Summary: In which Sherlock is almost-strangled, denies his injuries exist, John fusses and they generally exasperate a cabbie to no end. Vague spoilers for the Blind Baker. Canonical with slight tweaks and further elaboration. Might add other chapters where our favourite detective is almost strangled during other non-canon cases and the reactions of various characters.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of its characters (probably because I'm too much of a sadist, but oh well).

Warnings: Spoilers for the Blind Baker (Episode 2 of Season 1). Other than that, nothing much else to be warned about. (Err be warned of possible grammatical/spelling errors due to my rather hurried beta-ing which I promise I will endeavour to do a more thorough check again later on!)

Author's Note: Um, hey guys, it's me again:) So I've watched the episode 'The Blind Baker' a while back and then I was thinking of how Sherlock has been strangled twice over the course of only two days. I really pity the poor guy sometimes and when I think of how John was probably unaware of how Sherlock was being almost-strangled in the flat while poor Sherlock suffers all on his own, I just felt that I needed to write about that scene and possibly add some tweaks to it. Well, then the plotbunny kinda just popped up and refused to go away until I penned it down, so here it is. Anyway, huge apologies to all those waiting for chapter 3 of 'Five Days Without John Watson' (no ideas or anything great has popped into my head and I would really really hate to let you guys down with another action-less chapter again so I'm trying my best to churn up something good now). Anyway, enough of my rambling. On with the story!

The Art of Strangulation

Chapter One: not a cold!After-effects of (Attempted) Strangulation

He thinks, rather sardonically, that he can mentally conjure up at least more than a handful of Yarders who might actually get a kick out of the news 'World's Only Consulting Detective Dies by Strangulation Using a Piece of Flimsy Cloth'. In a flat of a missing woman he hasn't even met face-to-face, no less (but of course, he already knows the petty details such as what she looks like —young Asian woman in her twenties with an average build but on the slim side — and what she works as or used to work as — an antiques museum curator, most possibly in charge of pottery and ceramics and the like.)

(He is pretty sure the press could probably come up with a better, snarkier and more eye-catching headline than that but he's focusing too much on trying to breathe and airheneededair to bother with that.)

It was a miscalculation and some (rather serious) overlooking on his part that led to his current situation, really. Well, not that he would ever admit to something akin to a tiny error on his part. But he supposed he could get a *bit* carried away at times. In his excitement at another lead and his haste to investigate it, he had, inevitably, forgotten to add to the equation the slightest possibility of danger in the flat. (The window was open; he should have seen that and it should have clicked that there was an intruder who was still lurking about inside, stupid, stupid!)

But then again, he really did detest mindless chatter and noises others made which most certainly did NOT help his thinking process and investigation of the crime scene (some small voice pipes up in his mind, "John is at least borderline tolerable and even helpful on certain occasions" to which he mentally snaps a "Shut up!")

He feels the cloth (possibly a random article of laundry his assailant had conveniently snitched from the laundry pile) bite into his skin as his fingers grope helplessly at it. His assailant yanks the already impossibly tight cloth around his throat tighter and the searing sensation in his air-deprived lungs heightens to the point he gasps desperately for some much-need oxygen.

(He suppresses the panic fighting to rise up in his chest; he didn't need that, what he needed in his chest right now was AIR damn it!)

He tries to get a good look at his assailant (data, he needs data!) but all he sees through his haze of pain and general state of disorientation that comes with strangulation is a blurred silhouette of a masked man in dark clothing. He is vaguely aware that his legs are flailing about in a rather wasteful expenditure of energy which can possibly be utilised for more useful purposes but he can't stop his frantic kicking.

(He's like a wounded tiger backed into a corner and all he wants to do is break free and hit back but he can't, he can't, hecan'thecan't oh God he CAN'T.)

He dimly hears John's voice outside the front door and he tries calling out but his throat is constricting around itself and what comes out is an unrecognisable, barely audible and absolutely pathetic croak of "John... John!"

(He'd called; why isn't John coming and thundering through the door to fend off the assailant? He knows this to be a perfectly illogical thought — of course John can't come, he is locked out and from the snippets he could hear, John probably hadn't heard anything amiss and was only yelling at being left out of the loop again.)

"... 'm Sherlock ... No one ... Compete with ... Massive intellect... "

Is John doing an impression of him? A fairly horrible one, from what he can hear. It's odd but why the hell is he feeling the inane urge to burst into (slightly hysterical) laughter? He could barely get enough air to speak.

(He wants to call out, yell, shout (anything!) to John that no, he isn't being an arse as usual and not letting him in because he doesn't want any interruptions/distractions but because he is writhing about on the carpet and rather preoccupied with being strangled so could he please, please, please come and help?)

The cloth winds tighter and tighter and tighter around his throat like an over-enthusiastic python and he's choking on nothing, hecan'tbreathe, his vision is starting to grey out at the edges, can'tbreathe, mentally repeating to himself not to pass out but he can'tSODDINGbreathe! But just as his vision all but blacks out, he feels the vice-like grip around his throat release. Then, all of a sudden the pressure is gone and air rushes through his nose and mouth, glorious air scraping through his abused throat but he doesn't really care. He feels something being shoved into his top pocket and his shaking hands paw at it. He is vaguely aware of a black blob scurrying away.

(The assailant is getting away and he'd be damned if he went through all the strangulation just to walk away empty-handed.)

A white-hot blaze sweeps through his throat but he pushes it to the back of his mind (pain will only distract him) as he gets to his feet rather unsteadily. Something hard connects with his chest (the assailant's boot, his mind supplies) and he stumbles back but he pushes on, only for the assailant to repeat the action. Twice. (Once to his stomach and another to his chest again.) This time, he staggers back a considerable distance and then he's falling down, down, down.

He vaguely registers the dull thud his body makes as it connects with the carpet, then a resounding crack as his head unceremoniously reacquaints itself with the floor shortly after.

He sincerely hopes that nothing is broken and that the almost-definite concussion he's going to suffer from later will not muddle up his cognitive abilities too much.

John jabs at the doorbell of Soo Lin Yao's flat again but as expected, there is no reply. He lets out a frustrated growl. Sometimes he really questions himself as to why he still accompanies this self-centred git around for investigations; he is always left behind to wait outside while his friend goes in and conducts whatever investigations inside.

(Does he consider him his friend? He supposes so but he really feels like throttling him sometimes.)

In the past ten minutes or so that he has been left out here, he briefly contemplates leaving Sherlock here since he is obviously NOT needed anyway but immediately feels a pang of guilt at the thought of abandoning him. He sighs. He thinks, with a little fondness, that he must be a masochist of some sort to continually stick around with such a (brilliant but exasperating) madman.

(He is still going to give Sherlock an earful about leaving him out of the loop again when he sees him later, though.)

The front door to Soo Lin's flat opens (finally, he thinks) and Sherlock stumbles out, looking rather dishevelled, his scarf wrapped loosely and haphazardly around his neck.

"Finally decided to grace me with your presence then?" he says, trying for a light sarcastic jab.

John waits for the onslaught of words and insults, even, to spill out of Sherlock's mouth but it never does. Instead, the detective leans heavily against the door frame, panting slightly with his left arm curled around his midriff. It takes a moment or so before he can answer and when he does, his voice is weak and hoarse, a pale imitation of his normal suave baritone.

"The milk's out... Out of date and the... The washing. The washing — it's started to smell. Someone... Someone left in a... Hurry. Three days... Three days ago," he all but gasps out, his words wavering and he falters every now and then throughout, often stopping and then repeating himself again.

The question "Someone?" spills out of John's mouth before he can stop it but he barely listens to the reply as he realises that something was very, very wrong with his flat mate. Sherlock looks several shades paler than his normal already borderline vampiric shade of skin and his speech is halted and hoarse, completely unlike the rapid-fire slew of words that he usually throws out. John's eyes drift to the arm still curled around his flat mate's midsection and the not-so-hidden wince playing out on his ashen face as Sherlock bends down to pick up a piece of paper on the doormat (their next lead, apparently).

(Alarm bells immediately start ringing in his head and his earlier frustration at being left out quickly melts into worry for his flat mate.)

"Sherlock, you alright? What happened in the flat?" he asks urgently, interrupting Sherlock who is muttering hoarsely about going to the National Antiquities Museum to find out about Soo Lin's whereabouts.

His flat mate waves a hand airily, probably going to dismiss his concerns with a snarky reply somewhere along the lines of "I'm fine, John. There really is no need for such unnecessary fussing." Sherlock opens his mouth to shoot back a reply but the effect of whatever he is going to say is lost as his eyes roll back and if not for John's quick intervention, he would have collapsed onto the pavement.

To say that John is shocked to have a sudden armful of his unconscious flat mate is an understatement. He grapples rather helplessly to keep Sherlock's lanky frame upright.

(Sherlock couldn't just tell him what's wrong but has to ignore whatever pains he has been suffering from until it culminates into one spectacular fainting episode; his flat mate really has to be unique and different from others in every way, hasn't he?)

With some difficulty, he hails for a cab as he latches onto the deadweight that is his flatmate leaning against him rather unhelpfully. He manages to lift Sherlock into the cab and slides in afterwards, telling the cabbie to head for 221B Baker Street. This is one of the few rare moments that he is actually grateful for his flat mate's irregular eating habits during cases as this means that he is much lighter and easier to carry. He has a few theories as to Sherlock's sudden collapse. However, he fully intends to carry out a medical examination on Sherlock when they get home and he'd be damned if he let his flat mate go gallivanting about to solve this case while still clearly incapacitated.

After a few minutes have elapsed, the lanky detective bonelessly collapsed against the cab window shows signs of stirring. A few more moments later, audible groaning comes from Sherlock's corner as he gradually comes to.

"John? Where... What... What happened?" comes the hoarse question from a groggy Sherlock.

"You collapsed without warning outside Soo Lin's flat," John informs him rather seriously, "So are you going to tell me what happened just now or are you going to leave me in the dark again? I'm afraid I'll have to pry the answer from you rather forcefully if you choose the latter."

(He means it but he doesn't really have the heart to interrogate his flat mate now in his current state. He hopes Sherlock will at least tell him what's wrong with him that made him collapse in the first place.)

"The intruder... The intruder in Soo Lin's flat was still there when I went in and he..." Sherlock swallows, wincing, before he continues in the same raspy voice, "Surprised me. A slight... Struggle ensued where I was... Momentarily preoccupied and couldn't reply to your rather insistent calling."

Sherlock swallows again, nose scrunching up in annoyance and frustration as he tries to form words but only succeeds in a harsh cough.

(John finds his flat mate's action of wrinkling his nose rather endearing but of course, refrains from voicing that out loud.)

He is hoping that Sherlock will elaborate about which part of him is hurting but as expected, his flat mate lapses into silence, turning to stare out of the cab window. He sighs. Looks like he will have to poke and prod to get some answers again.

(He hopes that Sherlock's unexpected fainting episode is merely due to exhaustion or lack of food or both, but he suspects there is more to it than Sherlock cares to say. He supposes he shall start with examining Sherlock's neck as his flat mate's throat seems to be a source of some discomfort for him.)

John reaches over, gently peeling the scarf away from Sherlock's neck. Sherlock glances over at him with some alarm and tries yanking back his beloved possession but not before John catches a glimpse of something around his neck that has him almost swearing out loud.

(He thinks he saw a large ring of red marks circling Sherlock's neck like a malevolent snake but he needs another closer look to judge the full extent of his injury. For some reason he feels his hands clenching into fists and the need to punch something, preferably whoever had done this to Sherlock.)

"Sherlock," John tries, calling louder when said person turns away resolutely towards the window, "Sherlock, let me take a look at your neck."

"My neck is perfectly fine, John," Sherlock mutters, still not turning around.

"No, it is not," John counters, attempting to unravel the scarf wrapped loosely around Sherlock's neck, "Can you please stop being so damn obstinate for once and let me help?"

(He actually thinks that Hell would probably freeze over before Sherlock stops being the stubborn git he is, but he can hope, can't he?)

Sherlock lets out a small huff and finally relents. John quickly but gingerly unravels the scarf from his flat mate's neck and is rewarded with the sight of a ring of red marks around his flat mate's normally pale skin. He gently grazes a finger over the red marks and Sherlock hisses, pulling away slightly.

"Sherlock, how the hell did this happen?" John demands, anger and worry evident in his voice.

"The intruder in Soo Lin's flat, obviously. Do try to keep up, John," comes Sherlock's scathing reply but it loses some of its effect as his voice breaks slightly at certain points in his speech.

John takes a deep breath to calm himself before continuing, "Alright, alright. Are you injured in any other way?"

(He tries to keep his voice even but he is sure some of the dangerous edge in his voice which suggests that he very much feels like giving Sherlock's assailant a piece of his mind is evident enough for Sherlock to notice.)

There is a good deal of silence before Sherlock denies the presence of any other injuries in a sullen tone.

(Frankly, John isn't very convinced so he waits and sees if Sherlock will admit it himself or else he'll have to take some drastic measure.)

A pointed stare from John and a pregnant pause later, Sherlock finally caves and says that his chest and abdomen area possibly hurts a *little* from the kicking he received from the intruder. At this, John finds that he has to coax himself to take deep breaths *deep breath, in, out, in, out* to stop himself from possibly punching the window and shattering the glass everywhere.

(He's inclined to unbutton Sherlock's shirt there and then to check the extent of the injuries inflicted on his chest and abdomen but refrains from doing so as he notices the cabbie eyeing the two of them rather oddly.)

"When we reach home, you are going to let me examine and tend to your injuries. No gallivanting further on this case until then," John says in a voice that brooks no argument.

But Sherlock, being Sherlock, evidently does not care, looking positively outraged at the prospect of resting during a case and just a tad bit betrayed that John has told the cabbie to take them home without asking for his opinion. (Not that Sherlock has been conscious enough to be consulted about their destination just now, mind you.)

Before John can stop him, he calls out to the cabbie in a croaky voice to change the destination to one National Antiquities Museum. John frowns, calling out "221B Baker Street" loudly to drown out his flat mate's still raspy voice. At this point of time, the cabbie is glaring at them with an air of utter exasperation.

(John is sure he's most likely inclined to throw the two of them out of the cab in favour of finding less fickle-minded passengers who are at least able to keep their hands off each other for the majority of the cab ride.)

The two residents of the same flat in 221B are locked in a heated stare-down that eventually ends up with John relenting with "On the condition that I treat your wounds after we get back to the flat later today", frowning as he tells the cab driver to change their destination to the National Antiquities Museum. Sherlock, a bundle of black coat and black curls, has a smug look on his face as he snatches back his scarf.

(John honestly feels like landing in a good punch or two at his flat mate to wipe that smirk off his face. He then feels bad about having such a thought when he sees Sherlock wrap his scarf around his neck, wincing and taking it off again.)

Throughout the remainder of the cab ride, Sherlock remains silent, most likely in a bid to preserve his already abused vocal chords as he fiddles with the scarf he holds onto tightly on his lap. John merely sighs, looking over at his injured flat mate every now and then even when Sherlock snaps that it is slightly unnerving.

(If Sherlock dares refuse treatment of his wounds at the end of the day, John swears he will personally hold the man down and go ahead with the treatment anyway. He vows that he'll be more watchful and vigilant to make sure his flat mate doesn't get a second bout of strangulation the next time.)

But then again, when does things ever go according to what he wants? He just hopes he can be there to fend off the attacker if less-than-careful-about-his-own-safety Sherlock does go and get himself almost strangled again.

Yep, that's about the end of chapter 1. Hope you guys enjoyed it and don't forget to drop a review! By the way, Avatards (uhh, fans of Avatar: The Last Airbender) who happens to be Sherlockians too can go check out my Avatar/Sherlock crossover 'The Face-stealer and the Consulting Detectives' if you'd be needing some crack! and possibly a few laughs. -shameless advertising alert- Nah, not really, but seriously, I'd love you forever if you read you and possibly even more if you review:)

Cheers,

Rainflower