunting sick twisted game you're playing with some genius psychopath!" John attacked, sarcasm leaking through his tone. Sherlock just lay back and said nothing. He knew Watson was trying to help him, but those we events he did not want to speak of just now... "Or maybe even the death of one Irene Adler."

Holme's eyes snapped open and he stared at Watson with a sharp glare, as if daring him to continue, "That has absolutely nothing to do with you Watson!" he snapped, not meaning to say it as loudly as he did.

"Holmes... I know what she meant to you, and I'm sorry. But you can't just go leaving me out of the loop all the time!" Watson was being sincere, and Sherlock knew that. He knew that Watson only meant good, but at this very moment it was difficult to explain to him the effects of their journey. He silently cringed at the thought but it did not go unnoticed but his friend. "Sherlock, I know how much this has affected you, but..."

"I don't see why you need to ask then Watson. You are perhaps my one true friend, yes that much I know, and perhaps you are more to a brother to me than any of us care to acknowledge, but you must understand that some things are better left unspoken of" he ended, staring deeply into his companion's eyes.

"Holmes. There is a reason I am with you here on some mad goose chase instead of with my new wife at a vacation in Brighton. There is also a reason as to why I am helping, now Holmes, can you guess what that reason is?" he asked him,

"Well honestly old boy, I haven't got a clue as to why. Maybe we can discuss this matter further later... on a brighter occasion, perhaps?"

"No Holmes. That is not the answer. The answer is because yes you are conceivably one of my closest friends, maybe even the closest of them all. And you need to understand that I am not here to save anyone, I am not here to become a hero, but rather because you need my help! Whether you will deny that fact or not is completely up to you, but we both know that it is the truth- well for this case anyway. And whilst I am being of assistance to you I only ask for one thing in return- I do not ask to be back on my Honeymoon with my beautiful wife, I do not ask to become an incredibly rich man by the end, nor do I ask to become the most fortunate. All that I ask of you Holmes is to treat me as you friend, because friends trust each other, and friends tell one another about how they feel...I only wish for you to speak with me when you need to, Sherlock." Watson took a deep breath followed by a sigh. He shifted slightly in the dark wooden chair however made no further move as he waited expectantly for Holmes to reply.

"That is, Watson, doubtlessly true. But you have missed on one very important factor."

"And what factor might that be Holmes?"

"It is that yes, perhaps it is was true friends do, however with that being said, whilst YOU are asking me to share my deepest and most sincere thoughts and outlooks on this journey, I have the right to choose when I do so" he smiled lightly and let out a soft and calm yawn.

"You are unbelievable"

"Why, I shall take that as a compliment. Now, without further or ado, please, leave me to my much needed rest" and with that he closed his eyes and turned his head. All he saw was darkness and he heard defeated retreating footsteps followed by the opening and closing of a door rather abruptly.

Holme's kept his eyes closed as he thought about his friend's words,

All that I ask of you Holmes is to treat me as you friend, because friends trust each other, and friends tell one another about how they feel...I only wish for you to speak with me when you need to, Sherlock...

Bloody doctor, why must he ask of me to reveal all my emotions? Can he not just leave me be... well of course not, its Watson... however I do feel slightly guilty for not enlighten him with my rather morbid thoughts, but I am glad at the same time that I did not. I must not let my feelings get in the way, for they play an extremely hindering and insignificant role in this game.

I do hope that Watson doesn't take it too drastically; after all he should know me at least that well by now.

WATSON

Oh curse that arrogant self-centred scoundrel. Try to help him and he gives you more than enough reasons not to!

Watson cursed as he walked out of the guest room Holmes had been staying in. He walked down the large golden encrusted staircase with the surgical equipment wrapped around in their pack. As he stepped down the last of the staircase he bumped into none other than the older Holme's sibling himself.

"Ahh, doctor Watson, I do hope Sherly did not give you any further trouble upon my departure?" he asked with a light smile, whilst motioning for Stanley, whom stood next to him, to take the medical utensils from Watson's hands.

"Oh, of course not... we just had a talk." Watson answered the best he could without revealing too much.

"Oh, well care for a cup of tea? Your other companions are resting in the free rooms on the upper level." He smiled again, motioning for Watson to move over with him to the side. They walked through a rather large corridor with ancient crimson and silver framed paintings which Watson could only stare at in magnificence. Once they reached the end, there lay what would be called similar to a lounge room. In the middle was a black leather couch, whilst on each of its side matching arm chairs and an ottoman sat in the middle of them. In front of the furniture was a cosy warm fireplace emitting warm and relaxing heat.

They took their seats whilst Stanley served them tea.

"You know doctor... my brother can be rather difficult at times" Mycroft began, "And I do sincerely appreciate how long you've stuck with him on his... journeys. I myself have not seen him for quite awhile and it relaxes me so to know that he has someone like you there for him" he ended, taking a sip of his tea.

John sighed and stared at the fireplace, "Only if he would accept a little bit of help..." he trailed off.

Mycroft just chuckled lightly which surprised Watson, catching him of guard he moved his sight to him, "As I said, he can be rather hard to... well deal with in general" he let out another half hearted laugh, "You it was just like when we were children." Watson listened intently, "There was this one time at college where we were given... how you say- puzzles. They gave certain clues to certain classes, and gave everyone the maximum of exactly twenty-four hours to retrieve the answer, it was to test our minds and how we thought... I cannot particularly remember what Sherly's puzzle was, but all I knew he had solved his in less than a half hour, whilst barely even paying attention to it!" Watson's eyes were a little wide yet he was barely surprised. "So they gave him something of the senior level, my level of course as I was and still am five years his senior, but anyway...

The professors kept him in a room, gave him five suspects, and told him that he could ask two questions to each. They gave him an hour to solve who had killed Professor Shire's cat. I watched him from a distance when he did this, and all he did was turn around point a finger at Mr. Shire himself, and if I remember correctly, said;

"No one killed you cat. There was an accident, however you're cat survived"

"I laughed as I watched the professor's eyes widen. It looked like the poor man was going into shock! When they asked him how he knew he told them that three of the two only stared at the floor and played with the hem of their shirts or their ties, whilst two of those three glanced at each other awkwardly as the third of them kept shoot Mr. Shire stares, meaning that their parts were practiced. The other two had stared blankly at Sherlock, but he notice that the boy was clenching his teeth as the girl was tapping on her chair, impatiently. He hadn't gone into more detail but simply said that they were bad actors, but then revealed that there was paint on the girl's left ear, and that certain paint, he was sure, had come from the art classroom, and since it was a Friday, students were only allowed in their breaks, and in their break was when the cat supposedly 'died.' This left only the boy, but when the teacher told him if the boy was the killer he had denied it. He said that judging by the professor's crumbled pants that something had happened. He noted that there was a claw mark on his right ear, and loose cat hairs of his shoes that he had forgot to shake off,

"It was you. It was most likely that you were attempting to feed it, as it did not want to, it attacked you. You tripped over that chair over there" he had pointed at a misplaced chair on the corner by a window, where your cat jumped on the table and scratched itself by the window sill where there as some hairs, then wildly ran, and right now you are still unsure of its presence, otherwise you wouldn't be fidgeting or biting your lip so much, and you wouldn't have a can of specialised cat food in your pocket"

"How he knew about the cat food was beyond me..." Mycroft sighed,

"But what does this have to do with him being difficult?" Watson asked, unsure of where this was heading.

"We returned home that day, and our parents were aware of Sherly's achievement. He wouldn't take 'Congratulations' for an answer, or even 'well done'; he said that it was not an achievement but an observation. He even ignored his friends when they had told him it was amazing. All I can tell you is that my brother had never learnt to deal with his emotions in any way. He had no idea how to react to praise, how do you expect him to react to one asking him to reveal his emotions? I know it's a little complicated, but in time he will tell you, believe me"

"I certainly hope so..."

I hope you enjoyed that.

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