A terrified gasp sounds to my left, and I turn my head to discover that our front door is still open, and a small group of onlookers had already gathered outside. Getting on my hands and knees, I sort of slither to the door and slam it closed, then turn around and make my way back to Sherlock's motionless body. He is out cold, his hands are still curled around his knee and his face is scrunched up in an expression of pain; but on the bright side, his nose has stopped bleeding at last.

Trying to move Sherlock right now is out of the question, so I get up and go upstairs for a first-aid kit and a wet cloth. Taking a detour into the living room, I snatch a pillow and bring it with me downstairs.

I'm half-way down the stairs when Sherlock starts to stir, a quiet moan escaping his lips, so I hastily finish my descent, dropping down onto my knees and reaching out to touch his face. His skin is already beginning to turn black and blue, revealing an extensive bruising, and I pull my hand back, afraid to cause him more pain. He moans again, blinks his eyes open and tries to lift his head. I use that opportunity to assist him, supporting his head with my hand and sliding a pillow under it.

"John," he says weakly. "I'm… sorry…"

"You certainly should be," I agree, wiping the blood from his face with the wet cloth. "Grabbing me like that wasn't the brightest idea, Sherlock."

"Certainly," my friend breathes out in pained voice. "You're… good."

"Thanks for the compliment, but now is not the time for pleasantries. Can you tell me where it hurts the most?"

Sherlock closes his eyes, obviously starting a mental check-list, and soon opens them again. "My knee."

"Of course," I mutter, remembering the force of the blow I bestowed on my flatmate's kneecap. "There's a real chance that it's fractured, Sherlock, I think you should be aware of that."

My friend cringes. "I'm painfully aware of that, John. Can you fix it here?"

I shake my head and reach into my pocket, pulling my phone out. "I'd rather not. We should get you to the hospital. I'm going to call an ambulance right now. Try not to move your leg; we don't need to worsen your condition."

"Okay," Sherlock closes his eyes. "And you should call Lestrade as well, by the way."

I glance at him in confusion, my finger pausing in mid-air. "And why would I do that?"

He sighs, opens his eyes and points at his face, quirking up an eyebrow.

"Oh," I wince, realisation dawning.

"Oh, indeed," Sherlock confirms, closing his eyes again and dropping his hand onto the pillow. "We certainly don't need you getting arrested, do we?"

"Of course not, but… What the hell am I supposed to tell him? 'Sorry, Detective Inspector, could you please come at once, I have incidentally decked Sherlock'?"

My flatmate huffs in annoyance, opens his eyes, snatches the phone out of my fingers and fires a text to Lestrade; then he hands the mobile back to me and burrows his face into the pillow. I open my mouth to ask what exactly he sent, but he beats me to it.

"Just look for yourself, it's hardly a secret, John," he grumbles, turning his head and sliding a hand under the pillow.

I browse through 'Sent' messages, and find the last one: 'Emergency in the flat, details upon arrival. Come quickly. SH'. Well, now all I need is to call an ambulance and pray that Lestrade gets here before the paramedics…

And quite surprisingly, he does.

Less than ten minutes later, there's a knock at the door, and I push myself up, reaching for the door to pull it open. Lestrade barges in, looking utterly displeased, and freezes the second his gaze falls on the lanky body curled up on the floor. He stares at Sherlock for a couple of seconds, and then turns to me.

"Alright," he says with unexpected calm. "Explain that to me, Doctor."

Sherlock snorts. "He's hardly the one who should do it, just because he's done it in the first place."

To my astonishment, Lestrade manages to understand this paradoxical phrase. "You mean he's the one who assaulted you?"

"Not exactly. It was self-defence."

The Detective Inspector frowns. "Self-defence? What, he tried to defend himself from YOU? Why?"

"I startled him," Sherlock admits easily. "I didn't give him a warning, was behind his back and grabbed the collar of his coat."

Lestrade's eyes widen. "You really did that? And he decked you?"

"Exactly," my friend snaps out. "It was an accident. And I would prefer for that information to stay behind the closed door, if you catch my drift. Are we clear on this subject, Lestrade?"

"Quite clear," the DI agrees. "But I need the cover story, Sherlock."

"I think you're clever enough to come up with one, Detective Inspector," my friend replies. "Just leave John out of it."

Speaking of the door... The mishap with our own front door comes to my mind, and I clear my throat uncomfortably. "Um… We may have a slight problem with that, Sherlock."

His gaze drifts onto my face, and he scrutinizes it, his eyes narrow and guarded. "What now?"

"Well, you chose to time your 'surprise' in exactly the same moment I had crossed the threshold..," I begin, only to be interrupted by my scowling flatmate.

"I DID let you take a few steps forward, John, don't exaggerate," Sherlock points out, not at all happy with me bringing the subject up.

I simply ignore him and continue speaking.

"… and therefore the front door stayed open the whole time. I can't say for sure, but I think a few people may have seen everything."

"Just great," my flatmate comments acidly, rolling his eyes, and Lestrade reaches into his pocket for mobile.

"Hold on a minute, I'll check if anything came up already," he explains, seeing a question in my eyes, and dials a number. "Hello, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade. Have you got any news? All quiet? Okay, thanks. Call me if you hear anything," he hangs up and breathes a sigh of relief. "No news so far. Let's hope it stays that way."

Right at that moment there's another knock at the door, and Lestrade pulls it open, stepping aside and letting the medics in.

"This man had been assaulted while working for the Metropolitan Police," the DI explains briefly. "He needs proper medical attention."

"Understood, sir," the medic nods and turns to his colleagues. "Okay, let's get him on the gurney. What's your name, sir?"

"Sherlock Holmes," my friend gasps in pain as he lifted up and moved onto the stretcher. "Is it possible for my assistant to accompany me in the ambulance? This is Doctor John Watson," Sherlock nods his head in my direction.

The leader of the medical team turns towards me, intrigued. "Doctor? May I ask about your specialty, sir?"

"Field surgeon."

"Good. Can you tell me anything about Mr. Holmes' condition?"

"A severe blow to a left knee, extensive bruising, possible concussion, possible broken nose – he had a nosebleed."

"Okay, thank you for information. Follow me, please."

The medical team lifts the gurney and carries Sherlock into the ambulance. I get inside after them and turn to look at Lestrade.

"Go, I'll follow you in my car," the DI announces, closing the door to our flat. I throw him the keys; he locks it, pockets them and gets into his car.

Meanwhile, the back doors of an ambulance are pulled closed by another member of the medical team.

"We are ready to go, Doctor Watson," the medic calls out, and I turn to look at Sherlock. He's unconscious, an IV sticking into his arm, and his left leg is immobilised.

"Let's go, then," I nod, and the van speeds off in the direction of the hospital…

After our arrival at A&E Sherlock is whisked away into a private room without any delay, which may indicate that Mycroft is already aware of everything that transpired in our flat. It's kind of strange that he hadn't made an appearance, considering the state Sherlock is in, but I guess it's just going to be a belated pleasure.

My friend is awake when I enter the room, and judging by the way he is pointedly refusing to look at me while I move to his bed and take a seat in a plastic chair, this is definitely 'a bit no good'.

"It's entirely your fault," Sherlock declares sourly, eyeing the immobiliser on his knee with obvious disgust.

"WHAT?" I splutter in indignation. "How the hell it's MY fault? YOU grabbed me in the first place, it was self-defence!"

Sherlock narrows his eyes, shooting me a scorching glare. "It wouldn't have happened if you hadn't run away from the crime scene on a whim."

Anger sparks inside me, threatening to turn into a roaring fire within seconds. "It wasn't a whim, Sherlock! You bloody lied to me!"

"No, I didn't, John. I just didn't tell you the whole truth about my absence," my friend objects, his face annoyingly impassive.

"That's the same thing!" I bristle.

"No, it's not," Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Really, John, if you're going to be so irksome, then it's better for you to leave right now."

A warning note is clear in his voice, and I feel like a bucket of cold water had just been dumped over me. Taking a deep breath, I count to five.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. We've just got hold on an interesting case, and I already managed to botch up everything."

A sudden smile lights up my friend's face, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Not necessarily so, John. There's still chance for you to make amends for it."

Knowing Sherlock, I can clearly sense the trap I'm about to walk into, but I make that step nonetheless. "How?"

My friend winks at me. "Well, considering that my knee is going to be immobilised for a while, the 'legwork', as my brother tends to call it, is completely yours."

"Fair enough," I agree without complaint. "I'm really sorry about your knee, Sherlock. But on a bright side, your nose is definitely not broken."

Sherlock emits an amused chuckle. "Right now I would've preferred it to be the other way around, John."

The statement is rhetorical, but I still choose to acknowledge it with a nod.

We both fall silent for awhile, with Sherlock obviously looking up something online via his phone and me contemplating the amount of work I just have gotten myself into. Granted, I always did my fair share of case-solving activities during the investigation, but this time I'm evidently going to bear the most of them. And that's fine, really, as long as Sherlock would agree to pay a proper attention to his physical recovery.

This normally never seems to happen, if my flatmate retains even remote capability of moving around.

Broken ribs? "Just bandage them tighter, John, or we're going to be late and Anderson will irreparably mess everything up!"

Severe malnourishment and dehydration? "Put the plate away, John, and stop distracting me, for God's sake, I need to work!"

A concussion? "It's just a bump on the head, John, everything's…" *a body hitting the floor with a thump*

An arm sliced through to the bone? "Don't make a fuss, John, it's just a scratch… Oh, and can you fetch me that beaker, please? I'm short on blood samples."

Torn stitches? "But you can stitch it back together right now, John, can't you?"

I can easily write a list of such occasions and I'm pretty sure that this list is bound to be an often updated feature, should I consider really writing it - what with Sherlock being Sherlock and me tending to put everything that happens to me into words… And although I'm determined to keep that list to a minimum, there's a part of me that secretly prides itself on the subject of being needed by Sherlock on a day-to-day basis.

Twisted, isn't it?

Maybe. But take a minute to consider it, John. Where do you think your recent idea has come from?

Exactly.

So maybe Sherlock hadn't been so wrong after all, when he said…

"Any chance of you stopping daydreaming and paying attention to my words, John?"

Sherlock's amused voice cuts into my thoughts, jerking me back to reality, and I blink at my friend in confusion. His lips quirk up into a slight smile.

"Must've been some thoughts," he comments, eyes scanning my face intently.

I know this look, being subjected to it so many times that I have actually lost count – or haven't bothered to count in a first place.

Wondering, enquiring, asking, demanding to know – you can choose either of them.

And it's the last thing I need right now, especially considering WHAT I was thinking about.

"Nothing important," I shrug my shoulders and try to adopt a careless expression. "You were saying?"

Sherlock chuckles. "Nice attempt, John. I was telling you about the message I sent to Lestrade a moment ago."

"And what about it?"

"I had asked Lestrade to give you all information on the 'sculpture' case. Am I right in assuming that they are going to keep me here until tomorrow?"

"I think that's a given, Sherlock. Sorry. X-rays, maybe surgery... Could be a several days."

My friend unexpectedly claps his hands together, making me jump. "Good. Then I need you to fetch those files for me. The sooner the better."

It's pretty much what I've been expecting, so I find myself grinning and shaking my head at my irritating flatmate. "Legwork, huh?"

"Exactly. Well?" Sherlock raises both his eyebrows in enquiry.

"Okay, okay, I'm going," I push myself up from the plastic chair and head for the door. "Any additional requests?"

Sherlock tilts his head to the side, not saying anything, but obviously waiting for my reaction, and my mind makes the connection.

"Oh," I mutter under my breath. And then, much louder. "Nicotine patches?"

A small confirming smile and his gaze returns to the small screen once again. I just have been dismissed, so I open the door and leave the room, pulling my phone out and dialling a familiar number.

He picks up on a third ring. "Hello again, Doctor Watson. Sherlock sent me the text, so feel free to drop in whenever you like."

"Thank you, Inspector, I'm on my way right now, so…"

"Okay, then, see you soon," he disconnects, and I walk out of hospital, pocketing the phone and crossing the pavement to flag down the taxi…

I arrive at Scotland Yard fairly quickly and make my way through the corridors leading to Lestrade's department. It feels strange being here without Sherlock by my side, and it looks like I'm not the only one thinking about it, because I catch a few curious glances from the members of the police force. I nod briefly to those I'm familiar with, and as for the rest – their eyes shift away from me in the next second, so I choose not to acknowledge them at all.

A short while later Lestrade's office finally appears in my sight, and I stroll towards it with confidence, only to be intercepted by Sergeant Donovan. Seeing me, she moves away from her deck, takes a step forward and stops, thus blocking my way completely. Faced with an unexpected barrier, I slow my steps down and come into a stop, standing barely a foot from her. She opens her mouth and starts speaking, cutting straight to the core.

"So, the news is true, then?" she asks cryptically, her dark eyes sparkling with amusement.

"Good afternoon, Sergeant Donovan," I answer calmly, trying to keep my irritation out of my voice. I honestly respect and admire Lestrade, but the members of his team are really managing to get on my nerves sometimes. No wonder that Sherlock is so irked with Donovan – the bloody woman really deserves it. "What news are you talking about, if I may ask?"

"Freak. According to witnesses, he finally got what was coming to him. Somebody taught him a good hard lesson, I've heard. And it looks like that somebody…"

My jaw tightens, and I ball my hands into fists almost without realising it. "I'm sorry, Sergeant, but I think it's none of your bloody business. And if you ever allow yourself to speak about Sherlock in such a manner again, I…"

"Donovan!" Lestrade's voice cuts into our conversation, hard and harsh. "You have work to do, so get on with it."

She jerks in surprise and whirs around to face her superior. I glance away from Donovan and my gaze settles on Lestrade, who is standing in the doorway of his office and glaring and his subordinate. She averts her gaze and goes back to her table, and the DI's tense posture relaxes slightly.

"Would you please come into my office, Doctor Watson?" Lestrade says, his tone placating. "I have the files you should look at, and we're waiting for the witness' arrival."

"What witness?" I cross the last few steps to the DI's office, and he steps aside, ushering me inside and gesturing towards the chair. I take a seat and Lestrade returns to his chair behind his desk.

"We checked the records from the cameras nearest to our mysterious van. Oh, and by the way, the van itself was hijacked two days ago. It was driven to the Service Station by two men we haven't identified yet. After parking the vehicle they took a cab, and we were able to identify it by the registration number. So, the driver should be here quite soon… Ah, here he is."

Lestrade leaves his chair and goes to the door to meet the cab driver. Intrigued, I shift in my seat to take a look at the visitor…

…and freeze half-way, not able to believe my eyes.

The cabbie looks equally stumped, his eyes racking over my face in total disbelief.

Finally, I clear my throat and manage to find my voice.

"Stephen?"

A huge thanks to Pilikia18 for being so kind and wonderful Beta.