John Watson was very prone to nose bleeds. He was just one of those guys who, for no reason whatsoever, would suddenly just erupt in a wave of red, all down his face and chest. Ever since he was little, he used to laugh good-humouredly as his classmates stared aghast at his blood-soaked shirt whilst a teacher escorted him to the medical room, terrified that he might suddenly die of blood loss.

Of course, it was no big problem. John got used to it after a while, and the frequency of such nosebleeds died down after he was about fifteen. He only got the occasional one or two when it was particularly cold.

This winter in 221B was painfully freezing. Even with the thermostat set to its highest setting (without risking combustion), John huddled into his duvet at night, glaring at the strip of window he could see past his curtains, which was frozen shut with a thick layer of ice.

Finally, he managed to fall asleep, praying that he wouldn't wake up with frostbite.

Sherlock Holmes had only ever had nosebleeds when he had been punched in the face by suspects. Even then, they were minimal. He very rarely got spontaneous nosebleeds. Also, Sherlock Holmes knew nothing about John's affliction.

Which was why, at seven in the morning, Sherlock was hurrying up the stairs to John's room, to tell him about the new type of acid he'd developed that burned titanium under special circumstances, involving heat (it had been an accidental discovery, due to the sub-par temperatures in the kitchen) and pressure.

"John!" he cried out. "Look what I've made! Look what I-"

He swung open the door and the breath was knocked out of him. His first reaction was simply: "No!"

For John was splayed across his bed, arm hanging limply over one side, and he was covered in blood.

His face was streaky and covered, his hair was soaked, his pyjama t-shirt was saturated, and his pillow was completely red.

"No, John! No!" Sherlock's heart rate rocketed, his vision went blurry and his head span. Not John. Please, not John. Someone had attacked John in his sleep. Worse still, someone had snuck in, right under Sherlock's nose. How could he have been so stupid? What sort of friend was he, that he just let murderers enter his home and- and—

"Oh, god, John!" Sherlock gasped out, his knees trembling. He had seen more gruesome murders than he had had hot dinners, but for some reason, the sight of John, mauled in his own bed, was making Sherlock feel nauseous. His breaths were shallow, and part of his brain catalogued that he was having a panic attack.

He pushed himself away from the wall where he had slumped, unable to hold himself up, and fell next to John on the bed, feeling wet, hot blood soak into his own shirt. He did not care.

"Oh, please, no, John!" he cried out, grasping his friend's face and pulling around so he could look at him. He was still warm- a fresh murder then. "No, please! Please!"

He shook John roughly, all rational thought leaving him, and started to hyperventilate. "John!"

Suddenly, John's eyes snapped open, and in the blink of an eye, Sherlock was flat on his back on the floor, having emitted an "oof!", a hand around his neck, and he was being choked.

"J-jo-hon!" he rasped. His mind was in conflict, he didn't know what to do. In one instance, he wanted to sing, because the heavy body pinning him down was alive. In another, his instincts wanted to fight, to get the enemy off him.

"Sh-sherlock?"

John blinked, shaking himself out of the edges of sleep. "What on earth is going on?"

Sherlock's fingers wound around John's blood covered ones, and prised them off his throat.

"Oh, sorry," John apologised, sitting up, and leaning against his chest of drawers. "Old habits."

At this point, he noticed he was entirely marinated in his own blood. "Christ! Bloody hell!"

Sherlock coughed, and stared at John. "Is this supposed to be funny?"

"Funny? What? Oh, no, sorry. Sometimes I get nosebleeds," John admitted sheepishly. "Why?"

Sherlock cleared his throat again, his voice not quite back to normal. His heart was still pounding frantically. "Ahem. It was rather...shocking, when I came in."

John blinked, and then grinned. "Did I look like a crime scene?"

Sherlock indicated at the bed, and John craned his neck from his position on the floor to see the decimated and drenched bedcovers.

"Ah. I see. Um, yes, sorry about that. No, it's just when it gets cold, I'm prone to nosebleeds."

"That wasn't a nosebleed, John, that was a veritable waterfall."

"Yes. Sorry. Didn't mean to alarm you. You've got some on you too. I'm sorry."

Sherlock worried his lip between his teeth, trying hard to eradicate the image of his friend butchered out of his mind, whilst avoiding John's gaze.

"Hey, are you okay?" John asked gently, pressing a hand to Sherlock's arm. A splodgy red handprint was left behind.

"Yes. Of course. I should have...known. Realised- of course it wasn't... Yes. If you'll excuse me," Sherlock stood, and brushed himself down. He could feel blood drying around his neck from where John's hands had tried to strangle him.

He descended John's staircase on wobbly legs, wondering when it was that John Watson had wheedled himself into Sherlock's brain so thoroughly...

Hello! Nice to meet you, fandom! I decided to write something of my own! This is just a little thing that I knocked out in two minutes. I hope you liked it!

Please review!

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