Under the cover of night and a thick, gray fog Sherlock Holmes quietly walked the dark streets of London in search of his contact who had summoned him to an abandoned building several blocks from the safety of 221b Baker Street, and the loyalty of his colleague Dr. John Watson. Using quiet discretion Sherlock slipped into the partially broken door of what was once a loving home and stood before the cold, abandoned hearth of the decrepit parlor as he awaited his contact's impending arrival.

Eyeing the street from where he stood through the broken door and dirty, partially broken windows Sherlock was wary of every movement and of every sound that surrounded the building. The creaking of the staircase to his left quickly drew his attention as a figure carefully descended the staircase toward the large parlor was Sherlock was already waiting.

"Holmes." A man's voice whispered from the middle of the staircase from whence he descended, refusing to step any closer. Remaining stationary he peered down the staircase to the detective waiting for him below. "Holmes?"

"Marcus." Sherlock greeted the man with a confident nod as he stood at the base of the staircase and looked up at the man partially draped in shadow. "What information have you uncovered?"

"You're in great danger, Holmes!" Marcus's voice was filled with fear that shook every word he stated. "Moriarty is in London! He's going to-"

A gunshot rang out loudly through the building as a bullet struck Marcus directly in his chest. The bullet pierced his heart instantly upon impact and Marcus fell forward with his hand clutching at his bleeding chest. Sliding down the staircase face first Marcus lost consciousness and proceeded to bleed to death at Sherlock's feet as the detective knelt beside his dying contact in a flash and pressed his down on Marcus' back.

Looking up and toward the source of the shot Sherlock caught glint of the metal gun barrel glistening in the pale light provided by the lamp that illuminated the street as the assassin stepped inside. A loud explosion and searing hot pain in his lower chest, just beneath his sternum, caused Sherlock to stumble back in alarm away from Marcus.

With both hands clutching at his bleeding chest Sherlock fell back against the far wall next to the dead hearth. Using one hand to brace himself against the cold, dusty surface of the wall his other hand clutched desperately at the wound in his chest. Weak yet determined Sherlock managed to push himself away from the wall and clumsily maneuver through the corridor beyond the parlor toward the backdoor of the building away from his would-be killer.

The man entered the building through the front door in a slow, taunting pursuit of his target as Sherlock slowly fled the abandoned house. Stopping to look down at Marcus dead at the bottom of the staircase the man glanced up and saw a smear of blood on the wall where Sherlock had previously braced himself.

Running his finger through the fresh blood left behind the man flashed a sinister grin of pleasure at the crimson stain on his fingertip. "He won't get far."

Dr. John Watson was helping Mrs. Hudson with her large bag as she eagerly prepared for her annual visit with her younger sister in the country. The kind landlady was off to Sussex and would be gone from the city for a full week. Fortunately, her two tenants had proven themselves trustworthy and would look after the flat during her absence from the city giving her a restful vacation as a result.

"Now you're certain you have everything, right Mrs. Hudson?" Watson asked as he carried her bag out of the flat and onto the sidewalk where the two were now awaiting her carriage in front of the flat.

"Yes, yes dear. Don't you fuss about me." Mrs. Hudson insisted as she slipped on a pair of gloves to stave off the chill in the air. "I'll get along quite alright."

"Very well. But if you need anything don't hesitate to write us. We'll be happy to assist you."

Sherlock struggled to traverse the foggy alleyways of the congested block while critically wounded courtesy of a bullet wound. Leaving behind a dripping trail with every beat of his thundering heart and every clumsy step he took Sherlock fought retain consciousness as his hand became drenched and sticky in his own blood, as he desperately attempted to stem the bleeding gunshot wound in his chest.

Pausing for a moment to rest against the exterior wall of a house adjacent from his flat on Baker Street, Sherlock's eyes glazed over and he began to cough from the mounting cold that was creeping over his weakening body. His back pressed up against the cold bricks and sent a shiver down his spine as his trembling body weakened considerably with each passing second.

Through the distance and fog Sherlock could barely see the distinct figures of two people standing on the sidewalk outside of the flat. Judging from the height and build Sherlock correctly identified the two figures as his dear friend Dr. John Watson and landlady Mrs. Hudson.

"W... Watson!" Sherlock called pitifully for his friend but his voice was too weak, too strained from the blood loss and was but a whisper lost in the fog. "...Watson... Please..."

The sound of the approaching carriage filled the streets as the late hour left the sidewalk vacant and empty of passersby. The creaking wooden frame of the carriage and echoing hoof beats of the horse who guided it was the only sound that either the good doctor or landlady heard as the summoned carriage came to a halt along the sidewalk, stopping before its passenger and her friend.

"There we are." Watson hefted the bag into the rear compartment of the carriage as the cabbie opened the door and helped Mrs. Hudson to climb inside. "Now you enjoy your time with your sister. You have your train ticket, yes?"

"Yes, yes. Please Dr. Watson, I checked my departure time as well."

"Alright, alright. I know you can manage on your own. Just making sure! Force of habit."

"Thank you doctor. I'll see you and Mr. Holmes in one week. Goodbye for now."

"Goodbye, dear."

A whip cracked and the carriage went off down the dark street with Mrs. Hudson inside. Watson strolled back to the front door of the flat and stepped into the main foyer of the large and empty abode. Just as he was about to ascend the staircase to return to his room on the second floor he spotted Mrs. Hudson's favorite hat sitting on the oak table beside the staircase.

"Oh, dear." Watson hustled out the front door once again in an attempt to wave down the departing carriage and called out to his landlady. Stepping out onto the sidewalk he turned to face the direction in which the cab had traveled. Despite being unable to see it through the fog he tried to call out to her anyway. "Mrs. Hudson! You forgot-"

"...Watson..." Sherlock suddenly appeared through the fog and grabbed firmly onto Watson's arms in a desperate bid to keep himself from collapsing to the ground. "...Marcus... he killed... Marcus!"

"Holmes!" Watson spotted the massive stain of blood on the front of Sherlock's shirt and all over Sherlock's hands, and his every instinct as a doctor went into full force. Sherlock began to cough in a dry choking fit as he strength began to leave him. "My God! What happened!?"

Reflexively Watson grabbed onto Sherlock's trembling arm and draped the cold limb around his neck and shoulders, and held it in place with a firm grip around Sherlock's wrist. Wrapping his free arm around Sherlock's waist Watson carried the majority of the detective's deadweight as he escorted his injured friend off of the street and into the safety of the flat.

Though it was a tremendous struggle Watson managed to drag, if not carry his friend at his side up the staircase, and into the sanctuary of their study on the second floor. Never before had those seventeen steps seem so mountainous. The effort was clumsy and awkward. Sherlock's black hat fell from his hair and landed on the steps behind him.

Pushing open the closed door of the study with one hand Watson carried Sherlock over to the detective's desk near the center of the room and placed him down in the nearby chair momentarily. Using his arm Watson brushed all of the items from the surface of the desk onto the floor before picking Sherlock back up from the chair and laying the bleeding detective down on his back atop the desk.

"Holmes? Sherlock!" Watson addressed his friend by name as he pried Sherlock's pale, cold hand from his bleeding chest. As he laid Sherlock's arms flat at his sides Watson saw the deep red stain in the center of Sherlock's chest and stifled a righteous gasp. "Holmes?" Pulling open Sherlock's blood saturated shirt with a firm yank, the buttons popping open in sequence, Watson was greeted by the sight of the bleeding gunshot wound that had nearly stolen the detective's life. "Dear Lord... Holmes! Who did this? Who shot you!?"

Sherlock's gray eyes were opened but glazed over entirely as he stared blankly at the ceiling above. His hands began to twitch in pain as he took in sharp, shallow breaths and quietly groaned in pain. His blood stained chest rose and fell rapidly as he fought to take a deep breath but the pain was too intense and the simple effort proved itself too taxing for his exhausted body.

"I'll take care of you, don't worry!" Watson proclaimed as he rushed over to the large bureau on the far side of the study and pulled open the unlocked wooden cabinet doors. Retrieving his medical bag Watson returned to the desk where Sherlock was laying and pulled open the leather bag in search of bandages, gauze, medicine and other vital pieces of medical equipment that could be used to save the detective. Using clean white bandages Watson pressed the absorbent fabric down against the bleeding wound in attempt to stem the escaping blood and apply pressure to the wound itself. "There was no blood on your back." Watson keenly observed out loud as he watched his friend's eyes carefully. "The bullet is still inside your chest. I must remove it. I'm the only one who can..."

At the realization that he'd have to perform emergency surgery on his best friend Watson felt his hands begin to shake nervously and a cold sweat form on his brow.

Sherlock remained completely oblivious to the world around him as his vision darkened and his ears began to ring; all signs of impending unconsciousness. Resisting the desire to fall unconscious the dying detective held onto sound of the very muffled voice of Watson speaking to him as his one and only lifeline.

Gathering the necessary surgical tools stored away in the depths of his medical bag Watson set out the instruments in a line on a clean tray that he pulled from the pile of discarded items on the floor beside the desk. After setting his instruments accordingly Watson sat the tray down on the desk next to Sherlock's legs for easy reach.

Slipping off his gray suit jacket Watson folded the garment neatly and tucked it under Sherlock's head and neck. Unbuttoning the cuffs of his white shirt Watson rolled up his sleeves to his elbows and looked down at his suffering friend with hesitant cause before he even touched the wound again.

"Holmes... I know what I must do to save you, but I fear I've been out of practice for far too long to be of any real use. I'll do my best. I promise."

Sherlock continued to gasp for breath. Painful coughs interrupting the breaths every few seconds and made the sight of the wounded detective all the more pathetic. Small specks of blood spattered over Sherlock's pale lips and down his chin as he coughed up blood from what was surely an internal injury.

"Holmes, I-"

From downstairs the front door of the flat burst open with a loud echo followed by footsteps frantically racing up the staircase and into the study on the second floor where Watson had taken Sherlock.

Instinctively Watson reached for the revolved sit atop the mantle over the fireplace and took aim at the still opened door.

"Dr. Watson." The voice of Mycroft Holmes called through the door cautiously as he wisely anticipated his sudden arrival being seen as a threat. "Where is my brother?"

"Mycroft..." Watson sighed as he replaced the gun to its place top the mantle and returned to Sherlock's side. "He's here. And he's injured!"

Mycroft walked through the door with authority in his steps and Sherlock's dropped hat in his hand as he scanned the room with inquisitive brown eyes, his attention being drawn to the desk. The eldest of the Holmes brothers looked down at Sherlock with an unspoken worry in his brown eyes. His dark but graying hair was slicked back in the same manner that Sherlock himself often kept his own hair was slightly out of place after running up the stairs. Sporting a broader build than Sherlock the sight of Mycroft looming over him was reminiscent of a father looking over a child.

"My word..." Mycroft eyed the blood soaked bandages resting on Sherlock's chest, the blood stains on Sherlock's hands and the fresh blood upon Watson's hands. "What has happened to him?"

"He was shot. I don't know by whom, or where it happened."

"Sherlock..." Mycroft rested his hand on his brother's pale, sweaty forehead. The weak coughs that managed to wrack his bleeding body also managed to turn Mycroft's stomach. "What have you done now?"

"Why are you here Mycroft? How did you know something had happened?"

"Sherlock's contact was also my contact; Marcus." Mycroft bowed his head slightly before standing straight up again as he fought to keep his emotional composure. "When Marcus failed to report at the designated time I sent another contact to the house where Marcus and Sherlock were scheduled to meet tonight. Marcus was found dead and there was a blood trail leading from the back of the building toward Baker Street. It was a simple matter of deduction from there."

"I'm so sorry Mycroft," Watson sincerely lamented. "this is no proper way to learn of his injury. You are his brother after all."

"No it's not, but what's done is done. What can I do to help?"

Watson nodded in respect and appreciation for Mycroft's offer. "He's lost a great deal of blood, he'll need a transfusion if he is to survive."

"Doctor?"

"Being brothers your blood type compatibility is almost certain, but not guaranteed. Please, there's a microscope on the floor. Use it to examine your own blood sample and compare it to Sherlock's blood under the slides."

"Very well." Mycroft obeyed Watson's instructions reluctantly. Tearing his eyes from his brother Mycroft located the microscope on the floor beside the desk near Watson's feet and took it over to the small table where Sherlock and Watson kept their pipes, stationed between two large chairs by the hearth. Clearing off the table of the pipes and Sherlock's violin case Mycroft set about preparing two slides while Watson further tended to Sherlock's condition. "I require a needle."

"There's a syringe in my bag." Watson stated as he tried to wipe away as much blood from the wound as possible in Sherlock's chest. With the aid of a small glass vial Watson managed to collect some of the spilled blood for use later on. "A small sample of your blood first, then take a sample from Sherlock."

"Yes, of course." Mycroft forced himself to temporarily ignore his brother on the desk as he located the syringe in the bag as designated. He pressed the tip of the sharp needle to his left index finger until it drew a drop of blood. Returning to the microscope Mycroft smeared the fresh blood from his finger onto the slide and studied it carefully under the microscope; keenly memorizing the shape of the cells visually before setting it aside.

"Here." Watson had gathered a sample of Sherlock's blood in the small vial and held it out for Mycroft to take.

Accepting the vial Mycroft poured a single drop onto another slide and examined it next. The two samples were identical in shape and sixe which meant he and Sherlock shared the same blood type.

"It's a match."

"Excellent. Come over here." Watson instructed as he pulled a transfusion line from a special compartment located in the depths of the medical bag. The line was a long, flexible hose of plastic and rubber with two hollow ended needles at both sides. "It won't be comfortable I'm afraid, but it's the only way to save his life."

"I understand doctor." Mycroft replied as he too slipped off his jacket and rolled up the left sleeve of his shirt to his elbow. Stepping over the desk Mycroft sat down in the nearby chair and gently lifted Sherlock's limp arm up to slip it out of the sleeve of his bloodied shirt. "Do what you have to do, just save my brother."

"Of course."

Despite Watson's personal qualm about performing the procedure on his dearest friend he set about the delicate task as professionally and as composed as possible. Mycroft sat at Sherlock's side as the transfusion line between his arm and Sherlock's arm provided the dying detective with the much needed blood replenishment to restore what Sherlock had lost after being shot.

"I've stemmed the bleeding as much as possible, now we need to induce a light coma before I attempt any operation. The dose will have to be very diluted due to his blood loss."

"Will there be any complications?"

"Any surgery carries risks, Mycroft." Watson answered honestly as he pulled the desired medication from his bag and loaded a syringe. "All we can do is watch him for any sign of distress and respond accordingly."

Using a mild sedative to numb Sherlock's already dwindling senses to any pain Watson began the crucial surgery to extract the bullet from Sherlock's chest, repair the damaged tissue beneath and disinfect the wound itself.

Sherlock's gray eyes slowly closed as the sedative was administered via syringe into his left arm by Watson's hand. Sherlock's breathing evened out and became deeper as he fell into a deep, medically induced slumber.

"There we are." Watson slipped on a pair of latex gloves over his hands and took a deep breath. With a gentle touch he lifted Sherlock's heavy eyelid and checked his pupils. "He's fully unconscious."

Placing the tray of instruments down atop Sherlock's abdomen Watson looked to Mycroft for assistance. "I'll need your hand as well."

"You may have both." Mycroft replied sharply. "Let's begin."

"Forceps." Watson requested as he used his fingers to keep the bullet wound open as wide as possible to examine it to its fullest extent. Using a slow and meticulous touch Watson carefully tended to the wound as if even the slightest jostling would cause the detective's heart to stop.

Mycroft handed Watson the item from the tray of instruments that was balanced somewhat precariously over Sherlock's abdomen. Though crude the tray's movement would give Watson an accurate visual representation of Sherlock's respiration throughout the surgery without having to pause or take his hands from the wound.

"I can see the bullet." Watson stated as his trained eyes caught sight of a glistening metal object embedded in the fourth posterior rib on the right side of Sherlock's ribcage. Inserting the long metal forceps into the wound Watson carefully took hold of the bullet while also examining the internal damage the bullet had caused. "Missed the lung and the liver. But the rib has been fractured considerably."

"Can you repair it?"

"I can only remove the bone fragments. Any repair will have to result from Sherlock's own physical constitution, and time."

"If the lung was undamaged then why did he cough up blood?"

"The impact of the bullet had disturbed the delicate tissues inside the lung enough to damage smaller vessels which cause mild bleeding. There is no additional blood and his breaths aren't labored which means he is not bleeding into his lungs."

"You're certain?"

"Quite." Watson retracted the forceps from the wound and with it came the offending bullet. As the bullet was pulled from Sherlock's chest both Watson and Mycroft stared at it with a mutual disgust. A metal 'clank' sounded off through the study as Watson dropped the bloodied bullet onto the metal tray next to the other instruments. "Once I've removed the fragments from his broken rib I'll stitch the wound shut. How are you feeling, Mycroft?"

"Tired but I'm still alert, doctor." Mycroft confirmed as he ran his hand through Sherlock's hair sympathetically.

"Good. After this is all said and I done I'm going to examine you for any sign of anemia."

"Understood." Mycroft straightened his posture from where he sat and felt a stiffness had set in between his shoulders and his neck. "How long have we been tending to my brother?"

Watson glanced at the clock on the far wall and estimated the time. "Just over an hour now. Time is fleeting, especially in medicine."

"Yes. This is quite reminiscent of our mother's final hour."

"Please Mycroft," Watson lightly scolded as he removed the remaining small bone fragments from Sherlock's chest. "we mustn't speak or think in such a dire manner."

"I doubt positive thinking and good wishes will heal a bullet wound, doctor."

"You're right, it won't. But," Watson checked his work to ensure he hadn't missed any fragments. "it won't do either of us good to get lost in such bleak ideas or presume Sherlock too far gone to be saved."

"I suppose you're right. The Holmes' haven't exactly been the most optimistic of families over the past several generations."

"Yes. I've noticed." Watson joked instinctively in an attempt to lighten the mood. Eyeing the wound carefully Watson was satisfied that all of the bone fragments had been properly removed and the wound itself could now be sewn shut. "Once I disinfect the injury I can apply the stitches."

Mycroft looked down at Sherlock's pale face and nodded slightly in approval. "Well, he's made it this far. I'm convinced a few stitches won't harm him any further."

"Agreed." Watson took a bottle of alcohol from his bag and splashed it into the still opened wound. Using a clean swab of gauze Watson mopped out the excess alcohol from the wound before dabbing more onto a clean cloth to wipe down the surrounding skin before he began stitching the bullet wound close. "In the years that I've known Sherlock I have been increasingly impressed by his fortitude and resilience."

"I believe you're mistaking resilience with stubbornness, doctor." Mycroft quipped as his hand resumed running through Sherlock's dark hair. "Even as a child he was always so damn stubborn... But I suppose that's how he has managed to live this long."

"Yes," Watson threaded the needle with silk and began the first stitch. "your brother once mentioned to me that he was deathly ill as a lad. Black fever, was it not?"

"It was." Mycroft confirmed with a simple nod. "Mother and father insisted on spending holiday in Africa before father was summoned to America to begin his teaching at Boston. But it would prove to be our last family holiday."

"I take it your father was also ill but failed to recover."

"Yes." Mycroft's hand froze in place for a moment before he resumed speaking. "It was Sherlock who the doctors believed would perish in the night, not our father. The shock was tremendous and Sherlock has always felt responsible for what had happened."

"Survivor's guilt." Watson deduced without the slightest hesitation as he finished the final stitch and knotted the end of the silk thread. "Not uncommon during illness or war." Clipping off the excess thread Watson took a step back to check his work and looked for any signs of continued bleeding. "The stitches seem to be holding."

"How long until he wakes?"

"I cannot say." Watson slipped off his bloodied gloves, placing the soiled items down on the tray still resting on Sherlock's abdomen. "Aside from the blood loss he is still under the influence of the sedative." Reaching out toward Mycroft's hand Watson pressed his fingers to the elder brother's wrist to measure his pulse. "Your heart rate is elevated. I will cease the transfusion, I'd hate for you to collapse from anemia or fatigue."

"What of Sherlock?"

Watson's hand released Mycroft's wrist and came to a rest at the side of Sherlock's neck. The pulse beneath his fingertips was fast but strong. "I suspect he's out of immediate danger for the moment. As long as he's kept quite and warm he should recover with no ill effects."

"I do hope you're right." Mycroft admitted his concern as he allowed Watson to remove the transfusion line from his arm and press a cottonball against the vein to keep it from bleeding. "Thought neither of us would ever admit it life without one another would become quite boring."

"I could only imagine." Watson smiled as he pressed a clean bandage over the freshly stitched wound. "Rest a moment then help me get him into his room to recover. I'll clean up the mess afterward."

Watson stood at the end of Sherlock's bed with his arm resting against the nearby by bureau as he remained vigil at his critically injured friend's side. The detective had remained unconscious well into twenty-six hours after being give the sedative and still wasn't showing any signs of waking from his deep slumber. White bandages wrapped around his damaged chest rose and fell with each breath in a calm rhythm beneath the quilt that covered his body.

Mycroft peered through the opened door, his face flushed and eyes bright with exhaustion. "Doctor. How is he?"

"Still alive." Watson confirmed in a low whisper. Turning to look at the elder Holmes over his shoulder Watson could see that Mycroft was as exhausted as Sherlock looked. "Why don't you get some rest in my room next door?"

"I'm fine."

"I doubt that. If you push yourself too far I might end up with both Holmes brothers as my patients, and I feel I must remind you that I retired from practice." Turning to give Mycroft a stern glance that he had mastered while in the military he persuaded Mycroft to lay down. "I only take on housecalls during special occasions, and one per night is my limit!"

"Very well, doctor. You win." Mycroft's resolve had worn out as heavy fatigue set in. "I shall retire to your room but only for a few hours. I won't be taking my leave until I see my brother awake."

"I think that can be arranged."

Mycroft slowly walked out of the room, his footsteps heavy and awkward as he exited Sherlock's room and made his way to Watson's room right next door. Watson listened for the soft click of his door opening and then shutting again before he returned his attention to Sherlock laying in the bed."

"...Well done, Watson."

"Holmes?" Watson was surprised to hear the hoarse voice of his friend speaking with such certainty.

"It's not often Mycroft can be persuaded to do anything once his mind has been set."

Approaching the bed Watson placed his hand down very gently atop of Sherlock's chest as he addressed his friend. "Can you hear me?"

"Evidently."

"Yes, yes. Just a routine question." Watson blushed a little in embarrassment. "Do you remember what happened?"

"I was meeting with... Marcus when we were ambushed... by one of Moriarty's hitmen." Sherlock's words were cut off by gasping, shallow breaths as even the act of speaking was too strenuous for the detective's current physical condition. "Marcus... Is he...?"

"I'm sorry Holmes, he didn't make it."

"Moriarty will pay... for Marcus's murder. As well as... the attempted murder of... myself."

"You know for certain it was Moriarty?"

"I do." Sherlock sighed and winced in pain, Watson's hand lifting up slightly from Sherlock's chest in response. "The man who... pulled the trigger aimed first for... Marcus... rather than myself,... and it was Marcus... who was delivering information... on Moriarty."

"That damnable fiend."

"Quite so." Sherlock's gray eyes opened slowly. "Might I ask... why Mycroft is here?"

"Your brother was also connected with Marcus. When he failed to return after his meeting with you he deduced that a tragedy befell you and came to the flat." Watson cleared his throat somewhat nervously. "He also donated the necessary blood that saved your life."

"Of course." Sherlock let a very faint grin appear on his pale face before his eyes fell shut again. "My big brother. Always watching out... for me." Sherlock's head slowly lolled limply to the side against his pillow as he fell into a much needed deep sleep right before Watson's eyes.

"Get some rest." Watson insisted as he took his hand from Sherlock's chest entirely and sat on the edge of the bed to watch over his recovering friend. "I'll look after both you and Mycroft until you're well again."

-The End

Author's Note: Transfusions in humans began in 1818. Blood typing first recorded in 1900. Not entirely scientifically accurate, but adequate enough for this particular story.