Written (late) for the watsons_woes JWP practice prompt 08:
I BREATHED enough to learn the trick,
And now, removed from air,
I simulate the breath so well,
That one, to be quite sure The lungs are stirless, must descend
Among the cunning cells,
And touch the pantomime himself.
How cool the bellows feels!
-Emily Dickinson

Also fills my hc_bingo square, "asphyxiation"

Breathing is a reflexive, natural thing. Automatic. The rise and fall of the chest starting in both man and animals at the moment of birth and continuing until the moment of death, never ceasing in between, whether waking or sleeping. When the pathway of air is disrupted, the mouth gapes to maximize the intake of air in hopes of forcing past the obstacle, and the chest heaves to aid the attempt, to draw any whisper of air from the open mouth. If the obstacle is not overcome, unconsciousness rapidly overtakes the organism, an automatic response to reduce the requirements for air until the pathway is restored. If it is not, the heart will stop and the organism will die.

The thoughts passed rapidly through Watson's mind as if being recited at a dry anatomy lecture, even as he continued to struggle against the truncheon crushing his throat. His assailant pressed him even more firmly against the rough brick wall, one hand on each end of the stick he was pressing cruelly into Watson's neck. Holmes must still be nearby, fighting off his own opponent, though Watson couldn't hear him anymore. His vision was also beginning to fail, and he knew he had mere moments before unconsciousness took him. The question foremost in his mind as his senses failed: would the rogue release the pressure once Watson went limp, or was Watson facing his final moments?

Unawareness, for an unknown length of time.

Pain, in his shoulder and the side of his face.

Choking. Harsh, barking coughs. A hunger for air that burned and stung like knives as it passed through his damaged throat.

He was alive, and for a moment, nothing else mattered. All he could do was breathe with rasping, wheezing coughs, not even opening his eyes to find out what had happened to his attacker, to Holmes . . .

"Watson!"

Ah, there was Holmes.

"Watson, can you hear me?" Gentle hands on his shoulders turned him onto his back. The abrasions on his face from his slump to the ground stung in the open air. Careful fingers brushed some of the pebbles and dirt from his skin. "Watson?" Holmes repeated more softly, sounding worried.

"Holmes," Watson tried to say, but coughed roughly instead. He tried several more times, but all his throat was willing to do was cough. He opened his eyes so Holmes would know he was awake; Holmes' face was pale and dirty and he'd a split lip, but he looked all right otherwise and Watson was relieved.

"Easy, old boy," Holmes said, helping him sit up.

The change in position helped somewhat with the coughing, and at length Watson lifted his arm to clap Holmes on the shoulder reassuringly. "I'll be all right," he said hoarsely, almost no sound behind the words, but Holmes understood.

"The bruising is already starting to show," Holmes said sympathetically.

Watson gingerly touched the front of his throat and winced almost immediately. "Soft foods might be best for a few days," he said ruefully, managing to get a little bit of sound out of his vocal cords on that attempt.

"Can you stand? We should head home."

Watson nodded, then finally looked around the alley for their opponents. "Do we need to-"

"They have been dealt with," Holmes said firmly. "One of the few instances of good timing on the part of the police forces."

Watson chuckled and immediately wished he hadn't. "To Baker Street," he said softly. Once he was firmly on his feet, Holmes took his arm and they slowly made their way home.