There are plenty of stories on Sally looking after Sherlock, but not much with Anderson. This one shot fills my gap of need. Anderson needs more nice stories written with him in, without him being played as horrible. Anyway. Enjoy. Please review. Thanks.

"Shut up Anderson, are you trying to get us killed while we track a mass murderer!" Sherlock's voice was short and hushed in the darkened streets of south London.

"How did I draw the short straw." The other man muttered. "Couldn't John just have accompanied you?"

"I needed someone specific looking..." The detective stopped short, his stride came to a stop too. They were on the corner of an alleyway, being nearly 2am there was no signs of life, yet clearly the consultant had spotted something.

"Specific looking?" Anderson stood back, placing his hands on his hips in an angry stance.

Sherlock simply shot him a look which told him now was not the time. He stepped carefully into the darkness ducking in the shadows to look harder into the distance. Anderson clearly had not taken the hint, continuing on.

"Well?" He followed the taller man. "What did you mean?"

"Anderson!" Sherlock shot, his voice echoed off the walls in annoyance. He pushed forward, further into the alley, speaking loudly, "I suggest you give yourself up Mr Green." There was a pause.

Suddenly out the shadows a figure came hurtling towards them, colliding heavily with the detective with a audible oomph. Sherlock stumbled backward for a second, but in a flash he planted left hook across the fugitive's jaw sending the man reeling.

"Anderson!" Sherlock shouted again, but this time more urgently and for help.

The forensic scientist stood on the spot, his legs unsure weather to run or fight, some seconds passed. Why should he fight, Sherlock was a bloody psychopath, he didn't even like the man. There was a moment of calm, the murderer regained his footing and began to laugh.

"Looks like your little pal isn't too fussed about your well being." He chuckled and Anderson suddenly focused on the switch blade in his grasp. Already blooded. His eyes tracked to Sherlock who was sagging on his legs by the wall.

Before Anderson could even take a step forward the murderer grabbed the detective by the coat, dragging him forward in a quick motion he thrust the blade back into the man. Sherlock's breath hitched but he didn't utter a cry, his chin dropped onto his attackers shoulder and his eyes widened in a moment of shock. "It's ok Mr Holmes." Mr Green whispered into the detectives ear. "He can watch you die instead."

Anderson did nothing for a moment, his mouth agape in bewilderment. Mr Green chuckled again, pushing the blade deeper, twisting his hand. This time Sherlock let out a gurgled moan, blood now appearing on his pallid lips as he exhaled.

"Goodbye Mr Sherlock Holmes." The murderer pushed the detective off the knife and Sherlock crashed to his knees, looking upward in disbelief. "Bet you didn't see that coming eh?"

Anderson finally snapped out of his perplexed stillness. Grabbing a nearby beer bottle, he brought the item down with a crack across the back of Green's head. The man went down like a rag doll, face planting the pavement, out cold.

"Shit." Anderson finally dropped to the floor himself, taking Sherlock's already shaking shoulders in his grasp. "Sherlock!"

The detectives eyes were slits of pain, his now already fast breaths were coming in harsh wet gasps, the rivulet of blood that made it's way down the mans jaw sent panic into Anderson.

"What should I do?" Utter horror and practically hysteria evident in the smaller mans voice.

"Tie... Him up." Sherlock's voice was weak and barely audible. A violent tremor ran through him as he grabbed his scarf, pulling it off haphazardly from his neck. He thrust it into the forensic officers hands.

"What? No!"

"Just do it!" Sherlock snarled. The three words pulled more energy from the detective and he flopped further forward, a shaky hand the only thing stopping him from splaying out on the Tarmac.

Anderson did as he was told, hands shaking, he wasn't sure how good the knot would be. He turned back to the detective and punched out a familiar number in his mobile phone, placing it on speaker phone, the call tone rang out in the small alleyway, amplifying the sound against the walls.

"Anderson." Lestrade's voice appeared then. "Any new developments? John and I are heading back to the yard."

"I need a medic and back up now." Anderson's breaths were almost as fast as the detectives. "Sherlock's been injured. I need help."

"Fuck." Lestrade cursed. "How bad? Where are you?"

Anderson's voice was shaking as he ran off the address. "He's been stabbed," he finally said, "twice."

"Fuck!" Lestrade swore again, and the sound of police siren's could be heard over the phone line. "Help on the way. We're not far." He said. "I'm passing you to John."

The sound of the phone fumbling could be heard and then the clear voice of John Watson appeared. "Anderson. What's happened? Tell me everything you can."

"He's been stabbed, twice, switchblade." Anderson looked to the knife, now discarded on the grimy floor. "Approximately 4 or more inches long." The forensics officer gently took the detective by the shoulders, pushing him more upright. Sherlock let out a gurgling, abhorrent groan.

"Keep him conscious, whatever you do. We're on our way." John replied, not a shred of apprehension in his voice, it was captain Watson talking now. "Where are the wounds?"

Anderson pulled the iconic coat apart only to have his hands batted away. "I'm... Fine." Sherlock's voice was weak and useless, lacking his usual conviction.

"Stop being a child Sherlock and let him help you." John practically shouted down the phone line. The detectives hands fell back to the pavement in the desperate attempt at staying upright but the blood loss and pain was already causing him to become lightheaded.

"One to the lower abdomen." Anderson finally managed to pull apart the coat to reveal a bloodied stain to the detectives shirt, dripping a steady flow of crimson into a growing puddle on the pavement. "Quite heavy blood flow." He said, finally beginning to steady his own voice out.

"Apply direct pressure." John commanded. A beat later and all that could be heard was an agonising howl from the detective. This time John cringed on the other end of the line as even Lestrade heard the sound from the driving seat of the police car, the inspector automatically stepping his foot on the gas.

Sherlock lost his control to remain upright when Anderson applied pressure to his abdomen. His arms shook and gave out, and his body collapsed backward onto the floor, shivering uncontrollably.

"Wake up." Anderson tapped his cheek, with no amount of compassion. "John told me you have to stay awake."

"Piss off." Sherlock's eye shot open, giving the other man a death stare. "I don't..." He coughed, another splattering of crimson appearing. "Need... Your help." The detective struggled for breath, the horrible wet gurgle intensifying with each inhalation.

"Stop bickering and listen." John's voice came clear over the phone. "Where is the second wound?" The soldier could hear his friends breathing and had a good guess at where the second and more life threatening puncture wound was.

The detective didn't fight this time, his head was lolled sideways, arms lifeless at his sides. Anderson fumbled with his clothes, pulling his second shirt apart to find the small stain.

"Chest." The forensics officer finally said, left side. "There isn't much blood this time."

"There won't be." John's voice seemed a little more urgent. "But I need you to dress this one as soon as possible." The doctor knew that with each intake of breath his friend's lung was collapsing further, air and blood slowly suffocating him.

"Dress it?" Anderson looked bemused, not that the doctor could see it. "I don't have a first aid kit on me."

"Doesn't matter." John replied. "Find a plastic bag if you can."

"What."

"Just do it." John commanded.

Anderson silenced, took two steps back into the alley, and quickly found a discarded Tesco carrier bag amongst the endless strewn litter. "What now?" He returned to the phone.

"Go into Sherlock right inside pocket, he has a small roll of tape in there."

Anderson didn't question. The detective was barely conscious, but he was still observing from the slits of his eyes.

"Open his shirt to get access the wound. I need you to fold over the plastic bag so it makes a nice square and then stick it over the wound. Tape down three of the edges, leave the fourth free."

Anderson followed the steps, hands beginnings shake once again as the gravity of the situation started to sink in. He could hear John on the end of the line directing Lestrade, they mustn't be far now,

"Turn him onto his injured side." The doctor said.

The smaller man grabbed a handful of Sherlock's coat and pulled him over. The detective let out a weak moan at the movement.

"What now?" Anderson looked to his phone, only to find the battery dying and he device turning itself off. "Ugh. Bloody phone." He muttered.

He turned back to the detective. "Are you awake?"

A small groan passed Sherlock's lips but he didn't open his eyes. His brows were furrowed as each breath brought agony to his damaged thorax.

"Oi, freak. Stay with me. John will kill me if you die now."

The detectives eyes slit back open, but he didn't say a word. He opened his mouth to speak but only had time to draw in another shallow and pained breath. In the dimly lit street Anderson could see that his lips were beginning to turn a ghastly shade of blue.

"I used to wish you would just die you know." The man started to speak, trying his best to keep the other awake. "But you know what? I don't actually want you to. You might be a bloody psychopath, but that doesn't mean you deserve to die."

Sherlock's eyes met his for a split second. Anderson wasn't even sure he could see anymore, the detectives blue grey eyes were listless and glazed over.

"Lestrade seems to see something in you, you know." He laughed for a second. "God knows what, but perhaps he's right. You are a great man, I mean you wouldn't do this if you didn't care just a little bit about the people you help would you?"

Sherlock's breathing changed then and Anderson bent forward. "Hey, stay with me?" The detectives eyes started to roll back and his breaths slowed into wretched gasps, clearly not pulling enough oxygen into his body. "Sherlock!?"

The breaths slowed further and the detectives eyes fell closed. Anderson tore his eyes from the man as a screech of tyres sounded. A squad car coming to an abrupt stop just a few feet away and the sounds of sirens appearing just moments behind. John Watson leapt into his view, tearing from the passenger seat of the car, Lestrade a beat behind. John fell to the pavement beside his best friend.

"Oh Christ, Sherlock." He lamented.

A rush of activity suddenly materialised around them then. Two paramedics flanked John and the doctor started to bark orders to them both. "He's going into respiratory arrest, we need to bag him. Developing a tension pneumothorax, I need a drain, now."

Anderson stood to his shaky feet, no longer needed and Lestrade caught him as he swayed a little. "You ok mate?" He asked.

"Yeah."

"You've done good." The inspector smiled sadly at him. "It's going to be ok now."

Anderson nodded sadly, watching on at the organised chaos of John and the medics tending to the detective. Behind them two police officers were collecting the suspect and knife from the floor.

"Come on." Lestrade started to lead him away. "You should sit down for a bit. Were you injured?"

The forensic officer shook his head taking a few steps towards the police car he sat heavily into the passenger seat, spent.

"Thank you." John appeared then in front of him as a gurney with the detective whizzed passed and towards the open ambulance. He doctor clapped him on the shoulder, "you might just have saved his life." And he was gone. The doors of the ambulance slammed shut, the lights and sirens appearing, it sped off into the distance in seconds.