A/N: I really shouldn't be doing this...my poor manuscript...

Prompt 2: Choked

John's room at Baker Street is exactly how he left it. Not a thing has been changed since the day he moved out, nothing but the dust which Mrs. Hudson dutifully keeps up with the same as if he still lived there.

Since Mary's death, John's been staying at the flat more and more. Rosie likes it there; she absolutely adores Sherlock and he seems to have a soft spot for her as well, containing his experiments to the kitchen which is blocked by a baby gate. Often times, John will go downstairs to chat with Mrs. Hudson only to return and find little Rosie standing against the gate watching her godfather tinker with chemicals and microscope slides. Ocassionally, he can even be convinced to leave his daughter in Sherlock's care (with Mrs. Hudson as a backup) while he goes to work.

It's on one of those somewhat rare ocassions that John recieves a phone call from Mrs. Hudson. Waist deep in patient files and tubes of anti-itch cream, however, he doesn't recognize the number at first.

"Dr. John Watson," he answers, flipping through a stack of papers on his desk.

"Oh hello, John." Mrs. Hudson sounds pleasant and happy as always, but there's a strain beneath her sunshine.

"Mrs. Hudson? Is something wrong?"

"No, no, dear, nothing's wrong...well...actually we've had a bit of a break in."

"What?" John stands from his desk. The door to his office opens but he holds out a finger to the nurse who's come to get him. "What happened? Is Rosie okay?"

"Oh yes, Rosie's fine dear, she's with me."

"What about you? Are you alright? And Sherlock? Have you called the police? What happened?"

"I'm fine and I'm sure Sherlock is too. Yes, I've called the police but you know how slow they are. I figured I should call you too, just to let you know."

Deflating with a sigh, John sinks back down, smiling apologetically at the nurse in his doorway. "You scared the life out of me, Mrs. Hudson. So what did happen? Did they take anything?"

"Oh I don't know dear, it's still going on."

John blinks. "What?"

"He's still upstairs. There was a bit of a ruckus before but it's gone quiet now. I was about to go out and have a look see, make sure he's alright-"

"No, do not go out there yet." John's hand passes over his face, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Jesu-alright, hang on. I'm coming right away." He jumps up again, pushing past the nurse who calls after him in confusion. "I'm sorry, Monica, I've got to go! Emergency!" He snags his coat on the way out the door and hails a cab. "Mrs. Hudson, why didn't you tell me it was still going on? Did you just take your soothers, by any chance?"

"Oh, dear, I wouldn't worry. You know how Sherlock is. He's used to fighting bad guys, you know. Much better bad guys as well."

"Yes, fair enough but..." Rubbing his forehead, John tells the cabbie the address and they take off. "I'm still coming. Just you and Rosie stay locked up in your flat and I'll be there as soon as I can. How long ago did you call Scotland Yard?"

"Right before you, why?"

"No reason." John clicks open his briefcase and, from beneath files and stethoscopes and various other medical tools, he pulls out his gun. Ejecting the magazine, he counts the rounds, clicks it back in and cocks the weapon. His foot taps anxiously the whole way but his hand never shakes a single time.

The cab drops him off outside the flat and John deposits his briefcase and jacket on the sidewalk, pressing his ear to the door before entering. Of course he arrived before the police. The arched, black door creaks open and he pads across the tiled entryway floor, opening the interior door just as quietly. All looks well, undisturbed as if nothing has happened. Mrs. Hudson's flat is shut tight and, true to her word, the entire place is deathly quiet.

He stops at the bottom of the steps, craning his neck to see into the rooms above. No such luck, however. Drawing a steadying breath, John creeps up the steps, gun at the ready. He expertly avoids the ninth step-which creaks loudly if any weight is placed on it-and finally reaches the door. It hangs open just a crack and John helps it the rest of the way, entering gun-first.

The living room and kitchen are empty. No burglar. No Sherlock. Shit. John turns down the hall, pushes open the bathroom door and grimaces. Empty. The only other place he hasn't looked is Sherlock's bedroom. He puts one hand on the knob, twists slowly, and throws the door open. It bangs against the interior wall and John jumps in, aiming the pistol at the burglar's head.

Or where the burglar's head should have been, anyway.

Instead, the gun almost falls out of his hands, every muscle in his body jumping at once. "Jesus Christ...!" He fumbles, laying the weapon on the floor as he scrambles to Sherlock's side.

A length of wire is wrapped around Sherlock's throat, a bit of blood running down his neck where it cut into him. His lips are tinged blue, his eyes closed. He lays flat on his back below the open window, where the burglar must have escaped.

"Sherlock!" John presses two fingers to his inner wrist, eyes squeezing shut. "Come on, you cock...don't do this." He sighs in relief, feeling the weak, rapid flutter under his fingers. "Mrs. Hudson," he yells at the top of his lungs. "It's safe now! Come up here please!"

Downstairs, he hears the sound of the door unlocking while he holds the back of his hand just above Sherlock's lips. No air passes through them, at least not that he can feel.

He lowers his cheek, whispering urgently when he still doesn't feel any breath.

Mrs. Hudson appears then in the doorway of the bedroom, cradling Rosie against her chest. The one year old seems unharmed and unaware of what's happened. She coos at seeing her daddy and reaches for him. "Oh my!" Mrs. Hudson clasps a hand over her mouth.

"Call an ambulance," John instructs her, shifting to a kneel. "He isn't breathing."

She hurries away without another word, taking Rosie with her. John lays his hands on Sherlock's unmoving chest and presses down hard, once, twice, three times...

"Come on, you complete dickhead..."

Down below, he can hear sirens screaming in their direction. Not the ambulance, not yet. Just Scotland Yard. He continues the compressions, grimacing with each creak of Sherlock's ribs.

When Mrs. Hudson returns, her eyes are red with unfallen tears. "Is there anything I can do," she asks, clutching Rosie to her chest.

"Did you-call the ambulance?" Nine times, ten, eleven...

"Yes."

"Then just watch-Rosie. And when Scotland-Yard shows up, tell them the burglar escaped though-this window here and to have a look around for the-bastard." Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen...shit...shit!

After three minutes without oxygen, the brain starts to deteriorate. And Sherlock's been laying here without air for God knows how long.

"Come on, you prick!" John moves from the compressions up to Sherlock's face, pinching his nose-his skin is cold-as he breathes air into his friend's lungs. He pulls back. Still nothing. Still no response.

John's eyes are misty and his arms burn from the compressions but he keeps on. Mouth to mouth is a bit outdated nowadays but Sherlock needs air and that's all that matters. Even if it doesn't work. He'll try anything.

"Please, Sherlock. Stop this now." Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two... Breathe.

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Breathe.

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Breathe...

Heavy feet thunder up the steps. Lestrade sprints into the bedroom, chest heaving, eyes wide. "Oh God..."

"Where the hell is the bloody ambulance," John yells, panting.

"They're five minutes out," Lestrade says. "Is he-"

"He can't wait that long for christ's sake! He could go into cardiac arrest any second now. He might already have brain damage from lack of oxygen." John's arms are burning, his head spinning from giving all his oxygen to Sherlock.

"I can take over. I know how to do CPR," Greg offers, seeing John's trembling arms.

"No, I've got it..."

"John, mate, let me help-"

"No, I've got it!"

Thirty-four

Thirty-five

Thirty-six...

"Breathe, Sherlock... Please."

Just as John pinches Sherlock's nose again and is leaning down, he feels the body below him spasm.

Sherlock breathes in long and ragged, the air tearing down his throat, ribs expanding, his back arched off the ground. Greg visibly jumps, hovering in the doorframe like a specter as Sherlock slowly rouses, gasping, eyes dragging open. Clusmy hands reach up to his throat, hang there, grasping for a moment as his breaths even out and slow down. For a long and painful minute, he doesn't speak, doesn't react at all to the other presences in the room.

Finally, unable to take anymore, John leans in and touches his arm. "Sherlock? Mate? You alright?"

Drowsy, ice-blue eyes drift sideways to his face. "J'hn?" Sherlock winces, swallowing. There's a thin purple bruise around his neck and his face is painfully white. The blue color still hasn't completely gone from his mouth.

"How you feeling?"

Sherlock pauses, tries to speak, flinches, licks his lips, and tries again. "Not great." His voice is rough as sand paper.

"Headache?"

"Oh yeah."

"Scale from one to ten."

"Erm, six."

"What's you name?"

"What?" Even in this condition, he looks at John as if he's an idiot.

"Just go with me here."

Sherlock sighs. "Sherlock."

"Full name."

"William Scott Sherlock Holmes."

"Your first name is William," Lestrade chimes in, stupified.

"How old are you," John continues, ignoring him.

"Thirty-four."

"What's your address?"

"221B Baker Street-come on, John. If you're really testing my mental capacity here, you might ask me something a little more challenging."

John sits back and rolls his eyes. "You're fine."

"I've got one for you. Who the hell attacked you? Who are we looking for," Lestrade asks suddenly. Sherlock pauses, thinking back. As he does, he tries to sit up but John holds him down, which turns out to be quite easy. Starved of oxygen and shaking like a newborn fawn, Sherlock collapses back to the floor.

"He was...a man of approximately thirty years, lives somewhere in Central London, though not too close to Baker Street. His shoes were muddy so I would say somewhere near a park or a garden of some kind. He was wearing a mask so I couldn't see his face but he had brown hair-there were tiny flecks of it sticking out through one of the eye holes. Longer hair, then too. His eyes were grey. He owns two cats: one ginger, one white, and a dog. German Shepherd I think. He's an athlete of some kind, incredibly strong and fast for such a narrow build. He's married and, oh, dust the doorknob over there for prints. I managed to pull off one of his gloves so there's a possibility he touched it with his bare hand. Sorry, that's all I managed to get. He was strangling me, after all..."

John and Greg stare, dumbfounded, as the ambulance pulls up outside.

"You think he got brain damage?"

John snorts and shakes his head. "Even if he did, he'd still make the rest of us look like babbling twits."