A/N: Apologies for the delay, once more. Real life and all that. -csf


Five.

'The Fish Bowl Bludgeon. No, too crass. The Drowning Goldfish. No, too sad. The Fish That Got Away. No, it's definitely not to be mistaken for a dating advice blog...'

My lonely voice projects around the empty 221B's living room, as I ponder a new title for my blog entry. I really, really miss being able to pace about freely to help me think, but that's something that a couple of broken ribs quickly put a stop to. Of course I may still try, as Sherlock reluctantly left me to my devices for the shortest amount of time possible, as he rushed to convince DI Lestrade, at the crime scene, how the ingenious murder was perpetrated. In fact, without Sherlock, the mother hen in charge of keeping me forcibly resting, I might just pretend I'm normal for the fleetest of time and make myself a nice cuppa out in the kitchen. Won't Sherlock be surprised when he returns to a nice warm flat, fragrant with tea and toast scents – we should have some bread left in the upper cupboard – after an arduous chase across the damp alleyways of London?

Without lying, I could tell him I'd done it for him as much as for myself.

Raising myself slowly from the warm pressed sofa cushions, a stabbing pain flares on my side and I let go of a chocked grunt, as I fall back on the leather cushions, eyes screwed shut, gasping breaths, forehead creased in an useless battle stance. It's not like Pain will turn away when faced with my most obstinate stance.

Oops, Sherlock, I've just done a number on myself.

Wish you were here. Please hurry back.

I'm sorry I called you a mother hen. I'm sorry I fell down the ladder, I'm sorry for everything I've done wrong—

My vision is blurred and my mind is suddenly blanketed by pain and it's red, and it's black, threatening to overpower me to oblivion.

Focusing my efforts into a concerted last ditch exercise I try to reach that bottle of painkillers on the coffee table, but it's miserably far off. A couple of inches out of reach and the pain spreads through my entire left flank, blindingly.

I fall deeper into the creased damp pillows, gasping in prostrated uselessness, fighting that oxygen that doesn't quite comply with breathing, short sharp gasps filled with vacuum.

Don't fight it, it's just panic, you're going to be fine. You always say that to your patients, doctor Watson.

Even the ones you couldn't save, bleeding out into the lukewarm sand.

And Sherlock, broken on a cold damp pavement.

Why didn't I think of him before?

The memory of my friend focuses me back again just long enough that I can pick up my phone and dial his number through the murky duskiness of the flat.

The dial tone sounds monotone across the flat's eerie silence. It repeats again and again until it cuts off.

The number you tried to reach—

A shiver runs down my spine, past events mingling with the present time. How many times did I try to call my absent friend in those dark lonely years, when I was sure there was no living soul on the other side to answer my call? Why did I persist then, the lulling force of habit appeasing me, and why do I persist now, when Sherlock is alive and healthy, but elsewhere engaged and focused?

I needed to know I mattered. I needed reassurance that I didn't have to face my troubles alone.

Am I talking of now or then?

I'm pained, and exhausted, and becoming quickly confused.

I lean back and try to push through the pain, the physical as well as the emotional pain. Harnessing that darkness to protect me and abscond me from reality.

.

'Wake up.'

Sherlock?

I open a bleary eye to what my instincts have already proclaimed as wrong, deceitful, dangerous.

A stranger's face, etched in deep lines of anger and violence, greets my return to consciousness.

Oh, I've let myself fall on this trap so easily.

I glance around before I allow a compromising response.

Sherlock is still absent from 221B. He might not even suspect the danger I'm suddenly facing.

Or he may, mysteriously, with that ESP of his when it concerns me. Sherlock never fails. Hardly ever. Most times. Well.

Twice the wrong for leaving me alone, hurt and defenceless, my back towards the flat's door through where this guy just waltzed in.

But that was my fault alone, I was the one insisting he'd go do his thing.

'Who are you?' I demand to know, channelling the military left in me.

It won't quite carry the captain Watson's trademark thunder.

'The name's Chandler if you care to make a note', he mocks me. 'You're Sherlock Holmes blogger. For that you can get to watch. I came here to finish the detective off.'

I frown. Right. Always the same, these petty criminal types. Revenge and fame; never an inkling of creativity.

Damn it, Sherlock. You left me here to do the clean up again?

I'm not the conductor of light (and what is a conductor of light anyway? An electric cable? A light bulb?) and I'm certainly not the muscled sidekick either, not at this moment in time, as I'm thoroughly diminished and vulnerable.

'Did you own a goldfish in a find bowl?'

'What?' he looks absolutely derailed by my question.

'If so, Sherlock is looking for you as we speak.'

He scratches his forehead and answers factually, well behaved, hoping to be the right wanted criminal, as if it would make him special.

'Not since I was 9 years old. I had a pet bunny once', Chandler replies, only too helpful. These criminal types often cherish some attention.

I quickly shake my head. 'No, it needs to be a goldfish.'

'I don't have a goldfish.'

I roll my eyes. 'Then Sherlock is hardly going to bother with you, is he?' I snap the tirade in the same tone as before, but time it just so that I'm throwing my laptop straight at his face. He ducks last second and the durable plastic cover nicks at his temple, disorientating him. No time for a rest, and I haul my rapidly tensing body over his crouching form, wrestling him to the rug, tying his wrists behind his back with the charger chord. A few quick, precise knots and he's tied up and not going anywhere soon. The defeated giant grunts in protest but I just kick him in the ribs to teach him some manners.

That movement almost floors me, as the electric lights in the flat and the sunlight from the outside all seem to flicker simultaneously.

Water gushing loudly at my ears and my hands are so cold, so eerily cold—

'John!'

My fall is hampered by soft hands and a gentle touch to my bruised, broken body.

.

'Shh, relax now. You were brilliant, John. Misadvised and hasty, you must have known I was on my way, but brilliant as ever.'

'Yeah, skip the eulogy, I survived the attack.'

Green eyes face me, perturbed and derailed by my bout of dark humour.

'Your advice was rubbish, by the way. Leave 221B and go solve a case? I thought I went where I wanted to go, the only place that could alleviate my momentary boredom, but 221B was where I belonged, where we both belong fir the foreseeable future.'

'Good', I say, letting out a long breath. 'Because I'm not moving out of this sofa anytime soon.'

'Then I shall play some violin, with your permission, John.'

I smile, and let my eyelids fall, languid, comfortably. The first string reverberations fill the living room with a warmth presence and a solid protection bubble wrapping invisibly around me.

'How did you know I was in danger, Sherlock?' I still ask.

He hums as a retort, and his answer becomes lost in his beautiful melody. I swear I can hear unspoken words along the soft tune of his own creation, and I let my imagination drift along the swirls and turns of Sherlock's heartfelt language.

.