A/N: Tough week. This beginning is all I've got to give. Happy Chinese New Year. -csf


One.

Sherlock's fast monologues are a quick paced delight that incites the adrenaline already running in my veins. The brilliant detective has just pieced together who the triple murderer is and we're on the hunt to apprehend him. Preferably before the Scotland Yard gets here. Sherlock and I like to think of them as backup.

The happy detective is still chirping quick snippets of deduction – brilliant! – as he trails around the front of the house, looking for a backdoor entrance. He'll use it like a backstage entrance to his cosy stage under the stoplight, where he'll uselessly confront the culprit, while I keep the triple murderer from exerting a fourth murder (that of the renowned Baker Street investigator) and amicably urge him to confess his crimes for a more lenient sentence.

I can tell, by the monotone trail of Sherlock's brilliance, that he's finding no way into the house where our criminal currently barricades.

I, for one, can see a perfectly good way in. There's a ladder propped against the roof by someone who has been cleaning the dead leaves from the guttering. It's not a far stretch from the open bedroom window...

'He then proceeded to hide the wife's body inside the freezer in the garage, hoping no one would see him as he left the house. What he didn't count on was the freezer being too full! Pre-Christmas shopping, you know how it is, everyone ritualistically acts as if the world was coming to an end and stockpiling was a major life or death necessity. What does the murderer do to his latest victim? He takes some food out of the freezer and chucks it out of the high window. Finally, the body stashed away, he leaves through the open garage door. The neighbours are, hours later, menaced by the persistent flock of seagulls that rounds on the house, picking at the discarded food. Paradoxically, that's what brings the police round in the first place, the suspicion that the seagulls might be urban decomposers of a murdered occupant of the house... Brilliant, isn't it, John? How will you name this case?'

I shrug, climbing the ladder steadily.

'Not sure. You'll just have to wait and see.'

'You know I'm not a patient man, John! Oh, and by the way, whatever you do, don't climb the—'

A sharp crack of rotten wood prevents him from properly finishing his sentence.

'—ladder.'

.

'From the number of times one of us gets injured, Sherlock, you'd think we'd have convinced Mrs Hudson to install a stair lift at Baker Street.'

'Nonsense, John, she must keep her hip mobile or it will only become worse over time.'

The doctor in me is in too much pain to decide on the accuracy of such declaration. Mrs Hudson won't let me have a look at her herbal soothers or her x-rays.

Sherlock's been helping me up the stairs. It's been taking an inordinate amount of time.

'Wait. Hold it. I need a rest', I announce abruptly, out of breath.

'John, it's only been thirteen out of the seventeen steps.'

I collapse of the old greyed thirteenth step anyway, sliding from his grip like gelatine.

'Sherlock, I've got fractured ribs', I hiss, fighting back tears of frustration and humiliation. Captain Watson does not cry... Yeah, well, the captain is not always right.

Sherlock looks like he's so ruddy lost, right now, hands hovering over my frame, uncertain of where to touch without further injuring me.

Then, suddenly as it's there, it's gone, and his posture changes to one of incredible distance, sanitizing whatever care and attention he was giving me.

'Broken ribs didn't stop you the last time', he mutters, resentful.

I squint. Under suspended breath, I ask: 'Are you talking of that time the insane illusionist was about to saw you in half inside the box?' Too many vowels, vowels are painful, vowels are evil.

'I had it all under control, it was a trick, done with mirrors and black boxes, John.'

'It was a good trick, how the hell was I supposed to know?' I defend sharply, tense, then gasp, clutching to my side.

'You're the doctor, make a sensible conclusion!'

I blink, lights on these stairs have never flickered down this much. Everywhere around me in being soaked in pitch black.

Why is the stained glass window not working? There should be daylight yet.

'John?' There's a frightened undertone to Sherlock's usually self-assured voice.

I liked him best when he was playing a jerk.

It frightens me to see Sherlock's concern. My friend is a genius, and if a genius thinks this is bad, it's really bad.

'I'm terribly sorry for this, John. Berate me later', he directs me as he scans my body as if I was one of his challenging corpses at the morgue. Deciding on a course of action most likely not to aggravate my injuries, he gently encircles my torso and forces me up, taking care to support my weight.

Stretching straight is agonising. I'm not sure I slump against my friend or if it was him, leaning my smaller frame against his protective towering one.

'Did you take your meds, John?'

A flash of anger crosses my frail body, tensing it up further, if at all possible.

'I'm a doctor, remember that, genius?'

'Your self-righteous anger is somewhat adorable if wholly misplaced. John, your answer will determine which way we go from here and I'm not holding you up until such time when your ribs are healed. Have you taken your meds and are still suffering agonising pain?'

'I'm absolutely peachy, damn it!'

'Forgive me if I won't take your word for it. Tell me, John!'

I let my forehead rest against his collarbone and bury my words in his scarf:

'I don't need meds. Just a bit of a nap, that's all. I'll be just fine when I wake up.'

Sherlock lets out an all suffering long sigh and gently manhandles me up the rest of the stairs.

.

'Here you are, John. You require some sustenance.'

I open groggy eyes to the kind offering. Pot noodles. I'm touched. He reached the back of the kitchen cupboards and mastered the electric kettle for that.

Shaking my head minutely to the offer, I sink back against the sofa's cushions.

'You've got clients coming over. I should go upstairs', I state responsibly. Yet make no real effort to move, rooted to the spot by catastrophe.

'I'm not taking clients', he declares. 'My blogger is unwell.'

'You can solve cases without me, Sherlock.'

'Naturally', he agrees, coolly. 'The real question is whether I would want to', he adds with a huff, walking away.

I squint my friend's way.

I'm touched by his tenacious loyalty, but dread to think how long it can last without damaging the restless genius.

.

TBC