I just rushed this off in the last couple of hours, mainly because I loved the movie and this is the way I express gratitude to the people who make movies, tv and books that I love. I always feel sorry for Holmes, because he's untouchable so people assume he doesn't have feelings and emotions like regular people. Watson is his foil; he can see right through Holmes sometimes. I realise this gets a little out of character by the end, but I like it. But then I am biased. Review is love. But please, 'be gentle with me Watson'.

Watson's heart stopped. Then a huge jolt of adrenaline pushed him forward, pulling off his coat and blindly knocking his hat off before he leaped into the water, right in the centre of the spreading ripples. The commotion that had erupted in the abandoned warehouse as Lestrade and his men swarmed the place suddenly ceased as Watson jumped head first into the filthy water of the Thames. He pulled against its icy grip, stretched his hand out and grabbed a handful of rough sackcloth. The adrenaline that automatically made him swim for the surface with inhuman strength born of pure fear left no room for relief. That would come later. Rational thought returned as Watson's head broke the surface. He struggled with the heavy sack, pushing the knotted top clear of the water and onto his shoulder. When he felt a thick coil of rope smack into his face he had the sense to get a decent grip. The water parted before him as four hefty policemen hauled him to safety. Willing hands pulled a shivering Watson from the Thames onto the dirty wooden planks of the low dock. The cold silence of reflexive action left him and a multitude of sounds assaulted his ears. The dull clink of handcuffs, the screaming of a woman, Lestrade bellowing for a knife. He still maintained his death grip on the sack he had rescued from the permanent embrace of the Thames.

Ripping his nails in the process Watson desperately picked at the waterlogged knots that held the rough brown cloth closed. Lestrade knocked his shaking hands aside and slit the cord. The burlap fell away to reveal the ashen face of Holmes, dark hair plastered to his forehead, a thin trickle of watered-down blood smeared across his left temple, eyes closed. Watson hauled the other man into a sitting position and held his face close to the pale lips. There was nothing. Watson immediately pounded his friend's back frantically. Holmes coughed and spat up a seemingly vast quantity of river water. His eyes flickered open briefly.

"Why couldn't you have waited, just for once in your life, Holmes?" he asked. His only answer was a wry smile before Holmes lapsed back into unconsciousness.

The door to the sitting room crashed open just before midday as a barefoot Holmes staggered in.

"You have an excruciating headache," Watson remarked, glancing up from the morning's paper which was full of yesterday's exploits. "Which, as always, has put you in a foul mood." It took little detective work to figure out that the livid bruise and blood encrusted skin that adorned Holmes's left temple would be the cause of a killer headache. Another colourful bruise had blossomed overnight on his chin. "You also have concussion from a blow that heavy and should be resting in bed." Holmes waved a hand at him and made a small noise of extreme flippancy. "Well," Watson continued in the same even tone, "If you are not going to go back to bed, at the very least lie down on the sofa and let me take a look at your head." Oddly, Holmes complied without comment or complaint. 'His head must hurt more than I thought,' mused Watson as he set aside his paper and moved over to the reclining figure on the sofa.

"In answer to your question, Watson, if I had waited for you and Lestrade to turn up with the cavalry they would have already been on a train to Southampton and from there to America." The fact that he didn't find Holmes's answering a question put to him the night before at all strange told Watson he'd been around Holmes too long. And despite the inevitable fact that Holmes would have a solid stream of logic to justify his actions, Watson took up the argument anyway.

"Just ten minutes Holmes, that was all it took for 'the cavalry' to arrive."

"Yes, but in those ten minutes they would have fled the warehouse, separated to increase their chances of escape and reconvened on the platform of the last train for Southampton. I happen to know when the last train to Southampton leaves and calculated that on foot, with Miss Georgina Morgan as the slowest of the three as she would have to run in skirts, the last possible time they could leave the warehouse and still catch their train would be one minute after the earliest possible point reinforcements could arrive. One minute, I am sure you will agree Watson, is not a sufficiently large margin for error when dealing with the London police force. Therefore, I had to delay the criminals' departure until either the 'cavalry' arrived or they could no longer make the train, which would have stranded them at the station with us in hot pursuit." Holmes grinned at him from the sofa. Watson couldn't help but admire the mind that had evidently worked all of that out in about two seconds the night before as he had suddenly rushed out of the Baker Street after throwing a scrap of paper at Watson and shouting to fetch Lestrade and meet him at the address on the paper. However, he couldn't help one last parting shot.

"I'd rather they got away than have to fish you out of the Thames tied up in a sack like a runt Holmes." Holmes's grin faded and he turned away, dark eyes clouded.

"I'd rather like to sleep now, if you wouldn't mind Watson," Holmes mumbled as he curled up cat-like on the sofa. Watson sighed and patted his friend's shoulder before resuming his seat and taking up the paper once more.

Holmes, annoyingly stubborn and surprisingly tough man that he was, did not sleep at all, Watson observed. Instead, he remained quiet upon the sofa for an hour, then walked slowly over to his own chair next to Watson's, picking up his violin on the way. His mood appeared to have little improved and he glared out at the cluttered room while absently plucking the strings of the instrument. The light tread of slippered feet upon the stair-carpet heralded Mrs Hudson's arrival bearing a tray laden with a good deal of sandwiches and a large pot of freshly brewed tea. As always, she knocked lightly on the door before entering and setting the tray down on the low table between her lodgers, which was the only available clear space other than the floor. The long-suffering landlady took one look at the battered and morose Holmes and tutted her disapproval as she left.

"Eat Holmes," ordered Watson immediately prior to taking a large bite out of a sandwich of his own. He was hungry, having slept through breakfast after arriving back at Baker Street the wrong side of midnight and suffering the long process of putting a complaining Holmes to bed and making sure he stayed there. It tasted divine; even in the making of the simple sandwich Mrs Hudson excelled herself. Watson looked over at Holmes. He hadn't so much as moved a muscle. "Eat," Watson repeated, "Or I will force it down your throat Holmes. There are no two ways about it, you need your strength after last night. Especially since you haven't eaten in three days." It was true. Holmes had been so wrapped up in tracking down the three robbers (who had evolved in the course of their crimes to become murderers of a young newly-wed lady who had caught Miss Georgina Morgan opening the back door of her employer's house to admit her accomplices) that he had forgotten to eat. Holmes snatched a sandwich, took a defiant bite out of it and then threw it down on the table. That, apparently, was the extent of his meal. Watson ignored his friend's childish behaviour and poured them both a cup of tea. Lord knew he needed something in his hand to stop him from following through on his threat.

The remaining sandwiches that Watson had asked Mrs Hudson to leave should Holmes miraculously discover his appetite were drying out in the warm room, the edges beginning to curl. Watson was staring out of the window at the thin drizzle that was gradually soaking London, listening to Holmes rummaging about at the other side of the room. He was reflecting on how hard it had been to bully Holmes into taking even a cup of tea and was attempting to formulate a plan of action that would result in getting some more solid sustenance inside him short of holding him down and physically forcing him to eat when, in the sudden stillness of the sitting room, he heard a cork stopper being removed from its bottle. Reflexively, he forbade the action.

"No. Don't even think about it Holmes."

"I'm not asking for your permission Watson."

"You're half-starved, still slightly concussed and exhausted. Have you even considered the consequences of what you're doing when you're in this state?" Watson yelled as he stalked across the room. Holmes blinked as Watson ripped the bottle from his hand and brandished it in front of him.

"Well," Holmes began, but Watson cut him off.

"I'll take that as a no then. I will not allow you to kill yourself while I am in the same room." Watson spat the words out with such force that Holmes recoiled from his seething anger. Taking his chance as Holmes momentarily increased the distance between them, Watson flung the vial into the grate, where it smashed, the contents spilling onto the ashes of last night's fire. Holmes looked furious. Watson didn't care. He turned back to the window as Holmes flung himself into his chair.

The cab's wheels rattled on the cobblestones, a continuous sound against the steady trot of the horse and the intermittent flick of the cabbie's whip. Watson stared out at the night. When it had become apparent that Holmes was going to sulk all afternoon and well into the evening, Watson had taken himself out. On a stroll about the park he'd run into a old friend from his military days and they'd traded stories of their lives since they last met, continuing in the warmer and drier environment of a nearby public house at his acquaintance's suggestion. After several rounds of drink, Austin had persuaded him to indulge in a little game of chance, citing his past achievements in the mess tent and a certain wishful thinking of the old times as good reasons for Watson to give in to a couple of games. After a little encouragement Watson had capitulated; after all, Holmes was probably indulging his own private vice right now. Watson was not so naive as to think Holmes kept only one of those hateful vials secreted about the house. The first few rounds went well. Contrary to what Holmes believed, Watson was not such an easy man to read when at a gambling table. He'd won a few and lost a few over the course of the evening, but eventually the night turned into a loss as Austin and he consumed more alcohol. They'd parted outside the inn with much jovial back-slapping and promises to catch up again soon and Watson had walked a way to clear his head before he hailed a cab with the little money he had left. The cab halted with a jerk outside the familiar front of 221B and Watson climbed down and paid the driver. He ascended the front steps slowly and let himself in quietly with his key, hoping to at least allow his kind landlady to remain asleep.

Having climbed the stairs to their rooms silently, remembering to avoid the fifth step that squeaked, he paused by the door to the sitting room. It was open a crack and inside Watson could hear Holmes mumbling to himself. He turned to go when a muted cry issued from behind the door. Treading softly, Watson pushed open the door and entered the sitting room. He shivered. There had clearly been no fire that evening and as a result the sitting room was freezing. A single candle, standing on a sideboard near the door, guttered as Watson moved into the room. Picking it up as the only light source in the dim room, he held it high as he tried to discern where shadow ended and Holmes began. Again a stifled moan reached Watson's straining ears and his sharp blue eyes were drawn to the hearthrug by a sudden movement. It was Holmes.

He was still barefoot, his dark hair un-brushed and tousled, the old shirt Watson had this morning recognised as one of his own was rolled up at the sleeves and twice as crumpled as it had been. A book regarding poisons from around the world was lying near him; as was his wont he had read himself to sleep and only discarded the book when he'd finally dropped off. As Watson picked his way through the accumulated artefacts, Holmes shifted again. To Watson he looked as though he were fighting off some invisible enemy, his long fingers bunched into fists so tight that Watson saw with alarm that tiny drops of blood squeezed out between the fingers. He lit another candle, set them both down on the hearth and knelt beside the sleeping man. Gently, he touched Holmes's shoulder. Holmes whined pathetically and rolled onto his side, curling into a ball and covering his head with his arms. Not for the first time, Watson looked at the red chafe marks on Holmes's pale wrists. There were matching ones on his ankles, he knew, he'd watched Lestrade slice neatly through the ropes that caused them last night. Suddenly breaking Watson's reverie, Holmes lashed out, catching Watson across the chest. Consumed by what Watson now realised was a powerful nightmare, Holmes flailed against any resistance he met, including Watson. At a loss, Watson gathered his friend into his firm grasp for fear he should knock over one or other of the candles. Holmes struggled fitfully and Watson nearly lost his grip on the smaller man.

"Holmes!" he shouted into his friend's ear. "Holmes, it's me, it's Watson, don't worry old boy, I'm here. Holmes, wake up, for god's sake man!" Watson, desperate now to awaken his friend, took him by the shoulders and shook him roughly. Holmes eyes snapped open.

"Watson," he gasped, thin chest heaving for breath, relief evident in his face. He paused for a moment, assessing his situation, processing the fact that he was currently enveloped by Watson in a huge bear hug, that his hands and feet were so cold they had almost lost feeling and that he could feel Watson's body heat seeping into his own torso. "You can let me go now," he suggested. Watson released him as though he was contagious and he swayed backwards as he pulled his feet round to sit cross-legged. Holmes could feel Watson's worried gaze on him as he stared at the floor. "Thank you." It had been said so quietly Watson had almost missed it. He ducked down, trying to draw eye contact from the crumpled man sitting before him.

"What were you dreaming about?" he asked gently. All the medical books he'd read suggested that talking through bad dreams assuaged the fear that caused them. However, none of the authors had ever met Sherlock Holmes. Watson could actually see the man instantly clam up. "Holmes, I am only trying to help you."

"In your capacity as a doctor looking after the sick," Holmes shot back, dark eyes gleaming defiantly in the poor light.

"No," Watson sighed, "In my capacity as your friend." There was silence for a few moments as Holmes's frosty attitude thawed. "Holmes, last night you had a near death experience. And that was only the part I saw. It is only natural for the human mind..."

"I have been declared a machine before now, Watson," Holmes answered shortly. "It seems I am denied the rights of a human by virtue of hunting merely for the thrill of the chase."

"Holmes, you are as human as I." A slight pause as Watson gathered his courage to ask the next question. "What happened after you left here in such a hurry last night?" Staring resolutely at the floor, Holmes grit his teeth and didn't answer. "It doesn't take reasoning powers like your own for it to be blatantly obvious I woke you from drowning," Watson informed him, hoping to draw him out by making it appear as if he knew or guessed it all already.

"I told you Watson, I distracted them long enough for you to come to my rescue and Lestrade to arrest them." Watson merely made an encouraging noise. "Fine," growled Holmes, "Have it your way then. I knew you and Lestrade wouldn't turn up in time to stop them. Despite your best efforts, it would take at least a minute for you to convince the fool that I really did need help. So the margin for error had disappeared and as you well know I have little faith in the London constabulary. Something had to be done. It doesn't do for cases I investigate to end with the perpetrators free. Think of my reputation," he said wryly. "I crept inside and watched them divide their final haul. I observed that none were armed but I had forgotten my revolver, or I would have attempted to engage them in a rather deadly game of cat and mouse. I did the only thing I could do. They knew I was on their trail, so they planned to escape London that night and flee the country on the first boat in the morning. I stepped out and confronted them. Predictably, their first thought was to apprehend me, but I wasted five precious minutes before their greater knowledge of their hideout weighed in their favour and I was chased into the right fist of Mr Holdern. When I woke..." Holmes faltered in his narrative. Visibly steeling himself, he went on. "When I woke, I had been divested of my boots, coat, pipe and handkerchief, all of which would have provided some clue as to my identity, and was tied securely hand and foot. I am afraid, Watson, that I had underestimated Miss Morgan. She questioned me quite thoroughly as to whether I had alerted anyone as to my whereabouts and directed the violent attentions of her two fellow criminals towards my ribs and back when I refused to answer. Eventually she realised I was stalling for time and looked at her watch. Watson, I have never heard a female use such filthy curses as she did then when she knew for certain that they had missed the train and were headed inevitably for prison or the noose. Again, I had underestimated the poison in her; she left my sight for a few moments and returned with a sack. The two men manhandled me into it on her orders after a kick to the jaw rendered me somewhat dazed."

Holmes fell silent and rubbed the bruise on his chin absently. Watson squeezed his shoulder; a show of solidarity with this remarkable man. He was stunned then, by the intensity of the fear in Holmes's eyes as he met his gaze.

"She, she turned my chin so I'd face her and ... told me that she was the last thing on earth I'd see and that since I'd sent her to the gallows for murder she would make me pay before the law caught up with her. I believe her exact words were 'might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb'. She pushed my head down and drew the neck of the sack up. She laughed as she tied the cord above my head and pulled the cloth across my face. Watson, I could still feel it on my face in my dream." Holmes shuddered at the memory. "She kicked me over and giggled while I fought to free myself. Then I was being dragged across the floor, over the threshold and out onto the jetty. She knelt down next to me, Watson, she whispered in my ear that she'd watch the last bubbles of air break the surface and laugh. I heard you break the door. She told me you'd be too late. I believed her. Holdern must have hit me again because I don't remember hitting the water, just a faint sense of cold and of sinking. And then you were thumping me on the back and I was spitting up half the Thames and you were asking me stupid questions." Holmes ended abruptly. He sniffed and Watson realised there were tears running down his face.

"Holmes, I promise you, I will never be too late." Watson handed the weeping man his clean handkerchief. Holmes merely nodded and crumpled the white cloth in his hand, arms wrapped tightly around his body. Instinctively, Watson shuffled across the seemingly impenetrable distance of a few inches and folded Holmes into a second embrace. He felt the other man stiffen at the unfamiliar situation and then relax into the human contact. Watson felt Holmes's arms encircle his own body and rubbed his friend's back in soothing circles. Holmes's chin on his shoulder, Watson breathed deeply and calmly, hoping to transmit some of the feeling into the other man. He felt Holmes take a deep breath against his chest, the shaking intake of one who has been crying. Not knowing what else to do, Watson held on, hoping the simple contact would eventually calm his friend. Gradually, he felt Holmes's body relax into sleep, his breathing settling into a deep constant rhythm. Watson shifted slowly to lay the sleeping Holmes down and extricate himself from the embrace. Reaching out he snagged a cushion from the sofa and gently positioned it underneath Holmes's head. He stealthily unfolded himself from his position at Holmes's side and fetched a blanket from the bed in Holmes's bedroom to drape over the curled-up figure, carefully tucking it around his icy feet. Watson himself, too tired to creep back to his own room, kicked off his boots and laid full stretch on the sofa under Holmes's red smoking jacket. In the glow of the candles he looked at the blanketed form asleep on the hearthrug like a faithful dog. Or, Watson reflected, more accurately a faithful hound.

"I will never be too late Holmes."