Four cups whumpage; 2 cups murder and mayhem; 2 cup Hurt/Comfort; ¼ cup fluff; 1 cup of angst; 1 cup of humour for leavening, bake for 8 chapters.

Whumpage, BAFM!John BAMF!Sherlock; squint really hard; abuse of wonderful medical technique not to mention medical ethics; the usual amount of swearing.

Warnings this chapter: adverse reaction to anaesthesia; threat of whumpage; language.

CHAPTER 1

PREY

Sherlock surged out of the anaesthesia like a panicked race horse, impossibly long limbs thrashing, eyes blazing but unseeing, striking out blinding at anything in his path. His fist caught John under the eye, opening a small gash. John lunged to Sherlock's left, planting himself firmly behind the consulting detective and out of harm's way. The doctor wrapped his arms around him, effectively pinning his elbows to his sides. Christ, even injured and fighting the effects of the drug, Sherlock was hellishly strong! Choking, gasping for breath, Sherlock redoubled his efforts. John became an Immovable Object and tightened his grip. He put his mouth close to Sherlock's ear, whispering urgently.

"Sherlock, breathe! Breathe!"

Sherlock stilled.

"You're all right. I've got you."

Sherlock nodded, as the trusted voice reached him as no other could. But his body tensed for flight again even as the consulting detective fought down the reflex. Three seconds, four…still another tremor coursed through his muscles and he grunted, straining against John's grip.

"Steady… Steady."

Sherlock quieted again.

"Drugged?" he whispered, his breath ragged.

"Yes."

And another quaver, trembling muscles trying to galvanize for fight or flight.

"Just ride it out. I've got you. Breathe with me." John inhaled deeply through his nose loud enough for Sherlock to hear him. "Hold it…release." John released though his mouth, so that Sherlock could feel his breath against his cheek. Sherlock's ribcage contracted under John's locked wrists. "Again." John's chest pressed against Sherlock's back, and they continued their synchronous breathing. "Again." After thirty seconds, the shuddering waned.

"Injuries?" Sherlock's voice was shaky.

"Minor."

Another nod.

John felt the tension begin to bleed from Sherlock's muscles.

"I'm going to release you now," John said calmly.

A moment's hesitation, then another nod.

John relaxed his grip but maintained contact, keeping Sherlock grounded. He shifted position so that he was facing him, keeping his hands on Sherlock's upper arms. He saw awareness coming back into those astonishing eyes, which were now grey in the cloudy aftermath of a misty rain.

"You're the rescue party, then?"

"None other."

The slightest smile tugged at the corners of Sherlock's mouth. He started to speak, when John suddenly raised a hand in warning. John had his Browning in hand, safety off, and had spun toward the sound, putting himself between Sherlock and the noise before the detective could react.

"Still a threat?" Sherlock whispered.

John gave an uncertain shrug, but kept his left arm out to his side, fingers splayed, signalling Sherlock to stay behind him. Sherlock found himself oddly touched by John's protectiveness; he attributed it to side effects of the sedation.

A squirrel scampered through the brush and up a tree. Sherlock exhaled heavily, and John lowered his weapon. The Consulting Detective then joined in checking his surroundings, starting with himself.

"My shirt is unbuttoned. Why is my shirt unbuttoned?" His voice was slurry.

"I was looking for trauma."

Sherlock frowned.

"I was looking for trauma, you git," John said emphatically, as he tucked the Browning back in his waistband. "And I'm going to do it again now that I have better light. Hold on to something, for God's sake, will you? You look like a Weeble."

Sherlock scoffed but did, indeed, hold on to a nearby pillar. He was uncharacteristically docile as John's hands moved professionally over his torso.

Sherlock looked down, just now realising that he was standing on his coat, which was spread out on the ground, still damp from the earlier shower. It had splotches of mud and damp grass, and the swath from the gymnasium door to the shadows of the parking structure showed a telltale pattern: John had obviously done a blanket drag using his coat —a wise choice, not knowing the extent of head or spine injuries.

"My coat! Look what you've done to my coat."

"Better it needed stitches than you."

Sherlock apparently did not agree.

A thought—a concern?—was trying to make its presence known in Sherlock's mind but it danced in the shadows before pirouetting away.

John recited the inventory of injuries. Multiple bruises, contusion on the chin, all most probably the result of the initial skirmish. He put up a fight before the anaesthetic took hold. Torso clear. Whoever did this hadn't had time to get down to business yet.

"Look at you, you're a mess."

"Speak for yourself," Sherlock harrumphed, looking at the bloody cut under John's eye.

"Yes, well, they didn't do that."

A frown wrinkled Sherlock's brow. "No? Then—?" And understanding. "Oh, impressive! I wouldn't have thought I had the strength at the moment. Perhaps your reflexes are slow—what did you have for lunch?"

John's mouth fell open.

Sherlock immediately realized his gaffe. "I mean… Sorry." Like flipping a switch, Sherlock adopted an apologetic look that was so patently manufactured, John could only sigh, but he wore a bemused expression that said he'd be lording this over Sherlock for weeks.

"You're going to be insufferable, aren't you?" asked Sherlock.

John chuckled before growing serious. "Tranquilizer or anaesthetic?"

"I'm fine, John."

"Tranquilizer or anaesthetic?"

"Not chloroform. Perhaps a…" he paused, frustrated that he couldn't find the word… "sop'rific?" He ran his fingers through his hair as he tried to suss out the drug options. "Perhaps Findil…" no, that didn't sound right…he tried again, "Fenatyl..." another exasperated sigh."Fentanyl. No, unlikely, since I've never reacted like that—." He gave John a suspicious look. "You're not concerned about which drug they used. You're trying to assess my mental state."

John smiled. "Yup. And you're still lagging about ten seconds behind your usual, brilliant, sarcastic self. Side effects?"

"Headache, nausea—"

"And unusual compliance. You normally resist any of my attempts at examin—"

"Distracted," he muttered. The niggling thought made another fleeting appearance and vanished.

John was about to ask if Sherlock was up to going a couple of rounds with whomever might still be out there, but he got his answer when Sherlock repeatedly fumbled trying to button his shirt.

Sherlock paced, agitated, occasionally reaching out a hand to steady himself. He frowned. "Why didn't they continue what they started?"

"What?"

"Why aren't I more injured? More to the point, why aren't you?"

"Sorry?"

"Aside from that," Sherlock said, waving vaguely at the cut below John's eye, "You've not a mark on you. You didn't just walk in, find me, free me, and walk—"

"Yes, I did. That's exactly what I did. There was no one guarding you."

John remembered how the eerie silence of the gym triggered his high alert level, how every instinct screamed get him out of here now! anddrove him to grab Sherlock's coat from the darkened floor, roll him onto it, and dash for the relative safety of the shadows outside. They'd only been outdoors for minutes when Sherlock started to rouse.

"No, no, no, something's amiss…" Sherlock pressed his palms to his eyes, frustration building as the thought just would not coalesce. Until finally, "Ah! Why would a hunter leave his prey alone to possibly escape?"

"Unless they wanted him to escape?"

"There was no interrogation, no duress, no demands."

"They want you to lead them to something?"

"A possibility."

"You were a lure?"

"Good, yes. Lured you, didn't it? But there was no follow-up. Clearly you weren't targeted, or followed." Sherlock checked their surroundings again. "You weren't? Followed?"

"Not followed. Definitely not followed." John circled back to Sherlock's original thought. "A predator doesn't abandon his prey unless there's a threat, some kind of danger."

From their shared look, it was apparent that the same thought occurred to each of them. Sherlock nodded, giving voice to their conclusion.

"Or there's a more dangerous predator in the area."

oOo