Disclaimer; Unfortunately I do not own or claim the rights to the fantastic characters of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's creation, the BBC 'Sherlock' writers, or the men playing the parts. This is purely for entertainment purposes and should not be taken as literal stories.

Hello! Please enjoy my new story – and yes, it's a long one – may I introduce to you;

'The Silent Duet'

"Well, this is a turn up, Sherlock" The Irish creature called under the artificial lights of the almost empty car park. The Yellow of the glow made his skin look translucent and snake-like as his oily deep drone reverberated around the large void.

"I cannot believe you're hiding from me" the small man squealed in delight. The hollow dark laugh that followed seemed to echo around the walls more than was natural.

Sherlock crouched behind a brand new black BMW; he had worked out how far away Moriarty was from him. It wasn't far. He decided to try and text Lestrade again.

He held up his phone and sighed; still no signal of course, they were underground. With a scowl at his phone, he returned it silently to his black - tailored - jacket pocket.

Sherlock decided to make a run for the nearest car. It was a good 10 metres of open space, but he was quick on his feet when he needed to be. Moriarty, never 'getting his hands dirty' must be out of practice with a weapon, he would more than likely miss a moving target.

Sherlock took a couple of deep breaths and flung himself across the empty spaces; he heard the shots and almost felt them ricochet off the walls in front of him. He flopped down behind an old and battered white Nissan, peering through the gap underneath it to get a sense of where his enemy stood.

"This is ridiculous, Sherlock. I wish you could see this from my point of view. I can't believe that you call yourself my equal and we are playing 'peek-a-boo'." The voice was loud and sent shivers of…fear down Sherlock's back, or was it anger? Sherlock never was too sure.

Trying to control his breathing, Sherlock thought through his escape routes at breakneck speed. He could break into one of these cars and drive over Moriarty to the exit. He shook his head a fraction to the right to dismiss the thought; he would never get into the car unnoticed, let alone hotwire it. He could shoot back and risk any damage he may cause; the same shake of his head dismissed this thought too, he was unarmed. 'Think!' he ordered his brain. Then the answer came to him. He began ripping through his pockets, trying to find something he wasn't sure he had.

It was his only option, he thought. He would finish Moriarty, even if it killed him too. Sherlock paused to think about this as his right hand closed around the lighter in the bottom of his pocket. He shook his head dismissively once more, shaking away the doubt, and ripped the lighter from its location; he grabbed the handkerchief from his tuxedo chest pouch and scrambled to the rear end of the car. Silently, he popped open the petrol panel and unscrewed the cap underneath, he prayed there was enough fuel in this wreck of a car to have the desired effect he was counting on as he dangled the white material in to the tank. Leaving a small part of the handkerchief hanging out of the hole, he retrieved the lighter from where he had been holding it between his dry lips and watched the material absorb the solvent; glancing down at the lighter he held, he stopped.

He briefly examined the silver lighter held between his delicate right hands' index finger and thumb. It was a beautiful object, much like the man who had given it to him for his last birthday. Sherlock ran the pad of his thumb over the engraving across the back. Letting his eyes dance over the fine calligraphy and surrounding ivy pattern.

For my Best Friend, Sherlock Holmes – JW

"I hope you're not planning to run away, Sherlock. I do intend to kill you today." Moriarty called again, drawing out his sentences, slow and dangerous. By the dynamics of his voice, he had turned around full circle on the spot, dramatically, to view his surroundings. The cold sound hit Sherlock almost physically as he broke out of his reverie to face the high pressure task in front of him.

He didn't delay further; he flipped the cap of the lighter and brought it to the handkerchief.

"Jim?" Sherlock called expressionlessly from his crouched position over the petrol tank.

Jim whipped round to look at where the offending voice had come from with wicked speed, his face displaying confusion and anger. Sherlock enjoyed the expression he could see through the windows of the car.

Sherlock lit the material and stood tall above the car roof; "Boo!" he shouted and with a look of satisfaction over at Moriarty, he ran like he had never run in his life. His mind was sprinting too apparently, as for no reason he could fathom, he was constantly visualising John, Lestrade, John, Mrs Hudson, John, John, John.

The car park exploded. One boom, two booms, three, four as the other cars were roped into the same defeat as the little white Nissan. He was still running when a car beside him caught the licking flames of the last explosion, it crackled for a mili-second before finally erupting into the cataclysm that caught him, he felt the pressure from the explosion hit his back with force, lifting him from the ground, throwing him through the air and finally smashing him into the concrete alcove next to the emergency exit. The last thing Sherlock heard was the expensive clatter of concrete hitting glass to a background of high pitched static, before the darkness engulfed him.

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John sighed; he had finally gotten himself away from the large crowd of 'Sherlock fans' and made his way to the orderves. He had no idea why the - currently absent - taller man had agreed on behalf of the pair to come to this event. Looking around the large, well decorated and fancy room he popped a salmon oatcake in his mouth, promptly finding somewhere to spit it out. He grabbed his handkerchief from the top left pocket on his tuxedo jacket to wipe away the evidence and stopped instantly as a thought occurred.

Where was Sherlock?

He had been missing for a good hour now, John had been scanning the many well dressed individuals present and Sherlock definitely was not in this function room.

John tucked his handkerchief up his sleeve out of sight as he wandered toward the door trying not to draw attention to himself. He knew no body, but he still did not want to appear as impolite as his friend would be in this situation.

Once on the other side of the large white door, John breathed a sigh of relief. He went to the toilets to find no Sherlock before he went to the cloak rooms to retrieve their coats. Whilst shrugging into his own, he noticed that Sherlock's phone was not in his coat pocket where it lived at this time of year,unless they were in the flat.

John walked outside, swishing Sherlock's coat around his own shoulders on top of his own dark coat. It was a cold night and John fumbled his cold hands into his coat pocket to reach his mobile phone; no missed calls and no messages. He tried to call Sherlock, but there was only a constant tone in reply, wherever he was, there was no signal.

John sniffed in the crisp night air, steam coming from his mouth in small puffs as he breathed, he put his phone back in his pocket and bounced down the steps to the pavement. He absentmindedly started walking towards the park, maybe Sherlock had nipped out for a bit of air…without his coat. John shivered, instantly pulling Sherlock's scarf around his neck and slipping his arms into the tailored coat. He must have looked ridiculous with the long coat on that left him 2 inches of ground clearance, but he didn't care, it was cold, and in his friends' absence, he was enjoying the comfort associated with the scent of the coat.

Without warning there was an extreme bang, the sky high - explosion spread colour and light over the park for only a moment before there was a second, third, fourth, fifth flare-up all within a beat of each other. John whipped around 180 degrees in time to see the funnelled explosion coming from behind the building he had just left. His jaw loosened and he stumbled slightly backwards to take in what he was seeing. Then he was running. An explosion like that could only leave one thing; injured and wounded human beings.

John ran as fast as he could, his friends' long coat billowing out behind him like a cape. John was overtaken by three fire engines, two police cars and an ambulance before he reached the fire ridden doorway of the multi-story car park. He ran over to the paramedics unloading equipment from the back doors of the Ambulance.

"Is there anything I can do? I'm a Doctor." John shouted over the wailing of the different emergency sirens. The female paramedic hastily glanced at John before shaking her head negatively.

"There's no need, only two casualties." She said in a gruff London accent.

"If you can call one of them a casualty. There are toasted pieces of him everywhere." One of the passing policemen said with a green tinge to his face. John looked up at him with an open mouthed vacant glance as the firemen assembled and led the ambulance crew into the dark smoking building.

John sat down on the cement wall outside the entrance in an attempt to get his breath back; he briefly looked up at the night's sky to help him calm his body down.

This, however, was deemed pointless as John suddenly felt winded at the sight unfolding before his eyes. Two coughing paramedics rushed out of the building, wheeling an emergency body bench between them. On the bed lay a motionless figure, a mass of blood blossoming from his face; staining the white sheets beneath and clumping in the dark head of curly hair above. John's own blood ran cold as an iron fist clenched his heart.

"Sherlock!" John shouted as he flung himself at the bed. He grabbed Sherlock's hand and gasped at its smoking heat, he then noticed the burns. Sherlock's tuxedo had been ruined, torn in many places and revealing second to first degree burns underneath. The side of his face from his high cheekbone to his eyebrow was red raw, peeling slightly, his eyes were closed and his skin had a red tinge to it. John stood dumbstruck, unable to move his eyes away from the man. He eventually was pulled from his gaze by the female paramedic he had spoken to before.

"Do you know this man?" She asked gently.

"Y-yes, he's my, he's my-…I'm sorry, is he going to be ok?" John couldn't get out his sentences in his state of shock, all that mattered was Sherlock. The woman helped load the bed into the ambulance and then she returned to speak to him.

"Come with us" She said simply, nodding her head back to the ambulance.

Without further thought, John was sitting beside the loaded bed, and Sherlock, with a paramedic flying around them in an organised and rehearsed haste. John sat deadly still, just holding his friends' hand and fighting back the urge to help or cry.

Upon entry to the hospital A John was held back from following the paramedics and he had to resort to watching the Sherlock-laden trolley disappear through the double doors. He looked down at the nurse blocking his way and saw that she was issuing him with a clipboard. He knew the drill well enough, but it was always different when it was happening to you and not just to someone else.

John perched on the edge of a waiting room seat and shakily filled in all of Sherlock's details on the form. He reached section clearly labelled; 'Next of Kin' and briefly paused, hovering the black biro over the empty box.

It should really be Mycroft, he thought.

However, John began writing his own details in regardless. He was the one that was here, he was the one out of the two, he supposed, that Sherlock could stand to see at this moment in time…if he woke up.

John glanced at the large silver waiting room clock. 03:30. He sat straight-backed in the plastic seat, his eyes wide and unblinking, staring uselessly back to the inanimate doors. He leaned forward, placing his head in his hands, his elbows on his thighs. The waiting room was empty and the magazines lay, unread on the seat beside him.

He stood up, about to go to the rather unappetising vending machine for a coffee, when a man approached. The dark haired man was slightly taller than John and his white coat was buttoned up; half concealing the green scrubs underneath.

"Dr Watson?" The man asked lightly.

"Yes" John replied, military style. He immediately stood at attention, awaiting the news he was going to receive.

"My name is Dr Livingstone, I have been working on Mr Holmes." The doctor explained gently, John nodded sharply and the doctor continued; "Mr Holmes is in a stable condition now; he has a few nasty burns, mainly on his back, and a couple of cracked ribs. Understandable really, it's amazing that he survived if the ambulance crew inform me correctly of the scale of accident." The doctor said quietly and calmly in a practiced manner. "We have done everything we can for now, we just need to wait for him to wake up and tell us what he needs." Dr Livingstone finished with an encouraging smile.

John sighed a little of the stress he had been carrying out through his mouth before looking back to the doctor questioningly.

"Will he be in here long?" He asked, burying his hands deep in his trouser pockets.

Doctor Livingstone did not answer his question, instead he looked shiftily around the waiting room and the reception desk, seeing the lack of people floating around he looked back at John with a gentle expression before he nodded his head to the doors behind him.

"Come on, come and see him." He said quietly.

Doctor Livingstone led John to a private ward; there were only two beds in the room, one empty by the door, the other with a motionless and well-bandaged figure lying in it, white sheets pulled up to his chest, tubes coming out of his arm and nose.

John thanked the doctor very much, took a deep breath and pushed open the door. He stood still as the door closed lightly behind him; he looked across at the unconscious body and heard the faint but continuous blips coming from the machine in the corner; Sherlock's heartbeat.

"What were you up to, you idiot" John whispered at the cataleptic form of Sherlock Holmes. Admiring the bandage work on Sherlock's face and arms, John sat in the wooden armchair provided at the bedside. He looked up at Sherlock's closed eyes between the bandages, seeing no movement at all. John sank down in his chair and continued the conversation as if everything was normal.

"You are so going to pay the excess on that hired Tux, Sherlock." John said quietly. "You can't fool me into paying it this time, it wasn't the mayonnaise!" John sighed when he received no witty bat – back reply. He sank further in his chair, resting his arms on the wicker, his right arm bent at the elbow in order for his hand to accommodate his head and he settled for a long wait.

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He looked so vulnerable. John shivered; 'vulnerable' and 'Sherlock' were two words that were unnatural in the same sentence, an impossible oxymoron.

He turned away from the window, he had been trying to watch the high speed ambulances screaming to a halt just outside, but he had mostly been staring at Sherlock's reflection in the glass.

John walked slowly over to Sherlock, standing over him, protective of him, like he had been for the last 24 hours. John let his hand extend and touch the soft dark curls covering the unconscious mans head. After a while, he gained confidence, and, avoiding the bandaged areas, he ran his hands through Sherlock's hair. He combed it from root to tip with his fingers; pushing it away from his angelic features, stroking the scalp with his nails gently in the process. He was appreciative of what lay beneath that thin protective layer and hoped it had been completely unharmed.

Suddenly, there was a small noise; a soft, unusual whine, almost like a whimper. John paused his hands' movements to look around him. There was no one else present and he did not think he had made any noise. It must have been Sherlock. Johns' eyes flashed down to the body in front of him, examining his features for any sign of movement.

There. Sherlock's eyes were stirring behind closed lids. He was waking up. John continued his attentions to soothing Sherlock's hair as he watched, with a smile on his face, the man in question come back to life. His light grey eyes fluttered open, blinking in the overcast daylight and finally, focussing on John.

"Hello" John smiled. "I wondered when you were gonna wake up" John continued simply, continuing his pattern of soothing. "You missed one hell of a party back at Davenport house." He chuckled, expecting some kind of snappy retort.

No answer.

Sherlock just stared up at him; unblinkingly, staring at John's mouth with a concerned gaze.

"How do you feel? Do you need anything?" John asked gently, stopping his hand once more and moving it down to rest on Sherlock's bandaged own.

Still no answer. John started to feel uncomfortable under Sherlock's stare.

"I'll just get the nurse" John announced, dropping his hand in order to turn around and leave the room, however, the bandaged hand thrashed out and caught John's once more. Tightly grasping him. John turned to see Sherlock's slight wince at the movement he had just performed, before the pain was overtaken by a look of panic.

"It's ok Sherlock, I'm just leaving for a second to get the Nurse" John said encouragingly, pointing to the door.

Sherlock just stared, dumbfounded up at John's moving lips.

"John" Sherlock croaked.

John instantly grabbed the water from the nightstand in a reflex and helped Sherlock to take a sip or two. He took hold of Sherlock's hand once more and stooped over him, replacing the cup to the nightstand.

"I can't hear you" Sherlock whispered.

"It's ok Sherlock, I'm just here" John said in a gentle tone, not quite sure of what Sherlock had just said, but he was still heavily sedated - John had just supposed it was nonsense.

"John, I can't hear you" Sherlock said again, slightly louder this time, almost in panic. He waved vaguely at his ears with his other hand.

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