I'm still not Patrick Rothfuss or either of the members of Mofftiss. If that ever happens I will definitely let you know. But as yet I still don't own anything in Kingkiller or Sherlock.

Blood

Of course. Of course Sherlock would wander by himself into the least scrupulous part of town. Of course he would have enemies in high places—the man didn't often try to be charming. Of course those enemies would have some goons follow him and try to make mincemeat out of him.

And of course Sherlock would be caught up in whatever deduction and discovery he was making at the moment. And of course he wouldn't take John with him for protection.

John walked a little faster, cursing under his breath—cursing at his damned leg that should've healed by now, cursing at the goons, and especially cursing at Sherlock. He longed to run, to get to his friend, but the problem was that he had to find him first...and Sherlock was surprisingly very adept at not being seen.

"Sherlock?" he called as loudly as he dared. He didn't want to make a scene, after all. That would bring the wrong sort of attention.

A soft groan came from a heap in a nearby alley and John's heart jumped in his throat. "Sherlock?" he whispered this time, low and urgent. After scanning the alley for signs of danger and finding none, he raced over to the awkward, gangly pile of clothes and limbs that was his friend.

He felt his stomach lurch.

The first thing he noticed was a distinct iron-copper smell, one that was familiar from his studies in the Medica: blood. A lot of blood. He could almost feel the ooze and thrum of it. He didn't see it at first, but then realized that his friend's coat looked darker than usual. And wetter.

And then he saw the knife protruding from Sherlock's ribs.

"Merciful Tehlu, Sherlock, what did they do to you?" he muttered, panic blooming in his chest.

No answer.

"Sherlock?" he asked, clumsy fingers reaching to find his pulse. Again there was no answer. "Sherlock...Sherlock!" Blue lips. Cold wrist. No response. Eyelids fluttering ever so slightly. Weak pulse.

John's mouth curved into a snarl. "Oh no you don't. You're not going to die. You are not going to die, you hear me? Sherlock!"

Bright flashes of steel and cold iron.

Red-stained grass, bright, too bright.

Bodies strewn across the field.

Blood gushing from his leg, mind going soft and fuzzy and numb.

The overpowering will to live.

Abstract fascination with the pulse and ooze of the red liquid...it was beautiful, in a way.

John grit his teeth and hoisted his long, lanky, blood-covered friend onto his back, making his way as quickly as he was able back to the University. He knew it was less than ideal. He knew the knife between Sherlock's ribs could cause grievous injury. But there was nothing he could do about that, not now.

Blood dripped behind him, though not as much as it could have. A small victory, at least.

At long last—too long, too long, Sherlock!—they reached the Medica. "Master Arwyl," John gasped out. "Master Arwyl, I need your help...please, my friend's hurt! Please!"

After one look, the Medic's face pinched and paled. "I'll do what I can. Normally I'd say he wouldn't have a chance, but...let's just hope your luck holds, John Watson."

"It's a miracle, that's what it is. Holmes, you're very lucky. If there's no infection you should be fine after a couple of months. I've never seen anything like it."

Sherlock felt like there was a very small, very furry, very dead creature inside his mouth. His ribs and head hurt abominably. He also couldn't move much.

He tried to push the creature aside with his tongue, and then discovered that it was his tongue. His head felt sluggish. Why did it hurt so much?

"There are some ice chips if you want some. Here. Open your mouth." Oh, John. John's voice. Good. Yes. He was in the Medica. How did he get here? Obediently he opened his mouth—pain and surprise and waking up after having a brush with certain death made him cooperative, for once.

"If John hadn't brought you here when he did you certainly wouldn't have made it. You shouldn't be alive right now. I don't know how you lost so little blood. But I should let you rest...even if you are a medical miracle."

Sherlock focused his eyes as best he could. His head hurt. And not because it was injured—although it was—but because there was a question there and for the life of him he couldn't figure it out. It was unsettling.

Finally his strange eyes settled on his one friend. John. John looked...exhausted. Weathered. He might have been crying. He also looked livid.

"Wh-"

"No, Sherlock. Don't you fucking say anything." Those blue eyes were hard as flint.

For the second time in the span of five minutes Sherlock obeyed a direct order. Medical miracle indeed. His mouth closed with a click of teeth.

"Never again, do you hear me? You will not under any circumstances pull such a stupid stunt ever again. You almost died. You know people hate you—it's a wonder I don't—and you know you get absorbed in your cases and observations so much so that you don't see what's right in front of your face. Why didn't you take me with you?"

Sherlock opened his mouth. Words wouldn't come out. He swallowed, tried again. "You weren't there. I got bored—"

"Oh for fuck's sake!" John whispered explosively. "I would have come back! You could've waited!"

The dark-haired man scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"No, Sherlock. Never again. I would much rather have a bored friend than a dead one. Boredom's solvable. Death isn't. You will not do that to me again."

Sherlock's strange eyes watched John as the smaller man strode out of the room, anger written in every line of his body. Then he turned his head so that he was staring at the ceiling. His head hurt. What was the question?

John visited Sherlock the next day, and the day after that. Each time he worried that his friend had sustained a concussion—he kept complaining of headaches, even though his side had sustained a greater injury. However, his memory seemed as intact as could be expected and he was otherwise asymptomatic. He couldn't do much except change his friend's dressings, check for infection, and dose him with painkillers.

Something was different on his next visit. There was a strange light in Sherlock's eyes. John looked at him with concern. "You alright? How's your head?" He checked his friend's temperature. "No fever..."

"I should have died."

John froze. His mouth and eyes set. "Pardon?"

"You heard me."

John looked hard at his friend. "Don't you ever say that. You're alive, don't tell me you regret—"

"Don't be obtuse, John. I'm not saying that I wish I were dead. I'm saying that by rights I should be, but I'm not."

John's eyebrows rose. "Are you alright? How's your head?"

The same light shone in Sherlock's eyes. "My head's better, almost. I'm just missing something. I don't have all the pieces."

"...are you quite sure you don't have a fever?"

"Yes, I'm fine," Sherlock snapped. "I heard the story countless times. With the type and location of injury I sustained, coupled with the length of time I was injured, added to my none-too-gentle mode of transportation back here, I should have lost far more blood—too much to survive it. But here I am. How do you explain that, John?"

John's eyes darted to his hands.

"And," came the low, thrilled baritone, "I heard more stories too. In the Medica everyone sends the hopeless cases to John Watson. Not because he's particularly talented—" and here John bristled a bit— "but because he's extraordinarily lucky. Here and there are other medical miracles, usually the same type as mine. Patients don't bleed out on your watch, John." The gleam in Sherlock's eyes was delighted and almost hungry. "What do you have? What do you know, John Watson? Why didn't you tell me?"

Beautiful.

The pulse and ooze of red liquid, too bright in the cheerful, terrible sunlight.

It sang to him and he knew he did not wish to die.

"Blood," John whispered, and though there was still a hideous gaping wound on his leg...the bleeding stopped.

Those strange, bright eyes stared him down. John kept looking at his hands, then smiled bitterly. "I suppose you'd have figured it out sooner or later."

Sherlock, for his part, didn't quite know what to feel. One part of him was set on anger that John, his John, hadn't shared this vital piece of information with him earlier. Another portion felt betrayed—John, for all his lack of dullness, was still stupid, though not as much as most of the rest of the species, and yet he could do something Sherlock couldn't. Sherlock's Alar was very strong indeed, but his sleeping mind (according to Elodin's stinging scoffs) would ever stay asleep.

But the third, overwhelmingly large part of his brain felt gleeful. He liked knowing that John was by far the more dangerous of the two of them. John—stolid, pleasant-mannered, genial John—could immobilize, kill, destroy with merely a word. It was a lovely thought. All those other idiots would think that Sherlock was the one to look out for. But it would only work if it were a secret. Thus: "Who else knows?"

"Nobody," John said immediately. "I'd rather it stayed that way...I don't want people to be scared of me."

Sherlock smiled with all of his teeth. "Excellent."