I haven't been online for a real long time so this is going up a tiny bit late. It was meant to be an answer to the 3GAR challenge but I've modified it a little now.

Read and if you like, please review!

There was the softest of sounds, a quiet hiss of air as Evans's second bullet hit his target. There was no choked cry, no prayer, no plea of mercy, as a white hot pain erupts in his chest. A blurred view of Holmes striking Evans quivers before his eyes. A soft sound escapes him, a bit off pent up emotion after years of silence.


There was no reply as Holmes rummages silently, frantically through Evans to search for weapons. It seems to take eternity.


There is a slight movement of the neck as Sherlock Holmes twists around and his eyes meets those of his friend. Time seems to stand still, as the color drains out of the detective's face.

A vow…to keep him safe…to never let him hurt…a vow…It was hard to know who was thinking that. Perhaps both. But the moment passed as an almost animal rage shakes Holmes's thin face.


Was it any use, the doctor thinks abstractly as he felt Holmes's shaking fingers hurriedly undoing his shirt. Was it any use fighting against nature? But he could not have said a word even as he felt Holmes's sensitive fingers on the wound.

Not a word had been spoken between them, not a sound heard, save for Holmes's harsh breathing. Watson was scarcely aware whether he breathed or not, all he was aware of was the quick moving fingers on his chest and the frequent jabs of white hot pain.

The silence was oppressive, almost unbearable. He could see Holmes's face and Holmes could see Watson's and they both started from shock, Watson from how white and drawn with strain Holmes's was, Holmes from the paleness of Watson's eyes and the dying light in his eyes…

To keep from pain…

I must speak….anything…look how pale he is….oh god, please, I must speak…

But none of them say a word and Holmes continues his furious work on Watson's wound. Watson looks at him, pleading with him to stop; he knows better than anyone how much strain Holmes's constitution can stand. But Holmes does not look up, does not listen, though he is well aware of what his friend is trying to say and is twice as angry as before, at Watson from his damned selflessness….

Caught in their thoughts, they never notice the pale form of Evans rising behind them; his face stained with blood, in his hands a broken piece of wood.

It is Watson who notices him first, who opens his mouth to cry out, but is silenced by a sudden stab of pain in his side and Holmes's hand over his mouth. It is Holmes who acts first, climbing to his feet faster then a striking cobra and slamming his fist into Evans stomach. But Evans is more resilient than that, he sways but maintains his ground, grinning like the devil himself.

Watson to this day cannot say for sure what happened that day, his memory has always been hazy regarding that particular case, and being in pain, had not noted what had exactly happened. Or perhaps, it is because, every time he ventures to recall, Holmes covers his hand with his own and shakes his head.

He has always trusted Holmes. He always will. Regardless.

All he remembers is a sudden sharp pain shoot up his leg, and Evans's leering grinning face close to his own, his hand around Watson's neck, and he turns around to smirk at someone, possibly Holmes, knowing that now he has him in his power. But he has underestimated Holmes, and seconds later Watson feels cool air enter his lungs as Evans is yanked off him. He slumps to the ground, suddenly conscious of the extreme silence. This then breaks with a long drawn out scream. 

It is punctuated by bullet shots which resound through the room, on and on, until only the empty click of the gun remains. And then there is silence.

Quick footsteps approach him and even as he feels himself being lifted, far more gently then he ever remembers, he loses the battle to stay conscious, and instead slumps into Holmes's arms.

Not to let him die…Dear Lord….Not him, anyone but him….

Mycroft Holmes stands out the hospital's emergency unit, his entire posture one of calm. Even as the surgeons move out, muttering about what a lucky escape that was, he stays where he is. Only when their footsteps have died away, does he enter the room.

Dr. Watson sleeps calmly on his bed, his chest covered with numerous bandages, only his pale face showing the blood loss he must have suffered. His brother is seated exactly where he had left him, when the operation began, when he refused to leave the room even when the surgeons asked him to.

"A lucky escape." Sherlock's voice remains calm and steady. "He had a lucky escape. That's what they said. A lucky escape." He opens his palm and Mycroft see a blood stained bullet and a sliver of wood.

"Throw those away. What has been done is done. Be more careful next time."Mycroft does not sound harsh, he never does, but what he means is implied behind every word.

Sherlock lets out a shuddering choking laugh, one that makes his brother start and look sharply at him. "Next time? There might never have been a next time. The bullet would have killed him. I would be responsible. He would be dead."

Mycroft looks at the doctor's calm and serene face and wonders, briefly, what would have happened if the doctor truly had died. It is a passing thought, one he does not linger over. Instead he concentrates on his brother's soft murmurs.

"Never…oh god never again. He'll be safe, I'll never take another damned case again. Not again, never again…"

Holmes isn't Holmes without his cases. They are his lifeline. The doctor's words ring clear through Mycroft's mind. He opens his mouth to speak but suddenly finds himself with nothing to say. He knows his brother no longer considers a case worthwhile without his friend, but to stop cases would be the death of him, as the doctor rightly knows.

But, then to his surprise, he finds he does not need to speak. From the doctor's bed comes a soft voice, "Holmes?"

His brother is on his feet and at the doctor's side before Mycroft can even turn around. For the first time since a very long time, he hears eagerness and happiness reflected in his brother's voice as he questions his friend.

Even as Mycroft leaves the room, he knows he leaves Sherlock in safe hands. Watson is the only help Sherlock has ever needed….

To never let him hurt

To keep him from death

To protect from pain

My friend, my dearest friend…

Take all thy wishes, my lord, even myself shall you wish,

But him thee will not touch

My friend, my dearest friend….

Wow, I actually didn't kill Watson. Hope its ok I was half sleepy when I wrote this. The last verse is a really old Hindi poem we read at school, and this is only a rough translation of one of the verses.

And once again, I will only be updating next week. I hate exams.