John was immediately aware of two things as he snapped back to consciousness.

Pain and cold.

He felt as if his limbs weighed 100 pounds and were made of ice. He could feel the cold and damp soaking into his back from the frozen ground beneath him. Rocks and sticks seemed to dig into every inch of his body in contact with the ground making him that much more miserable.

His short, ragged breaths condensed in front of his face, each one bringing a wave of blinding pain that threatened to overwhelm him. John dug his frozen fingers into the ground to steady himself and get his breathing under control. He would not remain conscience if he didn't slow his breathing and given his injuries and the temperature, he would not likely wake again.

After a few minutes John managed to calm himself down enough to asses his situation. It was still dark but had definitely gotten colder. He was unsure if that was entirely due to the temperature or blood loss. Probably a bit of both. Moving as little as possible, he turned his head to look for Sherlock.

"Sherlock...Sherlock where are you?" He didn't see any sign of the detective within his limited field of vision. That was not a good sign. Sherlock would not have just left him to bleed to death in the woods. John recalled Sherlock's behavior before he passed out. His mental state was most definitely altered, even considering his normally erratic personality. He was confused and unsure. Had he been talking about a puzzle? John could not remember all the details but he knew Sherlock was very much in trouble and needed help quickly.

First John had to get himself on his feet. He has been avoiding looking at his own injury knowing it was going to be bad. He no longer had a choice. The cold had worked to his advantage thus far by slowing his body down enough to keep the blood loss at a survivable level. John knew once he started moving again he would have to work fast.

Inch by inch he propped himself up on his elbows to get a better view of what he was up against. The effort of that alone had left him panting and sweating with exertion.

He could see the branch sticking out of his body, just below his ribs. Without proper medical scans he could not be sure but he thought the angle was such that he very likely had a punctured lung. At the very least it was putting pressure on his lung making breathing near impossible and the wrong twitch could push it to far.

John closed his eyes and tried to think. Pull it out and risk internal hemorrhaging and drowning in his own blood or leave it alone and pray that no further damage would be done. Not the best options. Ok. If he were treating someone in his condition, what would he do? Simple. Secure and immobilize the foreign object so as not to cause more trauma. Keep them still and as warm as possible until help arrived.

Unfortunately he did not have the option to sit and wait. Sherlock was out there with a head injury of some kind, the severity of which was unknown. He had to find him and get them both medical attention and not a lot of time to do so.

The temperature continued to drop. John made his choice. He was not going to die here in a ditch and leave Sherlock out there alone. Cold and probably getting more lost and confused with each passing minute.

He shifted his weigh and slowley scooted closer to the suspect they had been chasing. He got a hold of his scarf and pulled until it came loose. John was forced to stop to catch his breath. His heart was beating rabbit fast in his chest and he could feel hot blood slick his side and around to his back. He had to hurry.

He dug his fingers into the fabric of the mans shirt sleeve and ripped it off at the top. He pulled it off his arm and set his prizes on his chest. He shifted until he was resting on the suspect so he could see to work and have his hands free.

The blood was flowing freely now and his head was beginning to buzz.

The peat moss Sherlock had packed around the wound was still in place and John wrapped the shirtsleeve around the base of the branch packing it tighter. He cried out in pain when he tied it off. Tears fell down his cheeks cutting clean paths through the dirt. He swiped them away so he could see. He had to finish. For Sherlock.

He carefully rolled to his side and got his knees and hands underneath him. Spots floated in his vision. He blinked rapidly trying to clear it. If he passed out now it was over. With great effort he drug one foot up, then the other. Using his own knees for leverage he slowly inched his way upright. Or a close approximation to it. He was unable to straighten up fully. John took the scarf and wrapped it around his chest just underneath the wound and then just above it. He again tied it off at the base of the branch. The flash of pain snatched his breath away and nearly drove him to his knees again.

He wavered and stumbled over to the rock face. He braced himself for a moment, resting his cheek against the surface. After what seemed like hours his head was slightly clearer and he could breath a little easier. He took those as a good signs.

He looked up the face of the bluff and knew he would be unable to climb even a few feet. He would have to find another way around. He started off along the base of the rock looking for an easier way up.

He recalled Sherlock's injured arm and hoped that maybe he would have come to the same conclusion and went around.

Maybe John could catch up to him and they would get out of this nightmare together.

John made his way slowly and painfully along in search of his friend.