Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock.

Been a while since I've written anything for this, so forgive me if it's a little out of character at first. Also my medical knowledge is not perfect so there are likely to be a couple of inconsistencies or deviations from how this might happen in real life. Anyway... I'll do my best :)

This is a sequel to 'Tears of the Violinist', but it is not necessary to have read that to read this.

Summary: Sherlock and John are called out to a remote prison for the criminally insane to track an escaped convict. However, the job quickly turns dangerous when they are stranded in the forest. With Sherlock under the influence of a mysterious drug and John pushed to his limits, the situation could only be made worse by the presence of their most brutal enemy... "Falling's just like flying, except there's a more permanent destination..."

Warning: This does not contain slash, but it does contain angst, violence, blood and bad language.

A thin film of dirt lay beneath his nails and the remains of leaf litter clung to his hands like flecks of ash. Kneeling on the icy, unforgiving earth, there was little point in wiping his palms clean. Within seconds they would be muddied again. But medical instincts run deep, and John Watson found himself drawing his hand determinedly across his shirt for the fourth time in the last half hour. With fingers that trembled and skittered he adjusted the flat torch pinned to his rucksack, angled it downwards. His brow furrowed, lips twitched critically. In the darkness, that torch had become his lifeline. And yet, now, the tiny red bar flickering on its side told him he could only enjoy its security for a couple more hours. Soon it would fizzle into nothing, and he would be left staring blankly into the pressing, suffocating black, unable to see his hand in front of his face. The scuttles and rustles in the trees stretching around him would creep into his awareness and become sinister rather than routine. The smooth, slender trunks, now soldiers standing guard, would turn traitorous and unforgiving.

The blackness would be absolute.

Sighing softly through his nose, John shifted position on the damp earthen floor. His movements sent great shadowy spectres lurching against the canvas of the trees. He pressed his lips together, scrutinising every flicker to confirm its innocence. Almost unconsciously, his hand moved down to his waist. Fingertips brushed against the cool, calm hilt of his gun. The security of the weapon chased away some of the tension building in his chest.

"There's nobody there."

He had been telling his spooked brain the same thing, but the quiet, authoritative voice to his left sent a thrill of relief through his aching bones all the same. Despite their current situation, despite all that had happened, he still felt he could trust those short, sharp deductions. As cool and straightforward as the gun pressing against his hip.

"I know," he replied, his own voice hoarse. It still hurt to talk. He didn't care, really. The alternative would have been undeniably worse. He was just lucky his neck hadn't snapped on the initial drop.

A long pause, filled with the odd cries and creaks of the forest, stretched between them. He felt a calculating, green gaze on his neck, but did not look down. His eyes remained trained on the motionless trees. On the lurking shadows. Just in case.

"You should... save the light."

"Mmh."

"You're a soldier, rely... on your hearing. Don't... just waste it."

The halting words, regularly interspersed with trembling breaths, did nothing to comfort him. Of course, he understood the immense concentration and effort it was taking to form those words, to speak those syllables without stuttering. Perhaps that was what unnerved him so much. The lack of control. The shift in relationship between them. His continued silence earned him a weary snort and the shuffling began in ernest. Rolling his eyes and drawing his patience under control, John reached down and pulled the large, dark coat back over the form huddled beneath it. His hand automatically searched for the thin wrist and held it for a few moments, routinely counting the thready beats beneath his skin. Tachycardia. One more spike and they'd be bulldozing straight towards atrial fibrillation. Terrible images of seizing, bucking bodies arching beneath defibrillators on surgical tables came blasting through his mind. His hand came away moist with a film of clammy sweat.

"Well?"

"Better than before. Think your heart rate is starting to slow down."

"My god, John, you're a terrible liar... I can feel it, you know... I'm not some inane-"

"Alright, alright."

He spoke harshly, his nerves already fried. A twig snapped somewhere in the darkness and his body lurched into panic mode, his hand snaking towards his gun, his eyes squinting into the deep. The forest stared back, silent. Behind him, breathing hitched and a soft cough tore the stillness. He reached over with his free hand, felt again for the arm, this time for a comforting squeeze. It was meant to be comforting, at least. Instead his shaking hands became all too obvious.

"What time is... is it?"

His stomach turned over once more. Why? His brain demanded. You always know the time. Your internal clock is more accurate than my fucking mobile.

"It's almost four," John replied quietly, glancing shortly at his watch. The slender hands gleamed luminous in the black, strange, eerie fireflies glinting brightly. "You should try to get some more sleep."

A muffled snigger. A poorly muffled one at that.

"Please, John," came the breathless chuckle. "Let's not be... lambs to the slaughter..."

Finally, slowly, John shifted on his knees and met the clear green eyes that had been fixed on the back of his head for the past few minutes. A mask seemed to slip from his face. With his back turned, he had been able to pretend that he was still strong, stoic, unnerved. Now, with that piercing stare dissecting his soul, he knew he had been revealed as the terrified child he was. His torch threw cold light over pale, grey-tinged skin and dark, heavy smudges encircling the wide eyes. Sweat had slicked some of his hair to his forehead. And yet Sherlock's lips still curled in that smug, certain half smile in response.

"Should at... least keep my... doctor company," he said, his words interspersed with hard gasps.

John wasn't sure which he should be more confused at - that Sherlock was engaging in light-heartedness or that he seemed, for the first time in days, almost completely calm. As John watched a tremor rolled through his body and his eyes screwed shut briefly.

"Alright?" John asked softly.

"Yes." Sherlock opened his eyes, directed them at the sky. John could almost see the calculations flying through his head as he studied the starts, silently naming constellation after constellation. Distracting himself. Occupying his massive, whirling mind.

John turned to look around them once more. Encased in their tiny bubble of light, he could not see much further than a couple of metres. He felt horribly amputated from the rest of the world, from any kind of friendly face or helpful hand. He took a deep, steadying breath, forced himself to think.

"Maybe we should try and move further up," he said, partly to himself. "Find our way inside one of the caves in the mountain. Might be able to start a fire, it'll be warmer. And-"

He was interrupted by a sharp, jagged gasp. His medical instincts screamed a warning as his whipped around. Sure enough, Sherlock's body had grown rigid and his limbs were twitching sporadically. His jaw clenched tightly. The green eyes held John's gaze for a moment longer before rolling backwards into their skull. John jolted forwards, his heart lurching into his mouth, his blood roaring in his ears.

"No, no, no, not now. Sherlock! Hey!"

He caught hold of Sherlock's flailing limbs, pulled him onto his side. His hands clenched over the violently jerking arms in a desperate attempt to avoid further injury. He pinned Sherlock's twisting, flinching body against the forest floor and prayed for an easy release, prayed for the seizure to be a fast one. He was already timing it, the activity doing nothing to block out Sherlock's muted screams of pain, muffled by his own locked jaw.

"It's okay, it's okay," John grunted, trying to ignore the mounting fear in his chest. "You're okay, just breathe. Come on, Sherlock, you can do it. You can... Fuck."

There was blood trickling from the corner of Sherlock's mouth. John's mental timer had reached two and a half minutes, and Sherlock's lips were beginning to blue. Blind panic seized him and he lowered a hand to rub Sherlock's chest haltingly, desperately trying to get him to breathe more. Instead of slowing, the hyperventilating gasps were getting shallower.

"For fuck's sake!" Three minutes crawled by. Any more than five and... and nothing. It was going to be alright, it wasn't going to go over five minutes... "Sherlock, please!"

His voice was tinged with sobs now. He couldn't help it, couldn't hold himself together any longer. A hoarse scream of frustration ripped from his sore throat.

"Sherlock!"

Thanks for reading, this was more of a preview than anything else so don't worry if it's not very clear. Reviews are welcome.

See you in the next chapter!

SUPRNTRAL LVR.