To those who have already finished reading this, I apologize for the revision. Something was bugging me and it suddenly occurred to me what it was. The only change is in the final few paragraphs before the Coda.

Warnings this chapter: Hurt/Comfort; angst; altered state; detailed anatomical description; whumpage; BAMF all around.

CHAPTER 8

CONFRONTATION

It was a depressed part of London. Formerly a thriving industrial centre, it was now a complex maze of alleys, driveways, buildings barely occupied, abandoned, or vandalised, with broken windows, peeling paint, dirty alleys, and faded dreams.

It took a £10 note for the cabbie to even agree to drive there. Now, Sherlock had the taxi proceed, headlights out, to the deserted structure two buildings away from the BurtonHall address. He handed the cabbie the fare, plus a £20 note, a business card, and instructions. "Stay here. We'll need a return trip. If I'm not back in 20 minutes, call D.I. Lestrade. He'll know what to do."

Sherlock walked to the former BurtonHall building, a faded logo still visible on a sign. As would be expected, there were no signs of life from the security cameras which had long ago been disabled.

He circled the structure, doing a recce from a distance to assess its entrances and possible avenues of escape. All told, the one story brick building had three doorways. There was a narrow walkway in the back, and on either side, alleyways a car-width's wide, large enough only for a rusted-out rubbish skip, scattered debris, and whatever the harsh London winds chose to deposit there, and the larger street to the front.

There were lights coming from one room, while light leaked from beneath the doorway of another; the third was dark. A car was parked in front of the room that was lit. He moved closer to the car. For what it was worth, its profile matched the car that had been visible on the CCTV camera.

Sherlock had a dilemma. If John were injured, he might not be able to reach the taxi, and he did not trust the cabbie to stay where directed. If he disabled the car so that Loman and Egerton could not escape, he was also taking away a possible means of escape for John and himself. Reluctantly, he took a knife to each of the tyres, trusting that Mycroft or Lestrade would be sending backup and transport.

Even through the grime of the window, Sherlock could clearly see two figures in the room, along with a table, chairs, refrigerator, and microwave. Despite the chill, the window was slightly ajar. Moving with slow deliberation, he moved closer to the window, cocking his head so as to hear any sounds. One step closer and then he heard it—the voices of two men casually conversing. One of the two had distinctly bad manners as he chomped on his food and spoke with a full mouth.

He gave a wide berth to the window and door lest the sound of his footsteps carry, then he moved closer to the building again, proceeding cautiously around the corner and approaching the next door. This room was windowless, but light crept out from under the double-wide door. His breath caught when he noticed the faded yellow stripes and now-pale red cross stencilled into the tarmac. He was standing at an ambulance entrance.

An infirmary, then.

Sherlock closed his eyes against the image that had formed in his head.

He listened. He knew what he thought he heard, but he would not permit himself to confirm it.

He continued to the third door: no lights visible through the windows, no sounds from behind it. He picked the lock with ease and entered cautiously, taking time to let his eyes adjust to the dark. He was in a stock room of some sort, obviously abandoned, with some shelving still in place, boxes and other detritus scattered about. The consulting detective took out his torch, covering it with one hand to prevent its light from being seen anywhere but immediately before him. Its narrow beam allowed him to proceed more quickly without fear of tripping over unseen objects, and his unerring visual-spatial memory permitted him to navigate easily through the various aisles to move toward the interior corridor, thence to the door of the infirmary.

He put his hand on the storeroom doorknob and slowly turned it. It opened. The corridor was clear.

In two strides, he was at the infirmary door. There was no way to see inside, save opening the door. Definitely not safe. He put his ear to the door and listened. What he heard was almost enough to break him: muted cries of pain and a low, moaning keening.

Alive! his mind whispered.

He was suddenly filled with a cold fury. Cerebral thinking yielded to primal instinct and his mind screamed, Get him out of there now!

He pulled the Browning from his waistband.

The knob moved silently in his hand as he cracked opened the door. A bit more. A bit more. He had a full view of the room now, and he took in everything in a glance.

John.

The chair, the medical cart, the instrument table, the I.V. pole.

John saw him immediately and was overwhelmed with relief as Sherlock came through the door and crossed quickly to him.

"John!" When Sherlock breathed his name, it sounded like a prayer.

He put the Browning back in his waistband, allowing his eyes to sweep across the needles, the tape, the I.V. He looked momentarily flustered, not knowing where to begin.

"My God, John! What do I—?"

John was fully conscious but in obvious physical distress, the pain evident in his eyes. He whispered through gritted teeth. "Jaw."

Sherlock hesitated. Putting a needle into himself had been easy. Taking one out of someone?

"How? Same angle as it went in?"

John blinked a yes.

"Trigeminal? It will hurt."

John nodded as much as the tape and pain would allow and immediately regretted it.

"Badly."

Another blink.

Sherlock clamped his hand over John's mouth, steadied himself, and gently pulled on the offending needle. Sherlock winced as John cried out, and he could feel him arch and shudder with the pain. Sherlock uncovered John's mouth.

John gasped. "The others. Hurry."

Working quickly, Sherlock removed the rest of the needles, tossing them aside. John deliberately did not stifle his moans, lest the sudden silence raise suspicions. When all the needles were out, John's relief was palpable. Sherlock cursed to himself as he saw the same pattern of bruising on John's hands as had been on Margaret Trevor's, as well as the widespread bruising around the other sites from the deliberate abuse of the needles. Finally, Sherlock cut the tape, freeing his arms, legs, and head, swathes of tape still clinging to John hair.

"Do the I.V. yourself?"

John shook his head. "Can't feel my arms."

Sherlock was alarmed. "Will it—?

"Dunno."

Sherlock's stomach clenched.

He removed the medical tape and the I.V., then gently folded John's arm up at the elbow and grabbed a plaster from the cart.

They spoke rapidly in hushed, urgent tones.

"Can you stand? Walk?"

John nodded. "Didn't get to my legs yet."

Sherlock helped him to his feet. He swayed momentarily but then was stable. Sherlock gently draped the blanket over his shoulders.

"Clothes?" John said, nodding to his things. Sherlock grabbed them and they rushed to the door, closing it softly, and moved into the temporary safety of the storeroom, locking the door behind them.

"You really need your clothes?" he asked rapid fire, as he helped John into his trousers. "If the stories are accurate, women on three continents, most of the RAMC, and I have seen you in your pants—."

"Cold. Git." It still hurt to move his mouth.

Sherlock guided his arms into his shirt, not bothering with the buttons. He tied the jumper around John's waist, draped his jacket and blanket over his shoulders, and guided his feet into his shoes, forgoing the socks.

"Let's move. Taxi. Two buildings east."

They were almost out the door when they heard the commotion and swearing from the infirmary.

Sherlock gently pushed John behind a row of shelves and boxes. "Stay down, stay hidden. I'll draw them away. Then make a run for the taxi."

John balked. "Together," he rasped, still barely able to move his jaw.

Surprising himself, Sherlock found his hand reaching out. He hesitated fractionally before cupping his hand gently on the side of John's head. "Not this time…"

John realized that in his present state, that he could actually be an impediment to Sherlock. He reluctantly yielded.

"You're the better shot," Sherlock said. "Can you handle this?" He held out the Browning. John tried to curl his fingers around it, but the gun fell. Sherlock caught it before it hit the ground.

John's head dipped and his lips thinned in frustration.

Sherlock put his mobile in John's jacket pocket. "Call Lestrade when you're clear, get to the cab, then swing around for me."

"Sherlock…" John's voice was thick with emotion, his gratitude more than evident. As they had done so often before, they locked eyes, and each gave the subtlest of nods.

And Sherlock was gone. He went out the storeroom door, leaving it ajar for John, and ran toward the back of the building. He heard the office door slam. Sherlock went down the alley and crossed behind the building in the narrow walkway, making as much noise as he could. It worked. Footsteps thundered on the far side of the building.

John made his move. He was out the door and running as best he could toward the taxi.

"Split up! He can't be alone." He heard Loman shout. "Circle around."

John was half-way to the taxi when he heard the first shot. He knew from the sound that it wasn't his Browning. The soldier in him instinctively sought cover and he flattened against the building, fingers splayed against the brick wall and he was bombarded with a sudden joy and agony as he realized that he had actually moved his arms, that he could feel the brick, the neurons in his hands and arms firing like electric shocks as sensation slowly crept back in, but oh, good Christ it hurt, it burned and stabbed and it was too much too soon and enough to blur his vision and his knees buckled and his breath caught and forebrain functioning went off-line and the scene tilted until he could force in a breath, breathe, breathe and make the spinning stop.

Awareness came back in time to realize that the cabbie had heard the shot, too, because, no fool he, there was a sudden firing of an engine and the screech of tyres spinning, headlights sweeping across the road as the cab sped off.

The grating of fabric on skin felt like barbed wire when he put his hand into his jacket pocket to retrieve the mobile, which he immediately dropped. It took two tries but he finally picked up the mobile, and gingerly touched the keypad, which sent another jolt through the nerve from the wrist up his arm. He touched the speed dial for Lestrade, whose mobile answered on the first ring.

"Sherlock, you arse!"

"It's John. Need some help here. Send back up to—"

"We know where you are. You're in the middle of bleeding nowhere. We're already rolling."

"Sherlock?"

"I don't know," John said.

With that, there were two more gun shots.

"Greg?"

"Heard it. Stay put. Almost there. "

John disconnected. Stay put? Not bloody likely. He let the blanket fall, and with more than a little effort and pain, he struggled into his jacket and ran back toward the BurtonHall building.

oOo

Sherlock had led the men toward the west, weaving up and down the alleys, trying unsuccessfully to find an open door, and not having the time to pick any lock. He turned a corner and felt the rush of a bullet, then was peppered with brick fragments from the shot that Egerton had fired. He was royally offended when he saw a hole in his scarf.

He dodged back, saw Egerton's shadow and returned fire, using the moment to round the corner and duck behind the skip for cover. For a large man, Egerton was fast. He quickly crossed the width of the alley. They were close enough to hear each other's heavy breaths. It was a momentary stand-off, each having to dip their considerable heights to use the skip for cover or retreat, neither being able to break cover without risking gunfire from the other. Sherlock hunched down, took several steps back, then charged forward, barrelling into the skip, sending it crashing into Egerton, who fell backward, his gun skittering on the ground, finally disappearing under the skip.

Sherlock heard the gun fall, heard the man fall heavily, heard his hands scrabbling on the ground. He came round the other side of the skip, wary, pistol at the ready. Egerton had made it to his knees and came up swinging a length of pipe with astonishing force, catching Sherlock on the underside of his gun hand.

Sherlock heard the unmistakable sound of bone fracturing.

oOo

Shirt still unbuttoned, John shivered in the chill and listened intently, desperate for additional information. He moved as silently as he could, checking around the corner of each alley he approached. He could hear sounds of a scuffle, but the sounds echoed through the maze of alleyways and he couldn't pinpoint the source.

He heard a car alarm being disarmed, followed by someone slamming a car door closed, then Loman's cursing and more running footsteps.

oOo

The Browning lay in the shadows not far from Sherlock's feet, but it was unreachable. Egerton smiled. Sherlock had no where to go.

The man came at him fast. Sherlock, his right arm hanging uselessly at his side, dodged, the pipe merely grazing his left shoulder. Sherlock needed to close the distance—the length of the pipe gave Egerton a tactical advantage.

Sherlock darted forward and it caught Egerton by surprise, the detective unfurling a front rising kick that caught the man, who had both hands on the pipe at shoulder length, unable to block the kick, which landed solidly against the man's groin. Egerton huffed out in pain and doubled over, the pipe falling and rolling away. Sherlock followed up with a knife hand to the man's throat which knocked him to his knees. A roundhouse kick to the head finished the job.

oOo

Six alleys and several walkways later, John carefully rounded another corner and saw Sherlock sitting calmly on the ground, back propped up against a brick wall. Egerton lay on the ground a few meters away. John quickly checked Egerton for a pulse and found one, weak and thready.

Sherlock held one arm in the other and was staring intently at it.

"Sherlock!"

He was unresponsive.

John moved quickly to his side. He fumbled in his pocket for the small torch, the scrape of fabric against skin making him moan. He shone the torch at Sherlock's face and saw immediately that he was ashen from shock, face glistening in sweat, breathing rapid and shallow, and shivering. He had somehow, for some reason, shrugged out of his coat, which lay crumpled behind him.

Oh!

Sherlock was cradling his right arm in his left, staring in rapt fascination at the end of the splintered bone that was protruding from his lower arm.

"Mother of God," John hissed. An open fracture, in a filthy alley, caused by what?—the bloodied, rusted piece of pipe that lay near Egerton's feet.

Sherlock's head was cocked slightly to the side, allowing the detective a more head-on angle of the torn flesh and bone. Sherlock stared at the ragged edges of the bone, clearly mesmerized by the wound and the blood dripping onto his suit and shirt. He was unaware of John's presence at his side.

"Sherlock, let me—"

"I can see the osseous tissue!" Sherlock breathed, awed by the sight. "The texture is…amazing! Nothing at all like cadaver tissue. How did I not know that? And I can see all the layers of the skin!"

Altered state. Bloody hell. John reached out and, despite the pain of the contact, firmly guided Sherlock's chin in his direction, forcing him to break eye contact with the broken bone.

Sherlock whispered. "Look at the splintering pattern of the bone. It's remarkable. Remarkable." There was still no recognition in those eyes.

"Sherlock, focus. Are you with me?" he said, levelling the torch at the wound, which was bleeding freely, but thankfully the bone had missed severing the vein by mere centimeters. Truth be told, John was less concerned about the amount of blood loss at this point than he was about infection and possible nerve damage. A fleeting image of a violin appeared in his mind before he forced it away.

Sherlock's eyes sought out the edges of the bone again. Not good. John turned Sherlock's

head back to his face again. John lightly slapped his face. Sherlock startled, but did not otherwise respond.

"Sherlock! I'm hurt. I need you!" he said urgently, forcing him to make eye contact.

That did it. The detective's eyes steadied on John's.

"John?"

Sherlock slammed back into awareness, and became fully reoriented to his surroundings, realising that the broken bone, blood, and flesh he'd been looking at were his own. The force of the pain hit full-on.

"Oh, God!"

He gagged as his stomach lurched, and he turned just in time before he was ingloriously but not unexpectedly sick.

John gave Sherlock a moment, then briefed him. "Egerton's down, Loman's still out there. Maybe. Or maybe he took off."

John retrieved the pocket square from Sherlock's suit.

"Utility knife?"

There was no response. "Sherlock! Where's your utility knife?"

John knew perfectly well where the knife was; he needed Sherlock to answer.

"Back right pocket." His voice was slurry.

"John, he shot my scarf."

Sherlock sounded so pathetic, John didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "It's okay. We'll fix it... Lean forward just a tad."

Sherlock complied with a hiss of pain. John reached around and retrieved it, using it to cut the sleeve off Sherlock's suit.

"You've got an open fracture. Got to protect the denuded bone, keep it from getting any more contaminated than it already is."

The doctor made a triangle of the pocket square and laid it carefully over the splintered bone. They both forced back cries when John knotted the cloth lightly under his arm below the fracture. He could hardly make a proper fist, and he'd have used his teeth to pull the knot tight but his jaw hurt even more than his arms. John held the knife with difficulty but he cut two strips of cloth from Sherlock's shirt.

Too dangerous to move him without stabilising the arm; could risk nerve damage. He needed a splint. Where—? He kicked a roughly 35cm x 10cm piece of wood from the dilapidated fence and the end of the alley, and used the suit sleeve as…well, a sleeve. He gently guided Sherlock's arm into it.

"Hang on. This is going to hurt like a right bastard, but not as much as when you try to move."

Sherlock cried out when John tied the first strip below the fracture, somehow managing to simply grit his teeth and moan with the second tie near his elbow. It reached deep into John's soul but he offered only a quiet, professional, "Sorry. Almost done, I promise."

Grunting through his pain, the doctor went back to the prone body of the attacker and unceremoniously used the knife to rip open the man's shirt and striped him of it. John reached gingerly into his coat pocket—every sensation, every touch still generated pain along the abused nerve paths, but it was lessening minute by minute. He extracted several tie wraps from his jacket pocket and quickly secured the man, moans escaping John's throat as he pull them taut, all the while wondering what his life had come to that he, a physician, should be carrying tie wraps as casually as he carried his Oyster card.

John used the shirt to cobble together a makeshift sling and swathe. He gently coaxed Sherlock's back from the wall and wrapped it around the gangly detective, tying it with the sleeves.

If Loman had left the area, John thought, they might make it back to the infirmary until an ambulance arrived. They'd have painkillers, proper bandages. And, of course, I.V.'s. If he could stop Sherlock from slipping further into shock…

John reached behind Sherlock and tugged his coat up around his shoulders, then, despite the fireworks it set off along the nerves, he put pressure on the brachial artery in Sherlock's upper arm to staunch the bleeding.

"Sherlock, we have to get out of here. Hold onto your arm as best you can. I'll help you stand."

"I don't think so," Loman said from behind him.

John closed his eyes and his shoulders sagged. They'd been so close.

"Stand up, Watson, but don't turn around."

John complied, his mind racing, trying to determine if Loman might be armed. He didn't remember him having any firearms training, but…

"Move away from him," he said, in that annoyingly blythe tone that John had disliked in Afghanistan, and now loathed.

John didn't move.

Loman lashed out with his hand which was now holding the 22mm scalpel that he'd quietly retrieved from the infirmary. The bastard went straight for John's left arm, knowing that it was his dominant side, and sliced a deep cut through the fabric of his jacket and into his arm, then pushed him from behind. John fell into the wall, his arms not strong enough to stop the impact.

From behind him, John could hear Sherlock trying to get to his feet.

"Sherlock, don't," John urged.

"Together, John."

"Not this time."

John turned to face Loman. "You forget. I wasn't just a doctor. I was a soldier."

"As you say, John," Loman sneered.

"You don't get to call me that! It's Captain Watson…What are you going to do now, Loman? There's no-one to bribe. No-one's got your back."

Loman pushed down on Sherlock's shoulder, forcing him from his knees back to the ground. Sherlock moaned softly.

John's face was steel.

"You're a wreck, Watson. Defenceless. Hardly the most intimidating sight. And neither is your famous Sherlock Holmes."

He held the scalpel near Sherlock's carotid artery. Aside from his shivering, Sherlock didn't move and John could see that he had no intention–and probably no ability–of doing so.

"Back inside. We're not finished here."

John didn't flinch.

Where the hell was Lestrade? John thought. It was too risky to wait, too risky to move, but there weren't any other options.

Loman thinks the Captain is not a threat without his Browning. He is wrong. Dead wrong.

Captain John Watson. M.D.'s arms may not have been up to snuff, but his legs were just fine, thank you.

John pushed off the wall and kicked, aiming for his scalpel hand but connecting instead with Loman's solar plexus. Off-balanced, Loman's hand fell away from Sherlock's neck. Sherlock kicked out with his foot smashing it into Loman's knee. John and Sherlock had each had cried out in pain, the shouts unintentionally adding the same shock value as a martial arts kiai.

John caught a glint of light hitting his Browning where it lay a meter or so away. He lunged forward, and kicked it toward Sherlock, who picked it up with his left hand.

John was down. He'd waivered, the blood loss beginning to mount, and fell to one knee.

Loman was gripping his own knee in pain but the obsessed man just would not give up. Still holding the scalpel, his eyes blazing with hate, charged at John. Sherlock aimed, trying desperately to steady his badly shaking hand; he knew he'd only get one chance. Before he could fire, the rogue doctor's knee gave way and he fell heavily to the ground a mere meter from John's back.

Loman didn't move.

The tableau was frozen in time for several seconds. John was the first to rouse himself. He struggled to his feet and carefully approached Loman, kicking softly at his back, and when he got no response, he got down on one knee and felt for a pulse.

He frowned. Using his foot again, he rolled Loman over onto his back. He and Sherlock stared in silence.

The scalpel had plunged into his chest, the huge blade penetrating the heart.

John stood silently…staring…unmoving.

"John."

Nothing.

"John, it's over."

John nodded, the final remnants of the soldier fading away like a sigh, leaving him feeling empty, drained. He walked back to Sherlock and stood protectively near him, touching a hand to his head as if to confirm that they were both still alive.

"Together," Sherlock said, his voice husky with pain; it couldn't possibly have been emotion.

The effects of the blood loss and adrenalin crash finally hit them both. The doctor exhaled heavily, did a controlled slide down the wall to the ground, and managed to raise a hand to his arm to stem the bleeding from the deep incision made by the scalpel. Sherlock's body sagged, his head coming to rest on John's shoulder. John didn't object in the slightest.

In the distance, they heard sirens. A lot of sirens.

At last.

Honing in on John's torch, several panda cars, one very out-of-place looking black sedan, and an intimidating, unmarked black assault vehicle swarmed the area. Lestrade was out of the car on a run before the wheels of his car came to a stop.

Mycroft stood beside the open door of the sedan, his men at the ready behind him. As soon as he saw the two downed felons, and his brother and John, he issued a simple command.

"Stand down, gentlemen."

As his team reboarded the assault vehicle, he continued to watch from a distance. He saw Lestrade kneel between Sherlock and John and stealthily pocket the Browning which lay on the ground between them. Mycroft allowed himself a small nod of approval.

Almost in unison, Sherlock and John said to Lestrade, "He needs an ambulance."

Lestrade grinned. "Figured as much. You're both idjets!"

He signalled to the ambulances that it was safe. The medical crews rushed forward, as did the officers.

Shoulder to shoulder, Sherlock and John allowed their eyes to close and surrendered to the ministrations of the medics.

oOo

CODA

SOME WEEKS LATER

"I am not having this discussion with you," Sherlock said firmly from where he was safely and securely ensconced, which is to say sprawled, on the sofa.

"And why is that?" John asked, matching his tone. The steam from the tea wafted over his face. It spoke of warmth, and comfort, and home, its vapours saying that everything was fine, all fine.

"Because it's a ridiculous question."

"Why is it ridiculous?" John pressed.

"It's not even grammatically correct."

"You just don't want to acknowledge it's important."

"It's important? Why is it important?"

"Because it is, Sherlock. Trust me. It's about those useless emotions you don't want to acknowledge, like gratitude, and respect and"—John chose his word carefully—"caring."

'Would the answer change anything?"

"I think it might," John said, his voice soft.

"I choose not to agree."

"You're an idiot."

They both chuckled, each of them separately recalling the first time John had said that to Sherlock.

"Perhaps I would be willing to revisit the question at another time," said Sherlock, his eyes softening a bit.

John sighed. Sherlock clearly wasn't going to yield any further on this go-around. But John would, indeed, revisit the question that had underpinned their lives since the day they met.

The question: "Who saved who?"

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Thanks so much to those who reviewed. I hope I responded to all of you (except the few who do not have PM activated, or those who read as guests): Aneeta Potter, Arty Diane, Azteka, FangFan, Guest, Hazelayes, Iccle fairy; johnsarmylady, MapleleafCameo, Marylouleach, MerryK, Mzzmarie, sevenpercent, WaffleNinja, and wrytingtyme. And, of course, the wonderful fans who chose to follow or fav the story. I'm not sure of the etiquette here about whether it's appropriate to you're your names them since you didn't make public declarations, but I thank you all!

Now that the story is finished, please feel free to post about anything that didn't work for you, too! We learn best from negative feedback (or so they tell me), but play nice.

I won't be posting another story for a while. My other writing – in this case, a play – beckons. Unless, of course, the Boys have other ideas that won't leave me alone.