Jeez, I'm gone for – what? – about a month and Fanfiction makes all these changes and updates without me. Not to mention the messages from my readers that have accumulated a bit. Warn a girl, will ya?

Anyway, the answer is a bar of soap, the stomach/waistline and (a stretch but it works) muscles and a belt

Here are our winners!

Ripplerose
Blue Dragon of Rivendell
Kirsten
Silver Fox Animagus
hollowgirl15
Lurker
The Mad Squirrel
LogicAndWonderland
Mycroft R Holmes
Kay8abc
Dr Paz

Sorry for the wait, by the way. I had finals, and then my sister graduated followed by those festivities, and I'm playing Heavy Rain, and I just never got around to posting. Sorry. But summer is here now so I'll have more time to write and post.

To make up for the wait I put you through (again), I shall give you WHUMP!

(And, I know, weird title, but I didn't know what to title it and then this one just popped into my head so I wrote it down without hesitation. It works I guess.)

oOoOo

Bad Case of Spots

He found himself on the ground, head pounding, ears ringing; eyes refusing to focus.

He was aware that he was on the ground, trying to get his hands and feet under him. He could dimly make out the cobbled road beneath him but couldn't feel the rough stone or the minute sting of the pebbles clinging to his palm.

All he could feel was the stabbing pain at the back of his head that made his vision swim with spots and his ears buzz with static.

He was grateful then when strong hands grabbed the font of his coat and hauled him to his feet. He looked up unsteadily at his helper, blinking those damned spots away so that he could see the face before him.

He frowned.

Those obsidian eyes were foreign to him as was the shade of color that pigmented the skin. Most disconcerting of all was the mouth: twisted in a cruel sneer under the prickle of an upper lip that needed a shave.

His brow knitted in confusion as he tried to place the face. He lifted his hands to shakily grip the man's arms so that he could get his feet steady under him.

He was not fast enough, however, as one hand drew back from its purchase in Sherlock Holmes' coat and formed a fist. Sherlock's mouth opened on its own accord, although, whether it was to taunt or protest, he didn't know.

The strike came anyway.

Hard knuckles crashed into his jaw and sent him spiraling back to the ground. It went black for a moment and his head screamed; the buzzing in his ears escalated to a dull roar. He pried his eyes open to find that the spots had reformed their ranks.

This time he could not move. Nothing responded to the signals he sent to do so. All he could do was lie there, slack-jawed; tasting the sickly sweet bite of metal on his tongue and stare at the foreign man that sauntered into view.

That sneer was still in place, nagging at Sherlock to remember: remember who the man was, why he was there, and how Sherlock had managed to find himself sprawled on the ground for a second time that day.

The man's sneer turned malicious as he plucked off the ground, a rusted crowbar that had been discarded and forgotten long ago, perhaps after it had been used to break into a house or car. Sherlock squinted at it, testing his own deducting ability to gauge how damaged his head was.

Medium of length and thick with an angled head. If he could see the pronged head more clearly without the interference of the dancing spots, he'd have been able to determine just what the crowbar had been used for. He blinked with growing dread as he realized he needn't have bothered trying to deduce what the bar had been used for and instead needed to be worried about what it would be used for.

The man loomed closer, waving the crowbar tauntingly at Sherlock. He then crouched down at the head of the felled detective. He lifted the bar, seeming to revel in the sight of Sherlock's gaze tracking the bar's ascent over his head. The bar wavered at its peak in the air and Sherlock's eyes widened reflexively as realization slowly dawned.

What must go up must come down. And Sherlock's head was in the bar's downward trajectory.

His body started to struggle; tried to move in order to preserve itself. But the man reached out his free hand and pinned Sherlock against the ground by placing an iron grip around the detective's neck, pinching Sherlock's chin between his thumb and forefinger to force Sherlock to look at the crowbar. He couldn't move. And he found little comfort in concluding that the bar had indeed been used to pry a window from its wooden frame.

Sherlock shut his eyes tight, but when nothing happened, he opened then again.

The crowbar was gone. And so was the man.

Sherlock let out a held breath and found that the weight on his neck had also been removed.

Movement to his left attracted his attention and Sherlock's head tipped to the side to see what it was. He feared it was the threat.

Instead, he saw two men now, struggling in a mess of tangled limbs on the ground. The new stranger had one hand on the bar and the other tearing at the arm around his throat. The bar was pried free and used against its owner. The men separated, breathing heavily.

The man that had nearly succeeded in killing Sherlock stood a few feet away, nursing a cut on his brow and glaring at the newcomer (strangely familiar that one) who stood with his back to Sherlock, purposefully keeping himself between the detective and the threat.

Sherlock's savior was a man of inferior height and superior age with cropped hair hinting at a previous military profession. He gripped the bar with scraped and bloodied fingers before tossing it aside. Sherlock smiled at that. This man had honor, believing in a fair fight. Foolish.

"Back down, Tyler," the shorter man advised, open palms facing the threat. He did, however, refuse to release his position in front of Sherlock.

The threat, Tyler was his name it seemed, finished inspecting his wounds and faced the shorter man with seething malice. The military man met his stance with raised fists.

Then the two collided.

The movement was too disorienting for Sherlock. He let his eyes drift close as the sounds of grunts and the hollow thud of fists hitting exposed skin echoed around him.

Then the solid impact of a body hitting the ground.

Sherlock forced his eyes to open. There, standing triumphant over Tyler's crumbled form, was Sherlock's savior. The man turned to face Sherlock, gasping painfully; lips flecked with blood. A dark stain ebbed from his nose but this was casually wiped away as the familiar stranger staggered to Sherlock, a bit of a limp in his right leg. The man fell to his knees beside the detective in the same spot where Tyler had been ready to kill him.

But there was no malice in this man's eyes. Only anxiety, and relief.

"Sherlock," the man breathed, and the amnesia was cured.

"John," Sherlock greeted, memories returned at the sight of a familiar voice to go with the face.

A ghost of a smile graced John's lips as he slipped out of his jumper and tucked it under Sherlock's head. The padding was a relief from the hard ground that did little to help his throbbing headache.

"You're late," Sherlock deadpanned.

"You run too fast," John countered with a matched tone, observing the state of the detective.

Sherlock chuckled, cringing slightly from the movement.

John fingers extended to inspect the bruise on Sherlock's swollen cheek and the knot at the back of his head. Sherlock's eyes likewise examined the doctor's battered nose, bloodied lip, and blossoming bruises on John's face.

"Tyler?" he asked softly.

"Taking a nap," John replied curtly. "How are you feeling?"

"Head hurts," Sherlock answered with a huff as if the fact mattered little; a passing thought.

"That's because you were hit with a bloody crowbar." John explained.

Ah, so that crowbar had been used against him once before. Funny, he didn't remember that part at all.

"I'm surprised you're still conscious actually."

"No easy feat, I assure you," Sherlock said, the words tripping slightly.

John's hands continued their tentative examination as he shifted his focus away from Sherlock's face. Though John's attention had changed, Sherlock's remained focused.

"You're bleeding."

John's smile was wry. "Another brilliant deduction from the great Sherlock Holmes. I expected nothing less."

"I'm sorry."

John paused. "No," he said softly. "I'm sorry. If I were here sooner, I could have prevented this."

Their inspection done, one hand moved to John's lap while the other returned to Sherlock's face. He absently rubbed a thumb over the color on Sherlock's jawline.

"Not your fault," Sherlock murmured.

"No…" John said thoughtfully, eyes looking up as the sound of sirens disturbed the quiet afternoon. "No, you're right. It's yours."

"Pardon?"

"Can you stand?" John interrupted.

"Yes, but –"

"Good. We need to get you to Lestrade."

He pulled Sherlock up into a sitting position. "Hold this," he ordered, shoving his jumper into Sherlock's stunned hands.

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue but John moved first, throwing Sherlock's arm over his shoulder and rising to his feet stiffly, bringing Sherlock up with him. Sherlock floundered for a moment until he managed to get his feet steady under him; his weight instantly shifting to John as the smaller man kept him upright.

"Small steps now," John said gently. "Close your eyes if that helps. Lestrade is just around the corner.

"Oh I feel better already," Sherlock grunted, eyes closed to ward off the unsettling sight of the upheaval of the ground under his feet.

"Be nice. He'll take you to the hospital where they can properly fix you up."

"I don't need a hospital, John. I already have my doctor."

John grunted in disagreement but said nothing more. Sherlock could have even sworn he saw a light smile lift up a corner of the doctor's mouth.

"Although," Sherlock continued, closing his eyes once more, "you may need to go to the hospital. You seem to be suffering from a head injury too."

"What? No. Why?"

"You seem to be under the impression that it is my fault I was attacked. Clearly a blow to your frontal lobe has disrupted your thought process."

"My thought process is fine, thank you," John replied dryly. "And I stand by what I said."

"Do explain."

"I told you," John said, waving an arm at Lestrade and the approaching paramedics. "You run too bloody fast."

OoOoO

How was that? Hope it was worth the wait. I'll try to be better. It's a condition I tell you.

Before I get to your riddle, let me ask you this: anyone else excited for the return of White Collar? I know Suits is back and all, but it doesn't quite compare. Right then, don't need to fangirl here. Let's get right on to that riddle.

**I have roads without cars, forests without trees, and cities without houses. What am I?**

Good luck and Hobey-Ho