System Restart

It was just after 6:00 when Lestrade got the text.

Sally was sitting at the computer, going through the case file and sweeping the database for any further information on the men involved. It was a small group of smugglers - illegal traffickers of drugs, firearms and munitions, and the occasional priceless artifact. They'd buy whatever anyone would sell and sell whatever anyone would buy. They were suspected to have perpetrated a couple of murders as well, people who'd found out too much, and possibly blackmail beforehand in an attempt to bring in extra revenue. The Yard was fairly certain of whom most of the group members were - finding them, and solid evidence to back up the accusations was the main problem. But they'd gotten a lucky break a few days back - a vague lead from the buyer of an antique vase - and in desperation to break the ring once and for all, Lestrade had called in the Freak.

He came hurrying out his office, waving his phone in the air.

"All right, people, we know where they are! Boarded up house in Blackfen, and Sherlock says there should be enough evidence there to put them away." He glanced around at his officers, who were staring at him with varying degrees of interest, excitement, and incredulity. "So, suit up - we're heading down there now before they leave."

There was a flurry of activity at his words. Everyone headed off to put on vests, and some to acquire sidearms. Nobody brought up the fact that Lestrade was trusting a psychopathic civilian to point them in the right direction - they'd solved enough cases with the Freak helping that people had eventually grudgingly gotten used to it. Sally hadn't yet completely given up trying to convince Lestrade to stop calling him in, but it wasn't as if Lestrade ever much listened, and she was beginning resign herself to the fact that the Freak's occasional, insufferable presence was just becoming part of her job. Honestly, if Lestrade hadn't been the best on the force, Sally probably would have put in for a transfer months ago. But today - today, the Freak was sending them into a situation that, if he was in any way wrong about, could get them killed. So Sally decided to speak up.

"Sir, are you sure he knows what he's talking about?" she asked Lestrade quietly, as the other officers filtered out.

"Donovan, I know you don't like him, but he is usually right," Lestrade answered, with just a hint of exasperation in his voice. "And trust me, he's not going to send us in on a bust unless he's pretty damn sure of his information. Now go suit up, we haven't got much time."

"But sir, he likes to make us look like idiots, you know he does - "

"Donovan." Lestrade held up his hands. "He wants to see cases solved just like we do. He wants to be right. And arrested culprits means both. So go get your suit on now, please, that's an order."

Sally sighed and nodded, turning on her heel and heading off to get a vest on. She had to agree with Lestrade that the Freak liked being right. He was obsessed with showing off how clever he was, and how stupid everyone else was, and therefore how much better he was than all of them, including the police officers who often put in ten to sixteen hour days and dedicated their lives to trying to catch murderers. The Freak wasn't in it for the Greater Good in any sense of the word, of course - he was only interested in amusing himself and degrading the police officers. Which was why Sally worried that he might be winding them up, and was just waiting to see them rush in so he could laugh at them. But he did like to see the criminals get arrested - he generally told them they were stupid, too - and he knew what the Yard would do to him if he pushed too far. So it probably was legitimate, at least in the Freak's mind, though he could always have gotten it wrong.

If he had gotten it wrong, and somebody got shot because of it, Sally would murder him.

ooo00ooo

They pulled up to the kerb the next street over from the abandoned house in question - Lestrade had gotten a couple more texts from the Freak stating the basement as the mostly likely source of evidence (probably where the contraband would be kept, after all), and demanding that they hurry, because the smugglers were probably only going to be there for another twenty or so minutes. Then the texts had simply stopped, leaving Lestrade to stare in annoyance at his phone and complain that the Freak would no longer answer him. Sally only pressed her lips together tightly to keep a number of uncharitable comments from coming out of her mouth - they would only increase Lestrade's irritation, and if they were going on a raid everybody needed to be as calm and in control as possible. It always irked her that the Freak apparently saw common courtesy as some sort stumbling block, as if being polite to people was such a waste of his valuable time that he couldn't be bothered with it. Or rather he just liked snubbing people and ignoring them because it made him feel superior. Sally suspected both.

They got out of the cars and moved carefully up toward the house, sitting still and weather-beaten in an ugly, untended garden. It wasn't the only disused house on this street, Sally noted, as she cautiously approached the front door, and the sightless windows covered in grey wooden boards that flanked it. It was a good place for a group of traffickers - there were more houses abandoned on the street than lived in, and little chance of being discovered by the few and far between neighbors. Most of the occupied houses were sitting with curtains drawn as well, and she imagined there wasn't much of a community spirit around here. You could probably mug somebody in the middle of the street and no one would notice. Sally wrinkled her nose and stepped onto the wooden porch, doing her best to avoid causing creaks.

Lestrade and Winters were on her left - the remaining members of the group were circling around, at the ready in case something went wrong. Lestrade was glancing around curiously, no doubt looking for the Freak and Dr. Watson, whom he had expected to find them when they arrived and give them an update. Neither of them seemed to be around though, and Sally wondered if they'd simply left. That would fit in with the Freak's disregard for politeness - why bother telling Lestrade he was going to leave when he could just do it and ignore the consequences? - but it did seem a bit odd on his part, since he liked being able to gloat when arrests were made. Sally mentally shrugged - no time to think about that now. She had a job to do, and she needed complete focus to do it.

Pushing thoughts of the Freak or anything else to the back of her mind, she watched as Lestrade moved up to the door, paused for a moment, then raised a foot and kicked it sharply in.

And then they were rushing in with weapons drawn, sweeping through the rooms and whipping around corners, half-expecting to be shot at by a trigger-happy criminal who thought he could take on the cops. But to their surprise, and increasing consternation, the rooms were empty. The sitting room, the bedrooms, even the bath and the closets - no one was having a conference at the kitchen table, or scrambling to hide from the purposeful footsteps that were moving through the house. Sally would have returned to her earlier suspicion that the Freak had been having them on with disgust, except that there were a few signs of people having been here lately - fresh scratches on the floor, and disturbances in the dust, as well as a little food in the kitchen and some torches on the dining table. They regrouped in the entryway, shrugging at the fact that they'd met no resistance at all.

"Do you suppose they're all in the basement or do you think they've left?" Sally whispered, as they walked slowly over to the basement door.

Lestrade shook his head in uncertainty.

"One thing's for sure, if they're all downstairs, they'll have heard us. So careful," he whispered back. "I'll take a glance first."

He opened the door quickly, raising his gun in his other hand in case there was anyone waiting behind it, then relaxed marginally at the empty stairs leading into a large, dimly lit room below. The three of them started at the voice that suddenly echoed up to them at the door's opening creak.

"Down here."

The words were short, almost cut off, as if the speaker was a bit out of breath, as if they were exercising and didn't want to waste their precious air on talk.

And the voice was Dr. Watson's.

What was he doing in the house, Sally's thoughts demanded as Lestrade took a step downstairs. She didn't have wait long for her mind to present an answer - no doubt instead of allowing the police to come in and do their jobs, the Freak must have decided they ought to break into the house themselves. Probably thought he'd look better that way, and he was crazy enough to do it. Well, that was just fantastic. Not only did the self-proclaimed genius decide to do something as stupid as take on a group of smugglers (note: suspected murderers) himself, but he had to drag poor Dr. Watson in after him. He probably just thought he was so much better than the criminals that they couldn't even touch him. Now they could be dealing with a hostage situation, for all they knew - Dr. Watson didn't exactly sound peachy.

Lestrade took three more careful steps down the stairs, holding his gun up and at the ready, and Sally bit her lip tensely and took one step after him, hoping he wasn't about to be shot.

At his third step Lestrade was low enough to crouch down and see properly into the room, and he lowered his gun immediately, shoving it back into its holster and inhaling in shock.

"Oh, Christ."

Lestrade hurried down the stairs, and Sally followed quickly after him, uncertainty filling her thoughts as Winters followed her. As she got halfway down the stairs and was able to see into the room, she took in a quick breath of surprise herself.

The room had clearly been the scene of a violent altercation. A table and several chairs had been overturned and broken, and lay sideways and on their backs amid a small wreckage of papers and shattered glass - no doubt drinks and account sheets or whatever other information the group might have been looking at before the table was knocked over. A standing lamp had been uprooted from the floor, probably for its use as a weapon, and had fallen bent and with its bulb and shade smashed, accounting for the dimness in the room - the only other light was a small one on the ceiling, and both it and the lamp were attached to what appeared to be a small electricity generator in the corner. A single rug on the floor was pushed up onto itself, clearly the victim of flailing feet. A couple of guns and a knife were strewn about the floor, abandoned, and half a hypodermic had fallen next to a couple of pens, its plastic chamber destroyed from having been stepped on.

And lying on the floor, unmoving, and in various states of injury, were four men, three already identified by the Yard as leading group members, the fourth unknown but clearly involved. They all looked to be unconscious, and showed no signs of waking up. One was bleeding from the nose and had a split lip - the man lying next to him had a black eye, though that probably wasn't all, and on the other side of the room a third member of the group looked to have a broken arm. The last man had landed next to the stairs, and blood had dribbled down to the floor from above his ear. Surrounding the carnage on all sides were wooden flats holding crates, cardboard boxes, and more boxes covered in translucent plastic sheets. Definitely the contraband, and enough evidence to send the smuggling ring to prison for quite a long time. But all this wasn't what had really shocked Lestrade, what had sent him rushing down the stairs in the first place. Sally knew what had done that.

In the exact centre of the room, beside a fallen chair, the Freak was lying on the concrete floor, flat on his back and perfectly still - except for the rhythmic spasms jolting his body as John Watson thumped purposefully on his chest.

"Christ," Lestrade swore again, hurrying over to kneel beside the two of them. "What happened? What can I do?"

"Call an ambulance," John said shortly, continuing his chest compressions. "Didn't have" thump "time yet."

He paused for a moment and leaned over further to give the Freak a resuscitation breath, watching as his narrow chest slowly expanded and then moving quickly back to compressions again. John looked tense and haggard. There was a cut at his temple that looked like it was still bleeding, the blood staining his jumper at the shoulder and, as he moved, occasionally flying off in droplets to spatter onto the Freak. John paid it no attention. He wasn't paying attention to the hard stone beneath his knees, either, or the chill of the air in the room. Everything in John Watson at the moment was being tightly controlled - emotions had been shoved to the back of his mind for as long as they would stay there, and panic had no place in his quick, precise movements. He was sweating slightly with effort, and winced from time to time - the cut on his temple looked painful, and his exertions couldn't be helping - but none of that was important. He had only one purpose, one focus, and that was keeping Sherlock Holmes alive.

"Tell them poison," John said as Lestrade finished dialing and raised the phone to his ear. "Injected" thump "him with" thump "something, I" thump "don't know" thump "what."

Ah, so that was reason for the hypodermic, lying broken a few feet away on the floor. Sally quickly moved in closer, trying not to crowd the ex-army doctor, but wanting him to see there were others who could offer help if he needed it. In her peripheral vision, she see Winters moving over to check on the unconscious criminals, to look at their injuries and watch them in case they woke and became a problem. There was no fear of that from the Freak. Seeing him so still was a bit unnerving - he froze from time to time at crime scenes to examine something in detail, but Sally had never seen him unconscious. She had never seen him not breathing, without a pulse, and with who seemed to be his only friend in the world working frantically to bring him back to life. He was bleeding too, Sally noted, as she crouched down nearby - somebody had caught the corner of his right cheek, and there was an injury somewhere among his dark curls from which a red stain was sluggishly spreading to the floor.

As much as Sally spent her time wishing harm on him, she didn't want to see him like this.

"Should I... do you want me to do the breaths for you?" she asked John hesitantly. The thought of getting close to the Freak in that manner would have normally made her stomach roil, but here, now, she felt nothing of the sort - it just didn't seem terribly important.

John glanced up at her, his expression unreadable, before he shook his head and leaned down to give the detective another breath himself. Sally didn't push the issue - John was the one here with the most training, and no doubt the most experience. He was probably already in a rhythm and didn't want it disrupted. So Sally just watched, feeling a bit useless, as John paused again in his pounding and felt very briefly for a pulse. Obviously, he didn't get one - he dropped the limp wrist, swearing under his breath, and went back to his compressions, Lestrade's urgent words with emergency services providing a strange background noise for the proceedings. John looked tired, though some of it was probably just from stress. Well, better to let the doctor perform the CPR for as long as possible, but Sally wondered if one of them might have to step in. She'd never actually performed CPR in a real situation before, but of course she could do her best if necessary. John made a strange noise in the back of his throat, and Sally looked up at him, startled - and realised that it must be his emotions, starting to hammer at the wall he'd made to keep them at bay. That was more unnerving than the Freak's unnatural stillness.

No one at the Yard really knew what it was that kept John Watson around Sherlock Holmes. Since that first case it seemed they'd become inseparable, always showing up together at crime scenes, and people were just as surprised that the detective was willing to have John around as they were that John was willing to hang about with the detective. There were theories. Together, some of them said, as a couple, never mind the ridiculousness of Sherlock Holmes managing to navigate a romantic relationship. He was just too much of a prat - how could he of all people possibly snag a romantic partner? He'd done it somehow, the rumours insisted - it was probably due to shagging. After all, the promise of a good shag kept lots of people in relationships that otherwise should have died ages ago. Except they never touched each other in that sort of way, never acted as if that was the case.

Adrenalin junkie, that was another theory. John Watson got a rush from the crime solving, and he'd gotten addicted to it - enough that he could ignore the problems of having a psychopathic flatmate, or at least deal with them, because he needed that rush. Sally was a proponent of that theory - that's why she kept suggesting he try other hobbies instead. Anything to get him away from a psychopath who was most likely to murder him someday. A compulsive desire to fix everyone, that was another theory that Sally didn't think was too bad. John was one of those people that latched onto people with problems, and wouldn't let go until he could fix them. John Watson was trying to fix Sherlock Holmes, somehow reform him, take out the psychopath and replace him with someone more normal. That could be it.

But none of the theories wasted much time on the idea that they might stay together because they actually, genuinely liked each other.

Because who could ever really like Sherlock Holmes?

John swallowed hard and made another quick pulse check, then hurried to press down on the detective's chest once more. He glanced at Sally again, and seemed to be thinking, as if her presence had sparked an idea in his thoughts that he just couldn't quite reach to make real. A bead of sweat slid off his forehead and landed on his flatmate's shirt, to join the red drops already fallen there. The owner of the shirt didn't notice. Lestrade was finishing up his call already - how much time would it take for the ambulance to come and fix all of this? John shut his eyes as he kept pounding, his breathing coming in short, ragged gasps. His mouth was set in a determined frown, his teeth gritted together in an effort to keep himself under control, to throw his emotions back again. Then suddenly his eyes flew open and locked onto Sally, a gleam of desperate hope showing in them.

"Sally," he gasped, in between compressions.

"Yes?" she answered quickly, not knowing what he wanted of her, but desperate to do it.

"Does any-" thump "-one here" thump "have an" thump "EpiPen?"

An EpiPen? For allergies? Possibly - was anyone in the group that'd come to the raid deathly allergic to anything? Sally cast her mind about. She didn't have one, and Lestrade wouldn't, either. Nothing was wrong with Winters but diabetes, and an insulin shot certainly wasn't going to help in this situation. There were three officers left, probably securing the place upstairs and reporting in - Sally had heard Winters talking into his transceiver, explaining what they'd found downstairs, and Lestrade had paused in his conversation with the 999 operative to tell Winters the rest should stay out of the basement for the moment unless they were called for. Who was left? Mulligan was the poster boy for fitness, and didn't have any allergies either, but Oliver...

"Yes!" she half-shouted, getting a surprised jerk out of Lestrade, who was hovering carefully behind John's shoulder and looking useless, too. "Yes, I think so, I'll... I'll go check..."

Sally hauled herself unsteadily to her feet, and took off for the staircase. An EpiPen, those things were basically just adrenalin, weren't they? And adrenalin was for heart attacks, it would help to restart a flatline... That's what John had been trying to think of when he'd looked at her, but he'd been tired and strained, and it had taken him a few moments. Sally had thought only of the ambulance, and the equipment the paramedics would bring - she certainly wouldn't have thought of it herself. But Oliver should have one, and if she could get it... Up the wooden slats she tore, annoyed by the weight of her vest, but glad she wasn't wearing heels at the moment - and a few moments later burst out into the entryway, looking around wildly.

"Sharice!" she yelled, ignoring the puzzled look Hunter was giving her at the door and shoving her head into the dusty sitting room, only to find it empty. "Sharice!" she spun back around and was about to head for the kitchen when Sharice Oliver popped up from one of the bedrooms.

"Sally?" she said, confused. "Did you need something?"

"EpiPen!" Sally gasped. "Have you got it, where is it?"

"Oh, um, yeah, hang on..." Oliver, who was horribly allergic to shellfish, dug around in her pocket and produced a slim plastic tube.

"Thanks," Sally bit out hurriedly as she grabbed the device and plunged back down the stairs.

The situation in the basement was largely unchanged - but then she'd only been gone about twenty-five seconds. Winters had moved to check on another criminal and Lestrade was glancing at him with uncertain eyes, clearly thinking he ought really to be doing the same, but reluctant to leave Sherlock's side. It was hard to move away from a person you cared about when they were dying, even if you weren't able to do a thing to help. John was still doing chest compressions, his eyes shut again, but he looked up quickly as she pounded down the steps, his face lighting up as he caught sight of the white tube in her hand. She fell to her knees beside him, holding it out for him to take. John finished his compression set and snatched the EpiPen from her, yanking the syringe out its plastic container, and pulling the cap off of its back to prime it. Then he pressed the end into Sherlock's thigh and pushed down the plunger.

"Here," he said, gesturing at the syringe with his free hand. "Take it. Keep holding it down. Ten seconds."

Sally reached for the thin tube and quickly replaced John's thumb on the plunger with her own, realising belatedly that Lestrade had tried for it, too. Perhaps John had even been talking to him, but she'd beaten him without thinking. Well, it didn't matter now. Sally took a deep breath and started to count as John began to thump on Sherlock's chest again.

The detective jerked spasmodically, but otherwise remained still. His cheeks had paled to paper white, and he was almost glowing in the dimness, the dark red smear on his cheek and black eyelashes sharply pronounced against his chalk skin. John stopped to feel carefully for a pulse and swore when he didn't find it. The seconds crawled by agonisingly as John resumed pounding, the cracks in his emotionless wall becoming more and more apparent.

"Sherlock," he breathed as he pushed down. "Sherlock, come on. Come on. Come on, Sherlock, come on!"

Nothing.

Sally finished her counting and tossed the spent container away.

"Come on!" John urged again, still thumping. "Come on!"

But Sherlock didn't respond - he just lay there, lifeless, completely inert but for the shocks John was sending through his silent body, the master observer unable to see the reaction his silence was provoking.

"Come on, Sherlock!" John insisted, his voice breaking with strain. He leaned down to give Sherlock another breath and when he came back up there were tears clinging to his eyelashes.

"Come on!" he shouted.

Sally swallowed hard, her stomach twisting itself in knots, feeling that she was seeing something never meant for eyes like hers. This... this was too desperate, too intimate, she wasn't supposed to see it, and Sherlock Holmes wasn't supposed to be able to make someone feel this way, not by dying in any case. He didn't have friends, that's what he always said, and who would ever be friends with a freak like him, anyway? Nobody had expected that question to be answered by a short, polite, ex-army surgeon, who appeared one night at a crime scene in Brixton and then for some reason never went away. Sally felt her own eyes burning and blinked hard, something deep inside her reminding her that she shouldn't be crying over a psychopath. She wiped at her face with the back of her hand and insisted that it wasn't him she was crying for.

Sally had always said that someday, they'd be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes would be the one who put it there. But now they were standing around his body and what it was doing to John Watson was more than she could bear.

"Come on, Sherlock! Come on!"

If someone had told Sally Donovan a year ago that someone would cry over the grave of Sherlock Holmes, she'd probably have laughed.

"Come on!" John roared, and the tears and his tone and his shaking shoulders told her that he was completely losing it.

This was not the professional desire of a doctor for his patient to pull through. This was not the traditional concern of one human being who wanted another human being to live. This was not the worry of one acquaintance that another acquaintance might die.

This was the desperate, screaming, agony of a man who was about to lose the most important person in his life.

John swallowed down a sob.

"Sherlock, please..."

Of course he didn't answer.

John reached a trembling hand out to check for a pulse again, wiping his eyes unconsciously with his sleeve, a terrible despair seeming to wash over him as he looked at the still, lifeless face of his best friend.

And then his shoulders stiffened - an electric shock ran through his body. He scrabbled at the thin, white wrist with both hands, holding it steady and pressing his middle and forefinger carefully against the vein, wanting to make sure he'd got it right, that he'd really felt what he thought he'd felt, that there was a pulse in there and he didn't imagine it, hope blossoming from his every move. For an instant, he was frozen, just feeling.

And then a wordless, incoherent cry of joy came out of him, and he pressed his ear against Sherlock's chest, smiling helplessly, shaking with relief at what he heard, and gulping in grateful breaths of air as the tension bled rapidly out of him.

Perhaps a bit too rapidly - he swayed a little with the sudden shock, and Sally clambered over to steady him. He glanced at her, at her hand on his shoulder, and his eyes reflected earnest gratitude for her obtainment of the EpiPen. But his work was far from finished - an instant later, he was checking for breathing, and then giving Sherlock another breath of air because he obviously hadn't started using his lungs again yet. After restarting his heart, it would certainly be unfair of them to let Sherlock suffocate. Another hand landed on John's other shoulder - Sally had almost forgotten Lestrade was in the room.

"Ambulance shouldn't be more than another ten minutes," he said quietly, and Sally was startled to see his eyes moist too, and to hear his estimate of the ambulance arrival. Ten whole minutes? Surely the ambulance would be almost here by now! She pulled out her phone and checked the clock - and her mouth fell open. Had it really been less than five minutes since they'd started down the basement steps? The digital numbers blinked back at her, their message making her dizzy. John gave Sherlock another breath, started again slightly, and then leaned down to eye the detective's chest critically for several moments. After a few seconds he suddenly slumped back on his heels, relief again evident in his face and posture.

"He's breathing," he said wearily. "He's breathing. Oh thank God, he's breathing."

He was right. Sherlock's chest was slowly rising and falling, finally under its own power instead of from John forcing the air into his lungs. Sally might have been imagining it, but his cheeks looked a little warmer - colour perhaps, was beginning to return to his formerly chalk white countenance. John rested for a few moments longer, and then reached for something lying on the floor a few feet away. It was his jacket - Sally expected him to put it on, but instead he rewrapped the opened sides of Sherlock's coat snugly back around his slender torso and then set to work tucking the jacket around him as well.

"Should keep him warm," he muttered, almost to himself. "Pulled my jacket off in the fight," he said, gesturing around the room with a nod of his head. "It - oh." John paused, looking at the two of them. "You don't know what happened, do you?"

"No, we don't," Lestrade answered. "But you don't have to tell us now, John -"

"No bother," John said, moving around to Sherlock's head. "But I need to check this. Anyone got a torch?" Lestrade pulled his off of his belt and handed it to John, who flicked it on and started combing carefully through Sherlock's blood soaked hair, searching for the injury underneath.

"Thanks. There's not much to tell. We were outside, next door, it's abandoned, too. Watching the place - Sherlock texted you a few of the details. They must have seen us somehow, because - ah." He paused as he found Sherlock's head wound and ran the light over it. He frowned, poking at it gently with his fingers, then heaved a sigh of relief. "Nasty. But luckily it's closed, though he'll no doubt have a concussion. One of them hit him with a gun. That was after..." He trailed off, swallowing.

"Like I said, they must have seen us," he continued after a moment, staining his left hand crimson as he tried to determine whether or not the injury was still bleeding. "Jumped us, a couple of them. They had guns. Took us inside - we went along, hoping to find an opening." He pulled his hand back from his examination. "Good, I don't think this is bleeding much anymore. Anyway, they were pretty clever about it - got us downstairs and I thought they'd shoot us right then, but Sherlock started talking, you know how he does, made them think we had information that'd be useful to them, stalling for time. They bought it." His fingers, the clean ones, glazed over Sherlock's right cheek. "That's where that's from. Hit him, wanted him to spill. One of them pointed out they only needed one of us to get the information out of..." He licked his lips, and reached down to check Sherlock's pulse again. It must have been all right, because he let go a moment later.

"He had a hypodermic - injected Sherlock before we knew what he was doing." He snorted. "Probably was going to tell me I'd get the same if I didn't talk - probably figured I was the easier one to get something out of, less intimidating and all that. But that gave us our opening, him getting close like that. Sherlock grabbed him before he could get away, threw him at the others. Then we fought." He glanced around them at the fallen criminals, and gave a bitter sigh. "We won. But one of them caught me with a fist," he reached up to his temple, "and one of them caught Sherlock with a gun. Half knocked him out of the fight, but it didn't matter much after that - whatever they gave him started to take effect. At first he was just disoriented, but he went out like a light not long after. Good job there was only the one bloke left at that point. I took care of him, and then I was going to call, but when I checked on Sherlock, his... heart. Had stopped. Breathing, too. I looked for a phone, for an ambulance at least, but of course they took ours when they brought us down here and then everything got knocked to hell during the fight. I didn't have time to do much searching, on the floor or in pockets, so I just started CPR right away and then a couple of minutes later you lot showed up."

He looked down at the listless detective, who was breathing slowly, his body wrapped in the dark fabric of both his and his flatmate's coats. John reached over and took his pulse again, frowning a little as he counted.

"Is it all right?" Lestrade asked. John shook his head, closing his eyes to concentrate.

"It's a little threadier than a minute ago," he said finally. "Can't expect it to be perfect - I still don't even know what they gave him, although I've got a few theories based on the symptoms. I just don't want a relapse - for a while there I didn't think his heart was going to -" He stopped. He heaved a sigh. "I was worried." He looked at Sally again. "Thank you for the EpiPen. I'll have to thank whoever's it was, too." Sally nodded.

"No problem," she said. "Glad I... Glad I could help. It was Sharice's. The EpiPen. I'll be sure to - "

Sherlock gave a small groan, and she broke off abruptly.

"Sherlock!"

John was immediately moving back around to the detective's side, watching avidly as Sherlock's eyelashes flickered. He put a careful hand on Sherlock's shoulder and leaned in closer.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?"

Sherlock coughed, and gave a gasp of pain, one hand rising weakly to flop in the direction of his chest. John caught his wrist, gently restraining him.

"Sorry, Sherlock, you might have broken ribs - don't touch them. Can you hear me?" he repeated, as Sherlock's body shuddered. His eyes opened slowly, trying to take in his surroundings, but they were clearly having difficulty. After a moment's confused wandering, they moved to John's face and just stayed there for several seconds.

"John," he said faintly, his voice thick and rasping. He tried to raise his head, but didn't have the strength, and it lolled back a moment later. John quickly caught the back of it with a hand to keep it from hitting the concrete, but Sherlock winced anyway as his injury was jarred.

"Don't move, Sherlock," John said swiftly, looking irritated with himself and glancing around for something. "Don't move - an ambulance is on its way."

"Here."

Lestrade leaned forward and handed John his scarf.

"Thanks."

John folded the knitted cloth into a pillow and pushed it gently under Sherlock's head. Sherlock watched him confusedly.

"Sherlock, how do you feel?" he asked. "Do you feel sick at all?"

"John," Sherlock repeated, and coughed again. His eyes rolled back dangerously.

"No!" John leaned in closer, catching the sides of Sherlock's face with both hands and turning it towards him. "No, don't go back to sleep, stay awake Sherlock, can you hear me? Stay awake!"

"John, you..." Sherlock breathed, his eyes fighting to focus. "What's... What's wrong?"

John stared at him in consternation.

"What... what do you mean 'what's wrong?' I mean, apart from everything... Sherlock, do you remember what happened?"

"You..." Sherlock clutched feebly at John's jumper, as though hoping to communicate through touch alone. "You've... been crying." He coughed again, and this time his eyes screwed up in pain as his fingers tightened in the knit fabric. "Never did... before why..." His breath hitched, and sweat broke out on his forehead.

"Sherlock?" John said softly. Sherlock shook his head slowly, struggling to take even breaths. After a few moments of labour, his eyes reopened, flitting questioningly across John's face in a lazy, ill-controlled arc.

"Must be... serious..." Sherlock got out, continuing as if nothing had happened. "Not be... cause of... bleeding..."

"Oh my god, he's deducing," John said beleagueredly, scrubbing a hand down his face. "Sherlock... Look, Sherlock, don't worry about it. Tell me how you feel. Do you feel sick? Do you need to throw up?"

"Head hurts," Sherlock said, frowning. His eyes fell out of focus, and his hand let go of John's jumper. He sucked in a breath. "And my chest. I... I dunno... Legs feel numb." Sherlock's head lolled to the side. "Not sick."

"Do you remember what happened? No, wait." John reached down and pinched Sherlock's calf below the hem of his coat. "Can you feel that?" Sherlock shivered.

"I dunno. John, I'm tired..." he said plaintively.

"Don't go to sleep yet, Sherlock. Do you remember what happened?"

"I don't..." Sherlock struggled to think, his mouth twisting into a frown. "Trafficking..." He gave a sharp intake of breath and his eyes flew wide open, sharpening suddenly and roving all over John's face in sudden dismay. "You all right?" Sherlock demanded, his hand clawing disconnectedly up John's jumper again. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Sherlock. I'm fine, really," John said reassuringly.

"Sure?" Sherlock demanded, his fingers shaking.

"Yes, I'm sure," John said worriedly, grasping Sherlock's desperate hand as it suddenly threatened to fall to the floor. The spurt of urgency seemed to have exhausted him, and he was quickly slumping back completely onto the concrete.

"Stupid," he said heavily. "Bleeding. I should have..." He trailed off, taking a shaky breath, and then gave another cough, swallowing hard and wincing again at the action.

"No, I'm fine, Sherlock. I'm fine, really, I'm fine, it's just a scratch."

It looked a bit worse than "just a scratch," but Sherlock seemed relieved by John's insistence all the same.

"Good. That's good," he mumbled, his eyes still on John's face but his gaze quickly losing its lucidity. His head fell sideways once more, and in a matter of seconds, he looked close to losing consciousness again. John tensed.

"Sherlock," he prodded.

Sherlock said something faint and completely incoherent.

"Sherlock!" John said louder, leaning close.

Sherlock groaned unhappily.

"What... what, John?"

"Sherlock, I need to you focus. Can you focus for me?" John asked earnestly.

Sherlock twitched. He took a breath.

"I don't..."

"Sherlock, I really need to test the feeling in your legs."

"Tired," Sherlock repeated dully, his voice scraping exhaustedly on the word.

"Uh, sir?"

Lestrade glanced over at Winters, who sitting by the staircase, listening to his radio.

"They say the ambulances are here, upstairs. I told them to send the EMTs down here."

"Good man," Lestrade told him.

"Hear that, Sherlock?" John said. "You'll be able to rest in a bit. But right now, I need you to stay awake. Just a little while longer. Okay?"

"Can't think," Sherlock muttered. "Bored. John, I..." He swallowed. "Going to take a nap."

His eyes fell shut.

"No, Sherlock, not yet!" John caught Sherlock's face between his hands again, rubbing his thumb sharply against Sherlock's uninjured cheek. "Open your eyes. Open your eyes right now, do you hear me!" Sherlock groaned, trying to twist away from John's touch.

"Sherlock!" John said sharply. "Wake up!" Sherlock groaned again, and his eyes tried weakly to reopen. "That's it, Sherlock," John said encouragingly. "Look at me. Look at me, okay?"

Sherlock pried his eyelids half up and looked at John pleadingly.

"John..."

"That's good, Sherlock," John said approvingly. "Just keep looking at me, okay? There are some people coming," noises were heard on the stairs, "...right now, and they're going to need you to stay awake, too. Keep fighting it, all right? Don't sleep yet. You get me?" Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, clearly desperate to lapse into sleep.

"All right," he whispered finally. He nodded ever so slightly, and John let go of his face.

And then the paramedics were there, crouching down, with needles and a stretcher and an oxygen mask, and Sally and Lestrade had to move back to give them room. John stayed where he was.

"It's all right, I'm a doctor," John was saying, "he was poisoned with something. Caused cardiac arrest but we got him back with a shot of epinephrine..."

The conversation went technical and Sally tuned out, standing up slowly and dusting herself down. Some of the paramedics moved off to take a look at the criminals in the room, whom so far nobody had bothered with except Winters. Sally supposed they deserved medical treatment too, but not as much as Sherlock did. They were criminals, murderers, and Sherlock - She caught herself. She'd been thinking of the Freak as Sherlock for the last fifteen minutes. The two names tumbled about in her head - suddenly neither of them clearly dominant. He wasn't dying so much anymore, so... Well, did it make a difference? She tried to tell herself that it did, but right now she was no longer sure. Sally shook her head. She was tired. It had been a long day, and now an adrenalin crash wasn't going to help.

She could sort out her emotions later, she thought, as she and Lestrade plodded back up the stairs, Lestrade asking Winters to stay to behind and keep an eye on the smugglers.

"Thanks for the EpiPen, Sharice," Sally said wearily, as they emerged back into the entryway.

"Of course," Sharice said kindly. She caught sight of Sally's face, and frowned a little. "...Is he okay?" she asked hesitantly.

"Yeah, we think so," Lestrade said. "Although it wasn't looking so good for a minute there. I need to sit down. There are still chairs in the kitchen, right?"

The two of them plonked down on a couple of creaky wooden chairs. Sally would have preferred her couch at home, but this was better than nothing. Hunter, Mulligan, and Sharice moved into the room too, so as not to be in the way when all of the EMTs came back up the stairs. They leaned against the walls, waiting for Lestrade to speak.

"Well, I think we can safely consider this smuggling ring completely trounced," Lestrade said, flicking a bit of grit off of his trousers. "Not only do we have Sherlock and John's testimony, but there's enough contraband down there to make my aunt giddy. She's a bit of hoarder," he added, as eyebrows were raised at him. "But it's been a very long day, and we have just strenuously saved a man's life, so I'm thinking I might just bugger it and let someone else catalogue it all. It's gonna take days, anyway." He ran his fingers through his hair.

From downstairs, there was suddenly a muffled, angry yell of "I said tell me what you gave him!"

"Well, one of them's woken up," Lestrade said ruefully. He gave a small grin, then suddenly looked worried and switched on his radio.

"Winters," he said nervously. "Sherlock's still all right, isn't he?"

"Yes, sir," Winters' voice crackled back them. "Dr. Watson's just... Hold on." The radio clicked off, and a couple of moments later any yelling from the basement had subsided.

"Should I...?" Mulligan asked, pushing off from the wall. Lestrade shook his head.

"Nah. I don't want any more of us in the way. Winters can look after it."

A minute later, footsteps could be heard on the stairs, and two of the paramedics soon emerged with a stretcher between them. The Freak was lying on it with an oxygen mask on his face, the long ends of his coat trailing beneath him and nearly brushing the floor. To Sally's surprise, he made a faint noise, and his limp fingers suddenly twitched. She hadn't expected him to still be conscious - he'd been inches away from fainting not long ago. A moment later, John was out of the basement door and squeezing past the EMT in his way to get to Sherlock's side again, catching the twitching fingers in his own.

"It's all right, Sherlock, I'm back," John said gently. There was a sticking plaster on his temple now. "Just keep awake, you're doing really well. We're headed through one more doorway and then we'll get to the ambulance, all right?"

Sherlock said something muffled in reply, and John gave his hand a squeeze before letting go. And then the stretcher was moving through the front door, and John was moving after it, pushing the door shut behind him and blocking their last view of the Freak. A moment later Lestrade's radio chirped and Winters reported from the basement.

"Everything's fine down here, sir. They even know what Holmes was injected with now. Dr. Watson was... pretty enthusiastic about finding out."

"Good," Lestrade answered. "Overhear anything about Sherlock's condition?"

"I, uh, I think they said something about him needing dialysis. Or a blood transfusion or something. I dunno, maybe both. In any case, he was priority." Winters paused for a moment. "Oh, but they're all about to come up now - FYI."

"Okay, we'll just sit tight here, then," Lestrade told him. "See you in a few."

They waited in the kitchen as four more stretchers filed ponderously up the basement steps and out the front door. Lestrade briefly pulled aside the last paramedic - who wasn't holding up a stretcher - to inform him more fully about the criminal situation and let him know that there would be a police presence in the hospital. The man nodded and followed his colleagues out. Lestrade rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand.

"All right," he said. "Mulligan, Oliver, get in one of the squad cars and follow them to the hospital. I'll get replacements sent for you as soon as possible."

The two officers nodded and hurried out the door.

"Winters, Hunter, go grab some tape for this place, will you? We're gonna need it."

"Yes, sir."

They left after the others.

The front door slammed.

Lestrade sighed.

"Hope he's all right. Still, can't be in better hands than John Watson, to hear Sherlock tell it..." He stood up and stretched, rubbing at his eyes, then turned to Sally. "Right, I've got to radio this in. You just sit there and relax a minute and then I'll let you know if we're going to be stuck here all night or if I can foist it off on Dimmock or somebody..." He wandered into one of the bedrooms and shut the door, calling up the Yard as he did.

Sally sat back in the uncomfortable chair, glad of the chance to rest but wishing she could get a glass of water. After the long day and the last hectic twenty minutes, she could almost fall asleep right now. She took a deep breath and shut her eyes. Images burned into the back of her lids - images of John shouting desperately at Sherlock while he pounded on his chest, of John shaking with relief when Sherlock's pulse came back, of Sherlock trying to figure out why John had been crying, of John catching Sherlock's face between his hands and insisting that he wake up, of Sherlock on the stretcher saying John's name as he came out of the basement... Sally gave a cynical smile.

That last one wasn't even real - her imagination had supplied it. She hadn't heard what Sherlock had said, or if he'd even actually said anything, as they hauled him out of the basement. But... But she rather suspected that he'd said John's name, looking for him, because John had told him to stay awake, had been very insistent about it, so he ought to do it, but now John was gone and Sherlock was confused... Sally shook her head, rubbing up and down her face with her hands. Her emotions were still a jumble in her stomach and she still had little desire to sort them out. Sherlock... No. The Freak. He was the Freak.

And the Freak wasn't special because he'd been drugged, because that could happen to anybody - technically, he wasn't really even special for almost dying, because that could happen to anybody, too.

But...

Sally sighed.

But.

But John had nearly gone out of his mind when he thought Sherlock was about to leave him.

He'd been crying, actually crying, almost screaming with desperation for Sherlock to come back to him. Even knowing that John was somehow attached to Sherlock, Sally hadn't expected that kind of reaction.

It didn't fit in any with any of the theories, Sally thought almost absently - nobody cried that hard over a lost shag, or an adrenalin enabler. Maybe they cried over somebody they'd wanted to fix, but... well, Sally just didn't think that's what John had been doing. John had been crying and screaming over a person, over his best friend, over a man who insulted people on a regular basis, ignored social conventions and Scotland Yard rules, and who grinned with excitement at the prospect of a serial killer - but who also led the police to a den of smugglers, talked fast enough to keep his flatmate safe, and woke up from a heart attack trying to deduce what could possibly have made his best friend cry. And Sherlock...

...And the Freak hadn't gone in after the smugglers on purpose after all, he'd actually been waiting for the police to show up for once. But he hated the police, and he always called them idiots! He was insufferable and... and a psychopath, and he never cared about victims - and yet he'd asked desperately if John was all right, had berated himself for not realising fast enough what John's bleeding meant. And while he'd been barely conscious. Sally shook her head - too many contradictions, too much that was new or didn't make sense. He'd never even had a friend before, and now that he had one - one, when normal of people had dozens - that friend clung to him like he was the world, and lying hurt on that basement floor Sherlock had clung right back. And then John had caught his hand and told him that it was all right, and it was all right because John was there and he'd do anything, anything he could to keep his friend safe and alive...

Sally wondered what Sherlock Holmes could have done to make John Watson love him so much.

The front door opened again and Sally looked up to see Hunter and Winters back, a thick roll of crime scene tape in Hunter's hand. Lestrade came back in from the bedroom and said they were here until they'd taped up the crime scene, but then the lot of them were going home and Gregson was going to handle it. Owed him a favour, anyway. Sally nodded wearily and stood up, realising quite belatedly that she was still wearing her bulletproof vest. If Hunter and Winters didn't need her to help with the taping - and it hardly looked like they would - then she might as well take it off and haul it back to the squad car. Sure enough, they didn't care, and Lestrade didn't have any other orders, so she uncinched the straps on her vest and walked outside carrying it.

The street was dark but for the light of streetlamps, and the air was crisp and brisk. It was good in her lungs after the musty old house and fresh on her tired face. Sally wondered if the Freak had gotten to the hospital yet, if he'd finally lapsed back into unconsciousness, if John was still holding his hand. What the Freak would say when he woke up in his hospital bed and what John would say back, because of course John would be sitting at his bedside. Sally took in a breath of the clean, night air and let it back out in a rush. Whatever had forged their friendship was a mystery, but one thing was for certain, Sally thought, as she trotted across the tarmac - whatever it was must have been strong. The Freak must have done something to make a friend out of John Watson, and to make him so fiercely loyal, so terrified of losing his friend. The Freak didn't usually get people to like him like that, because he was the Freak and didn't care if people liked him, no, the Freak usually just acted weird and upset people and that's why they called him the Freak in first place, because...

Ah, hell.

Sally made a face.

She was going to have to think of him as Sherlock from now on, wasn't she?

The End

This was supposed to be a part of my Inexorable Erosion series of Sally-related oneshots - in fact, I thought it would make a good grand finale. But then I wrote it before all the others and I didn't want to wait to post it, and it turned out a lot longer than any of the others planned, so I decided it was awesome enough to just stand on its own. Hope it's awesome, anyway.

Thoughts on that? Reviews? Those would be awesome.