Fighting-

It started with a sweeping uppercut that fractured the jaw. Also with a well aimed jab to the diaphragm, dispelling all the air from the lungs. High kicks and low kicks to the head, stomach, and each knee cap. The glass of a broken bottle pierced here and there, slashing any flesh that its edge could sink into. All and all, it was a fight. It was a fight in a ring surrounded by tens of betting, screaming, drunk people.

His body hit the ground with the echoing crack of his clavicle breaking. His shirt was long gone, his pants tattered and torn from the cutting edge of the bottle. His body littered with stabs and cuts. Bones were bruised, broken, and cracked. The most minor injury was a mild concussion to the head.

Silence surrounded the small fighting rink for mere seconds before breaking into loud cat calls and cheering. He had lost, and no one was there to help pick up to pieces or to put him back together.

"You never do know when to stop, Holmes." was the voice that he awoke to. His body had been cleaned and bandaged, his arm in a sling to help his broken clavicle heal.

"Nor do you know when to stop me." Holmes replied with a scratchy voice, looking up at his partner.

"I suppose that fact is true." Watson replied, leaning in close and brushing Holmes' hair out of the way so he could see his eyes. "You are still suffering a mild concussion Holmes. You should not have gotten into that ring in the state that you were in" Watson spoke softer towards the end, looking away from Holmes' gaze.

Holmes' eyes flickered over to where a used needle lay. He now realized the pain it caused Watson. The pain of harming himself and fighting.

"Watson… no, John." Holmes' whispered reaching his good arm up and placing his hand onto John's face.

"Sherlock, you know I hate it. Why must you keep doing it?" John asked sorrowfully, Sherlock seeing the faint mist of moisture shrouds John's eyes.

"I can not believe you when you say it like that… John. Please." Sherlock offered faintly, needing John to say what he wanted him to.

"I hate it. Why? Because I love you…" John repeat himself, "William." He whispered faintly, placing his lips over Sherlock's own.

In the end, he had won. Someone was there to pick up the pieces and to put him back together. That someone was none other than John Watson. For Sherlock Holmes, Watson was all he ever needed in life.