Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at

http://download.archiveofourown.org/works/6075141.
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Mature
Graphic Depictions Of Violence
M/M
Sherlock (TV)
Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Mycroft Holmes, Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper, Mrs Hudson
Torture, Physical Torture, abducted, Kidnapping, Kidnapped
Sherlock, Tortured Sherlock, Hurt Sherlock, Mutual Pining, Guilty
John, Hospitals, Mystrade if you squint, like really hard, ok not that
hard, Misunderstandings, Slow Build, POV First Person, Forced Drug
Use, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Drug Use, Angst and Hurt/Comfort,
Angst, Heavy Angst
Published: 2016-02-21 Updated: 2016-09-11 Chapters: 32/? Words:
69076

Abducted
by Meowmessenger
Summary

'He was abducted and tortured.' He said bluntly. Letting the words slice through me at an
excruciatingly slow rate.
'For the last three days?'
'No. For the past six months.'
And this was the moment that everything came crashing down. All my darkest fears came
to reality as my nightmares seeped from my pillow and into the light. How had I not
known?

Notes

Ok so this is sort of my first fic although it's also on Wattpad because that's where I first
published it in my nave days of thinking that Deviantart and Wattpad were the best fanfic
places out there. Ah, Deviantart.
Anyhow this first chapter is mainly about the torture but the descriptions of violence kinda
end at chapter 2 I think. It's not all hurt and comfort from them on in. Oh no. Johnlock has
to go save the world or some shiz.

I doubt that this will happen, as to why I've not tagged it, but there is a small possibility of
a major character death. So be warned. Also I wasn't really sure whether to tag this as teen
or mature, so went for the safe option of mature?
Oh, also when you see this * it signifies a change of POV, and it's either
Sherlock or John.
Now enjoyyyy

What They're Dying to Know

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Cold. Confused. Panicked.

I lay stock still as the van lurched rounded its first corner.
'Help.' My voice was timid, raspy; a cowering asset. 'Help, m-me.' A betrayal of the body as it
quaked when I most needed it to be strong. 'Plea-please.' A final plea to all that's good, to all the
chances that someone may hear.
Nothing's good. No-one heard.
A man continued to bind my legs together. 'Don't worry, love.' He assured. 'You'll just be going
away for a while to have a little chat with us. Think of it as a holiday!' His words; mocking. His
voice; a jovial pretence.
Blurred movements, slurred out words, indecipherable actions.
'Help...' A supposedly loud cry, nothing more than a mouse's whisper.
Stroking through my hair, another man spoke, 'Shhh, dear.' He cooed. 'Just give it up and go to
sleep.' He twirled a lock of hair around his finger. 'There, there. Go to sleep.'
I tried to move. I tried to twist my head away. I tried to kick the man who'd finished binding my
legs and was now carefully removing my shoes. I tried.
'John.' It was the concluding word. It was scarcely audible. It was all I could manage.
Falling down into the darkness, losing control. Welcomed only by the dark catacombs of sleep
that coiled around me, smothering me.
Distantly sensing the second man's fingers idly brushing through my hair.
'Good boy.'
*
Normally, when a man goes missing, people notice and people worry.
When Sherlock Holmes went missing, people noticed yet no-one worried.
Most presumed he was off doing some undercover work that he failed to tell anyone about,
investigating some secretive case that Mycroft had probably put him on, was carrying out an
extensive and, most likely, complex experiment or he was just pumping himself full of drugs in a
desolate warehouse.
Admittedly, I also assumed one of those scenarios to, in all likelihood, be the case and I was so
caught up in the anger that I was once again left at sea and uninformed of what he was doing; that
I didn't even try to figure out where the ever elusive man, was.
All the more, I didn't bother to notify Lestrade that Sherlock had disappeared off to an unknown
location until after 2 weeks since his vanishing, when Lestrade required his help with a murder

investigation that had a certain lack of motives. Scotland Yard didn't fret about Sherlock's
mysterious evaporation into thin air.
5 weeks without a single word and I was still more annoyed than anything else. Against what I
advised, Lestrade tried to start an inquiry and search party to no avail as the first murder had now
escalated to three deaths.
*
I expect that if an unlucky individual stumbled into my cell to see me strung up like a slab of meat,
they may have believed me to be dead. Or at least close to.
Unfortunately, close to dead is what I was, as they kept me in just enough health to string me
along on this tether of life. In some thoughts, where pain clouded judgement, death seemed like a
much better option.
My body was limp. Almost lifeless. I hung in a spread out star, wrists chained above my head,
ankles fastened securely to the floor. The weight of my head was too much for me to be bothered
to keep it upright at all times and often it simply flopped down onto my chest or shoulder.
Since being knocked out with chloroform, dragged off into a van and driven away into some sort
of torture chamber, sleep was an even rarer occurrence then when I was preoccupied solving
crimes. Plus when I was graced with a moment of rest, nightmares tormented me which generally
just woke me up again. It was a vicious cycle and I despised it.
In my waking moments that weren't completely filled with endless agony it was almost as if I
could sense the sleeping horrors and hallucinations waiting for me to submit, letting myself ebb
into the land of dreams. So that then they could capture and torment me too.
Why thank you subconscious, that's ever so helpful.
The dreams mainly consisted of what was happening to me in reality. I would refuse to talk and let
more innocent lives be destroyed by whatever my captors were planning. I'd adamantly deny them
any more information, they'd detachedly mutilate me.
Nevertheless, I sensed that they preferred me to say no. Which seemed like a strange thing at first
but when I realised how much joy some of they gained from extracting words out my mouth in an
excruciating manner, it all made much more sense.
I believed the right word to be 'torture'. However I felt they swayed more to the 'entertainment'
side.
Slashes down my back from the whip. A loud crack as it made harsh contact with my bare spine.
Bruises and broken limbs all over from punches, kicks, chains and being rammed in the stomach
with a huge log. They pummelled me relentlessly, like I was a punch bag, and I was, to them,
nothing more then a punch bag that they could let their anger out on.
Strong kicks that sent me flying back in his chains. The hard thwack of the metal cuffs against my
bony ankles and wrists. Missing fingernails that had been ruthlessly ripped off. Flailing arms and
rattling chains as I was smothered with a plastic bag. Gashes that would become scars from sharp
knives and shards of glass. Infected wounds that were crudely treated. Deep bruises inflicted from
hammers and any other hefty objects they could get their hands on.
Finally just to give me extra grief, 3 men would hold the log in their arms step back, giving me the
the chance to spit out an answer to their question, whether I did or not actually effecting the
outcome. Painstakingly slowly they would walk far back, align themselves with me, then charge.

Taking their run up and building up speed to drive the log into me with the force of a car.
Blood everywhere, the taste constantly thick in my mouth. I often found myself being choked on
bloody sick after the log or if legions of weighty punches struck me. Choking while chained up
was unimaginably horrific, I had no control over myself and wouldn't have been able to prevent
myself to death. Sometimes, even though they knew it didn't ease me, they'd whip my back in the
manner of someone patting another's back when they were having a violent coughing fit.
Always filled with severe agony across the entirety of my body. Screams and cries of pain often
escaping my famished mouth. Making noise in times when silence was expected was a regretful
thing to do.
A gag fastened far too tight or a hit around the head to knock me unconscious. This of course
leading to far too many concussions. The same happened when I wept, not because of pain but
due to the utter and complete anguish and hopelessness that I felt boil inside of me.
If nothing else made me talk these two always would. The nail and blowtorch. Using the nail
often took place when they were letting me down from my chained, upright position. Some men
would pin me down or just casually sit on me while another put the nail to my hand and started
hammering it in. I discovered it was now so much easier to just tell them on, or even before, the
first hammer, as the nail penetrated skin, flesh, and bone.
However on the first time the nail was used, it was covered with shock and only a dull ache and I
was so disoriented and drowsy and numb, from a potent mixture of rohypnol and ketamine, that
there was a gaping hole through my hand when I eventually answered with a simple,
'No.'
Gashes in my hands that still hurt. Yet the prize for most horrific, had to go to the blowtorch. Fear
would always overcome me and I would scream out what I knew before the fire even made
contact with my eye. The heat of the torch inflicted great misery on me for hours afterwards as my
eyes yearned for a cool bath.
Sometimes people's motives, ulterior motives, and intentions are easy to see. Sometimes people are
just plain psychos who take mass amounts of pleasure from inflicting tyrannical pain on others.
I was aware of at least 5 complete psychopaths in amongst the gang. One prominently protruded
from the rest.
The night was cold and my sweat drenched skin shivered as the moisture evaporated off it, taking
what little heat I had, along with it. Footsteps echoed down the stone passage to my cell and I did
my best to remain silent. The person stopped dead in the doorway and I clenched my eyes shut.
I felt the sweltering heat of the blowtorch before I saw it.
The bastard took the torch to my eye socket, scorching my brow and singing all around my eye.
He didn't waver for a second as my body writhed and violently shook, as I screamed into the gag.
Screamed and screeched as I fully awoke to the charred smell of burning flesh. I was helpless to
stopping him.
At last one of the older members of the gang came down and beat the guy formidably around the
head with a wooden bat.
I was a howling, snivelling wreck as he gently caressed my head, pouring ice cold water on my
face in a last ditch attempt to stop me making the most horrible, agonising noises. Finally he just
settled on dosing me up on a dangerous amount of chloroform.

Fire raged in my dreams that night.

*
2 months and not a word from Sherlock.
By now I had moments of feeling less pissed at him, as seeds of doubt rooted themselves into my
mind. Then I'd think of how the great prat was probably fine and I just felt even more pissed at
him for making me worry.
Lestrade, after contacting Mycroft, seemed rather apprehensive.
*
I was there toy when they got bored. When they knew I couldn't speak another word due to pain,
drowsiness or blackouts they would ask me stupid personal questions like what my favourite
colour was then beat me to a pulp; pretending it was a serious question that definitely needed
answering. The laughter was dreadful, piercing my ears menacingly, with cackles and howls from
the roaring crowds. It repulsed me of how they loved to see me in pain.
They lived for it.
Then if that wasn't enough entertainment they'd make me fight another gangster in their 'crew' and
if I lasted more then, what, 10 seconds they'd give me some bread. If not, they'd continue with the
abuse throughout, what I presumed to be, the entire night.
When the violence was over, some of them tormented me with the texts I had helped them gain
access to.
'Molly seems awfully worried, what would you say to me telling her to fuck off. I mean that seems
like the kind of thing you'd say, isn't it, Locky?'
'Aww I bet you're totally lost without your cocksucking friend Johnny!'
'Lestrade seems like a bit of a wimpy fag to be honest. How the hell did he become a DI?'
It was childish and I didn't once rise to their baiting. As if I would care about their opinions and
comments.
*
3 months. 12 weeks. Way too many days to be without cases and excitement and really to just be
without him.
I tried to offer help to Lestrade and even though I did provide a fresh perspective, I wasn't by far a
Sherlock Holmes. And as many times as people told me that,
'He must have rubbed something off on you. What can you deduce?'
Lestrade would just give me an almost sympathetic look to show how in the many years he had
known Sherlock, he knew as well, unfortunately that that just wasn't the case.
God damnit, I miss him. Sherlock come back, please.
*

What they really wanted was Mycroft but he was always surrounded with guards, people or the
girls who were constantly on their phones. No, Mycroft would have been impossible to abduct so
instead why not target his little brother?
I knew about most things and after a top secret case for the British Government I knew what I
suspect they needed to know. Also with a distinguished memory that held even the smallest details
in my mind palace, I could drag up the most random information from previous government cases.
Of course I refused to speak.
At first...
I knew well enough that each time I gave away information something disastrous happened. Three
people had died due to me talking, resulting in the feeling of their deaths bearing down heavily on
my shoulders.
However they were only minor crimes compared to the 'bigger plan' that kept on being mentioned.
Infuriatingly, I knew no details of it, until I heard from one of the cocky bastard's mouths, which
had consumed too much alcohol that night, that 'it would be the war to end all wars!'
I made the assumption that the war must be won with knowledge, judging by how much they
wanted to know. It was almost if I had to lay out the entirety of my mind down in front of them. It
was strange, how invaded I felt after handing out so much information. Like someone had been
grovelling around inside my mind, taking what they pleased and mocking everything personal that
spiked out.
Their thirst for information was relentless and unyielding.
They wanted names, surnames, maiden names, relatives, connections with people in high places,
zip codes, bank statements, people committing fraud in the last month, security codes, secret
services, people imprisoned in the last 6 months, most reliable assassins, murders of important
foreigners, hacking codes, passwords, scandals, rivalries in parliament, rivalries in countries,
weaknesses in Royal Families and governments across the globes, developments in bombs,
developments in machinery, who supplies the country with weapons etc... I was permitted to use
laptops and other equipment to find things out for them because they obviously weren't smart
enough to find anything out for themselves.
*
4 months. A new nightmare every single night.
A new saddening scenario where, most often or not, Sherlock wound up dead.
I took little comfort from the bottom of a bottle and spent as much time as possible at work. I
worked incessantly and Sarah's friendly attempts to deter me did nothing to stop me from working
several extra hours every day.
I figured that it was a start to making up for all the days where I skived off to go head to head with
guns and criminals.
Eventually she just didn't let me in on Friday when I went home at about 11 the night before.
Paperwork had never before been my friend but now I was going as far to do other people's.
Please let me know you're ok. I'm dying to know.

Chapter End Notes

Aloha to all that made it to the end of that chapter!

Ok so I confess this isn't the finest piece of writing on AO3, nor does it have the best
storyline, nor is it finished.
But it is pretty long. So...?
I've sort of re-written this chapter and a few of the others because to be honest they
sucked. Like really sucked. Because I'm a lazy arse some parts I've only edited
slightly so they're still a bit crappy but hey ho.
Anyway, I'll probably get a few more chapters up in the next few days but I need to
do a whole lot of editing so yeah.
Laterz
-Meow

'Milton, Milton Smith.'

They took me down from the awkward position daily to make sure the damage of the steel
bracelets didn't cut of my blood circulation completely and to make sure I was fit enough to talk.
Then sometimes when I was out of my chains they knocked me unconscious and somehow
managed to transport me undetected to a new prison. So upon being released due to moving
countless amount of times through the past months I found myself up in Scotland. I mean all the
way up I the highlands. Really?
The only reason I knew this was because this was where I was released.
They actually let me go.
Of course it wasn't quite as easy as that. All of my kidnappers and torturers and tormentors formed
a surprisingly orderly queue and said their goodbyes. Goodbye being one last jab at me. One
person went with a worded dig. Everyone else enjoyed a more physical approach.
The most popular punching areas were my face, my stomach, and my groin.
Thankfully, I blanked out after the 11th or so, when someone delivered a powerful uppercut
punch to my jaw. I hazily woke to find myself in a skip clothed back in my shirt, slacks, shoes,
coat, scarf and leather gloves. Long gone the inadequate, tattered rag they 'clothed' me in. Minutes
later some poor sod found me in quite a state and transported me to a hospital.
Awakening, for a second time, this time in a hospital bed, I immediately asked a nurse the date.
Shit.
I quickly came to the realisation of just how long I had been gone for.
6 months. 6 whole fucking months!
I felt dizzy and nauseous and to be honest all I wanted was a high quality cig and John. However
the nurse was ill equipped to provide me with either of these things, alternatively telling me that
she had to go alert the police who wanted to talk to me as soon as I reached consciousness.
I didn't want to talk to them. I wanted John and my chair and my bed and some tea and bloody
hell did I want a cigarette. I needed to get back to London. Somehow.
As she left through the curtain wall around my bed, I unhooked myself from the several machines
scattered all over my body, picked up my clothes which were neatly folded on a chair and began
to walk. Dizziness overtook me and I had to lean against the bed for a minute. After recovering
from what felt like a mad go at the spinning teacups I limped round to the nearest toilet, despite
feeling so much pain. Not so much that I couldn't deal with however.
Inside the spacious disabled toilet I managed to somehow dress myself from my hospital gown to
my suit. Glancing at myself in the mirror once for no longer than a fraction of a second. I saw that
I looked like I had been dragged behind a car from London to Scotland.
I didn't dare to look at my reflection again.
Peeping out through the small gap at the lock of the door, I watched as the nurse came back with
two largely built male police officers. I watched as the lady opened the curtain to find no-one in

there. She looked around in dismay, the policemen in confusion as they saw no signs of me.
The nurse pulled back every curtain in the hall to find me. Damn. They were coming this way. I
had an excuse of how I didn't want to meet the police in an undignified backless gown but after
that I would still have to talk to them. Frantically I looked around for somewhere to hide.
Nowhere obviously. It's a lavatory, why would there be anywhere to hide?
I could hear their footsteps nearing and tried to unlock the door slowly but without actually
opening it. Then I stood next to the door in the hope they would find it unlocked open the door,
look in and not bother checking behind the door or actually coming into the bathroom.
Steps getting ever closer. I breathed deeply as a wiggle of the handle was made and the door
opened.
I was standing on one side of the door holding my breath; on the other side, an oblivious
policeman. He stepped forward into the room and I hugged the wall, he didn't see me and
shrugged at the other two. Then the three of them quickened their pace and walked down to the
corridor before turning the corner. Knowing the 'coast was clear' I stepped out from behind the
door. I felt as if is I was in some ludicrous dream as I ran, fell, scrambled, hopped, through the
room, as patients with their curtain walls wide open watched me finally make it to the door on the
other side of the hall.
God. My legs killed and weeped in pain as I forced them to walk for me. My ankles were so weak
after being chained up for so long and I'd lost most of what muscle mass I had due to the lengthy
starvation process they put me through.
I managed two steps before collapsing. Unsteadily heaving myself back up, I took another step
only to find myself on another pathetic heap on the ground.
Obviously someone lying on the ground in a hospital won't get much attention. I thought to
myself, hauling my wretched body back up again. Leaning against the wall, I tried to find some
sign of wheelchairs, crutches or even mobility scooters to help me get out of there. There was no
such luck.
A doctor strolled past and I asked in my politest tone, 'Ah, sorry to bother you but I-...' I hesitated
as he gave one glance at me, a mildly horrified look on his face. 'I've been trying to get some
strength back in my legs. You know walking a bit more everyday. I think I'll need a wheelchair to
get back though, do you know where I can get one?' The man blinked, trying to conceal his
shock.
'Um, let me get you one.' He said. Surprisingly he had a middle class, Manchester accent.
'Thank you,' I said in my most grateful voice.
He strode off purposefully and hurriedly, returning swiftly with a hospital wheelchair.
When I finally was situated in the chair, I let a sigh of relief pass my lips.
He looked down at me, obviously concerned. 'Do you want me to wheel you back to your ward?'
He asked, already reaching for the handlebars.
'No, it's fine. Trying to regain independence and all that.'
He insisted and tried to persuade me for a while but eventually let me on my way.

Pulling all the strength I could muster into my arms, I pushed myself down the corridor and round
to the sign saying Exit. My two police friends were at reception, thankfully facing the other way
as I scooted behind them and out into freedom.
*
6 months without a flatmate. 6 months without someone to talk to when I got him from work. 6
months without my best friend.
I nursed a drink in my hands. Taking a quick swig when the moment demanded it. I'd treated
myself; it was good scotch.
Lestrade had been round before, he'd been with Mycroft; discussing where the actual hell
Sherlock could be. No answer was found.
I looked down into my glass. The somewhat golden liquid sloshed about in a rough sea of alcohol.
I downed the rest in one gulp.
It didn't warm me up. Nowadays, nothing did.
*
Wow, the perks of being free. I looked around the hospital car park. No plan. No phone. No cash.
Shit. I had control over two things right now; my mind and fuck all. Although my mind wasn't
functioning properly. Great. Just bloody great.
Deciding that although freedom was overrated, being in that hospital was worse; I spun the wheels
of my chair and made my way down to a country road where I stuck out my hand for every
passing vehicle in hope of a free ride. Car after car just drove past and when cars did stop they
often were just driving further up North.
Finally I managed to get a lift of a sweet family that took pity on a deranged man in a wheel chair.
They were also going up North to some sort of concert but altered their course to drop me of at a
train station. However I had to answer no three times to the question of if I wanted to be taken to
hospital. It felt best not mention that's exactly where I was trying to escape from.
Because I wanted to show my appreciation for their act of kindness (and because I didn't want to
take my chances at grabbing another ride) I decided against voicing my deductions of them.
People always seem to get offended or at least unnerved by them, for some reason. Honestly, all
I'm doing is speaking the truth.
But still I remained silent for the journey, not telling the driver that his wife just ended an affair but
now regrets it as he offers nothing that she needs. And that his daughter has just started drugs after
being introduced to them by another relative, probably a cousin. How he didn't see it himself is
mind boggling, I mean her eyes were glassy and red, an there were other obvious physical
symptoms of marijuana. Also she spoke loudly and laughed sometimes for no reason and unless
she always acts like this, which I highly doubt, he should have noticed.
Upon arriving at the station and messing about with removing the foldable wheelchair from the
boot, it slipped my mind that you have to pay to get on a train. To pay you need money. Money
wasn't one of the things my abductors gave me the privilege of keeping.
I scanned the train timetable and saw the next train to London was in precisely 1 hour. So I
wheeled myself off to Platform 12 and waited. The train eventually arrived back at the station after
30 minutes or so and all the passengers neatly departed it like a human stream. The driver,

conductor and other crew members, shortly followed.

Carefully watching the conductor I saw he was a married man and had been married for a very
long time now. He had 1, no 2, children. He was having an affair (God, everyone's at it) with a
close friend of the family, possibly a best friend of the wife's and had a reputation for betting.
This I could use.
After the driver's 15 minute rest, he and the conductor boarded the train once again and I, along
with other passengers, shortly followed. A member of staff placed out a ramp for me to get on the
train and I precariously wheeled myself over it. When I arrived on the train I obviously had to
situate myself in the part for luggage, prams, bikes and wheelchairs.
Before the train started the conductor came round checking that all passengers had tickets. By the
time the train was about to leave the station the conductor had made his way down to where I was
awkwardly positioned. Towering over me he stood and I have to say it was a peculiar sensation,
being so much shorter then everyone else. Especially as I normally had John accompanying me
and he stood at least a few inches below my nose.
'TICKETS, PLEASE SIR!' He bellowed, basically shouting down my ear. Wincing in pain, I
lifted a hand to my head and groaned as the loud noise resounded through my skull.
'Uh, God,' I murmured, 'I'm not deaf.' I looked up at him. 'Oh it's you.' I said pretending to not
have previously noticed who he was.
'Sorry. Huh... What? Do I, know you?' he replied questioningly.
'Yes...well no...well... Mmm yes, no, maybe, sorta, indirectly?' I said, suddenly taking on a mild
Scottish accent (I so could have become an actor). 'I'm a friend of your wife's,' I continued. A light
flush formed on his cheeks as he swallowed hard.
'Oh... Ar yer now? 'Ave we ever met?' he gulped.
'Hmm, I am yes. I don't think we've ever formally met. I'm...' I tried to think of a name. The first
thing that came into my head, 'Milton, Milton...Smith.' Wow, Smith, original, but I guess 'Milton'
makes up for that. Where the hell did 'Milton' come from anyway? Taking a hand from my pocket,
I reached out to shake his. He reluctantly took it and gently shook it, wary that I might be in pain.
'I'm sorry, I'm afraid Susanna has never mentioned yer.' He said.
'Ah, well... Yer know Susie, good ol' Suze, always forgetting. Or perhaps she didn't forget, she
just thought it best not to blow my cover.' The conductor arched his eyebrows, giving me a
curious look. 'Well here's the thing, I've kinda been spying on yer...'
His eyes widened and his fists and teeth clenched; I carried on regardless. 'Aye, see Susie asked
me, because we had never met before, to watch yer because she thought yer had lost a
considerable amount of money on gambling, but yer were covering it up with the excuse of going
on nightshift when really yer were trying to win the money back. However, I found out about yer
little... friend... instead.' I hissed the words out in distaste hopefully putting on the facade of a
protective, angry friend.
I continued as he stared at me, slowly shrinking back into himself with every word that came out
of my mouth. 'Now I think that yer a decent man and I'm in a bit of a sticky situation, so I present
yer a deal. I will not alert Susanna about your... 'doings'... If yer either: break up with this other
woman by the end of the month, tell Suse what yer up to, break up with Susie or at least slow it
down with yer affair.' He breathed in a deep breath of relief and burst out in thanks.

'Thenk ye, thenk ye so much! Of course I will break it off, straightaway sir, straightaway! Thenk
ye!' He took my hand in his again and shook it wildly. 'God bless yer.'
'That's not the end of the deal.' I interrupted him. 'You must also give me free passage on this train
to London, I urgently need to be there and have found myself without cash.' I said firmly, slightly
losing my previous hint of Scottish accent. The conductor's eyes locked onto mine as he seemed to
think for a second. Vigorously. he then shook his head, snapping himself out of his thoughts.
'Yer, yer of course. And that i'all?' He said, I nodded. 'Aw why thenk yer! Ye ar verra kind!' And
with a final shake of his head, he left to the cabin at the back of the train.
The train journey went by quite fast as I slept most of the way after injecting myself with a stolen
syringe of morphine to ease the pain.
Sleep felt good, even if memories of the previous events haunted them. I had thought to delete
them yet then remembered they would probably be needed in finding out what was going on. So
instead I locked them away but they just kept on escaping. My mind wasn't as sharp as usual and I
struggled to keep everything in place.
When the train arrived at the station I, with the help of a lady with a ramp, departed the vehicle.
Conveniently, even in the bustle of London, people had the decency to move out of the way for a
wheelchair. I managed to sneak past the workers checking tickets as it was heaving and I was like
a snake in long grass. A snake with a very clunky set of wheels however.
At last I was back. Back in my city. Back where I belonged.
*
I woke up groggily. My head pounded and my eyes screwed themselves shut at the first hint of
sunlight.
Apparently I'd passed out on the couch.
God I'm a mess.
At least it was a Saturday so I didn't actually have to leave the comfort of my flat. Retiring to bed,
I tried to not think of why I had drunk so much last night and instead concentrated on walking in a
straight line.
Yet a thought niggled me at the back of my mind. A disturbing thought that was slowly driving
me insane as I lay in bed, still exhausted even after a full night's sleep.
What if he never comes back?

Angry Me Loves F*cking

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

I breathed it in. Aah, London. The fog of petrol. The flurry of people. The food stores. The
London cab. The billboards. The mobiles. The cracks in the pavement. The towering buildings.
The phone booths. The broadsheets. The tabloids. The sellers. The buyers. The gum cemented to
the floor. The attractions. The Eye. The Houses of Parliament. The Tower. The Thames. The
Shard. The West end shows. Buckingham Palace. The big red buses. The chime of Big Ben. Aah,
it was good to be back.
Wheeling myself as close as I dared to the curb, I hailed a cab. It took a good ten minutes to get
my wheelchair into the boot and me comfortable in the backseat but finally we were on road to
Baker Street.
Then we arrived and I was there. Back where I should be. Not in Scotland. Not in a hospital. Not
imprisoned in a cellar. But back outside 221 Baker Street.
I told the cabbie to wait here and I would just go inside to get the money to pay him. After setting
up my wheelchair, he looked at me thoughtfully.
'So, do you have to go up any stairs to get to your... apartment?' He asked scratching the back of
his head.
'Yes.'
'Right, well I don't want to cause you an accident and rush you but in 5 minutes I need to be off.
So if you're not back by then I'll come round tomorrow for the money. What's your apartment
number?'
Ah how considerate. People weren't this considerate when I was chasing murderers. Sometimes
they really needed to get their priorities straight. Like, yes, I know I haven't paid you for the ride
but I really do need to sprint off after this serial killer to avoid another death. And as you can
guess, yes, it is rather urgent.
'221B...' I had to stop myself from saying the Baker Street part as that was fairly obvious but it did
roll off the tongue ever so well.
'Right well, see you when I see you.'
'Mmm.'
I rotated the wheels and journeyed to the step at the door. Oh, a step.
All around genius. Sharp. Skilled. Brilliant. Can deduce you from the smallest detail. Better then
the whole of Scotland Yard... And the entire police force at that. Arrogant arsehole, but an
intelligent, arrogant arse hole. Can fool the world to think he is dead. Beaten countless criminals.
The world's only consulting detective...
Is beaten by a step.
So this is the bottom of the well.

After an awkward conversation with the cab driver, who I'm sure had handled a wheelchair
before, I was once again back inside 221 Baker Street (my abductors kindly left me my keys in
my pocket.) The cabbie had retired back to the cab and, after seeing the flight of stairs I would
have to climb and descend, said he'd just come round tomorrow.
So about that step again...
Stairs is like loads of them. Put together. In a evil, wheelchair user unfriendly contraption. Stairs
were my new arch nemesis.
I gathered my strength and pushed out the chair, grabbing on the banister for support. Slowly I
tread onto the first step. Then another stride so both feet were planted onto the stairs. For now I
was going to have to go up a single step at a time. I advanced onto the second then third, fourth
and fifth in about three minutes due to having to stop every few seconds too gather my wits and
reassemble all my strength. I was still weak and in pain and stairs were just so hard.
However I did manage to walk a fair bit in the hospital. Maybe it was some sort of dread at
coming back and seeing John... Why would it be that though? Surely I should be happy and
joyous to be coming back from torture chambers and chains and back to the comfort of home and
nicer acquaintances. Shouldn't I? Then why was there still a persistent knot in my stomach or was
it just another physical pain. Because it felt like nerves. Why would I be nervous? I haven't been
in so long, so why now?
Anyway I passed it off as tiredness, drugs, pain or something else none emotional.
I have mentioned that it took me three minutes to climb five stairs. Doesn't sound like much, does
it, three minutes? But just think about how long it takes you to run up a whole flight of stairs, now
make it three minutes to climb up five. It is amazingly slow, trust me. Yet eventually I reached the
top. It felt like such a monumental victory that it felt like I had not just conquered the stairs to my
flat but Everest. Or something ludicrous like that.
I opened the door quietly like a teen sneaking back from a party they were unauthorised to attend
to by their parents. It felt weird; sneaking into your own home. But alas that was what I was
currently doing.
I leant my head around the door and saw John. Sitting on his chair. Typing something on his
laptop. He looked worried. He looked sad. He hadn't been sleeping properly and someone needed
to tell him not to fuel himself solely on coffee and tea and get some rest. Probably don't drink
yourself to sleep on scotch would have been a good piece of advice for him as well.
Lestrade had been there. He has a distinctive smell but has currently been trying out a new
shampoo. I didn't and don't like it. So had Molly, loads of other policemen whose names are not of
interest to me and... Mycroft? Why had he been there?
I'd been gone for 6 months and now we were having everyone round.
And what was with all the maps?
Oh...
Oh.
Who knew people cared?
Ah well that's nice, everyone's been looking for me how quaint. Shame they never actually found
me. Would've saved a lot of distress on my part...

Ooh. What's that?

Not more emotions.
What is it?
Sadness? No.
Happiness then? Nope.
Hate? Sorrow? Joy? No, no and no.
Sentiment? Not in the slightest...
Oooh.
Anger.
Now that's interesting.
*
(Fight in Sherlock's mind. Angry Sherlock- Peaceful Sherlock- Normal Sherlock).
Well at least they tried.
Tried. Tried!
Yes, tried, do you have to unintelligibly repeat?
Tried! I would have appreciated it if they had. God, six whole fucking months of torture
and yet they still couldn't find me?!
As I said,
and you have unnecessarily repeated, again,
they tried and I bet they did their best. What do you expect of them?
Well apparently far too much. For example to find the murderer before he kills another.
Find the robber before he steals again. Find the abducted before the end of half a year!
Who knows if they hadn't released me. Chances are I would still fucking be there seeing as
the police are fucking useless.
Wow angry me loves fucking.
Calm, they did what they could.
That didn't come out right...
Your captors were clever they moved you around a lot. Probably covered up all theirs tracks. If
we hadn't been the ones abducted then we would have found it hard to track them.
We? We are actually still one person you know.
No! We would have found them. There must have been clues! There are always clues.
They're all just fucking idiots!
And we are back to fucking...
Oh come on! They tried their best. You saw John, he was exhausted probably because he's sick
with worry.
People can't actually get sick from worry, just side affects that come with worry like lack of sleep,
lack of a proper diet ect...
Oh, so I'm supposed to feel sorry for him. I was the one getting beaten day in day out. I was
the one who got a nail hammered through my hand. I was the one who got their stomach
rammed with a log. I was the one who got their eye blow torched.
It wasn't the actual eye...

I was the one who lived in shackles for six fucking months.
Return, fucking...
I was the one who went through all of that shit...
At least it ain't fucking...
and I'm supposed to feel sorry for John! Because what... he was worried! Well I'm sorry if I
feel little sympathy for him right now! And what about fucking...
I give up!
Mycroft! Hmm, got an excuse for him?! 'Cause he can control all CCTV cameras and
footage, surely he could have found me! God, the git always boasts about being smarter
than me but can't find me when I'm abducted!
Ok. Yeah, your right. Be mad at Mycroft it makes no difference anyway...
Ok!... Ok.
After I had finished venting, I got rid of anger. Angry me was highly annoying and starts up way
too many fights.
I no longer had my head around the door but was leaning against the walk clutching my stomach.
God, it hurt. I looked back into 221B, John looked so worried. I don't know why, but for some
strange reason I didn't want him to know I was hurt. Why? I still don't know.
Sentiment? Perhaps.
I applied a plaster like eyepatch to cover the burn mark (I had pick pocketed the nurse). Turned up
my coat collar and scarf, covering up the bottom of my face. Only a few bruises were hopefully
visible on my face but nothing to disturbing. Back straight. Ow. Grit teeth. Walk in. Don't be too
obviously injured.
'John.' The glum figure swung round in a flash.
'Sherlock, oh my God.' He jumped up and was soon directly facing me. Ok. Act casual. No pain.
Nooo pain. None at all. I walked over to the kitchen table, most of my experiments had been
cleared away but some were still there. Even after six months. Like I had just gone out to get milk.
Which would be a mystery in itself anyway... I still remembered where I had last left my phone,
annoyingly this seemed to be the one time I did leave my phone which just happened to be when I
needed it most, and walked over to where it should be.
'Where's my phone?' I looked over at John. Casual, stay casual. He gave me a disbelieving look.
'Wh-wh-what? Your phone? Seriously, Sherlock!' He stared me straight in the eyes and I fought
to keep deadpan expression in place. 'You've been gone for half a fucking,' Oh no, not you as
well. 'Year and you expect to waltz back in here. Fine and dandy while the rest of us have been
worried sick,' Still not a real sickness, 'And working our arses off searching for you!' Can you
actually do that?
'Yes, problem?' My legs were going weak and I needed to sit so I limped to the sofa and dropped
down upon it. Heavily. Ouch.
'Yes! For fu...Sherlock! There is a problem! A big freaking problem and right now it's sitting on
the couch!' Well, conversation turned sour quickly. Record time for me... actually, that's a lie. It's
not even close to my personal best. I thought it better to let him cool off. So I needed an escape
plan.
'I just need to pay the cabbie.' I quipped. Then stood up and made my way to the door only to be
stopped by a firm hand turning my shoulder. I winced accidentally as it awkwardly tugged my

body round which hurt in multiple places. Thankfully, John didn't seem to notice and if he did, he
didn't care.
'You don't get it do you?' He stated more than asked but nevertheless I felt inclined to answer.
'What do I not 'get'?' I snapped; he really was starting to hurt me and my ankles were getting
weaker.
'That you just CAN'T!' John raged.
'Can't what!' Anger was starting to push through. It was easier for it then normal as my kidnapped
lifestyle had left my emotional barriers worn and damaged.
Why should I suffer in an act of kindness? Trying to protect John and stop him from having to
despair under the weight that would be bestowed upon his shoulders if I told him the truth. Make
him feel guilt. Make him feel sorrow.
Yet why should I let him hurt me? When in fact I have not sinned and am not in the wrong.
Haven't I suffered enough? And if this is what caring brings you I see why it is best to be avoided.
He is still angry and I'm am having to go through even more grief. And supposed to feel guilt for
something that I didn't do.
But he does not know this. I should just tell him. But I don't. Because in some screwed up way I
care and don't want him to share my pain and burden.
Why?
Sentiment.
It's infuriating.

Chapter End Notes

Lol this chapter is on crack. This is the high point of weirdness I think for this fic.

'What Happened?'
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

'You can't see what's in front of you! You're oblivious. Completely oblivious! It's not normal, it's
not ri-' He managed to shout before I interrupted him snidely.
'Well if we're going to talk about my abnormalities we could be here for a while.'
'Shut up! Let me speak because at this moment in time, you don't deserve the right!' Pausing, he
gave me a look to check I was going to stay silent. I didn't move a muscle, just gave him another
blank face that screamed boredom -as inside I screamed in agony- and remained impassive. 'As I
was saying, it's not normal for people to just disappear off for six months without warning! Don't
you get it? People just don't do that! Friends don't do that to each other! They don't let each other
go through months of bereavement or grief or pain or however you would like to word it! They
just don't, don't you get that?' The words were spluttered out in a flood of almost incoherent
emotion.
I mumbled under my breath, 'I think you would find that I've been through more pain than you
can imagine.'
'I'm sorry what?! You got a bit hurt in this case you were doing? Got into a few scraps? I mourned
for you for three whole years! I thought you were dead!' My mind immediately wanted me to ask
if it really was a competition but I bit my tongue and remained obediently silent. The frazzled man
obviously had some things he wanted to get off his chest.
'Then you came waltzing back into my life with a stupid accent and a drawn on moustache,
expecting me to be completely fine with it! Guess what I'm not 'fine with it' but very far from it!
And now you're doing it again! With an eyepatch and a limp like you've just come straight out of
a pirate movie! Oh, but that's ok. Yeah, it's absolutely fine. Why? Because I'm Sherlock bloody
Holmes and I do as I please! No, I don't care about what you're going through. Why? Because I'm
a heartless, machine like bastard who has no feelings let alone any empathy!' Ouch. That hurt.
Breathing out slow heavy breaths somewhere in his eyes, reddened with anger, I saw a
momentary hint of regret. Yet it was momentary so didn't hold much meaning. Even if my heart
went to cling to it like my only life thread.
The whole situation was purely ridiculous, I decided. I hadn't even had the chance to explain
myself but he obviously didn't want my explanation. He just wanted to go straight in with
outbursts of bundled up energy and emotion. However I still hadn't really done anything wrong. I
was trying to protect the man for God's sakes! So I let the only thing I could think of saying slip
out my mouth.
'Ah, Watson you did notice the limp. Your observation skills have obviously improved, well...' A
powerful blow to the face stopped me dead in my tracks. I toppled backwards and heard John
march of through the kitchen and down the hallway just before I hit the floor. My whole body
howled in pain as it's already battered exterior made contact with the solid surface and I fought
back the urge to scream. Nothing but a small yelp escaped my lips as every limb, muscle and bone
cried.
I just lay there for a bit. Too weak to move, I just stared up at the ceiling and let the burning pain
thrive inside. It filled my lungs when I breathed. Ran through my veins and arteries just like it was
blood. Pain replacing my blood. Pain replacing the oxygen I inhaled. Pain replacing my mind.

Being unable to think straight had irritated me endlessly. I hadn't been able make all my thoughts
make sense in the past few months. My mind was decaying and I was helpless to stop it. It was
now filled with emotions and memories. Too many memories. Too many emotions.
Emotions were taking control and that scared me. Which quite frankly is just another feeling. Fear.
Before I didn't even try, my mind just automatically blocked all outstanding emotions. Kept me
from feeling them when unnecessary and kept me from properly understanding them. I could
understand to a certain extent but not as much as everyone around me. Never had much empathy
either.
But, now, oh no. I'm empathising with John and thinking about how I could stop him feeling any
hurt. Contrariwise to what John had just said... yelled.
What has happened to me?
I tried to pull myself up to my elbows as I was still lying in a crippled position on the floor. Notice
how I said tried. As after the attempt I was still in said position. I don't think John intended me to
fall on my back and to be in a state of utter agony.
Well, at least I hope not.
He saw me stagger back but I think he was in the kitchen by the time I fell, arms flailing in
desperate attempts to stay upright.
I briefly thought on where the hell he was going anyway? As through the kitchen and down the
hall there is only my bedroom and the bathroom. Then of course I thought of how irrelevant and
inconsequential the answer to that question was and instead started playing through situations in
my head of which I tried to get up.
A large majority ended in me falling back down, therefore causing more suffering to my, quite
frankly, wrecked body. Hence why I tested all movements inside my head first. It took about 2
minutes to find an effective way of getting up with minimal pain and strength on my part. I used
the door frame to support myself as I thought of what my next move should be.
Eventually deciding on using John's phone, as mine seemed to have been taken, possibly by the
police in an attempt of finding any useful information, I defeatedly called an ambulance. I still
didn't want John to know of my ordeal yet so told them to go to Speedy's cafe, as I figured a load
of paramedics rushing into our flat and carrying me out on a stretcher may arouse some suspicion.
However now I faced the problem of getting to the cafe. Which meant going downstairs.
Somehow. Slowly gathering myself together, I turned round to the stairs, eyeing up my nemesis
with watchful eyes.
I was on the third to last step, so close to the bottom, when a sharp pain erupted in my rib cage.
Clutching at my chest with the hand that was currently on the banister, I clumsily tripped. Falling
down the last few steps so I once again found myself in the now familiar position of being
crippled up on the floor with pain roaring through me.
Hearing the sounds of the upcoming ambulance I reared myself into gear and pulled up into a
wheelchair. Precariously, I wheeled myself to the door opened it and gave a slight wave to the
paramedics who were jumping out of the vehicle, as I was in too much pain to shout. Thankfully
they swiftly noticed me and soon I was on my way to the hospital.
*

I was fuming. I'd let off some steam through ranting at Sherlock and punching him straight in the
jaw.
But it wasn't enough.
I was well aware that soon enough I would cool down yet at that moment, when anger was
cursing through me like a powerful drug it felt as if I could punch through the nearest wall with
ease.
I was also adamant that I was definitely not going to apologise. A perceptive insight told me that
perhaps I was a bit harsh with my words. However I strongly believed he deserved the punch.
After all he had put me through. The bastard.
I bet, even through all his astounding deductive reasoning, he still couldn't tell exactly how I felt.
Because, honestly I was distraught.
The night before I cried. I cried for him. Then before that I felt so scared. I'd lost him once and
now I'd just got him back and he was gone again. Like a dream I couldn't keep for long, sooner or
later just slipping away into the mist. Slipping through my fingers. Out of my grasp.
I remember the night when it the period he had been missing for stretched slightly over six
months. I was so worried. Petrified of never seeing his face again. His amazing, stupid, clever,
idiot face. I tried desperately to remind myself that he does this he's Sherlock. He will just go off
sometimes on his own... But six months? Without a single word? Or appearance anywhere it
seems. Even that's a bit much for Sherlock.
The second that stray thought wandered through my mind I thought of hoe maybe something
awful had happened. I couldn't help but let my mind take its own rugged course on the matter.
The first thing that my overly creative mind seemed to unhelpfully think up is Lestrade calling me.
Saying that they found a rotten corpse at the bottom of the Thames. Sherlock and I would then
jump up and get there as quickly as possible. Sherlock giddy with excitement after not having a
proper case in months. Except he wouldn't. Because he was already there. He was already at the
Thames. Dead.
He was the case.
Maybe Sherlock was less of a dream; more of a nightmare. But a nightmare that I couldn't help
coming back to.
After thinking up multiple scenarios, all containing very negative phone calls with Lestrade about
a certain detective's body, I found myself in a state of extreme uneasiness. I hadn't felt this scared
in a while. I also felt extremely guilty. I should have taken better care of Sherlock. Should have
been with him more, making sure he's ok and not going to run of on his own. But Sherlock could
take care of himself. Couldn't he?
Then I cried. I had nothing else to do, but weep pathetically in a hapless mess of limbs on my bed.
Letting everything bottled in come out in the form of tears. Crying out all the grief, worry, and
guilt.
Now I believed that, that was a mistake. He was completely fine after all. The git.
I heard Sherlock talking to someone on the phone. Probably Lestrade on the master criminal it
took six months to catch. Moments later I hear him walking excruciatingly slowly down the stairs.
Minutes drifted by until I heard a loud crash and groan.

Oh God. Did he fall down the stairs? (At least it's not off a building...)
I should have gone to check on him but I didn't. Like a stubborn child I stood my ground. Telling
myself I should wait for a bit incase he is fine to avoid awkwardness. I wriggled around on my
perch on the toilet seat, as when I stormed off I didn't actually think of where I was going so had
to settle for the bathroom.
The sirens of an ambulance loudly wailed somewhere nearby. My first thought was of Sherlock, if
it was for him after his possible fall down then the stairs. Deciding that wasn't right as an
ambulance couldn't arrive that quickly, I just ignored it.
Listening to the ambulance depart, I then went go check on Sherlock. Thankfully, I found he
wasn't lying in a crumpled position on the floor. Going with the presumption that he was fine I
went to make a nice cup of tea to calm my nerves. Completely missing the wheelchair parked
neatly next to the stairs.
*
The hospital must have informed the police of my arrival as when I woke up after blacking out in
the ambulance I was faced with the concerned face of Lestrade hovering over me.
Which was more than slightly unnerving.
I was in a private room with medical equipment attached all over. An intravenous line in my lower
arm, pulse oximeter on my finger, arterial line in my foreman, PCA pump by my side, 3 wires
from the heart monitor going to my chest and lower abdomen, oxygen saturation monitor cupping
over my fingernail and a oxygen mask on my face. Pulling the mask off my face I attempted to sit
up; failing miserably.
'Oh, Sherlock.' Lestrade said, his voice rough and sympathetic. I tried to glare at him. I may have
been injured but I was not a baby. Anyway, surely, I didn't look that bad.
'Mirror.' I asked not able to stretch out the question much. My throat hurt, a lot. The other
detective looked around the room and seeing no mirror, passed me his phone sadly. I studied my
face. In the other hospital toilet I had only seen a glimpse of what I looked like; this was far worse.
The eyepatch had been removed and the burnt eye had some sort of cooling gloop on it but in all
fairness it still looked grotesque. My jawline was covered black and blue and a fresh bruise was
forming from John's contribution to the pummelling of my body. A bright red line ran through one
corner of my mouth, through my upper lip then onto my bottom then to my jaw. My hair was
longer and more of a mess then usual and I had the stubbly beginnings of a beard. Not too much
though as my abductors were nice enough to once in a while cut my hair and shave me. I breathed
heavily, too many memories.
I yanked down the sheet covering my body, much to my arm's painful arguments. I was dressed in
a hospital gown and had been thoroughly sterilised. Every cut, scratch, gaping wound had been
cleaned and some bandaged. I was a lot skinnier. And I was apparently skinny before so I don't
know what I would have been called then.
Putting a hand to my ribcage I felt my bones prominently jut out from beneath my skin. My skin
was disgusting covered in open wounds and bruises. I looked at Greg to see him reciting 'oh, God'
under his breath. With a hand shielding his eyes from the, most likely, disturbing sight. Feeling
sick and revolted by the sight of me, I quickly pulled the sheet back up as tears welled in my eyes.
It was so unlike myself. Myself, who has never particularly cared for outside appearances. Myself,

who gave lectures on 'transport'. Myself, who didn't really understand the obsession people have
with their bodily figures.
Myself who now hated, and therefore cared, about my physical appearance.
Why?
Because my body was no longer my body. It was evidence. And as a detective I couldn't bare to
ignore evidence.
It was evidence of the gruelling torture continuously inflicted upon me. It was evidence of the
cruel instruments that were used to inflict it. It was the evidence of why half my year had gone
missing.
My body; the evidence.
Greg turned to me. Hand now over mouth. The question on everyone else's mind in his. Running
his hand through his hair he eventually said,
'Sherlock, what happened to you?'

Chapter End Notes

I'll try and upload another chapter for tomorrow. Bare with me here.

Accidentally Kill Jonn

Chapter Notes

Undeniable filler chapter. Sorry ;)

I thought on his question; 'What happened to you?' and to be honest I had to think what did
happen to me? I was abducted then tortured for secret information. I visited hell for six months and
experienced its wrath first hand. I died and died again. Day after day, dying again. Well, it felt like
death. But death would have been a blessing. Instead I was trapped in a loop of never ending pain.
Lestrade was staring at me intently, probably waiting for an answer.
'Abducted 'nd tortured.' I croaked out in response, why is my throat so dry? Can a guy get some
water around here? He seemed rather angry at this and groaned before kicking a nearby table. He
heaved in a sigh as he regained his composure and just balled up his fists instead of smashing
something as he was likely to do if he lacked self control.
'For the whole six months?!' Lestrade shouted. In a question to me but a shout to himself.
Somehow. Like he already knew the answer and blamed himself for it. I didn't think I'd ever seen
such a rage driven side to Greg before. It was rather frightening. All I could do was nod, my throat
still hurting.
'GOD DAMMIT!' Lestrade yelled. Directed at no one in particular except possibly himself. I felt
,yield cower away from him. Which was ridiculous. It was Lestrade. He wasn't going to hurt me.
Although I might have said the same thing about John...
He kicked the table again except this time harder. A clipboard fell as the table flew across the
room. The DI panted heavily, gripping his hands into fists, turning them white. 'How could I not
have found you!?' I gave him a meek shrug as I witnessed his personality shift dramatically.
'I'm sorry. Sherlock. Oh my god, I'm so sorry.' He said voice calmer now but sad. So very sad. He
even sounded like he might have cried. His fists loosened and he placed a firm hand on my
shoulder. 'I did try.' He said voice small, almost a whisper. As if to reassure himself of the fact. I
gave him a smile and nodded. He smiled weakly back before saying that he'd see me tomorrow
and then leaving. Maybe to punch the hell out of any nearby object.
I uncharacteristically wanted to tell him that it was ok. It wasn't his fault and as long as he tried,
that's all I could ask for. Tell him that there was nothing he could have done and that it was out of
his control. Cheesy, right? And anyway why did I, of all people, suddenly have the urge to
comfort others?
*
When Greg got outside of the hospital room he walked about three steps down the corridor before
punching a wall. Hard. His knuckles bled but thankfully he was in a hospital so it didn't take long
to find someone who gave him a bandage to wrap around his hand.
Lestrade, being the great detective that he was, realised that something wasn't right. Sherlock had
been pulled out of 221B, his flat. He was in a right state. He was in hospital. He was alone. Where

was his flat mate? Where was his blogger? Where was his supposed best friend?
Pondering on those questions for a while Lestrade finally realised that John mustn't know. Or he
would be here. Nothing would stop him not work, traffic, anything. He would be here by
Sherlock's side. Clicking on John's contact he phoned him on his mobile only to be told to hang
up and go outside by a stout nurse. He obediently did so and was soon making rushed pleasantries
with John.
'John. Hello.'
'Who is thi... Oh hi, Greg.'
'Do you know about Sherlock?' John thinking he meant that he had returned replied,
'Yeah, the bastard.' Lestrade was slightly puzzled by his answer, eventually deciding that John
must have meant the people who held Sherlock captive. John of course not meaning in any way,
shape or form.
'Why aren't you here?' Lestrade asked.
'I'm not his lap dog. I don't follow him everywhere. No, he can handle this himself.' John said
thinking of Sherlock at the police station making arrests to whatever criminals he busied himself
taking half a year to catch.
The DI, however, was gobsmacked. John -ever loyal, ever caring, John- was being a right prick.
Here Sherlock was. Lying in a hospital bed with wires left, right and centre and the most brutally
injured body Greg had ever seen alive. And there John was, saying he could 'handle this himself'!
If this had been a face to face conversation Greg was certain that at this point, with all his wall
punching anger, he'd probably just have smacked the blogger.
'What! How could you?! When he's...'Lestrade was cut off as John said sternly,
'Don't you make excuses for him!'
'What!?' Then the line went dead. Gregory thought of going to the flat to continue the
conversation there but then thought that after seeing Sherlock like that... He shuddered violently.
He couldn't even imagine what the poor man must have gone through. It was so weird seeing
someone who is always so tall, strong, arrogant and all the others words that described him in a
worse a state as that. It was just too hard to comprehend.
But after seeing him like that he was more angry than he had been in a long time and thought that
if he saw John right now he would probably end up pulverising him.
He never thought he cared this deeply about the fellow detective but he was one of Sherlock's
friends. And while if you're friends with someone else it's no big deal but friends with Sherlock
Holmes, that's very different. Seeing as he only had very few and was very picky. It gives you a
sense of being very special, somehow. One of the elite. Different form all the other swarms of
people Sherlock would see as idiots, not that he didn't count his friends as idiots.
Nonetheless it was special. Also Sherlock had taken a chance that may have ended in his own
death because he couldn't let his three friends die. Greg was one of them and that felt great. Well,
sort of (apart from the whole Sherlock flinging himself off a building thing, as Lestrade didn't
really want Sherlock dying for him but that's drifting away from the point).
Greg realised he did care, ever so deeply, about his amazing, exceptional, idiotic friend. This
experience made him realise that.

But again he didn't really want to accidentally kill John so he decided against continuing their
conversation altogether.
*
I didn't understand why Lestrade was defending Sherlock. Maybe it was because Sherlock
redeemed himself, in Greg's eyes anyway, for letting us all panic for half a year because he caught
a really evil murderer, notorious bank robber, another consulting criminal, mad psychopath or
something along those lines.
However, to me, it didn't matter who he caught I wasn't just going to forgive him. I was going to
hold my ground. Make him grovel. Not that I can ever imagine the smart-arse doing that but
people can dream, right?
Yet he didn't come home that night. Probably chasing after some allies to the main criminal he
caught, I reasoned. Whoever that might have been. I was rather used to him not coming home as
he hadn't for the past six months. But that didn't mean I liked it, however angry I was.
I remembered staying up later than normal every night hoping above hope that Sherlock would
come back, safe. Then I'd go to sleep and have a nightmare of getting that dreaded phone call off
Lestrade.
How he could put me through that? I don't know. What the hell was wrong with him? Ah, yes, a
lot.
All I had needed was one reassuring phone call. One small text. One warning that he was going
away. Just something. He couldn't even do that for me. I believed I probably meant very little to
him in that case.
*
When I woke the next day, Lestrade was once again there to greet me.
'Morning, Greg.' I said in a much less gravelly voice as my throat had stopped burning since
yesterday.
'It's actually the afternoon... Wait.' He seemed to contemplate something before grinning like a
maniac. 'Hah! You got my name right!'
'Yes, well. I had a lot of time to think on it.' The end of my sentence drifted off, setting a rather
melancholy tone to the room.
'Ah, right. Yeah. Well, thanks anyway.' He said sadly, rubbing his foot in a circular motion on the
floor. There was a silent pause filled with awkwardness before Greg spoke again. 'What happened
with you and John, may I ask? It's not like him to not be with you when you need him.' He asked
invasively. I sighed.
May as well just go with the truth, right?
'He punched me in the jaw and called me a heartless, machine like bastard who has no feelings let
alone any empathy.' Lestrade let out a girlish gasp. 'But he didn't actually know what happened to
me so I guess it's not that bad.' I said trying to not let on how those words, his view of me, affected
me so much.
'What the hell is wrong with him?' Greg slightly stunned about what I had said. He eventually

grasped what my last sentence was, 'Wait. What?! You haven't told him?!' I told him that if he had
been listening he would already know that.
'Why?' He asked.
'I'm not 100% sure myself. It's just...' I faltered wondering if I should tell him.
'What? Tell me.' He asked whiningly like a teenage girl wondering about who you have a crush
on. Along with his highly unmanly gasp and now this I had to wonder if Lestrade was turning into
a teenage girl.
'It's just I saw him before I went into the flat. He looked sad, worried and I don't know. I know
that's a first but after seeing him like that I didn't want to tell him. Like I didn't want to make him
feel worse. Does that make any sense?' I mumbled, feeling a slight blush crawling up my cheeks.
When was the last time I ever blushed? Urgh, what the hell happened to me. Lestrade however
just smiled at me reassuringly.
God, when did this turn into a therapy session?
'It makes perfect sense Sherlock. Absolutely perfect sense. In fact I think it makes more sense than
most of the crazy things that come out of your mouth.' Greg said seriously but still smiling. I think
I gave something of a smile back. 'Anyway when did you become so sentimental or is that just
with John?' He asked jokingly, his voice losing any hint if seriousness in the blink of an eye.
'Shut up.'

In Which Sherlock Turns To Mush

Chapter Notes

Filler. Filler. Filler. Apologies.

It had been three days since Sherlock reappeared and I found myself glancing at my phone every
so often pondering on whether or not I should call to see if he was ok as I figured because he'd
been with Lestrade he would have recollected his phone. But I didn't. I stuck to my guns and
persisted with wanting him to apologise before I even recognised his existence.
Casually, I walked down the stairs to go to work and realised that a wheelchair had been orderly
pushed next to the stairs.
Stopping on the last step I wondered who may have a wheelchair and why. It certainly wasn't
mine and Mrs Hudson was away for 5 days and wouldn't be back till the next day. Also, I was
pretty sure it was a recent addition to the hallway.
Sherlock's?
I doubted it was actually for him. Although it could have been the significant part of evidence that
condemned someone. If so I thought that I should probably leave it be.
Deciding that probably to be the case I was just reaching for the door when an angry knock
sounded from the other side.
Cautiously, I opened it to find Greg standing there in the rain. Droplets of water dripping down his
face. I just stood there for a bit gawping at his disheveled appearance.
'Can I come in. You see it's kind of raining out here.' He said gesturing to the sky.
'Oh yeah. Sure, sorry.' I moved out of the way to let him through into the hall. He strode in and
shut the door behind him. 'Sooo... What brings you here?'
'Sherlock.' Greg answered curtly.
'Ok, look. Just because you forgave him be-'. I started before Lestrade cut me short.
'He's in hospital.'
'What the hell did he do?!' I asked him disbelievingly. He's only been back three days!
Greg spat at me accusingly, 'He didn't do anything.'
'Oh, so he didn't fall off a rooftop or get shot while chasing after a evil mastermind.' I said,
attempting to lighten the mood as something disturbing stirred in my brain. What if something
really bad has happened?
Lestrade shot me a glare made to annihilate my existence from the face of the Earth.
Subconsciously, my shoulders tensed and my back straightened, pulling me up to my full height,
which was still shorter than Greg's, but still.

'He was abducted and tortured.' He said bluntly. Letting the words slice through me at an
excruciatingly slow rate.
Yet I didn't even react. I just stood there dumbly as I tried to comprehend what he had said but
still... nothing. The dots remained unconnected as the message failed to get through. My eyes were
wide and my mouth was opening and closing but nothing came out. I couldn't reply with an
answer if I didn't understand what was being said to me.
Sherlock Holmes, abducted and tortured? Impossible. No way. Not in a million years. It just
couldn't happen. No. It just couldn't. Sherlock Holmes would never get abducted. He would never
be the victim. No, he was always the detective. The man who finds the abducted. Not the person
who actually gets abducted. No. Just no.
However -somehow- yes?
'For the last three days?' I asked with all the hopefulness of an ignorant child as I thought of how
he hadn't returned home for the past days.
'No. For the past six months.' Lestrade said, equally as bluntly as last time as if to hit me with more
force. And hit me with force it did as this was the moment that everything came crashing down.
All my darkest fears came to reality as my nightmares seeped from my pillow and into the light.
Toppling from where I stood I found myself, head in hands, crumbled up on the bottom of the
stairs, still in some transfixed state of denial. 'No...' I whispered. It couldn't be true. He had come
in before, he had been fine. Hadn't he?
He had a limp. He was wearing an eyepatch. He had some bruises on him face. He winced when
I grabbed his shoulder. He went down the stairs excruciatingly slowly. There's a wheelchair. He
said 'I think you would find that I've been through more pain than you can imagine...'
Oh my god.
How did I miss that! I missed everything, every tiny clue. Of course I'm not the brilliant detective
Sherlock Holmes but how did I seriously not see that!

Oh...
Shit.
He was abducted and tortured for six fucking months, comes back and what does he get? Another
fucking beating from his supposedly best fucking friend! Oh and that's not all, he gets called an
emotionless, heartless, machine like bastard.
And the award for the most awful friend in the world goes to...
*drum roll*
John Hamish Watson!
Well done! Pat on the back!
God, John. You really did it this time... Arsehole.
'Shit! What the hell have I done?!' I asked myself out loud to Lestrade or anyone who was

listening and would comfort me through my tale of woe and self hatred.
'You just answered your own question mate.' Greg said. I gave him a puzzled look. 'You've done
shit.'
*1 Hour Before*
After three days and a bit days of being in the hospital Lestrade was just getting annoyed.
'This can't go on. You have to tell him what happened. He can't go on thinking that you're
heartless and avoiding you when really he should be standing by your side and feeling pity for
you. And probably guilt as he did punch you and say that stuff when it wasn't your fault that you
went missing for six months!' He had vented.
Stiffly, I replied, 'I do know that it wasn't my fault. And I do know I'm not heartless as it is a vital
organ and I wouldn't live without a heart. But I do not need pity and to make John feel guilt. It is
unnecessary. I'm not some dying lamb or some weak, damsel who needs comforting. I. Am. Fine.'
'Well, Sherlock. As you just took the heartless thing literally then why should I not take the fact
that you just said you are fine the same. Because you clearly are not.' He'd said.
'Okay fine! I'm not fine. In fact I'm bloody far from fine! I'm a long way from fine. We just left
fine on the other side of the world but what has this got to do with John?!' I sort of...ended
up...shouting.
'Because John should be here! John should be helping you through this. Not swanning around
thinking that you left by choice and you're in the wrong!'
'I didn't want him to feel bad. That was the whole reason he doesn't know. But that backfired
because now he most definitely will. Thanks to moi and all these stupid feelings!' I openly yelled.
'Well, I can't stand it anymore! He needs to know, I'm going to tell him because clearly you're not
going to!'
Then Lestrade left. Out the door without another word. Not even listening to my objections as he
fled.
I didn't want to see John. Of course I didn't. First he would be a flurry of apologies and guilt. Then
there was the fact of 'why did you lie to me?' And the answer of which I had finally come to the
realisation of was 'Oh yeah. I think I -the high functioning sociopath or in your words the
heartless, machine-like bastard- may be slightly in love with you and couldn't bare to see you hurt.'
Oh, yeah, that'll go well.
Also I felt like a mad teenage girl with a huge crush. The last thing she would want was for her
crush to see her without her make up, her mask, off. I didn't want to see John without my make
up... No. Mask. I meant mask. Off.
I didn't want John to see me as this raw, damaged, broken and emotional, definitely emotional,
version of myself. I didn't want pity. And I definitely didn't want to see John.
Thank you very much Gregory Lestrade. I made it a priority to delete the memory of your first
name from my mind palace.
About an hour later I received a text from the man himself.

Told John. You should have been there. He won't stop apologising. On our way to you be there in
15 -GL
Oh great.
Thinking back it does seem to have happened pretty suddenly that I 'fell' in love with John but
really it wasn't.
He shot someone for me. He knew there could be consequences. But he still did it for me. Me. Of
all people. And I was basically a stranger at the time.
I was thankful of course but I didn't realise that's when I started falling.
Now there I was; flat on my face.
Over the last six months I had had a lot of time to think upon things. To think upon things that I
would usually not. I thought about people. Lestrade's first name and all he's done for me. Our
sweet landlady who puts up with my mess and shootings. My arse of a brother who said my loss
would break his heart, which is as close to caring as we've ever come. Molly and her kindness.
Anderson and his mad fandom who believed in me after I 'died', although he was an absolute
prick before that. Sally and... Erm yeah, her snarl remarks but I guess she's good at her job? No
not really. Then John.
John Hamish Watson.
Everything about him.
His gentleness and good will, stabilising and steady. He has tolerance, tenderness and tact. He is
unselfish and understanding. He's brave and benevolent. He is cordial and courteous. He has heart
and humanity. And I can't imagine what I would be like now if I had never met him. His presence
has changed me and if I am even the slightest bit more like him I know it's for the better.
Well aren't I just a useless ball of lovey dovey, gooey, alliterating mush.

Everybody Is Sorry
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

'Sorry, sorry, sorry...' I kept on rambling throughout the cab drive. Apologising again and again.
Like I just couldn't stop.
Greg replied brusquely. 'Well if you weren't I would be terribly surprised mate.'
'Fuck I'm sorry.' I just said, head in hands. 'Sorry, sorry, so fucking sorry.'
'Shut up!' Greg said, finally losing his patience. 'You've been apologising all the way through this
journey and frankly it's bloody doin' my head in! So just zip it and save it all for when we actually
see Sherlock.'
I gave him a look somewhat alike to a petulant child's but then resumed to straighten up and
looked out the window.
'Sorry.'
Lestrade made a sound between a laugh and a huff in response to my feeble apology.
Once we arrived at the hospital I was almost running down the corridors to get to Sherlock. Yet as
I was supposed to be following Greg, as I didn't actually know where Sherlock was, I had to keep
on retracing my steps to turn the corner Greg had turned. It's hard to run in front of your leader if
you don't know where you are going.
However once we got outside the door of Sherlock's room I was filled with a sudden
apprehension.
'What do I say?' I asked.
'I don't know mate. It's not a situation I've ever been in before.' Lestrade replied solemnly.
'Have you ever had to apologise for something really bad?'
'Yeah, every time I have to inform someone that their wife, husband, mother, son is dead.'
'What about something that you've personally done?'
'Look mate, just say you're sorry. Speak from the heart or something like that, Sherlock doesn't
blame you. If anyone, he blames himself.'
'Oh that makes me feel better.'
'Great, in you go!' Lestrade replied ignoring the intended sarcasm.
Cautiously, I opened the door.
'Sherlock...'
*
At that very moment someone, somewhere, was getting, well, basically, bitch slapped. In a few

more minutes, killed.

'I'm sorry, please, I'm sorry. It was a miscommunication problem, I-I promise. You have to believe
me!'
'Sir doesn't have to do anything. You let him go. Sir wants him back. You failed.' The woman said.
The words 'you' and 'sir' stood jutted out obtrusively from the rest.
'I'm sorry-I'm sorry. I'm sorry!' The man said as the taller man cuffed his hands behind his back
and forced him to his knees. 'It will never happen again! Please!'
'Sir said to slap you.' She said then backhanded him round the face. 'Can you guess what sir said
to do now.' She asked slyly, stroking his red face and wiping the trickle of blood from his mouth.
'No! Please, no! There's nothing I could have done! I followed the orders and let him go! Please
I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!' He cried but his pleas fell on ears, that though not deaf, couldn't
care less.
'I know you're sorry, so that is why Sir is being kind.' Then the woman shot a bullet through his
brain. 'A swift death is very kind isn't it?' She asked the taller man who nodded. 'Dispose of him.'
She said before walking off, the clicking of her heels echoing around the tunnel as she went.
'Is it done?' The voice in her ear com queried.
'Of course.'
'Good. Now for the rest.'
*
Mycroft Holmes had been informed of Sherlock's return for a few days now. Of course he knew
as soon as a camera spotted Sherlock inside the train station in London. He was sent the pictures
from the CCTV cameras immediately and he couldn't say he wasn't devastated when he saw what
state his little brother was in. A part of him died inside. Although he would never admit it to
anyone apart from maybe Sherlock himself. Who would probably not be able to stomach the fact
that his brother cares for him... Again.
Being the genius Mycroft is he could see much more than anyone else would see. He saw the
pain, his weight loss, ways of which he was tortured and while everyone else just saw an injured
man in a wheelchair Mycroft could see everything.
He had been keeping a close eye, an extremely close eye you may say, on the younger Holmes
but had not yet seen him face to face. And he could not say it was something he was looking
forward to.
Just from a bad quality photo Mycroft could see a lot of what had happened; so he wasn't sure if
he could stand seeing him in person, dreading what he might observe and deduce. Not only that,
but Sherlock would most definitely be pissed at him.
And who could blame him? Mycroft, 'the British Government', the British Secret Service and a
freelancer for the CIA, couldn't find his kidnapped brother. Didn't even know he had been
kidnapped until he was gone for so long it became suspicious.
He remembered the first time he saw the picture of Sherlock and saw what he'd been through, he
was close to tears. Remember though, Mycroft would never cry. He didn't appear to be as his face
was etched in stone and rigidly frozen but on the inside he felt like he could easily be crying.

'I'm so sorry... little brother.' He had whispered then stayed in an intense silence for numerous
minutes until his phone rang and he threw it at the nearest wall.
*
The next man that the woman and the taller man visited was only of the ripe age of 21. However
he was a lot more accepting in the fact he was going to die.
'One thing, before you cross me off your kill list, can I have one phone call?' He asked politely,
despite the circumstances.
'Sir says your taking this well, too well. Search him for a weapon.' She ordered the taller man. He
searched him but no weapon was found. 'Sir says you are allowed your call, use it wisely.'
'Thank you.' He said before pulling out his mobile. 'Hey, Scottie. Yeah, hey, love. I'm fine, yeah,
great. No, just calling to say I love my fianc, am I not allowed to do that?' A single tear came
trickling down his face. 'Oh, ok, see you tomorrow, I love you. Goodbye.' The person on the
other end hung up and the man solemnly replaced his phone into his pocket.
'Aww.' The woman pouted. 'I almost feel bad for ordering to kill you.'
'No, sir is ordering to kill me your just the middle man... Woman.' He said calmly. 'What am I
getting killed for again?' He asked.
'Letting our little Lock go.' She said.
'I'm sorry, if that makes a difference.'
'Sir says thank you,' Then she nodded and this time it was the man that sent a bullet through his
brain, 'But unfortunately, no difference was made.'

Chapter End Notes

Sorry that thus chapters kind of dull. Stuff actually happens in the next few chapters
though so don't worry.

Mr Policeman's Chart
Chapter Notes

Some of this is some much needed light relief ;)

'Sherlock...' I had started. I had a vague idea of how to start; 'Listen before you say anything I am
truly, truly sorry. About my actions towards you and what happened to you before.' Was what I
was going to go with.
I presumed that it wasn't going to go exactly like that. I thought I'd probably stutter a bit here and
there and most definitely get overly emotional seeing him in a hospital bed, injured; knowing that
a) I didn't help find him, instead presuming he was gone of his own accord and b) that I helped
contribute to those injuries.
I presumed that just saying sorry that one time wasn't going to be enough and if we ended up
having a conversation, throughout it all I would keep dropping the sorry bomb. But I thought that
he would probably say something like 'You're being highly illogical. You couldn't have prevented
them from abducting me and you didn't know what happened when you punched me.' Or
something along the lines of, anyway.
I also presumed that he would be there.
That was something that all my other presumptions were based upon.
But there, he was not.
*
I sat there.
On the ledge.
Legs dangling over the side.
The city of London beneath me, carrying on with life; ignorant to the man sitting above on a
ledge, watching their dull lives go by...
I missed the sound of the door opening in my daze so was then surprised by the sudden
commotion of voices coming from the room I called mine in the hospital.
Swinging my legs round in a most precarious way, even without the added height, I then tucked
myself round the corner and out of view just as I heard the slight banging of a window as it
opened fully.
'Sherlock?' I heard John's voice yell. 'Oh for fucks sake!' He said into the wind. 'Greg, the
window was open you don't think he-' the question drifted off as John leant out the window and
studied the ground below.
'Is he there?' Lestrade asked cautiously.

'No, thank god.' I heard John say simultaneously sighing in relief.

'Where the hell is he then?'
'I dunno but get a nurse in here, now.' His inner soldier commanded.
Minutes later I heard another man enter the room and quite the clamour could be heard from
where I was perching.
'Oh, so you didn't let him go?' John said louder then necessary.
'Yes, that's what I said.' The nurse who was with me before said, obviously biting back his
growing irritation.
'Well where the hell is he then?!' John either asked or shouted. More likely both. Lestrade's voice
could be heard attempting to calm him down but I don't think it worked very well as in a matter of
minutes the doctor and the nurse were having a full blown argument.
'Don't tell me how to do my job!'
'Well someone has to! Because you're clearly awful at it! Or is it now acceptable to let highly
injured and endangered patients just skip out into the the world!'
'Calm down!' Shouted Lestrade in another futile attempt to water down the flames.
'Don't tell me to-'
'Don't tell him anything he won't listen!'
'Why wouldn't I?!'
'For starters you haven't listened to me say I didn't let him go multiple times now!'
'Shut up! The pair of you now!' The DI bellowed. And after a few murmurings silence coated the
hospital room. 'Now let's see, does Sherlock go into any other rooms like, I don't know, a canteen
or something?' Lestrade asked after presumably regaining his composure.
'No, he's too injured to just be wandering around so his meals are brought to him here although his
strength has improved immensely from what he was like before. He could barely walk.' The nurse
replied politely.
'So he won't just be somewhere else.' Asked Lestrade.
'Well I doubt it. He wasn't booked in for anything now so he should be here.' He said. As they
were talking at a normal volume now it was harder to make out what they were saying. And as the
rant ceased the dullness of their conversation had, unlike their voices, raised a considerable
amount.
So then for the first time in months, sat on that ledge I was back to feeling bored again.
*
We'd interrogated his nurse and got CCTV footage on the exits in which Sherlock was never
seen. Then we were stuck for what we would have to do.
The best bet was to get Mycroft involved. Not that he wasn't already, he'd probably already know
about our little jaunt to the hospital and us having to run around trying to find the ever so elusive

man. But either way, with his easy access to cameras spread near and far and his deductive skills,
Mycroft Holmes was a sure bet.
So with that decided a call was given to one of his several mobiles and within seconds of the call
Lestrade and I were in one of Mycroft's distinctive black cars; each including a beautiful,
antisocial woman with an often obvious alias. I think the one that day claimed to be 'Gertrude.'
Unexpectedly, instead of some, at least to my mind, random, deserted warehouse we ended up at
an office like building except fancier than your bog standard office building.
'What are we doing here?' I whispered to Greg as we were escorted by 'Gertrude' to a room
resembling a reception and asked to take a seat here.
'Why are you whispering?' He said in a normal voice then as a woman behind a desk looked,
glared, up at us he adverted his eyes to an apparently intriguing potted plant. 'Right... I get ya
now.' He then whispered when the lady's hair bun had ducked back down and the sound of her
fingers on the keyboard could be heard once more.
'I feel like we're sitting outside the headmasters office.' I said after containing my giggle as the
powerful Detective Inspector was intimidated by some little receptionist. However her huge
stilettos could most definitely take out many a person's eye.
'Nah, mate. I don't think you spent much time outside the headmaster's. Can't imagine you being
the troublesome type at school.' Lestrade said patronisingly.
I glowered at him before replying, 'Oh, yeah and you did, enforcer of laws man.'
'Meh, laws and school rules. Not the same the thing.'
'Well, I did get into trouble a lot.' I say feeling slightly under confident as in reality the only time I
was dragged to the Headmasters or Headmistresses, as it was for the last two years, was when I
was getting awarded with something, being asked about Harry or that time I was mistaken for a
graffiti artist who wrote on the school walls 'WELCOME TO HELL. ENJOY YOUR LIFE
RUINING STAY.'
'And I mean a lot.' I added on at the end but something must of been telling on my face as Greg
then said,
'Oh really?'
'Yes, really. I wouldn't say it if it wasn't true.' I declared then frowned realising how that could
easily be something Sherlock said.
'You sound like Sherlock.'
'I sound like Sherlock.' We both said simultaneously. Then there was a bit of an awkward silence
as we remembered that Sherlock was the reason we were there.
Minutes later Greg lightened the mood with, 'Hey, do you think Sherlock got sent to the
Headmasters office a lot?'
'Undoubtedly, undoubtedly.' I replied and chuckled a bit at the thought of a teenage Sherlock
blowing things up in science and announcing to everyone that the history teacher was having it off
with the maths teacher.
'But no way did you.' He then said.

'Shut up.' I said and Greg gave me a knowing smirk. 'Ok maybe I never properly got in trouble
but I still doubt you ever did anything bad.' On the contrary, I could easily imagine a young Greg
getting into trouble. He just seems the type.
'Yes I did. We were always playing pranks on teachers and getting called out of lessons.' He said
cockily and I struggled for a while to think of a decent comeback so I just kinda went with the first
that came to mind.
'Oh yeah? Mr Policeman.'
'Um that's what the wife used to call me when...' Lestrade said, sentence awkwardly drifting off.
'Erm yeah.' His eyes looked up and met mine then seconds later we were a mess of laughs and
hearty chuckles.
'That's a bit too much information if you were to ask me Gregory.' A voice broke us out of our fit
and our heads, in synchronisation, swivelled round to meet the sight of Mycroft standing in the
doorway, smart as always, leaning on one of his fancy umbrellas.
'Yeah but no one asked you.' I said grudgingly as I stood up from the chair annoyed due to his
eavesdropping and intruding on us like we were, as talked about before, schoolchildren.
'I said if you were. Anyway follow me through here.' He said before leading us into a corridor
then a room nearly completely lined with screens. 'I took the liberty of presuming that you wanted
my help finding Sherlock.' Mycroft then clicked on a remote and all the screens came to life, each
showing a different street or road, alleyway or bakery, restaurant or pavement. 'Of course,
Sherlock having the mind he possess will know how to avoid all cameras... however in his haste
upon a high ledge I did manage to capture a snap of what appears to be his foot.'
Mycroft pointed to a screen where a paused image could be seen of what looked like a third of a
foot.
'What were you saying about a ledge?' Lestrade asked after inspecting the photo. By somehow
messing with his funny remote thing, Mycroft zoomed out of the picture to reveal the tall building
of the hospital. He them directed our eyes to where the foot had been as it is was now no longer
easy to see.
Sherlock was five floors up. Seeing him, well more like knowing, he was that high up on a ledge
even then made my stomach lurch with memories of his fall.
'How long ago was that?' I asked before clearing my throat with a cough.
'The moment that it is paused upon was during your visit to the hospital.' Mycroft replied. Greg
audibly huffed, obviously annoyed by the fact that we were at the hospital at the same time as
Sherlock.
'Could he still be there? I mean how would he get down?' He asked.
'Someone was sent round to check and he is no longer there.' Mycroft stated.
'Right, but still he couldn't have got far. Could he, in his state?' He persisted.
'There are these things called cabs and you can even get the tube if you're careful and smart
enough. Which of course Sherlock is. However in his state, as you put it, he will have a lot of
trouble getting around without being asked if he is in need of assistance. He has also gained a lot
of, probably unwelcome, fame especially after coming back from the supposed dead. So that will

make it even harder for him to go about without being pestered and what with social media being
as popular as it is nowadays someone would be bound to 'tweet' about how they just met Sherlock
Holmes. Which says he may have made the logical choice of avoiding both of the starting modes
of transport of cab and tube. But even if he is still in the nearby area he will be hard to find.'
Mycroft rambled on and even though I'm not a great deducer, I saw the bags under his eyes and
his slightly manic look as he rolled on about Sherlock and where he could be and I really felt how
hard this must have been on him.
Having his little brother abducted and tortured. The person he, probably, looked after because of
the seven year gap. Watched grow up, played pirates with, was tortured! And been helpless and
even worse, in his case, ignorant to it all would be maddening.
Because deep down. Really deep, deep down. Concealed by a stone wall and a wide moat and an
iron gate guarded by fire breathing dragons, are Mycroft's feelings for people. And the person
who he feels strongest about is no doubt his brother of which he truly does care for.
'So what you're saying is that he probably will be in somewhere near the hospital?' Lestrade
finalises.
'Yes.'
'Do you know where he may have gone?' Asked Greg.
'Well you are the detective, are you not?' Said Mycroft pointedly.
'And your the super genius and he's a doctor. Naming jobs isn't going to get us anywhere.'
Lestrade snapped back.
'Super genius isn't actually-' Mycroft started but was silenced by Lestrade's death glare. 'There's
not much telling where he will be, especially since he will have chosen somewhere random. A
normal person may go somewhere where cameras are sparsely spread but Sherlock is equally as
likely to have gone somewhere with lots of cameras. The same goes for most things actually
there's no telling. I've got a search group scouring the area at this moment but honestly there's not
much we can do.'
'Really?' I said. 'So we just sit around and wait?'
'As I said there isn't much we can do. You can join the search group if you wish. But as there's no
immediate threat then there's not much more we can do.' Mycroft said defeatedly leaning against
the wall as he did so.
'So we just sit around and hope your team find him?' Lestrade asked dubiously.
'Well I'm joining the search team because I can't just sit here and wait as other people look for the
person I care most about in this world!' I stated loudly then had a surprised look on my face as I
realised what I said. Lestrade raised an eyebrow and I felt a hot blush work it's way up from my
neck to my cheeks. So I coughed a timid 'bye' and walked out of the dark room filled with
screens.
Then I remembered that I had come in one of Mycroft's cars so had no idea where I was or how to
even get out the building. Awkwardly I retraced my steps and waited outside the room for the
others.
'As if that's a new revelation.' I heard Mycroft say. 'They're practically falling at each other's feet. I
get ever so sick of Sherlock's desperate pining.'

'Hah, yeah we have a massive betting chart at Scotland Yard on the who, what, where, when and
why of how they'll get together. There's a few saying that they won't but the majority of them just
haven't seen the pair together and have just seen John. Who's either denied being gay or flirted
with them.' Lestrade laughed.
'I can hear you two you know!' I yelled at them.
'I knew.' Came Mycroft's smug reply.
Lestrade briskly walked out and said to me,
'Whoopsies. I didn't.'
'You have a fucking chart?!' I asked him.
'Uh, erm, no?' Lestrade replied meekly and I glared at him. 'Well it's not exactly about 'fucking',
'cause you know, that's your own business.' He explains, winking slyly.
'For gods sake, I'm not even gay!'
'How about bi?'

Complications
Chapter Notes

Such an original chapter title, I know.

I had no idea what I was doing.

I was being stupid, irrational and ridiculous!
Ok, let's work our way from earlier.
John punches me and I fall down. I call an ambulance. I go in the ambulance and end up,
obviously, in hospital. I get 'treated'. I talk to Lestrade. I discover that he actually cares about me a
considerable amount and is bothered by what happened to me as if it happened to himself. I finally
understand the feelings I have for John... unrequited or not.
Hmmf, that's amusing. Paragraph starts with John punching me, which leads to me unearthing
feelings for him. Strong feelings...
Anyway...
Days pass, Lestrade goes and gets John. I panic. I end up on outside ledge five stories high. I reenter through a different window. I then leave with other paramedics via ambulance. The details
are, in this case, unnecessary. I go to a small book/coffee shop with little CCTV coverage.
So there I was. Sitting in a secluded corner, away from the cameras' prying eyes, drinking coffee.
Practically waiting for someone to find me. Mycroft's team were taking their time.
*
We had split up into 5 groups, which then split into 2 mini groups. Each scouring a different
section within half a mile radius of the hospital. Then when that was done the plan was to
gradually expand the search area.
We looked through shops, alleyways, parks and even just the busy streets. Mycroft said it would
be most probable that he would have gone somewhere where he can sit because he is still injured.
So we payed close attention to cafs, restaurants or any other places where sitting down didn't
look out of the ordinary.
'John.' One of the men, who's name I had yet to catch, called me over. We were in a quaint little
shop that sold both books and 'hot beverages'. I walked over to the till where the man was talking
to, who I presumed to be, the store owner standing behind the desk.
'Yes, that was him.' The store owner said as he was shown a picture of Sherlock. 'I thought it was
him but I wasn't sure but no, that was definitely him.' He said, in what sounded like an Italian
accent, nodding his head thoroughly.
'Thank you. Do you know where he went.' Asked the man from before.
'No, I didn't even know he had left. Is he not still here?' He said as the lady on our team emerged

from behind a bookshelf, answering his question.

'He's gone.'
'Well, I could have sworn he didn't go out through that door,' The store owner said, pointing
towards the main entrance to the shop. 'However there is a back entrance but it's locked so I don't
know how...' The store owner said drifting off as the younger of the men ran to check it.
'It's open.' He said rushing back.
'But how is that possible I have the key right here...' He said lifting up a keyring with many keys
on. Inspecting it he then exclaimed, 'What? It's not here anymore! I could have sworn...' Then
something in Italian that I didn't understand.
'Let's go.' Ordered the man who called me over, 'We don't want to lose him.'
No, we definitely do not, I thought to myself.
'Hey!' Yelled the store owner as we started to run out. 'He didn't pay for his coffee!' I threw a fiver
at him and legged it after the other three.
The back door was indeed open with the key lying on a nearby stool.
The door lead through to a back alley with two ways to go. One leading back out towards the
main road and the busy streets; the other towards a wall and a dumpster.
The lady was talking to someone on the phone, telling them that a sighting has been made and to
come nearer this area. She then ordered the man dressed in jogging pants to look around the main
road to see if he could be spotted
'Would he have been able to climb that? What with his injuries and all?' Asked the younger man,
facing me. I jogged over to the dumpster. It could have been used as a step. I thought back to the
time we were running from the police in handcuffs and how easily he climbed over that fence.
This would have been a piece of cake for him...
But maybe not the him that was tortured for 6 months.
I scrambled onto the dumpster and jumped to get my elbows onto the wall to haul myself up.
There was nothing on the other side to ease the drop from the wall.
I turned to the others who were looking at me expectantly.
I climbed back down in probably the least elegant way possible and faced them, shaking my head.
'I'm not certain but with his lack of strength and his injuries he wouldn't be able to do this without
causing serious injury and pain.' I explain. 'Also there's a sheer drop on the other side and I doubt
his legs would be able to take that force from jumping down. Plus there's no sign of blood.'
'Jimmy, you go that way just in case and keep us updated. We'll go this way.' The lady ordered
and the younger man, who was apparently called 'Jimmy', ran off and scaled the wall with ease.
'Come on.' She said and I followed her back out to the main road.
Emerging from round the corner we looked left and right to see if we could spot him. We couldn't.
'Group A is looking moreover that way so we'll go this way.' She directed and we set off, fast
walking down the busy pavements, carefully looking out for that familiar mop of dark, curly hair

walking down the busy pavements, carefully looking out for that familiar mop of dark, curly hair
in amongst the many other bobbing heads.
The man crossed the road, speeding ahead in his, what looked like it could be, jogging gear and
the lady looked to check her phone.
'Jimmy hasn't spotted him.' She said.
'Oh.' I said, a little disappointed but it was what I expected.
We carried on walking and after quite a few false alarms we bumped into another team who were
going in the other direction and also hadn't seen any sign of him.
I was tired and I felt deflated over the fact that we had him. Right in our grasps yet through them
he slipped.
Jimmy rejoined the group and we were set a new place, still searching for Sherlock.
By this time I hadn't exactly lost hope. It was just wearing thin.
*
Upon seeing the four people I knew immediately that they were a search group. Many things gave
them away, from their over awareness of their surroundings to the obvious fact that they went in
nearly every shop as they walked down the street, each time leaving empty handed. Then of
course was the fact that none other than Dr John Watson was with them. Mycroft clearly didn't
send his best people, he probably thought it a lost cause.
The group were plain clothed: the woman in a business suit with a black pencil skirt and jacket,
the man in navy track suit bottoms and grey t-shirt, the younger man pulled off jeans, a hoodie, a
coat and a cap, John wearing his usual jeans, shirt and coat.
I purposely bumped into the newly divorced Italian while mooching around the store with my
head in a book, taking the key that looked to fit the lock that I had already inspected.
Then it was just a matter of opening the door, leaving the key on a nearby stool. Upstairs, I
watched from the window as John and the other members of the party pondered on which way to
go. John came up with reasonable logic to which way I went but unfortunately for him it was all
based upon the assumption that I had left.
Which I had not.
An hour or so passed (57.12 minutes) and I decided now would be a good time to move. I had
taken the time to think about my current situation and decided that I should really just let Mycroft
pick me up.
I don't even know what the heck I was thinking in the first place, escaping from hospital just
because I didn't want to see John. I blame the drugs they had me hooked up to.
Slowly hobbling down the stairs I avoided the middle of the steps as they have a higher tendency
to creek and then silently left the shop from the back door that failed to have been closed.
I was about to pull out my mobile when I realised that that was one of the things my abductors
took. Great. I thought to myself.
'Looks like I'll just have to go and wave at some security cameras, which Mycroft will surely be
watching.' I murmured bitterly. 'This will be fun.' I said sarcastically, trying to understand why I

was talking to myself.

I was just about to limp out of the alleyway and into the main street to find a camera and stand
directly in it's line of sight when a figure came whizzing around the corner, who had obviously
just been full out sprinting for no longer than the distance of 20 meters.
He slowed, head bowed and hidden underneath his hoodie. Walking directly at me, I braced
myself to somehow fend him off, when I felt him force something into my hand. I didn't even
need to look at it to tell that it was my phone. 'Oh, so that's where it got to.' I though to myself
then whizzed around but he was already climbing over the fence and the sound of him running
away could easily be heard.
In my usual state I would have gone after him, caught up with him or cut him off. But my state
was unfortunately far from usual.
Turning on the phone, which still had it's password on but I had already given it them in a torture
session quite easily as I never kept important information on it, I swiped done on the password and
the screen showed iMessage. And a text that had been sent to the number I knew as John's.
I didn't save anyone's contact details, as they're very easy to remember, but they are also easy to
find. Reading the text I felt a rising wave of worry. In the typing section a message meant for me,
that had not been sent, read the simple command 'check notes.'
In the notes app a new note read; 'Mr. Holmes, as you are aware a text has been sent to your dear
friend, a Mr John H. Watson.'
'Dr. Not just 'Mr', Doctor.' I snarled, actually snarled, out.
I carried on reading, pausing at the end. 'See you there x. This phone will self-destruct at 1600.'
I immediately threw away the phone. Stepped back and checked my watch. It seemed like a stupid
idea to do it the other way round. Then sure enough a few seconds after the phone hit the ground
it exploded.
*
I was checking an alleyway when my phone buzzed. Eagerly I pulled it out hoping it to be
Sherlock. Yet I was readying myself for it to not be. Because it didn't seem all that likely for him
to text me, even it was what I was hoping for.
So it was a pleasant surprise to see his contact name appear on my screen.
'Meet me at Paddington Street Gardens at 23:00. Want to talk to you privately -SH'

Time To Go
I reread the message twice before deciding on what to do. He wanted to talk to me in private so I
presumed that meant that I wasn't supposed to tell anyone else. Which obviously meant that I
wasn't going to tell anyone. So when Jimmy came bounding up to me and posed the question,
'What you got there? Something to do with Sherlock?'
I calmly replied, 'Nah, nothing to do with that just, you know, work.' Slipping my phone back into
my pocket.
'Ok, you coming? We've not given up scouting round here yet.'
I followed the young man round the corner of the alleyway and back to the other half of the
group. We searched around for another hour or so and I felt a huge lot calmer over the fact that I
knew he was safe and was meeting me tonight. Apparently I also appeared a huge lot calmer as
Sandra, the lady in our group, asked me if I knew anything about Sherlock's whereabouts then
continued to ask me, when I said no, if I had taken an anti-stress pill. Later she also asked if I may
spare her one of these magic pills.
Around the forty five minute mark of our search after I received the text, did I start to feel doubt
worm it's way into my brain.
What if it wasn't Sherlock who texted me? His abductors could easily have obtained his phone. So
very easily... And wasn't he asking where his phone was when he arrived at Baker Street? Or he
might not have been, that was a few days back and I don't trust my memory. Or he could have just
found it? Maybe? Lestrade could have given it to him, like I previously the thought? Or this could
be a trap...
With conflicted feelings playing tennis in my mind, I was relieved when it was said that
everywhere had been checked at least two times and that there really was not much point in
looking round them again so I might as well return home and try not to distress myself over the
matter too much.
As the time started to approach 10:10pm, I decided that I should definitely take my gun, just in
case all was not as it seemed. While making a cup of tea, I saw my flip open knife that I bought
just because with Sherlock anything could happen. Slipping the knife into my pocket, I started to
feel more reassured that everything would be fine. Just fine.
I changed clothes and then placed my phone in my jacket and then placed my emergency phone in
a hidden pocket in my trouser leg. Sherlock bought me that emergency phone for, you know,
emergencies. I say phone, it's a brick. Not that it makes any difference, I'm not one for all of this
new 'techy' stuff.
Finishing my tea I checked my phone again to make sure I had remembered the right place and the
right time. I had. I was just being paranoid.
I started the walk to Paddington street gardens, feeling comforted by the fact that I was meeting
(hopefully) Sherlock somewhere public and not in some deserted warehouse in the middle of
nowhere.
It was a short walk, too short, as I was soon outside the park.
'Well, here goes.' I whispered to myself as I stepped into my destination.

'Well, here goes.' I whispered to myself as I stepped into my destination.

*
The time space in-between when my phone exploded and 22:00 went by at a rapid pace. Before I
knew I was readying myself to be abducted, again.
I ate a nice meal, as it was likely to be the last time in a while that I would get to do so and slept
for an hour. I wrote five notes for five people and handed them over to my homeless network who
were under the instructions to deliver the notes to the people the week after unless told otherwise.
In which the only case where that would happen would be if I managed to not get taken by those
psychos and somehow get John out of there too. Because that is actually the only case of which I
would have called off the notes being delivered.
Letting John go instead of me wasn't an option.
I hid drugs in many a place in my body and clothes. It seemed like suicide would probably be a
better path compared to getting tortured and revealing all sorts that would be the cause of many
deaths.
So then I set off.
Walking towards the flames. Walking into the trap. Walking right back into their clutches.
Because John was there. And for John I could do anything. Sacrifice everything. Give all. For
John, and John alone.
Approaching the park, on the dimly lit street, I caught a glimpse of a figure leaning against the
wall. After noticing me, he immediately turned and traipsed towards me. When his face became
illuminated by the orange light of a street lamp it only took me a second to realise he was the same
person who handed me my phone before.
This time instead of a phone he forced an earpiece into my hand before rushing off. Exhaling a
deep breath, I placed the earpiece carefully into my ear.
'Hello, Mr Holmes. Shall we begin?'
*
I checked my watch for what seemed like the eighth time in five minutes. It was 23:02 when I
heard the tread of familiar footsteps draw near. Looking up, all I wanted was to jump up and run
to him, throwing my arms around his frail frame and encasing him in a hug that spoke words of
safety, protection, friendship and love.
However I just slowly straightened up and met him in the middle. I was planning to just talk but as
I got nearer and I got an eyeshot of his battered face, I couldn't help but carefully wrap my arms
around him. Burying my face into his shoulder, I intently listened out for any sounds of discomfort
or pain.
'I'm so sorry, Sherlock.' I whispered into his shoulder. 'So very sorry.'
I awkwardly stood there for a few seconds, latching onto him. Until he slowly and no less
awkwardly, placed one hand on my back. The action of which I translated to mean all was
forgiven. Not that I actually think Sherlock was ever mad at me but for my peace of mind, that's
how I interpreted it.
So there we stood. Hugging each other. Not another word was spoken. Not another word was in

need of being spoken. We were both perfectly contempt just standing there in silence, arms around
each other, the perfect picture of two friends reunited.
Because as they say, a picture paints a thousand words.
*
John didn't notice me trying to cover up my injuries when he looked up. John didn't notice the
earpiece. John didn't notice the tear that trickled down my cheek as he wrapped his arms tenderly
around me.
John hadn't noticed but John wasn't supposed to notice. He only saw what I let him. Keeping him
in the dark. Keeping him blind and ignorant to these little things. These little things that all meant
so much.
'Ah, how sweet.' Came the cynical voice, disturbing the moment. 'Now get him off you.'
I flinched and made a pained noise. John immediately let go of me and looked at me with concern.
'Are you okay?' He questioned, then rephrased and asked, 'What hurts?'
Everywhere. I wanted to say
'No, I'm okay. It's just my ribs.' I actually said.
'Oh that worked well.' The voice, it was a lady's voice, said to me.
Then that was the first time I properly took in my surroundings. My eyes had been fixed to John
like he was some sort of magnet, and then they had been closed as I tried to push back telling
tears. But at that moment I saw everything.
There were three snipers in the trees. All aimed at us. There were two in the building windows,
facing the park. While John only had a knife in one pocket and a gun tucked into the waist band
of his pants. It wasn't enough.
He had his mobile on him and the emergency phone in his trouser leg pocket...there was a tracker
in each of those phones, because Mycroft is an 'invasion of your privacy' kinda prick. But he
could have been our saviour...
Come on, I urged him in my head, don't be a lazy dick.
However then I remembered about the other threat and all hope seemed lost. That was it, I was
going back to my abductors.
'Oh,' Said John, pulling me back into the here and now, 'Do you wanna go and sit down or
something?'
'No, I'll be fine.' I lied.
'The van is coming around the corner. You're going to go with the nice man and get in like a good
dear and act like you're willingly going.' I wanted to laugh at her as she demanded this. 'You have
around twenty seconds for your goodbyes.'
I felt my eyes widen.
No. That was too soon. I needed more time. I couldn't just say goodbye to the one person I care
most about in this entire world in under twenty seconds.

most about in this entire world in under twenty seconds.

With not a millisecond to spare I started rambling off like I would when I voiced my deductions.
Fitting in as much as I can.
'John, I want you to know that you are an amazing person. And although it is I, you praise with
such words that I may not deserve, including 'extraordinary', 'astounding', 'brilliant' and the like, I
feel very strongly about the fact that you do. You deserve to be called all those beautiful words.
Because you John Watson, are a thrill seeking, army doctor, who is kind and virtuous and good in
all ways, and I could never have asked for a better friend.' John at this point was looking at me
with a smile so affectionate that I saved it in my mind palace, but nevertheless he looked very
bewildered and confused. 'I want you to know that I hold you in the highest regard and that I,
despite the fact that 'caring is not an advantage' was drummed into my head from an early age,
care about you ever so deeply and wish you luck in all your future endeavours.' And that I will
always love you.
John looked like I had just turned myself into a monkey then back again. Gobsmacked didn't
cover it.
'Time to go.' The lady in my ear purred. I turned my head to see the sleek, black van stop and a
huge man climbing out. I also spotted the man with the video recorder. So me going 'willingly'
with them was going to be recorded then, right.
John hadn't noticed me trying to cover up my injuries when he looked up. John hadn't noticed the
earpiece. John hadn't noticed the tear that trickled down my cheek as he wrapped his arms
tenderly around me.
Meaning that John hadn't noticed that I didn't want him to feel sad or even possibly guilty, if he
saw my injuries. Meaning that John hadn't noticed that for him I would be controlled like some
kind of puppet. Meaning John hadn't noticed that this would be goodbye.
My voice sounded desperate and hollow, it's entirety tinged with sadness.
'Goodbye, John.'
Alike a lamb's, my legs were weak and wobbly as I walked towards the van. So this is the end.

Too Late
Sometimes before it gets better
The darkness gets bigger
The person that you'd take a bullet for is behind the trigger
~ Fall Out Boy: Miss Missing You

'Mr. Holmes, as you are aware a text has been sent to your dear friend, a Mr John H. Watson.
Now there are two ways this can go. John will arrive at the meeting place expecting to meet you.
If you fail to come, you will let John down in more ways than one. He will be captured and taken
in much the same way as you were, and then tortured, again in a way similar to you. We can use
him as leverage against you and get some information out of him himself or you can willingly
come with us. No harm will be issued to Mr Watson. Know that any attempt to run away with
John or escape in any manner will mean that John will be shot with a tranquilliser and then taken.
Oh and a Miss Hooper will be found dead shortly afterwards. See you there x. This phone will
self-destruct at 1600.'
That was what the whole message on notes was. I repeated three sections, again and again in my
mind as I walked towards the van.
'Tortured, again in a way similar to you.'
'John will be shot with a tranquilliser and then taken.'
'Miss Hooper will be found dead.'
These kept replaying in my head. Reminding me of the consequences of trying to flee. They
fought against my natural instinct to run away, to survive. They were the reason I kept on
walking.
*
I had just offered Sherlock the option of sitting down, after he complained about his ribs hurting,
when he launched into a full on speech. And a beautiful speech at that.
It was fast paced, very much like the man who was giving it, but completely out of the blue. So
obviously I was more than a bit befuddled.
Why on earth was he saying such sweet things? So sweet, I wouldn't have been half surprised if
he had got down on one knee after and proposed. I was, however, very surprised over how happy
that image made me.
But then he finished his dialogue and it sounded far too much like a goodbye. Far, far too much.
I just kind of stood there like some bewildered, dumb animal. I vaguely heard him say goodbye
and I watched with wide, almost tearful, eyes as he turned around to go.
I wanted to run up to him. I wanted to yell at him 'what are you doing?! or perhaps 'where are you
going?!'. And I desperately wanted to go over there and hug him again. However I found myself
gripped down by the pavement and rooted to the spot.

I'm not sure if it was the shock or what, but it felt like I had been zapped with a stun gun or my
body had just frozen over in the chilly English weather, rendering me unable to move.
Yet I could see him.
He was walking towards a van. A black van that screamed dodgy. With a man leaning against it,
arms crossed with a gun sticking out of his pocket. A man that screamed murderer. And Sherlock
was just walking towards the scene. A scene that screamed danger.
Has Sherlock lost the fucking plot?!
Why, on earth, am I still standing here?! I thought to myself before sprinting over to Sherlock and
taking a firm grip of his arm.
'Where the hell do you think your going?!' I asked/yelled at him.
'John, calm down it's fine.' Sherlock said collectedly. How he could even be somewhat calm
astounded me.
'It's bloody well not fine!' I bit back at him. 'Where are you even going?'
He kind of looked a bit like he was struggling for words, which was strange for him, as he rarely
did so. The look didn't suit him. It made him look like a confused, lost puppy and Sherlock is
definitely not a puppy. Lost or otherwise.
*
'Tick tock, Sherlock.' The voice taunted in my ear.
'You don't need to concern yourself with that. Everything will be alright.' I managed to say. John
bore an expression that clearly told me that he thought I was mad. I gave him what I hoped was a
reassuring smile before turning back and moving towards the van.
So I kept on moving. That was until I felt the barrel of a gun against my skull.
*
The gun was pointed right at his head. At the back of his skull. He froze immediately. I took in a
deep breath and I think he did too, before he had the guts to swivel round on his heel so that the
barrel was on his forehead.
'Don't move.' I demanded, voice a lot steadier than I would have guessed it to be.
'John,' Sherlock said warningly. 'Put the gun down.'
*
Mycroft hadn't slept. Neither had Greg. They were staying up together, each scrutinising the
screens that showed what the cameras were filming.
That was until one by one the screens turned black.
Just random cameras all throughout London went dark. Dotting around until at least two thirds
went out.
Lestrade watched, shock spread blatantly across his face as Mycroft looked on orderly,
calculatingly, trying to spot any patterns. Any significance to the mess of black screens.

'What-What's going on?!' Lestrade spluttered.

'I don't know.' Mycroft admitted. 'But someone obviously doesn't want us to see what's happening
right now.' He continued, addressing Lestrade. Then ordering someone on the intercom to get
people down there fast.
'Is this related to the Sherlock thing?' Greg queried.
'Strong possibility. If so whoever abducted Sherlock is making their move and that can only be
bad.' Mycroft sighed, running a hand through his hair. He then started typing ferociously on his
keyboard. 'Damnit.' He cursed under his breath.
Lestrade had never, in the several times he had met him, heard the always put together Mycroft
Holmes, with his suits, umbrellas and sleek black cars, ever say something as ordinary or
unpolished as 'damnit'. The mere presence of that unrefined curse on the refined man's lips
immediately sent alarm bells off in his mind.
'What? What is it?' Lestrade asked.
'Something or someone is scrambling the trackers in both of John's phones and has been since he
left two hundred and twenty one Baker Street, ten minutes ago.' Mycroft said, significantly more
put together then a few moments previously.
'Oh god... You don't think they...' Greg said, concern rippling through his voice.
'Don't make assumptions when you don't have all the facts. Assumptions can be extremely
dangerous.'
It may not be very surprising to you, that Lestrade was neither assured nor comforted by this
statement.
'So what are we going to do?'
'Find them.'
*
John was pointing a gun at me. Me!
After an original point of astoundment, I managed to turn around to find that yes, it was actually
John Watson, pressing a gun onto my head. What has the world come to?
I looked him in the eye. He was obviously in a somewhat panicked state but was still trying to
keep a calm exterior on as he spoke the command.
'Don't move.'
'John, put the gun down.' I told him. He didn't respond.
I listened out for the lady in my ear to tell me what to do. I was, after all, just following her orders,
like a dog or puppet or something similar. How very degrading.
'Walk to the van.' She, eventually, said sternly, before laughing and saying 'He is your best friend!
He is not going to shoot you.
So I started to slowly pace away from John. Backwards. Keeping my eyes locked with his. She

was right, of course John wasn't going to shoot me. But I froze as he clicked off the safety. It was
still most probable that he wasn't going to shoot me but these people had tortured me for 6 months,
I was sure as hell not going to make it easy for them to abduct me again.
Plus any extra moments -even gun pointing moments- with John were pure gold and I would
greedily take as many as I could.
'I said,' John spoke through gritted teeth, 'Don't move.' Then he started to journey closer to me,
closing off the distance I put between us when I paced backwards. It was 3.4 meters away from
the van. I was stuck between the one thing I wanted most and the one thing that forced me to
leave the first.
'I need to go, John. It's perfectly safe.' I told him, with as much assured confidence as I could
muster.
It was so aggravating. I could have easily gotten John out of there and myself in some mad kind of
action seen. Blinked at him 'run' in morse code then we would have dashed out of this infernal
park filled with infernal people. If he got shot with a tranquilliser I still would have been able to
get him to safety before he completely lost consciousness and within moments Mycroft would
have been on the scene. But they knew that. So they took precautions.
They threatened someone I wouldn't be able to get to in time if John and I dashed out of this park
at this very second.
They threatened Molly Hooper.
What arseholes.
'Oh yeah and if it's so 'perfectly safe', why won't you tell me where you're going.' John
challenged.
'Fine. Here's the short of it. I've caused a big problem by leaking information to my abductors and
I need to go fix it.' I said, lying through my teeth. I smiled at him reassuringly. 'It's all going to be
fine, now please would you stop pointing your gun at me.'
There was a sort of hesitance in John's eyes as he started to lower the gun. Yet then there was a
flash of occurrence and the gun was back against my temple again.
'You're not going on a dodgy trip to right whatever wrongs you think you caused, with a man
with a gun and a black van with the injuries you have and you are certainly not going without me.'
'I have to go.'
'Why?' John demanded angrily.
'Because people have died because of me!' I yelled at him, it was the only explanation I could
come up with on the spot and it seemed to work as John seemed to recognise the guilt that I felt
and why I felt I had to do what he thought I was doing. If that is understandable.
In a way what I said was the truth. People had died because of me. And I wasn't going to let
anyone else get hurt. Molly couldn't be killed and John couldn't be tortured. And if that meant that
I was tortured some more before I killed myself with one of the many drugs hidden around my
body, then so be it.
'Will it be dangerous?' John's asked, visibly trying to be calmer.

'Not overly.' I answered simply.

'You shouldn't go, not on your own and not with your injuries.'
'I have to. Anyway,' I shrugged nonchalantly, 'Mycroft will be keeping an eye on me.' I was
pleased to see John look slightly relieved by this statement as he slowly lowered the gun. He
stared at me and I grinned at him while inside the whole of my being was screaming 'help', which
believe me is not an easy thing to accomplish. 'Thank you.' I said, simply.
Then I started walking away as the lady in my ear congratulated me on my acting skills.
Completely ignoring her, I just kept on thinking if that was really the last ever conversation I was
going to have with John Watson. And what an earth I did to deserve all of this?
*
He was going to leave.
Sherlock was going to leave me.
For a man with a serial killer look to him nonetheless.
I let my gun fall from his head and watched with wide eyes as he said,
'Thank you.'
It didn't seem right. I knew Sherlock, probably better than anyone else. I knew his face and his
expressions like the back of my hand and at that moment I could see something wasn't right.
Sherlock was a marvellous actor and an even better liar but in the space of what could only have
been a few seconds, his expression, even though he was smiling, looked void of all emotion. Yes
he was smiling, but his eyes appeared like they were desperately trying to not show emotion.
Why would he be doing that? I thought over the question to myself.
It took me a second to process all of this and what it might mean. Everything that I had seen.
Everything that had happened. Everything that he had said.
Think, think, think. Oh God, just THINK!
Then I got it.
What I had seen, said that, somehow, this was all a set up. That meant that everything that
happened was fake. Which indicated that everything he had said was a lie.
A lie.
He, Sherlock, lied.
The last time he did that, properly lied, didn't end well, to say the least.
He lied to me. He jumped off a building. He 'died'.
'SHERLOCK!' I screamed at him, running up to the van.
But it was too late.
I was too late.

Unstoppable
Chapter Notes

Quick filler chapter ;)

Oh God, it's happening again! He's fucking leaving again! That was the only thing on my mind at
that second. Also were the words; I'm not going to lose him, not again.
I had screamed 'SHERLOCK!', like I had when he stepped off the roof of St Bart's.
Oh God, it's happening again!
I ran to him as soon as I could but it was too late.
Oh God, it's happening again.
I couldn't comprehend exactly what was happening.
Oh God, it's happening again...
I didn't make it in time and he was gone.
Oh God, it's happened again.
*
I stepped into the vehicle.
Such an insignificant thing; stepping into a vehicle. It's done by most daily, it's part of routine.
Stepping into a car to go to work, stepping on a bus to go to school, or even just stepping onto a
train in the tube.
Yet this, this was different. Oh so very different. This was a one way trip to an unfortunately
unpleasant destination.
Normally people don't fear getting into that vehicle, whatever the vehicle may be. People don't
think that this is the vehicle that will take them to their death. Well, not usually anyway.
Although, right then, I don't think I could say I was really scared. There was a certain sense of fear
obviously, but it was overwhelmed by the feeling of relief that flowed through my veins.
I was relieved.
John was safe. Molly was safe. I was safe, from the huge feeling of guilt and sorrow which would
have filled me if anything happened to them.
So when I stepped onto the vehicle everyone became safe and then I felt relieved.
*

The dodgy looking man drove off in his van with Sherlock inside... with Sherlock inside.
They drove off around the corner and I ran after them, pulling my phone out as I ran. Chasing
after the van, I clicked the button to phone Mycroft as his number was on speed dial.
He, thankfully, answered almost immediately.
'John?'
'Help, I need help. Sherlock-in-van-um-Moxon Street, help!' I somehow managed to say inbetween breaths. The van was still in my sights but seemed to be getting faster in a bid to lose me.
'Keep on telling us where you are.'
'Getting faster!' I said briefly.
'We'll get there as soon as we can, people are on there way.'
'Cramer Street.'
'Ok.'
I was catching up to the van as I ran past a bunch of drunks hanging around Holland & Barrett, I
think they may have yelled at me but all of my attention was focused on running and following
that van.
Well that was until I felt something got jabbed in my neck by a passerby and then I was struggling
against them as everything went dark.
All I saw was black as I felt the cold of the floor on my back. Then I have a vague recollection of
being dragged before I completely lost any sense of the world.
*
I sat on the floor of the van for 23 seconds before the other person in there, (5'11", male, divorced,
2 or 3 children, age 33-35,) knocked me out with chloroform.
It all went black like the darkest of nights and there in the black I was left to my thoughts, which
came harshly washing over me like forceful waves surging over rocks.
When one is journeying to somewhere where their death is the most probable outcome and torture
is inevitable it's not exactly a good idea for one to be left alone with their thoughts. That was
something I think I proved when those thoughts flooded my brain.
Memories that seemed so distant but in reality had only occurred a small number of days ago.
Memories of being beaten, day in and day out. Memories of the guilt that weighed down on my
shoulders every time someone died and I knew that I caused that death. The guilt that no matter
how hard I tried to persuade myself that it wasn't my fault, that I was not the one doing this, that
this was them and not me; just kept on creeping back into my mind.
The overwhelming flow of fear every time I became conscious. How I would shake, physically
shake, when they came near me. The fact that I had been bottling everything up even though I'm
pretty sure I should probably have been having some sort of therapy after having gone through
that kind of 'trauma'. And even though I'm unlikely to admit it I did believe I was traumatised. I
was scared of the dark, I was scared when I was alone and I was scared when people got to close
too me.

I wasn't used to this, being scared and all. Being scared of irrational things. Being scared of
rational things I can handle but this was not logical and I couldn't stand being scared of stupid
things like my own shadow.
But just because I couldn't stand it didn't mean that I could stop it.
*
Ow.
My head ached and my back hurt. I could distantly hear someone's voice like I was on some far
away planet, but couldn't quite register the words that were being said. I thought I recognised the
voice as it got louder. The louder noises echoed around in my brain, bouncing off the walls of my
mind.
I attempted to remember what happened but everything was just fuzzy and soft... So soft. Gently, I
slowly drifted into this blurred world with all it's soft edges and comfy ground.
I wasn't even trying to remain conscious anymore. Given up on the idea of just simply waking up
and instead succumbing to this dream world that seemed like it was made of clouds. Clouds and
cotton candy. Aah, I relaxed into a lying down position and from then on in, the softness just kept
on pulling me in.
I'm still not sure how long I was out of it as when I woke up it really wasn't the first thing on my
confused mind. My surroundings had changed drastically; from the dimly lit pavement to a pristine
bed in what looked like a hospital room.
'John?' Asked the familiar voice from before. My eyes opened in a way that could only be
described as fluttered open and I looked up to see Greg standing over my bed, phone in hand.
'Hey it's me Greg.' His tone was gentle in a way that I had not heard him use up till then.
'Wha-what happened?' For a second I really wanted him to tell me something that meant that
everything that had happened was just a dream. Nothing more then an involuntary vision that
flashed through my unconscious being. Obviously this wild fancy was disproved when Lestrade
started talking.
'You were drugged and dragged into an alleyway where we found you. The area was mainly
surrounded. There were millions of decoy black vans, literally, everywhere. But it seems that
tracking them all down was pointless as he'd probably been transferred to a different car anyway.'
I could hear the anger building up as he ranted. 'Godamnit, John! We lost him! We had him and
he slipped through our fingers!'
The word was accented as he punched the nearby wall. In different, lighter circumstances I would
have asked what an earth the wall did to him. Unfortunately the circumstances present then were
not different and most certainly not light.
Honestly, I felt quite angry myself. Initially at Greg and for, as he said, letting Sherlock slip
through their fingers, then at myself. I was too slow. Didn't see the signs of something being
amiss. I didn't put the clues together until the last minute.
'You're an idiot.'
That was Sherlock. Well it was Sherlock's distinctive voice in my head I mean, not actually
Sherlock, to my disappointment.
'Shut up!' I hissed in reply.

Greg was still breathing deep, ragged breaths as a result from his previous raging and violent acts
towards inanimate walls. He blinked slowly.
'What?' He asked confused.
'No, no, no, don't be like that. Practically everyone is.'
I gave a little laugh. Great timing Sherlock.
'What? It's really not funny.' Greg stated looking serious and rather worried that it had all just got
too much for me and I'd jumped onto the train departing sanity.
'No, no.' I confirmed, shaking my head. 'It's just, just...' I said struggling for words. Sighing I just
went with, 'Thinking about something Sherlock once said.'
Greg's face immediately dropped. An instant change from anger and seriousness to concern and
sympathy.
'We will find him.' Lestrade said, with a definitiveness that made it sound like there were no other
options. When in the back of both of our minds we knew that there were quite a few different
options. None of them good.
Later I was released from hospital with a bewildered look from the nurse. Outside, Greg and I
stood there, in the light caress of the breeze, as an orange hue began to come up into the sky and
the sun started to regain it's place in our sights. The overhead darkness was forced away and the
stars covered up in layers of lights.
Then as the new day dawned a new outlook revealed itself to me. Banished, were the feelings of
fear and negativity, like the dark night in the break of day. Hidden, was the worry, anxiety, and
distress, like the concealed stars. Finally the sun and the array of oranges, yellows, and reds burst
through. My body being consumed by motivational fury, tact, bravery, and a wall of determination
nothing could break down.
'We will find him.' I recited because now it was the only option. Greg nodded in agreement and I
felt like I had only done on few occasions.
Unstoppable.

Flowers
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

There was a smell in the room that I remember distinctly. It was the usual of damp and mould and
other unpleasantries one is sure to find in a rotting stone cell but one thing stood out. One aroma
seemed oh so very out of place.
Lavender.
The scent was distant, too distant for even me to decipher exactly what it was, but close enough
for it to get my senses tickling and mind whirring. It wasn't perfume, it was too fresh and with no
extra smells. An actual flower.
Why?
*
On the part of getting a good mental attitude I was sorted, on the part of what to actually do I was
less sorted and more lost.
Mycroft was working himself up in a frenzy. A scary contrast to his usual self. He had been up all
night, trying to find Sherlock. Trying to find any kind of lead actually, with little progress. Poor
man was exhausted and seemed to just be running around in circles. Or more precise, sprinting.
So Lestrade gave him a sleeping draft in his tea. Which of course, he being a Holmes, realised as
soon as he gulped down a mouthful of the steaming liquid. After much reasoning by Greg,
Mycroft downed the entire cup and went for a sleep for what he made sure, with the help of
multiple alarms, was no longer than one and a half hours.
Lestrade was much better at this then me. He had the three c's in the bag; cool, calm, collected. I
think his job and experience probably helped him detach himself from the 'case' and keep a level
head, emotions all at bay.
It's not like I was an emotional wreck I just felt so over faced. We came to the office like block
from earlier and there was a map and strings and dots and I just didn't know where to start. This
was what Sherlock did, not me.
At this moment in time we had a huge team assisting us. Lestrade also proved to be a good leader,
as he is a DI after all. He lead the six people in our room expertly. I liked to think that other groups
were doing better however because no matter how good of a leader you are there are some things
that can't be achieved by admirable leadership alone.
One of them unfortunately being finding a missing person.
*
Mmm.
Lavender.
-noun

1. a pale bluish purple.

2. any Old World plant or shrub belonging to the genus Lavandula, of the mint family, especially
L. angustifolia, having spikes of fragrant, pale purple flowers.
I searched my brain for anything else. At long last I had a puzzle... of sorts. But I was willing to
take anything to stop my mind crumbling away like an ancient ruin.
The genus name 'lavandula' derives from the Latin word 'lavare'; meaning to wash, as the
Romans used lavender as a bath scent.
Urgh, useless. Why is this in my palace. Delete. Anything else?
At least 28 species of lavender plants. Lavandula augustifolia (English lavender) is one of the
most common. Lavandula dentate (sometimes referred to as French or Spainish lavender) is a
favourite within the perfume industry.
I sniffed in the fragrance again, identifying it as English lavender. However I was unable to
determine what specific type. Perhaps lavenite petite, imperial gem or even a hicote. If only I
could have seen it.
Flowers having meanings was popular in the Victorian era. In the language of flowers lavender
meant serenity, grace, calmness or denote purity, silence, devotion and caution.
Well, I was being silent and quite calm actually considering the situation, as well as being
cautious. Always cautious. Not a moment passed that I wasn't guarded and alert. Constantly
looking over my shoulder at the nothingness that stared back at me. Oh, how I wished John could
have been there, looking back into my eyes instead of the emptiness that surrounded me.
Then suddenly it changed. The supposedly soothing smell of lavender gone, replace by kennedia.
Kennedia - mental beauty.
What?
*
Sherlock, it turns out, is a very good motivator, even to those of whom he has never met. How is it
that one man can have so much influence?
I would sit down, rubbing my eyes as a yawn managed to squirm out and Lestrade would 'subtly'
say to someone,
'We need to find Sherlock and soon.'
And bam! Totally recharged and ready to work.
Most of the members of our group seemed to be familiar with and admire Sherlock Holmes and all
that he had done. Not surprising as the majority work or have worked with his brother after all. So
for some reason a similar thing where Sherlock was mentioned propelled them on too.
I wasn't really sure if we were really getting anywhere nearer to our goal as little progress was
seeming to be made.
'Have we actually got anywhere?' I sighed, dragging my hand over my face.
'Yes we have eliminated many a place that they could be and we also have narrowed down the

'Yes we have eliminated many a place that they could be and we also have narrowed down the
cars, that he could have been transported by, to 5. So yes, we have got somewhere.' Lestrade bit
back.
'Yeah, yeah. You're right.'
'Don't be negative. I won't take negativity. I'm normally the negative one.' Greg chuckled quietly.
I looked at him smiling apologetically.
'Come on then. Back to work!'
*
Mental beauty...
A compliment? Perhaps.
From whom?
My eyes searched the thick darkness to no prevail. Yet I could hear something. The slight shuffle
of feet. Someone's bored. Probably a guard.
Slowly and quietly, I dragged myself towards the faint noise and found that there instead of a solid
wall were some rotting metal bars. The fifth one from the left I found was particularly weak. If
only...
However that was where the guard stood. So they do know of it, shame.
The scent of flowers was stronger here. Who was it though who was leaving the flowers? I was
unable to barely see so there wasn't really much I could deduce.
Suddenly there was the distinctive click of 3 inch stiletto heels on the cold concrete floor. A
glimpse of light came from where she came and I took that moment to look at the flower in her
hand.
A hand flower tree.
Warning.
*
We had a lead.
An actual, real, proper, solid lead. The room was literally buzzing with excitement and tension. I
could physically feel it and Greg could too as he called Mycroft.
Finally we were getting somewhere.
We had found the car which Sherlock had most probably been transported in and the driver as
well. The van was unoriginally ditched by a small river. The driver transported up to us.
'I'll ask again; where was your destination?' Lestrade questioned.
'Don't know.' The man, name unknown, replied flatly.
'Yes you do. You drove there.' Countered Lestrade. 'So where did you go?' He repeated gesturing
to the map laid out on the table to which the pair were sitting on opposite sides of.

The man shrugged his answer as I watched from behind the glass. Fists clenching and
unclenching as I barely resisted the urge to go and literally knock an actual answer out of his
infuriating, stupid, smug face.
'Where did you drive them?' The detective asked again, unemotionally in a detached manner. He
wasn't going to let this guy get under his skin. He was going to stay calm and business like. I wish
I could say the same about myself and my growing ball of anger, trapped deep inside my stomach,
desperate to break free.
'I dunno. They told me directions. I followed.' He answered, using actual words this time but the
answer held just as much use. Groaning, I ran a hand through my hair. This wasn't going
anywhere.
'Who is 'they'.' Lestrade inquired.
'Dunno.'
'Yes, you do.'
'Maybe.'
'So who are they?'
'Maybe not.'
'Oh, for God's sake!' I muttered under my breath, as I texted Greg.
'This isn't going anywhere. They probably will have moved him already. He could be in France
for all we know.'
Then I watched as Lestrade's phone pinged and he glanced back at the window, or mirror in his
case, as he unlocked his phone and read the text. Standing up and walking to the door without
another word, I heaved in a hopefully calming breath as he appeared through the doorway.
'Don't think like that.' Was all he said before he ducked back into the room and continued
interrogating our only questionable lead.
*
The light disappeared but I could hear the lady approach the guard. She stood on her toes to
whisper, not all that well but quiet enough that the camera in the corner wouldn't be able to
decipher what was being said, in the man's ear.
'Corridor 5 minutes.'
I squinted as the man left and the glimpse of light was gone. It was only there for 2.3 seconds but
in that time I got a decent look at the woman.
Unkempt hair in a scruffy bob that hadn't been cut for over 4 months and the last time it was cut it
was definitely not by a qualified hairdresser. Actually judging by the hairs slant, it was quite likely
that she cut it herself. So was unable to go to a hairdressers, not surprising due to her career path.
She wore a red dress and black heels, that for some reason were new. Yet around her ankle there
was evidence of a chain that had been quite recently taken off. It looked similar to mine and my
mind wandered to what she did to get her's taken off.
Processing a load of new information about many things, both useful and not, I almost missed it

when she spoke, voice barely above a whisper.

'You need to get out,' Then in an urgent tone almost like a hiss, 'Now.'
*
Darkness was crawling up to us by the time he started to talk. Talk as in voice anything remotely
useful. Useful as in of some use but not what we wanted to hear. What we wanted to hear as in
where the world's only consulting detective was and that he wasn't going anywhere soon.
Unfortunately, that was not the case.
'It must be around 7 o'clock, right?' The man grunted.
Lestrade turned his head with a brow up in questioning but attempting to not give away the time.
The man just laughed in his face then said eight simple words that made my blood curdle and my
stomach drop. Greg's did too judging by his facial expression.
There was a ringing in my ears as I had to reach out for the wall to steady myself. Slowly, as if I
was a distraught character in a movie, I leant against the solid concrete and slipped down it and to
the floor. Curling my arms around my brought up knees in some sort of protective ball, I let my
head lull on top as a single tear drew it's path down my face.
Because that was the second thing that I most definitely did not want to hear and I just couldn't do
this anymore, it simply became too much. They bounced around inside my head and I being too
drained, I didn't even try to block them out. So they persisted on, until it was the only thing I could
hear. And the words merged with my mind until it was integrated into me.
Into my very being.
The eight words, the 28 letters, that meant my destruction if they became true.
'You're too late. He'll be dead by dawn.'

Chapter End Notes

Bit of a dramatic chapter, I know. I used the Internet to find the flower's meanings
and different sites said different things so just go with it ;)

Crimson
Chapter Notes

Ok so this chapter may be a little confusing but basically it starts off forward in time
then when it goes to the flashback it returns to where the other chapter left off in
Sherlock's POV.

The red fluid that circulates the principal vascular system of humans and other vertebrates, also
known as blood, is obviously an essential thing needed for survival.
Fortunately the vast majority of us are never put in a situation where we are in a dangerous lack of
blood.
Unfortunately I was.
Slightly mesmerised, I watched the dark crimson beads fall to the floor.
Drip.
Drop.
Drip...
<<<\\flashback\\<<<
'You need to get out, now.'
'Why don't you tell me something I don't already know.' I bit back at her, imitating her hushed
tones. Did she really think that I didn't know that already? Yet the urgency of her words and tone
did bring to mind some unfavourable scenarios.
'They're going to take you away to hell, now talk normally.' She whispered. 'I just came to see the
one and only consulting detective. It seemed like a rare opportunity. I thought I might as well
grasp it with both hands.' She continued, in a more audible, but not overly suspicious, volume,
punctuating the last word by grabbing onto the metal bars caging me inside.
'I doubt I will be very impressive at this moment of time.' I replied. Slowly sliding towards her as
she the sound of her drumming fingers was heard in the darkness.
'Oh well you don't want to disappoint a girl do you? Mr 'olmes?' A slight nudge of her foot
signalled the beats of her fingers becoming more structured.
Morse.
Dit dit dit. Pause.
Dit dah dit dit. Pause.
Dit. Pause.

Dit. Pause
Dit dah dah dit. Pause
Sleep...
Sleep?
*
Do you know control? That thing that stops you when you're just about to take it too far. The God
that calms and soothes the raging seas, threatening to flood. The peacekeeper to the hate fuelled
anger.
Do you know anger? Real anger? The all consuming fury that demolishes everything in its path.
The infuriating madness that propels you on to do the most regrettable, despicable things. The ever
ticking bomb that will explode into darkness, enclosing all light. I would have to say that I do as
right at that moment anger bombed and obliterated the SS Control.
After basically falling to pieces when he voiced that, 'He'll be dead by dawn.' Now came an anger
driven incentive. Because I felt hopeless against protecting Sherlock as I didn't have a fucking clue
where he was, yet maybe I could hurt someone who helped abduct him instead.
I stormed into the room, all guns blazing. I don't really remember exactly what happened, it all
blended into one huge blaze of red, but considering that Lestrade was standing directly in the
driver's path, I'm quite sure I kinda shoved him out the way.
Once the path was clear I almost flew at the man. Alarm bells were ringing in my head as I
grabbed him by his collar and hoisted him up the wall. However they were quickly suppressed.
A fist flashed in front of my face and I ducked and grabbed his arm, pushing it above his head. I
still saw fist after fist coming out and it took my adrenaline fuelled brain a moment to realise that
they were my fists. Punching the man I declared not worthy to be kept safe in his cell.
Then I thought of how if only Sherlock could see me now. Because it was all for him. Wasn't it?
He would be pleased, proud even... A thought struck me that if our roles were reversed I wouldn't
be pleased. And I definitely wouldn't be proud. I would be disgraced at what I saw and that it was
supposedly going on in my name. Hurting the man who probably wouldn't be involved in the
main plot. He was the driver. Just the driver.
I only had to turn round to see that my theories were correct. Even though he was making no
attempt to stop me, a cast down look of sadness played upon Lestrade's weary features.
But we interrupt this to tell you kids a quick lesson. Now children if you're in the midst of beating
someone up don't turn your back to them. Nope. Not a good idea.
I counted four fists hitting my face with force. There may have been more, there were surely not
any less.
I had turned back to face him when the last two came flying at me. I could have blocked, ducked,
defended. Yet I didn't. I guess I thought it would help ease my conscience.
Honestly, it didn't.
His nose was a tap for blood and red was getting everywhere. Eventually I pinned both his hands

above his head and talked to him.

'Not another word out your mouth unless it is about where I can find Sherlock Holmes, capiche?
Oh and sorry about your face.' Then with a nod to Lestrade, I just simply walked out.
*
It was another 12 minutes before someone came into the stone cold cell. I was huddled up in a
loose ball in the corner furthest from the gate feigning a sort of sleep like daze.
Her instructions had not been the clearest so I decided to take the safe option and pretend to be
asleep. I strongly doubted that now was the time where I had to 'sleep' but seeing as there was
absolutely nothing else to do, closing my eyes and breathing regularly while I thought, wasn't too
much of a chore.
A guard came in and I squinted slightly as he set down a tray of food next to me. He was about
5"10 with a muscular build but nothing spectacular. If I wasn't so tired I could have taken him. If
he bent down further I could have grabbed him and pulled his gun from his right side pocket to his
head. If I hadn't been subjected to months of torture I could have fought him. So many 'ifs',
nothing concrete. Nothing real.
A single lightbulb overhead came to life with a single flick of a switch. Aw, nice for them to give
me some artificial light to eat by. It flickered as I investigated the food.
One bowl of sloppy curry. A glass of red, it was probably one of the only drinks they bothered to
bring enough of. A slice of old, cheesy bread. Lovely.
Carefully I slid to one of the furthest corners just out of reach of the single working camera and
near the loose bricks. The light turned out to be a burden as I tried to slip the food and drink into
the hole where I had pulled out a section of rubble and clay.
The guard kept turning round. Inspecting my eating. In the light he could have made out what I
was doing so it took quite the slight of hand to pull the spoon to my mouth then drop it's contents
into the dark crevice where I could conceal it.
Under the bowl of curry lay a flower. An apocynum, or dogbane as it commonly known. It was
easily identifiable, especially with the added light and I quickly remembered its meaning.
Dogbane - Deceit, falsehood.
I figured that one out myself, I thought bitterly, throwing the flower down with the rest of the
food. I mean why else would they serve me extremely strong tasting foods if not to cover the taste
of something else?
Master criminals my arse. Anderson could have been less obvious.
The brick was placed back and the metal tray made an awful scraping sound as I pushed it away.
Then it was time for sleep.
*
So apparently our driver man can follow orders when they are, let's say, 'delivered' in the right
way.
The right way being forcefully with a bit of added violence.

Lestrade devised a clever, albeit simplistic, plan of asking when 'insert unimportant and
unmemorable name' would get here, just as he was walking into are man's interrogation room.
'Around eleven-ish, so in about 20 minutes?'
At the sound of these words the man's mouth became a wicked grin.
'So it's around ten forty, ain't it?'
'Perhaps.' Lestrade said nonchalantly as he sat down, crossing his hands together on the table. 'But
remember what he said. No chit chat unless it's info. Don't you forget it.'
'Hmm.' The man hummed as he looked straight ahead as if he was deep in thought.
'Anything you want to tell me?'
'Perhaps... Where's that map?'
Once Lestrade had spread out the map back onto the table, the driver hesitantly pointed a cautious
finger to the spot where he dropped them off.
After that it was all a bit of a blur. Well, more like a mad rush really.
Everyone who was previously idle burst into action and the whole force seem to collectively move
together as cars and people and guns and other measurements were pulled together. In what
seemed like the tenth time I had blinked I was in the back of a truck with armed men who were
strapping on bullet proof vests and the such onto Lestrade and I.
He looked powerful and in control. I just felt dazed. He was the hero. I was the confused, kinda
slow sidekick.
Sherlock was the damsel in distress. For once.
I didn't even have a clue who the bad guy was or what we were even up against. But from what
I'd seen so far I clued together that they were a formidable opponent. Possibly the worst we had
faced.
I mean Moriarty was (is?) fucking crazy, but he didn't abduct and torture Sherlock for six months.
Okay maybe he did force him to commit suicide so maybe he was possibly worse.
Magnussen didn't even lay a finger on Sherlock, although his threats were pretty strong... And he
put me in a bonfire. Nothing as serious as what Sherlock had faced however.
I really needed to stop thinking back on the absolute atrociousness of what Sherlock had faced and
how I had fought him when he finally arrived back from hell. I needed to focus on preventing
anything else happening to him in the present and future. But apparently I don't have much control
over what replays on loop in my head. At around this time it was the growingly disturbing scene
where I hit Sherlock.
Except this time I knew what he had faced and I was trying to stop myself but the fist kept on
flying in a slow motion action kind of way until it roughly connected with his jaw.
Lestrade woke me up from my torturous, edited flashbacks and I managed to wipe away most of
the thoughts from my mind as I wiped a few lonely tears off my cheeks.
Everyone unloaded from the truck and Lestrade rapidly briefed us on what we had to do and how

we were going to do it. Just as he finished and everyone started to break away and get their guns
ready, I let words fall out my mouth.
Thankfully they weren't the worse words or a horrible outcome to this mission that lurked
somewhere in the dark and gloomy sections of my mind.
I just simply voiced, 'For Sherlock.'
I hadn't spoken for the entire journey and everyone looked up to me as the culprit with the cracked
voice.
'For Sherlock.' They all repeated in not so perfect unison but with an enthusiasm that gave me
strength and more importantly; hope.
*
It took them 23 minutes, monitoring me through the previously installed cameras, to come to the
conclusion that I was deeply enough asleep for them to enter my cell and set everything in motion.
It took them 6 minutes to carry me out to the reinforced lorry.
It took 3 of those minutes for the flower girl to catch up to me casually and lightly grab my hand.
It took me 0.21 minutes to identify all the materials in my closed palm. Tools to pick a lock.
It took them 1 minute to, roughly, swing me into the cage in the back and securely lock it and the
boot's door.
It also took them 1 minute to start driving.
It took me 3.38 minutes for me to unlock the more intricate cage door and then 1 minute for the
simple boot door that had a lock accessible from the inside.
It had taken them around 4 minutes after initially starting to drive to build up to a speed of 62 mph.
It took me a second to fly from the boot and crash to the floor.
It took me a step to realise that my ankle was sprained.
It took a second for the positive voice of John in my head to comment, 'At least you're free.'
It took no time for my own pessimistic mind to answer, 'For now.'
*
After 38 gruelling minutes that felt like hours but still seemed to slip away like seconds; we
eventually found something. Once we had found the entrance to what was a bit like an
underground bunker, we put ourselves down on how truly obvious it was. We then proceeded to
pick ourselves up with reassurances and excuses on how it was dark and we hadn't slept for 20 or
so hours.
It didn't exactly make me feel any better. And neither did the fact that again we were still a step
behind.
He was gone and there was no-one there to interrogate.
It was about now that the panic set in. He was supposed to be dead by morning, so have they

taken him off to his deathbed? Is he dying right now? Slowly and painfully as they watch on,
jeering. The thought hit me like a sack of rocks, like so many of the thoughts I had been having
recently. Yet this one felt more like boulders than rocks and I literally had to prop my arm out
against the bunker's wall to balance myself.
I was the only one still in there. Everyone else was outside scouring for clues. I knew that's what I
should be doing. That that was the most helpful action for the search. But I couldn't tear my eyes
away from the dark cell.
Have places like these been home for Sherlock this past half a year. Half a year. Unbelievable. I
couldn't wrap my head around it. I still can't now. What a crazy amount of time. Half a year.
Wasted. Tortured. Taken cruelly from him.
Half a years cases; unsolved. Half a years mad dashes and film like face offs; missed. Half a years
funny, wonderful times together; gone. Half of his year without me. Half of my year without him.
God I missed his stupid, arrogant, know it all face.
Maybe I could just chain him to me. Where ever he goes, I will follow. Or rather be dragged along
by my wrist as I try to keep up with his giant like strides.
The thought made me laugh and I walked out my daze and out of his cell to help with the
searching.
Imagine trying to tie Sherlock Holmes down. As if. He's like Frauline Maria; a cloud that can't be
pinned down. Well she does kind of end up getting pinned down by marriage...
But that's another possibility for another day that doesn't involve the ever looming fog of death
tightly wrapping its way around Sherlock.
A call was sounded and our heads all popped up like dogs being promised 'walkies'.
'Tracks!' A voice shouted and we all rush towards it like dogs towards treats. What I'm trying to
say is we were basically behaving a lot like well trained dogs at this moment in time.
I tripped and stumbled over brambles and bushes, knowing that I'll be scratching away at a dozen
or so nettle stings later but also knowing that I didn't really give a shit.
We all arrived at the shouted from spot and they they were. Clear as they could be in the darkest
of nights under a handheld LED torch.
'Bingo.' Called Lestrade as two others race back to get the truck and the rest of us surged forward,
following the imprints in the mud. 'Gotta be a lorry of sorts, but heavy. Fortified maybe? I'll need
to notify Mycroft.' He wandered back into the thick woods to, presumably, do just that.
The rest of us carefully carried on chasing after the distinctly marked mud. Well I wanted a lead
and this was about as good a lead as you could get so obviously I was pleased. An at that moment,
rare, grin emerged on my creased face and I couldn't help but feel giddy with excitement.
We were going to find him.
*
At that moment, when you consider the kind of injuries 6 months of torture give you, a sprained
ankle was not at the top of the pain list.

And yes. I had made a pain list.

I started hobbling down the road. It would have been a good idea to move into the sides and take
the cover provided freely by the thick trees. The reason I didn't do just that was because the
woodland drastically sloped up to the road and with my injuries skidding down through brambles
and such didn't seem the best course of action.
Without knowing how much time I had before they noticed I was gone I limped by as fast as my
pain threshold would allow. I didn't know what was waiting for me at my intended destination that
they were trying to cart me off to and I didn't really want to know.
After what the girl had said it didn't sound exactly like a four week trip to Hawaii.
Or maybe it did. Four weeks in Hawaii sounded an awful lot like hell to me.
I distracted myself with quirky, stupid thoughts like these as I carried on walking the dark road,
tripping over every so often. I've many a time found myself in situations where I'm trying to get
out of criminals grasps. Never before had I ever felt that much hurt though. And that is saying
something.
It was about 6 minutes before I heard the whirring of an engine and my path was lit up theatrically
by a vehicle's blinding lights. Rapidly, I made a dive for the thicket and curled myself into a
misshapen ball as I tumble rolled down its steep banks.
Oh heck.
>>>//flashforward//>>>
Splashes of red.
Deep cherry red.
Blood red.
Crimson.
Alien like clots forming.
Not clotted blood flowing out swiftly.
Narcotic. Hypnotic. Spellbinding.
Deadly...
Please let John be ok.
Was my last thought before my consciousness flew away after its fleeting stay.
Trance inducing. Deadly. Sleep. Death.

Reunited...?

You know when you have such a strong bond with someone that you feel as if you're only half a
person when you're not with them.
And it's not like you've felt like that the whole time you didn't know them; you felt like a full
person then.
Because you never knew any different.
But now you know them and, as cheesy as it sounds, they complete you. Or you complete them.
Or maybe neither.
Maybe you don't complete one another. I mean you're still real, solid people without the other,
right?
So maybe they don't complete you and you don't complete them. Yet why do you feel so empty
when they're gone?
It's not a question that science can properly answer. On the other hand neither can religion.
Spiritually only brushes on the shell of the answer.
Maybe we don't need an answer.
We only need to know the other person feels the same way.
Then we don't need to be apart. We don't need to feel incomplete. We no longer need to feel
empty.
It would be a nice thought to think that is why marriage was born. Though not completely true.
But a nice thought still.
That pretty much sums up how I felt, feel, and will feel. Past, present, and future.
Ever unchanging.
Ever unwindable.
My heart was coiled up so tightly around him that if to be pulled away, like a spring, I would whip
back around him.
Yet he was no where to be found.
And I was left to feel empty and incomplete.
Until...
*
I would hedge a bet that the majority of people reading this have not plunged into a forest and
banged their head on a tree and blacked out. (A/N: FYI I actually have, although the blacking
out was only for a few seconds.)

I would bet my violin that none of you have then been pulled back out through the bushes and leaf
litter while partially unconscious to a road where you stood blinky eyed as bright lights came from
both sides and 2 lines of armed men faced each other off. (A/N: FYI this didn't happen to me.)
I would bet my coat and scarf that none of you have ever been as happy to see the perfect face of
John Watson as I was in that moment. Even if it was possibly for the last time.
And I'm not even a betting sort of man.
*
The other lads got the truck and soon enough we were skirting along the edges of the road
precariously as we raced to find the track's destination.
It didn't take long.
A lorry, crudely fortified as Lestrade had presumed, stared back at us. Bright lights temporarily
blinding us as the driver suddenly smashed his foot on the breaks. The combination of both
blazing lights and jerky halting making me feel rather sick. Though I felt sicker when everyone
started filing out of our truck, guns loaded and set to kill. Our opposition did the same. Facing us
off.
Their barrels pointing at our heads. Our barrels pointed at theirs.
It frighteningly resembled looking into a mirror.
Then many a head whipped round as out of the trees, two figures emerged.
One, a dazed looking Sherlock. Two, the man holding a knife to his neck.
My pulse quickened.
'Get back into your fucking vehicle or I'll cut open his pretty little throat!' Spat the man, bearing he
yellow, jagged teeth.
It was now that I felt the sickest.
*
'Sir.'
'Yes?'
'Complications have arisen.'
'It was expected. He has an unbreakable spirit does Sherlock Holmes.'
'Not quite Sir.' She corrected him.
'We don't want to completely break him. So don't think about it.'
'Certainly, Sir.'
'So what has happened, or are you intent on keeping me in the dark?'
'Apologies Sir. It seems Sherlock has escaped only to be captured again.'

'So?'
'John Watson and a team of Mycroft's men including the DI have arrived and they are refusing to
budge, Sir. They're at a bit of a stalemate.'
*
I drank in John's features. Savouring ever detail of him. Storing him away to think about when we
next were apart. Which seemed to be only moments away. Yet was not.
'I'll cut his throat, I will.' The man with the crooked teeth yelled, the knife getting pushed closer
against my neck. I nearly fell due to dizziness. Bloody hell how hard did I smack my head. The
urge to vomit overcame me and I retched as he threateningly pushed the knife closer still.
The smallest trickle of blood seeped down my throat.
Still the opposing men stood their ground. It looked like Lestrade was the one in charge and had
figured out they needed me alive, at least for now. Although he did look rather unsettled and
worried about the outcome if it turned out he was wrong.
I wasn't fazed.
I was going to die either way.
At least this way I was, sort of, with John.
*
When the threat to Sherlock was given a few men looked to get back in the vehicle as instructed,
Lestrade gave them a look telling them to stay absolutely still. They continued to look uneasy as
they aimed their guns.
I figured we were all going to die now.
Either turn our backs to be shot down to our knees or have a battle with those who stood behind
Sherlock and his captor. I didn't even have to think about which I would rather do.
Plus we had the advantage. We, by the looks of it, were much better trained and we were also
wearing the bullet proofs their side lacked.
But then again we had no-one to use as leverage.
Although the whirring of a helicopter could be heard approaching. It's a good job that Lestrade
called Mycroft when he did. I thought to myself. A grim smile playing on my face, we were going
to get Sherlock back or, however stupidly movie like it sounds, die trying.
*
The sounds of a helicopter could be heard and even more beaming lights assaulted my eyes. That's
it. I'm going to be blind by the end of this.
Then suddenly all the lights turned off. At first it was a relief. My eyes were starting to become
really sore and I was sure that if the onslaught went on for any longer, with that brightness and the
dizziness in my head and the knife at my neck, I was going to choke on my own vomit.
Not an attractive way to go.

However that initial relief was soon washed over by panic as I felt the fumble of people around
me. Confused people in front of me. Smug people behind me. Something being put over my head.
The lights turned on and that's when it all became clear.
The helicopter was not Mycroft's, the vehicles both had a man in them who turned out the lights,
and all my abductors were wearing gas masks.
I didn't have to guess what was going to fall out of the helicopter as its doors slowly opened.
*
Shit.
The lights went out and I nearly screamed in frustration. What the fuck is happening now?
'Keep your weapons raised and stop moving.' Came the voice of Lestrade after he got himself
together.
'Guess that's not Mycroft then.' Someone whispered only to be ignored.
I had a desperate urge to neglect Greg's instructions and run to where Sherlock was last standing.
Even if it did get me shot in the head.
White blasted all around us as abruptly as it had disappeared. It took a second to take in what had
changed and as soon as I realised I wished I hadn't.
Sherlock was struggling rabidly against the man holding him. The man was wearing a mask
identical to all of those who stood behind him. Gas? Sherlock didn't have a mask on though so I
guessed that meant it wasn't going to kill us... probably. Possibly?
'Look out!' He shouted as I looked up to see a huge metal cylinder falling from the helicopter.
*
'Sir?'
'Yes.' He drawled in a bored tone, regretting the idea of insisting everyone address him so
formally.
'The gas has been released shall everything continue as planned?'
'No, I think I've got a better idea. We still have that recording?'
'Yes, Sir, but Mr Watson did get in the shot. He's holding up a gun to Sherlock's head.'
'Hmm.'
'Will that be problem, Sir?'
'No, actually. I think that could work to our advantage. But one thing,'
'What, Sir?'
'We'll need to reunite Watson with Holmes.'

Scream for Me
I don't really remember what happened on the road.
Okay, fine. I don't remember a single thing.
All I know was that when I woke up it was dark, it smelt like rot and iron, and someone was
calling my name. Also not just someone, a very particular someone; Sherlock Holmes.
'Sherlock!' I screamed, fumbling towards the voice. Not getting anywhere due to my wrists being
bound and chained to the wall and a shackled up collar reaching its clutches around my neck.
'Sherlock!' I could hear the sound of muffled voices and what sounded like scrambling before
suddenly there was a desperate banging on the wall.
'John! John! I'm sorry! I l-'
Then there was a dull thud and the eerie sound of the scraping of heels being unwillingly dragged
against the floor.
'Sherlock!'
Going .
'Sherlock!'
Going.
'Sherlock...'
Gone.
*
Murmurings of his name escaped my lips all the way through the journey and even when I had
arrived they continued to carry on. They put me in another cell and pure, unadulterated
desperation cast a shadow over me.
I'm going to die here.
'John, John, fuck, help me, John, please. John-'
Surprised would be an understatement for what I felt when I got a reply to my babbling pleas.
'Sherlock!'
Happy wouldn't be true for what I felt either. Because even though John was here, within an
earshot of me, he was here. With my captors, most likely chained up in a cell. Oh shit.
'Sherlock!' He shouted again except this time someone else heard him as well. Two figures came
in, their masks still fixed on their faces, baring guns.
'Move!' They barked at me gesturing to the door. I made a move towards the wall instead.
Soon they were on me, trying to force me away. One jumped on me and my head made a
painfully loud sound as it hit the rock solid ground. I stayed on the floor for a second breathing in

huge gulps of air, pushing back the physical suffering to the back of my mind. The man on top of
me seemed to relax slightly and a saw my chance.
For John. For the last chance I may have.
I kicked him, hard. Scrambling away I punched the other man straight in the nose and leapt for the
wall.
I hit my fist against it until there were several scrapes and cuts. Someone grabbed me round my
abdomen and I struggled against them, still banging on the wall as if I could maybe get it to break
down.
'John!' Shouting.
Another pair of hands of me, pulling me away.
'John!' Crying.
The butt of a gun shoved into my stomach, forcing me to curl up upon myself.
'I'm sorry!' Wheezing.
The glimpse of the other's gun coming at my head.
'I l-' ove you. Unfinished.
The darkness taking over.
*
Fighting recklessly against my bonds I carried on calling out his name. It was no use and
eventually, when my voice was cracking and my wrists were definitely bruised and my legs felt
like they were going to give way at any given moment, I sunk back against the wall, broken and
defeated.
Sobs wracked through my chest. Confusion and sadness swarmed through my mind.
Where is Sherlock?
Why was he sorry?
What am I doing here?
How do I get out?
Carefully I tested the structure keeping me in place. The shackles on my wrists gave me about
50cm of movement. The restraint around my neck; less than 20. The locks looked complicated
and even if they weren't I didn't have anything of which I could pick them with. So instead I
started tediously rubbing the chains against the brick wall behind me. Not sure of what it would do
but needing to do something all the same.
My thought process was that the small link joining the cuff to the main chain was thinner and
weaker thus leaving me with the faintest chance of rubbing it down till it was either broken or
flimsy enough for me to break free from.
I knew before I started that it was going to take a very long time. Yet it was after what must have
been about an hour of continuously forcing the link against the brick, that I understood what a

very long time actually meant.

It must have been around the few first hours of dawn when I woke, as glimpses of the rising sun
made themselves apparent to me through the hand sized, but still barred, gap in the wall that could
possibly be considered a minimalistic window.
I twisted my head around on my neck, in a failing attempt to try and relive the aches and pains of
sleeping in such an uncomfortable, standing position. I nearly screamed in frustration when I saw
the remaining thickness of the weakest link.
I was never getting out of here.
Hours. Minutes. Seconds. Counting up, counting backwards. No real evidence for how long
anything is taking. Hours. Minutes. Seconds. Thin. Thinner. Thinnest. Shaking hands holding the
link; rub forward, rub backwards. No real evidence of any progression being made. Is the link
thin? Is it getting thinner? Is it at its thinnest?
No? Carry on.
Counting the seconds. The minutes. The unbelievably long hours spent watching the thin scrap of
metal getting thinner.
Thundering footsteps alerting every hair on the back of my neck when they stomped past.
Desperate wailing.
'Let me go!'
The deafening reply of silence.
'Where's Sherlock! What have you done with him?!'
A cackling chorus of laughs.
'Fucking bastards! What have you done!?'
The bright light dispersing into my almost midnight black cell as one man nudged open the door.
'Something very bad.' A sly wink accompanying his maliciously teasing remark. The door
shutting out the light again.
Screams. So many screams. I never knew a man could scream so much and so loudly. More over I
never knew I was capable of such an exhausting feat. Yet apparently I was.
*
Drip.
Drop.
Drip...
Splashing into the bucket, heavy and fast. Deep red. Deeper than the ocean. Redder than the
flames.
Falling, flying, soaring, dying. Who was it who said that thing about falling and flying? Oh yes,
Jimbo. Haha, Jimbo Mori-is-a-tarty.

Delirious.
Conscious?
Unconscious?
Fucked up.
Falling.
Flying.
Soaring.
Dying...
***
SCREAMING!
Who's screaming? Is it me? No. Well that's a change.
Where's it coming from? From me? No. Well how surprising.
Why is there screaming? Is it because of me? No... maybe. Well that's not too different.
Am I hallucinating?
Why hasn't it stopped?
Someone make it stop?
Please.
Who could possibly be making such a racket?
It's not me, I'm too tired.
It's not them, they're the torturers here.
It's not John, he's too far away. He's nice and safe.
Wait.
Stop.
He's not? Is he?
Oh crap.
Delirious. Probably.
Unconscious? No.
Conscious? Yes.
Fucked up? Definitely.

Screaming? Oh yes!
'JOHN!'

The Escaper
It was a simplistic yet elegant contraption, that would have served as an interesting murder
weapon if a murder had been committed by it. But it hadn't and even if it had then it would most
likely have been my untimely demise that would have been investigated, so thwarting my ideas of
taking the case.
The man operating the machine was more of the simple and less of the elegant, and seemed to find
great pleasure in injecting me with the toxic concoction that made me both nauseous, drowsy, and
manic all at once.
Then I was hooked up to the table and watched as the blood left my arm drop by drop.
I vaguely remember another man walking in carrying a crate and yelling at the other, or maybe at
me. I couldn't really tell, I'd lost what I would guess would be a lot of blood and was skipping on
the line between consciousness and unconsciousness. Soon after though I could feel the fluid stop
being sucked out my arm and a tube of some description being put in.
I woke later to hear the sound of arguing.
'Didn't you check your goddamn phone!'
'No, why would I?'
'I don't know, maybe because you're in a criminal business and it's kind of a fucking necessity to!'
'I'll tell you again, I didn't know there was a change in plan!'
'Oh and why's that?'
Silence.
'Because you didn't checking your goddamn phone, that's fucking why!'
'Fine! Look mate, I'm sorry, now shut up!'
'No.' A pause, then an explanation. 'People who don't follow the plan or get the change of plan
and then don't follow that through get shot! That's right they get, a goddamn bullet in their brain!
Do you want that to happen to us!'
'Course I don't.'
'Listen, the entire team who took him in the first place just to let him go were all murdered; so
'wisen up', big guy and don't you dare kill him.'
I could almost feel their gazes on me.
'What's so special 'bout him anyway?'
'Oh come on, even you should be able to figure it out.'
They stopped talking for a while and I could almost feel the mechanics in his brain whir round at
rather an unimpressive pace. But I couldn't help but think, what was so special about me? Of
course I knew most of the information that they wanted and I could unravel the rest of it, but there

were others who could find out the information.

After all, I couldn't be the only 'genius' in Great Britain. There had to be others. So perhaps it was
my connection with my brother, my detective work, my name in the news? My brain hurt and I
couldn't bear to think a moment longer so I just attempted to regulate my breathing as I listened to
them ramble on.
'Hey, it was a good job you had all that... stuff ready.'
'Yeah, she said to bring them, just in case.'
'What, a crate full of blood and tubing?'
'Well, obviously. Now bag up his blood, it'll apparently be useful for later.'
*
It was after my throat had completely dried up and an almost burning sensation had crawled up its
inside walls that I stopped screaming. Exhausted. Beaten. Wrecked.
I wanted to lie down and relieve the ache in my legs. I wanted to drink a river to relieve the pain in
throat. I wanted to cry till my eyes were bloodshot and I had enough water to satisfy my thirst, just
from the tears alone.
The worst thing I think was the silence. The silence was my torturer and it didn't let me off easily.
That goddamn silence that made me feel so alone. Isolated. Vulnerable. It was almost deafening.
The one who broke the silence would have also have been my saviour if he had not been one of
the ones holding me prisoner. He brought oatmeal and water as well as a tall, metal stool to put the
goods in my chained up reach.
I didn't even attempt to resist eating them as a way of protest and munched right in, quenching my
awful thirst and soothing my rumbling stomach. What was the point in useless rebellion that
affected me more than them? I thought solemnly to myself as a mouthful of guilt passed through
my lips with every bite. Sherlock would be eating too right now, wouldn't he? I thought to myself,
yet with a seed of doubt rooting itself thoroughly in the back of my mind.
Of course he won't be, he's been dragged away some where else where the most likely thing to
happen to him is definitely not positive.
After eating I returned to tediously scrubbing the metal link backwards and forwards, while trying
to think of a little ditty to go along with the repetitive motions. Anything to make it more bearable.
Nothing came to my head.
I don't think I've ever been more glad about a tiny, barred up window in my life. Because even
though it didn't exactly provide much of a view it did give me a way of telling the time. For which
I was thankful for. I think it was that window that prevented the crazy from seeping in. I'm not
sure what would have happened if I hadn't been able to tell if it was hours, days or weeks that
were passing by ever so slowly.
From what the window told me; it was days. 4 to be precise. It was by the second day that I finally
broke the link attaching my right cuff to the chain, keeping me trapped near the wall. Then I
slowly worked away at the one on my left wrist. It only took a day and a bit, as although it was on
my weaker left arm, I now had my right hand properly free to help out. Plus I also had much more
movement space as well as a thoroughly developed technique in this very specific skill.

Once both my hand were free I was then faced with the task of freeing my neck from its chained
up collar.
A task that proved to be much easier than I had anticipated... Well a bit easier.
Feeling up the entirety of the chain's length, I found it didn't really have any weak points or any
parts that I could easily break. However the ring chaining the chain to the brick, wasn't buried in
very deep, digging in far less than it should have done to make it actually secure.
So then the onslaught on that brick started.
*
It was for two days that I stayed on my back, chained down at my wrists and ankles. Bound by a
leather strap around my waist. The cool metal of the table scraped against my back, wearing my
worn out and threadbare shirt did little to warm me up. An algid wind blew through the purposely
opened door.
A man sat in the corner on a stool, sort of preoccupied with a book but casting a glance towards
me at least once every five minutes. He was missing a leg. He rotated his hours watching over me
with anther man who favoured listening to music and watching crap telly over reading and
actually checking on me.
The first man tried to take more shifts than the other, obviously believing the other to be
incompetent. I found that I didn't disagree with him.
I had just about made a lock pick out of the end of a needle that I had snatched while in the
company of a man who was too fully immersed in Emmerdale and his heavy rock music to be
suspicious of my fidgeting; when they decided it was time for a change of scenery.
To be honest I was expecting the worse. To be strung up like a piece of meat. For a metal stand to
be right in my sights, baring line after line of tools that I knew the purpose of, all to well, and
others that I didn't want to find out about. So I can't say I wasn't pleasantly surprised when I was,
albeit clumsily, placed down on a hospital type bed and left in the care of a man who hurriedly
checked me over, applying bandages where there was no need and avoiding all the worry
inducing injuries completely.
Then I was moved into a room that had nothing in it but a simple metal bench pressed to the wall,
to which I was handcuffed to. A bulky woman guarded my door, stun gun in hand, facing
outwards. It was child's play to release myself from the handcuffs. I re-used the bandages;
wrapping them around sore spots and the entirety of my back and stomach, wincing and taking
sharp intakes of breath as shocks of pain spasmed down my spine.
Lying on my front, staring down at the grotty floor to which I wanted to be in no contact with, I
was too far into my mind palace to hear the rustle of keys being inserted into the lock. But I did
manage to notice the handle moving. Immediately I was scrambling to put the handcuff back on
my wrist. I was too late. The door opened.
*
Once I had smashed the brick to pieces and was able to pull the chain from the wall, a tiresome
wait lay ahead of me for the food man to come. But at least now I was able to relieve the tension
in my legs by sitting down properly and not just slumping down against the wall.
It must have been something of two hours when I heard the light conversation that always

occurred from the lonesome guard and the man bearing food, before the rattle of keys as she
unhooked them, supposedly from a belt of some sorts, and inserted one into the door. While all
this was taking place I had a small window of opportunity to quickly make the appearance that I
was still chained to the wall.
A small man, bony and short, snuck through the stone archway, carefully closing the door behind
him.
'You're in for a treat today.' He spoke in a strong Yorkshire accent, eagerly presenting an apple
along with some bread and a half glass of water. 'Bit of variety, innt it?'
I continued staring at the floor purposefully. Only once sparing him a glance as I heard the
piercing screech of metal against concrete as he dragged the stool over. My grip on the chain
tightened.
The second he bent down to precariously place the food stuff on the cool metal surface, I
exploded into action. Kicking the slight figure in the stomach it was only then a quick movement
while he was winded to sling the chain round his neck and stuff the fabric I had ripped from the
back of my shirt unceremoniously into his mouth. He passed out fast enough and I slipped the
apple into my pocket as I made my way to the door.
The food man always had the habit of knocking a little ditty into the door. Whether it was a
precaution or just a quirk, I wasn't sure, so I did it anyway. There was the twist of keys and then
the door opened ajar.
'You took you're-' She managed to say, popping her head round the door just as I dived behind it.
A gasp and then she was slamming the door shut. Preparing for a fight. It wasn't exactly how this
was supposed to go but I was more than ready.
I swung first and the chain flew past her face, narrowly missing her cheek as she ducked down.
Swinging sideways left my right flank vulnerable and she delivered a hearty punch to my ribs.
Then another, but I managed to grab her shoulders as she attempted to retreat and grab a weapon
from her pocket. We scuffled as she attempted to knee me in the balls but I grabbed her wrist
whilst kicking her legs out from under her and we both clattered to the floor. Her beneath me in an
armlock. She struggled restlessly and tried to hit me with her other arm, which I then consequently
pinned to her back with the other. I choked her until she passed out.
Grabbing her keys, her walkie-talkie like device, and the taser from her right pocket, I pondered
on the fact that she didn't have a gun. Then I released myself from my chains and tied the pair up
with them instead. The neck cuff, I couldn't seem to find a key for, so I detached it from the chain
and left with it still round my throat.
Walking slowly, as the feeling of moving felt foreign, I cautiously made my way through the
corridor. There were another two cells on my hallway. The one right next to mine that Sherlock
had previously inhabited, which sent a pang of sadness and want right through me. And another,
just shy of opposite from the others. Both were empty.
I rounded the corner carefully, taser in hand, heart pumping in my ears like a bass drum. The
passageway was as barren as the first, but seemed to go for longer. It smelt strangely sterile. Like it
had just been cleaned. I spotted a small splatter of old, dried blood on the wall. I started jogging on
light feet.
Passing two medical rooms, I checked for Sherlock. No-one inhabited the first but in the second I
was just fast enough to not be caught peering in by a man in an stain riddled lab coat.

I passed another empty cell, this one containing a bed with a wrecked mattress and I yearned for
my bed at home. Soft, warm, and safe. I carried on regardless. Four plain rooms with two airbeds
inside each one, were situated near the end of the corridor as well as a unlocked storage cupboard.
Snatching some bandages and what I hoped was ibuprofen as well as a small scalpel, I left
hurriedly, locking the door after myself.
Tip-toeing down the passageway after, I stopped just outside a room as I noticed the door was half
open. My breath hitched and for a dreadful second I thought I'd given myself away as I heard
footsteps. Then I heard the slow depression of leather as someone sat down in a squeaky chair. I
managed to catch a glimpse of a man in a dark grey suit sit down.
'So, Sir, what's the plan now?' He asked an unknown presence who was just out of sight. I
listened intently but could only hear the clink of a glass being put down onto a table. There was a
tense, pro-longed break before the other man decided to grace the question with a sort of answer.
'How do you keep a man who can escape almost anything captive?'
'I don't know Sir, but is this really the time for riddles?'
'You put him somewhere where he won't want to escape.'
'So what? You're saying we let him back to Baker street? He won't want to go unless the small
one goes with him. I'd bet he'd rather stay and endure torture than leave him here.' Grey suit
laughed as my heart felt like it had climbed up my throat and leapt into my mouth.
'Or you keep him captive somewhere where he can't escape.' The man out of sight said smoothly.
He sounded tired yet still intense. Like how Sherlock was after a case that drained him; more
weary but still with that burning intensity and sharp, racing mind that is only slightly dulled from
sleep deprivation.
'I thought you said he can escape anything?' Quipped grey suit.
'Almost anything.'
'What? So we lock him up in a high security prison or something? Wouldn't it be easier to just kill
him now?'
'Hmm, maybe, but he may be able to give us more information so we are able to perform our heist
with ease. Something he can't do if he's dead.' The other man hummed contemplatively, 'And
anyway I do believe a high security prison is rather unnecessary.'
'Then what do you suggest, Sir?'
'Trap him in the one place where he can't escape, no matter where he goes.' Footsteps echoed
ominously as they came towards the door. Holding my breath I managed to shuffle back slightly.
Sucking myself inward so I was almost one with the wall. The footsteps stopped just by the door
and I reached for the taser nervously with slightly shaky hands.
The door was smoothly closed and I finally exhaled. Stepping forward again I leaned in so my ear
just grazed the unpolished wood.
'We trap him in his own mind.'
'Ah, that was what you had in mind when you acquired Doctor Sheppard.'
A small hum came in reply.

'I've given him the get go anyway.'

'Wonderful.'
'If that's all, Sir.' He started moving again and I didn't risk wasting a second more.
Quick stepping as hastily and silently as I could I moved round to look into another simple
bedroom. Finding it empty, I swiftly sneaked in.
Sliding down the door, I sat on the floor. The wood felt cold and splintered against my back
though I took little notice of it. Almost in a dreamlike state, I found myself feeling my thrumming
pulse and consciously counting my breaths.
I knew I needed to find Sherlock and I knew I needed to do it fast. But the sound of getting caught
and put back in a cell again sounded less than appealing and I knew I wouldn't be much help to
Sherlock if I was locked up also.
So I sat there. On the floor of a minimalistic bedroom. Counting my breaths and rubbing my legs
as there was still a certain numb feeling inside them.
Eventually I got up and went back out onto the corridor.
The fourth right turn into yet another hallway meant I'd gone round in a circle and I just managed
to dodge two men in grubby overalls, carrying crates of something or other as they made their way
outside. It's funny how it didn't even occur to me that I had found a way out, just that I needed to
find my partner...
Friend, whatever.
A guard stood outside the door. She was bulkier than my guard and I had a really strange feeling
of being offended that they thought Sherlock would put up more of a fight than me, flash by. I
shook it off and creeped up behind her as she faced the other way. Despite the fact that she had
broad shoulders and was at least a foot taller than me, with arms that looked bigger than Sherlock's
waist; tasering her neck as I covered her mouth was pretty effective. It didn't knock her out as
some movies had lead me to believe but it did give me a five second window to hit her head
against the opposite concrete wall, twice.
I tried to lay her down quietly but I was tired and malnourished and she was big and heavy. I
plucked her set of keys from her belt as she lay there unmoving, a light scar running down the side
of her face, a small blossom of crimson emerging from her head. Carefully, almost gently
considering the circumstances, I touched the back of her head. Nothing too bad, she'll survive, I
assured myself.
Apprehensively, I stood up and looked through the small, barred opening on the door.
My heart banged rapidly and powerfully, thundering in my brain.
Sherlock...

Us Against The World

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

He came in to clearly see I had escaped my cuffs. He didn't blink twice. He just stepped forward,
gun poised over my head, finger not wavering, as he fastened a zip tie round my wrists as I tensed
them up.
'I have no doubt you'll escape these.' He drawled, going to sit on the end of the bench. 'But it'll do
for now.'
I avoided his penetrating gaze.
'Now, now, none of that. I just came here to talk,' He laughed without a hint of emotion. 'Well,
maybe not just talk.' Eyes glinting with something unidentifiable, he moved closer.
'Now, Sherlock, which sense do you value the most?' He shuffled a duffle bag on his lap. 'I would
presume it to be sight as that is what it is with most, plus you're a detective and most clues are
visual. But I'm not sure I completely understand how your mind works.' He stopped fidgeting,
hands stilling in an almost eery way. 'Do you care to tell me?'
Pursing my lips, I tilted my head, closing my eyes. Sensory deprivation looked like where this was
going. I guessed they'd given up on harming me physically, despite it working well enough before
but I understood it was messy. Psychological torture was neat and often had more permanent
effects.
The man continued. 'Well let's just go with sight then.'
He placed a blindfold over my eyes, carefully, as if he thought me precious, tying it securely at the
back.
'Tell me, Sherlock,' His voice was smooth, unctuous, 'What are you able to perceive about me,
without your sight?'
Inhaling a deep breath in, adjusting to not having my vision, I straightened up. Nose twitching
slightly as my other senses started to compensate for my loss of sight. I didn't speak a word.
'Well that's rather rude,' Commented the man, a slight purring timbre echoing in his voice. 'I asked
you a question.'
The phrase almost made me flinch as memories from both the murky waters of my childhood and
the past 6 tortuous months swarmed inside my mind. Somehow the man noticed my discomfort.
'Oh you don't like that, do you?' I could almost feel the smarmy smirk on his mouth. 'I wonder
what would happen if-' A second's pause, 'I ASKED YOU A FUCKING QUESTION!
ANSWER ME!' The pang of his bag against the metal of the bench, ricocheted round the room
and this time I failed at keeping my body under control. Cowering away from the sound with a
wince. Yet resisting the urge to cover my ears. He then settled down next to me once more.
'Should I tick the 'has flashbacks' box then?' The man questioned like I was in a therapy session. I
let it remain rhetorical. Hearing him shuffle around his bag again, I immediately stiffened up.
A tight nose peg was forced onto me, constraining my breathing and digging roughly into my

skin.
'Does that make much of a difference to you, Sherlock?' He asked as I started raising my
eyebrows up and then down to try and ease the blindfold down. It was surprisingly effective and
the man stood so he could do it up again.
'There, there, none of that.' He cooed in a disturbingly mother like tone, as he brought up both his
hands, putting down the gun, to re-tie the fabric at the back.
I saw my chance and I took it.
*
Sherlock...
Frantically rattling open the door, I burst in as quickly as possible.
Then by the door I stood, jaw slack as I tried to comprehend the sight before me.
Sherlock stood, proud and tall with only a timid shake in his shoulders, gun positioned over
another man, who I presumed to be 'doctor Sheppard', who was stiffly kneeling on the floor.
Sherlock's wrists were bound together with a zip tie. But most remarkably of all, he was
blindfolded.
Slowly, he turned his head towards me, a shaky breath falling from his lips.
'J-John?'
Relief swelled up inside my heart. Sherlock was here. Here with me. And this time the tables had
turned and we were the ones with guns and weapons and they were the ones at our mercy.
'Sherlock, oh my god.'
Nodding to himself at the conformation that it was actually me, he then turned back to the other
doctor. In one swift motion, as if he was swinging a cricket bat, Sherlock knocked him out with
the gun. Then he proceeded to basically rip off his blindfold and nose peg thing, pulling off his zip
tie with a somewhat ease.
Standing a few feet apart, still like statues; we stared at each other, breathing heavily as if we'd just
run from Baker Street, I felt my mind freeze. Sherlock was here. Yet I had no idea what to do. It's
like I'd been waiting for so long, just waiting for this moment and now that it had come, I was
overwhelmed with what I should do.
I was the first to smile. He was the first to move.
In a completely unanticipated, startling move, he jumped, half falling, half leaping until he was
embracing me tightly in his arms. Wrapping himself around me like he never wanted to let me go.
It was the most human contact I think we'd ever had and it was... nice.
After getting over my shock, I reciprocated the hug. If you could even call it a hug, it felt more
like he was clinging onto me for dear life. Moreover it felt like what I wanted to do to him when
he came back from the dead, before my anger won out.
His head settled on my shoulder, greasy curls flicking at my ears. I curled myself in around him.
He murmured into my shoulder awkwardly. 'I'm so sorry.'

Cautiously, not quite understanding the situation or being sure of the rules to this new game, I
gently petted his hair, 'What the hell are you apologising for?' I said, voice breaking partially at the
end.
His skull rocked on my shoulder and I felt it as he leaned more of his weight onto me. God, he
was light. I guessed months of starvation could do that to a person.
Considering his decisively awful relationship with food and regular meals, him losing even more
weight was a harrowing thought. Even as I folded my arms around him, I worried at feeling his
ribs jut atrociously from his body.
He snuffled into my shoulder, 'Everything. It's my fault you're here.' A few droplets of tears fell on
my shirt.
'Actually I'm pretty sure it's their's.' I told him distinctly, not a hint of doubt invading my voice,
carefully guiding him down to the metal bench. He fell with less of his usual grace and as soon as
I sat down next to him, he sought me out. Nestling back into me in a way that clashed so much
with his usual indifferent persona, that I almost forgot who it was that was nuzzling into my torso.
Gazing down upon the crown of his head, he appeared so timid, vulnerable, and with a child like
innocence to him that just made me envelop him further into my grasp.
Something in the back of my mind told me we needed to get going. That sooner or later someone
would walk down the corridor to discover the guard unconscious on the floor and the cell door
unlocked. However I found that with Sherlock practically shaking in my arms and babbling
apologies for things that were absolutely not his fault, my priorities became slightly skewed.
'Shhh, don't say a word. This isn't your fault. Understand me?' I whispered softly, rubbing
disfigured circles on his back.
Suddenly, as if he had just become aware of himself, Sherlock shrugged away, turning his face as
he wiped his eyes.
'Sorry, I didn't mean to...' The sentence remained incomplete. His voice turning back to its usual
detached self.
Trying to not dwell on the sense of loss I felt as his body moved from mine, I smiled my most
warm, comforting smile as my hand shied away and found its place, clumsily on my lap.
'It's fine. Honestly, in this situation, anything is fine.' I reassured him and he stared into my eyes
for an intense moment, as if he was seeking out whether there was truth in my statement or not.
I'm not sure what conclusion he came to but as I felt heat rising up in my cheeks, I looked away,
nodding to the door.
'Do you think it's time to get out of here?'
'I'm not sure, they've been ever so hospitable, might stay a bit longer.' He spoke sarcastically and I
grinned as we made our way to the door.
*
God, I'm an idiot.
After my imbecilic actions, I avoided John's eyes.
Congratulations, Sherlock, you're now officially considered a five year old.

I'm not really sure what swept over me that meant that I acted the way I did when John turned up
at my door, but whatever it was I made a mental note to elude it in the future, at all costs.
Yet two questions were being asked in the back of my mind, again and again. The same questions
repeated like a mantra.
What if John now knows?
But somehow the other one rang out as definitely more important.
Why did he cradle his arms around you, stroke your back, pet your hair?
Of course there were thousands of answers and at that moment I didn't even give myself a chance
to analyse any of them.
False hope and expectations were always a bad idea. Always.
He was a friend. And friends obviously comfort one another when they've been tortured. It's
probably a ground rule in the friendship handbook. John's reaction, looking back, was nothing
significant.
He was just a good friend.
Nothing more. Never less.
*
Feeling more confident at now having Sherlock by my side as well as a gun, I crooked my head
around the door, signalling to Sherlock that all was clear.
Sherlock wasn't limbless and staggering but it wasn't the easiest thing for him to walk briskly with
me, so I receded to more of a leisurely stroll. It felt almost cocky; to slowly saunter through our
enemy's base except as much as I yearned to get out of there, pronto, I preferred Sherlock to set a
pace ok for him.
Arriving at the exit that the men with crates passed through, we waited anxiously in suppressed
suspense as we both hoped that no-one came down the corridor and pleaded that the people in the
yard outside would disperse quickly.
Eventually, we were good to go as we crept from behind trucks to small tent like sent ups to a
pitiful toilet block.
Sherlock's back was hunched, he appeared to have somehow acquired some bandages, and he
traipsed with a limp. I tried to ask how his pain was but all the reply I got was a grunt through
sharply gritted teeth. I didn't ask twice.
It made me feel so unbearably helpless. I was a doctor there should have been something that I
could have done to ease his obvious suffering. Yet there was nothing. So all I could do was aid
him in his lurching movements and ignore the blood that seeped from his shirt to mine when he
leaned heavily onto me.
Then suddenly, by some bizarre coincidence, the second that Sherlock glanced back towards the
building a shrill alarm started to scream.
Hobbling faster, in some uneven, unplanned dance, we moved together as if we were one,
desperately attempting to reach the forest's cover before we were spotted. The trees loomed

dauntingly ahead of us, although neither of us really noticed as we scrambled to get under them.
Gravel kicked at ours heels and weeds clutched at our ankles, as if even they were fighting against
us on top of everything else.
I guessed, however, that this is how it would always be. Him and I, against the rest of the world.
Even if that did include inanimate objects.

Chapter End Notes

Can you get a whiff of the Johnlock yet? It's chapter 18, I feel like you should be able
to find the hints at it by now otherwise what am I writing? XD

Cracked and Fragmented

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Lestrade was a good detective.

Despite often needing Sherlock's help with cases, he was a good detective. In fact I strongly
believed that his willingness to let others ('others' being Sherlock and only Sherlock) aid him on a
case made him a smarter man.
Meaning that we didn't have to walk far before Lestrade's truck approached us.
Our immediate reaction was to dive behind a bush for cover, although Sherlock quickly realised
who it was driving around and, much to my hysterical outburst, started waving them over.
Only at many panicked seconds later, did he feel the need to notify me of it not being our
kidnappers.
Lestrade gave Sherlock a gentle hug as if he truly was a breakable antique and Sherlock stood
rigidly for a few seconds before slumping down onto the older man's shoulder. We both helped
him to the truck.
After being thoroughly dosed up with painkillers, we sat opposite one another in the truck,
wrapped up in coarse blankets that were obviously meant more for warmth than comfort.
Sherlock coughed uncomfortably before speaking croakily, 'They didn't hurt you, did they?'
I blinked for a few seconds as I processed the very sudden question, then shook my head
vigorously. 'No, no. They didn't lay a hand on me.'
'Good, good.'
A quiet lull set in as I listened to the wheels of the truck bump over the rough terrain of the forest.
Licking my chapped lips, I thought of how I could delicately broach the more important question
of 'What did they do to you?'. Of course, in time, I realised that Sherlock still didn't need things to
be broached delicately, and that abruptly would do was fine.
'They didn't do anything too bad to me, if you're wondering. Which I know you are.' He said,
smoothly, despite his noticeably wrecked voice.
I huffed a laugh. 'Well yeah, that mustn't have been too hard to deduce.'
'Most things aren't.'
'Oh really?' I challenged.
He raised an eyebrow, taking a sip from his flask. 'Yes, really.'
'Well why do we spend months on cases then.'
'Have you learnt nothing?'
'I've learnt that you're a dramatic prat who goes out his way to put himself in danger.'

The mood changed in a flash after that comment. I almost winced as I realised what I had said and
how, in the present situation, it might be interpreted.
Sherlock's reply was hollow and quiet. 'It wasn't my fault.'
'I know-' I said immediately, desperately trying to rectify the conversation.
'They jumped me. There was too many of them. It wasn't my fault...' His voice broke off. Cracked
and fragmented.
I'm not sure if there's anything scarier then seeing someone who's normally so cold and dismissive
brought down to tears and wracking sobs. I know that I was terrified after seeing this sight twice
in one day.
Moving to the other bench, I wrapped an arm around his shoulder, bending my head down to
prize his fingers away from his face as I lifted his chin so he could look into my eyes.
'Listen to me. I didn't mean it like that.' He tried to turn his head away and wipe his eyes with his
fists. Him being so embarrassed or maybe even afraid of crying in front of me, worried me greatly
but I left that dragon as one to be slayed at a later date. I tilted his face back towards me, a firm
hand on his cheek.
'Listen. This, none of this, was your fault. I know that, you know that, Lestrade knows that. You
don't have to repeat it to yourself like that will make it anymore truthful than it already is. We all
know it to be the truth already. We know it to be fact, ok? I'm sorry I shouldn't have said that. It
came out wrong.'
Sherlock nodded numbly.
'What's the matter with me?' He laughed, snuffling in a deep breath.
'That's a very long list, let's start with how you call people idiots more than using their actual
names.' I joked, elbowing him carefully.
'That's because we're plagued with imbeciles. It's not my fault I often feel inclined to point that
out.'
We chuckled and soon fell asleep in a tangle of limbs and rough blankets.
*
John fell asleep before me, snoring softly into my shoulder. I followed shortly after, as he sleepily
draped an arm around my torso.
For the first time in ages I felt safe.
I couldn't remember any of my dreams once I awoke but I knew none of them had been bad.
*
I was rather glad that it was Lestrade who found us snuggled up together instead of one of the
other armed men.
Sherlock disagreed.
Lestrade made some jibes at Sherlock and I only managed to make out one, 'So, who's the little

spoon?', and Sherlock sulkily gave him 'I'm killing you slowly and painfully in my mind' glares all
throughout the morning.
We swiftly made it into central London and much to Sherlock's weary protests our first stop was
hospital. He didn't complain too much however and was rather compliant as we hefted him into
the reception where he was immediately attended to.
I received a medical check over but they found there wasn't much wrong with me except slight
damages to where my restraints had worn down on my skin. It was recommended that I take a few
days to rest and recuperate. I didn't argue.
Mycroft phoned me the second I stepped out of the doctor's room and I didn't even bother looking
for cameras. Of course there were cameras, we were in a hospital.
'Hello Mycroft.'
He in turn swiftly skipped the formalities, brusquely moving on to, 'Did everything go ok? Is
Sherlock alright?' He asked, almost frantically and I quickly reassured him that all was well. Well,
well enough.
The line went quiet as I made my way to where Lestrade was not-so-patiently, waiting outside
Sherlock's room.
Mycroft's voice was unusually timid when he next spoke. 'I know that it was my fault that he was
with them for 6 months,' Then just as I was about to reject that comment he said, 'Don't even try to
tell me otherwise, Dr Watson.' And I just exhaled loudly, hoping that he could gauge exactly what
I thought about that through a deep sigh.
But then obviously he'd understand it's meaning; he's a Holmes boy.
'Do you think he'd accept me coming to see him?' He asked, lacking any of his normal selfassurance, moments later.
I sighed, thinking for a few seconds. Would Sherlock really want to see him?
I answered as truthfully as I could, with certainty in my answer.
'I think Sherlock needs all the support he can get right now.'
The line went dead.
Later when Sherlock was conscious and we were allowed to see him, I cautiously, like a man
approaching a tiger's cage, knocked on the door.
There was a grunt in reply.
'Hey,' My voice sounded scratchy as if it were an old record that hadn't quite been treated with the
upmost care. I coughed harshly. 'How are you doing?'
'Good, apparently. Although really it's just as well as could be expected.'
I hummed in reply, dragging a nearby chair closer towards his bed, where he was sitting, perky
and upright like he was all fine and dandy and just waiting to leave this hospital where he was
being kept for no reason at all. His eyes told a different story.
Flicking to the door every few seconds, only staying on me for a little while before looking down.

Never meeting me in the eye. He seemed more agitated then this morning when everything
seemed almost normal. When he would partake in banter with Lestrade and stubbornly refuse to
do what he knew needed doing.
When he snuggled down to sleep with me.
Ok, that wasn't quite normal, but it was better than him looking so on edge and scared in a hospital
bed. Far better.
Suddenly, as a thought had struck him like lightning, he shot up in the bed. Back ramrod straight.
Eyes wide. Mouth dry.
'Molly!' He exclaimed and I let my smile falter. I'm not sure why. I guess I was just ever so
slightly saddened that he so desperately wanted to see her, while I was right in front of him. Like I
was some petty, jealous girlfriend, of all things.
Of course I knew how she felt about him and that he cared for her more than he let on, but maybe
this was evidence that he felt something even more for her. Something special.
I shook my head of these thoughts and tilted my head as he began to speak again.
'Where is she? Is she ok?'
Now, not sure of what an earth was actually going, I looked at him, perplexed. Maybe he doesn't
love her after all.
'I think so. Why wouldn't she be?'
Sherlock scraped a hand through his freshly cleaned curls that were still longer than they're usual
length.
'They threatened her,' He groaned. 'God, why did they have to threaten her.' In a second his eyes
sharpened, bright blue eyes finally looking back into mine. A fixed stare. 'Get her here, now!' He
demanded before subsiding, falling back against his pillows. His head lolled from side to side
before he looked back at me, 'Please.' His voice sounded wrecked and imploring, I just stared at
him for a minute before moving into action.
'Hey, Molly... Yeah, I've got Sherlock with me, can you get here pronto? Yeah we're just at the
hospital... Thanks, that's great.'
A thought struck me.
'Molly has no idea what's going on does she?' Sherlock shook his head in reply, eyes already
closed peacefully. 'Shit. I should have warned her.'
Sherlock murmured sleepily, I assumed he was on quite a few meds. 'Get Lestrade to brief her,
he's good with her, might be something there although of course I could say the same about him
and Mycroft.' On that final point he shivered dramatically.
I smiled. Then with a careful hand, tentatively stroked his head in a hopefully comforting gesture.
'You should give up investigating, become a matchmaker. Much safer.'
Sherlock smirked back placidly. 'Well that's one option.'
'You'd be pretty good at that you know.'

'That's not saying much, I'd be good at a lot of things.' He said matter-of-factly, not boasting just
stating the truth. He yawned, stretching as much as his confines of wire and bandages could let
him. It was adorable.
'Like you're good at seeing what kind of person a person is, what their motives are, their interests
and such. You'd undeniably be able to see if there was an instant attraction or even a real
connection...' I drifted off as I realised exactly what I was saying.
Sherlock watched me intently.
'You'd think so, yet sometimes I can never tell what's someone's actual feelings are. It's a bit of a
murky area really. I mean you can look at all the evidence but there's always still some doubt.'
Every word that had been spoken weighed heavily down on us and I gulped for air.
I stammered, 'I'll go tell Lestrade that he'll need to talk to Molly.'
Sherlock nodded and settled back down in his bed.
I gave him a quick glance before exiting.
*
Well that was weird.
Perhaps... No. Never.

Chapter End Notes

Well look! A chapter that isn't disaster after disaster. Plus cuddling! ;)

Felicitous Guilt
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Molly entered in tears.

She wobbled over to Sherlock's side, awkwardly wrapping an arm around him in some sort of
hug.
I stood in the background as they embraced, swiftly making an exit as Lestrade leant his head
around the door.
'What did you say to Molly, she seems pretty shaken up? So do you actually.' I observed, sipping
on my hospital cafeteria cup of coffee.
Lestrade pulled a face. 'I told her that all this time Sherlock had been tortured and he was in a
pretty bad state.' He swiped a hand over his face. 'I tried to break it to her gently, you know, ease
her into it. She cried on my shoulder for at least a minute before she went in. I'm afraid I went into
too much detail at one point.'
I raised an eyebrow. 'Detail?'
'Yeah, like the severity of his injuries and such. She's a pathologist, I thought she might want to
know. Also to prepare her for what Sherlock would look like.'
'You gave her details on the injuries he got after being tortured for six months straight after you
unloaded this new information onto her?'
Lestrade looked down at the floor like a child who had just realised how wrong it is to steal from
the neighbours.
'That wasn't very smart, was it?' He asked, scratching the back on his neck.
I sighed, ditching the rest of my coffee. It tasted like something you'd rustle up in a science lab.
Although Greg seemed content with his, used to the same sort of stuff at work, I guess.
'You idiot.' I said as we rounded the corner back to Sherlock's room.
'Say that again?'
I turned to face him, confused. 'Why?'
'Just do it.' He stopped as we stood facing each other in the middle of a corridor, an annoyed nurse
nimbly bustling past us.
'You idiot. So?'
'Yeah, thought so.' Lestrade smirked, continuing to walk to the private room.
I halted him just outside. 'What?'
'It's so much more endearing when you say it to Sherlock.'
'Ha, bloody, ha.' I said, slapping him around the head. 'I'm still mad about you keeping a chart,

don't start again.'

Quickly, entering Sherlock's room, Lestrade came in after, exaggeratedly rubbing the back of his
head. I rolled my eyes at him as Sherlock spared us both a confused glance. I shook my head in
reply. You don't want to know.
Raising an eyebrow he turned back to Molly who was somehow managing to keep a conversation
flowing with very little input from him.
It was then that a knock of the door sounded. Lestrade opened it and was greeted by an unusually
nervous, apprehensive looking Mycroft.
A few words were murmured between the two of them and I managed to make out a curt 'thank
you', being muttered from Mycroft's lips. Greg patted him on the back before vacating the room.
Mycroft coughed. 'Dr Watson, Hooper, may I have a moment alone with my brother?'
Molly gave a terse nod and quickly scampered away. I followed shortly after, eyes lingering on
Sherlock, trying to gauge his reaction to his brother. To see if he was alright.
The door closed abruptly.
*
He stood in the middle of the room like a lost puppy and I raised an eyebrow at him. Shining
through the curtains, the sun shone all too brightly. A happy setting for a less happy day.
I mean I was happy. Of course I was; I had just escaped capture and had John, Lestrade, and
Molly by my side. I was on enough painkilling drugs to tranquillise a horse and finally my
wounds were being treated.
It was everyone else that was decidedly unhappy. Molly kept on crying. Lestrade just looked
weary and put down. John was putting on quite a joyful front but every time he looked at me
something sorrowful flickered through his face.
Now Mycroft, of all people, was standing around looking uneasy and distressed.
I waved him over to my bed.
'Sherlock...' His voice was hoarse, rough.
'Mycroft.'
'I'm sorry.'
'I know.'
It was inelegant, graceless, the way he tried to hold me in his arms. Hug me tightly, reluctant to let
go.
Yet it said more than either of us would admit out loud.
'I'm so glad you're alive. I'm so sorry.'
Gently, I rubbed his back in circles.
'I forgive you.'

*
Mrs Hudson arrived half an hour later. But after lavishing Sherlock with all the love she could
give, she left to go cook some 'proper' food, as what the hospital was giving him was amazingly
inadequate in her eyes.
Eventually, Molly and Greg had to leave to get back to work.
Mycroft stayed.
'Why did they kidnap you?' He asked, leaning back in his seat.
'They wanted a lot of information. They said they'd rather of have had you but you were to hard to
grab a hold of.'
Mycroft completely stilled. Rigidly, he stood up walking out the room robotically. Purposefully
closing the door behind him.
Sherlock sighed and gazed at me pleadingly. With a laboured blow of air out, I followed in his
foot steps.
Leaning against the wall, umbrella in hand, Mycroft appeared to be completely fine, almost as if
he was posing for a magazine cover. The fact that he was drilling a hole in the opposite wall with
his eyes showed how he was actually on edge.
I positioned myself next to him, not facing him, just being near him. He didn't utter a word so I got
the ball rolling.
'I felt ridiculously guilty when he came back. I mean yes, maybe I didn't have a whole horde of
security cameras at my beck and call or whatever it is that makes you think you should have
realised he had been kidnapped, but at least you didn't call him a heartless machine, or whatever I
said, and at least you didn't punch him in the face.'
I exhaled heavily, it felt kind of nice to finally get that off my chest.
'Wow, saying it out loud makes me sound like even more of a dickhead.' I chuckled dryly. 'You
can't argue that what you did, or didn't do; is worse than that.'
Mycroft turned to face me looking guilt-ridden and ridiculously tired. I imagine I looked much the
same.
'Thank you Doctor Watson,'
'John.' I interjected. We'd known each other far too long to still be so formal. Mycroft nodded in
acknowledgement.
'John,' The word sounded foreign from his lips. 'But as much as you are guilty too, it doesn't do
much to lessen my guilt. They took him because he was the closest thing to me that they could
find. Do you know what that feels like?' His voice had suddenly acquired a desperate tone. 'It's
unbearably gut wrenching. I feel sick. I've never, never-' His words drifted off. I watched him
keenly as his shoulders slumped back against the wall and he heaved in a breath.
'Felt like this before?' I finished, questioningly. He nodded in the affirmative.
'I should have had a body guard follow him round. Or maybe something more discreet. I knew
that his connection with me might be considered dangerous yet I never imagined this.'

We both sighed in almost perfect unison. 'You know he would have hated someone tailing him
24/7, despised any type of bodyguard. He would have resented you for it.'
'It seems a fair price to pay for him not being tortured for half a year.'
I pondered that for a second before speaking. 'You can't say he wouldn't still have been
kidnapped, he'd just be less happy to see you when you turned up here. You know what he's like.
He'd run circles round a body guard and you know it.'
'Hmm maybe so.'
A calm hush settled in and my hands ached for something to mess with. For some unknown
reason, nothing magically appeared. I guess the universe must hate me.
Finally, Mycroft broke the silence.
'I thought you may be lying to me when you sort of agreed that he'd want to see me. Yet I
honestly believe he holds little resentment anymore to me for not saving him from that unfortunate
fate. I imagine at first he wanted nothing more than to burn all my umbrellas and suits but I think
he's alright with it now.'
'Well that's good, I guess.'
'Why certainly, Dr-John, I'd go as far to say it's a high in our relationship.'
I laughed lightly to myself, murmuring under my breath, 'Wow you two are dysfunctional.'
Mycroft obviously heard me, as he tilted his head to the side. 'If Sherlock heard that he'd argue
that he's actually high functioning.'
I snickered while Mycroft almost displayed an expression of amusement. In higher spirits we both
re-entered the private room where Sherlock sat sulkily. A bored facial appearance, clearly painted
onto his face.
'God, does it really take that long to talk about all your feelings.' He said 'feelings' in much the
same way he said 'friends'; with derision and exasperation.
Yet it was obvious he valued his friends and even more so that he did indeed have feelings. Even
if he wasn't exactly happy about that little fact.
*
'I don't really know what their plan is but something about a 'war to end all wars' was spoken of
by a drunk man.'
'A war.' Mycroft hummed contemplatively as something dawned on John's face. It was the well
known 'oh shit, this is bigger than I thought' look and for some stupid reason I tried to give him a
reassuring smile. However this look then turned to one of confusion as he said,
'But when I was at that base thingy, looking for Sherlock, I overheard them talking about a heist.
Said that's why they couldn't kill you because they might need your help or something.'
Taking a moment to consider this new information my eyes wandered over to Mycroft who was
wearing a faraway look; meaning he was somewhere else entirely.
John stared at me, then at Mycroft.

'Well?' He questioned, slightly impatiently. 'Is it a war or a heist?'

At this, Mycroft snapped out of his haze, looking to me immediately. 'I will need a list of the
information you gave them, a general over view at least.'
I nodded compliantly.
'I've already made one on John's phone.' I answered, passing over the mobile as John hectically
searched his pockets.
'When did you take my phone?' He asked, a bemused look resting upon his face.
'In the truck. I'm surprised the abductors didn't take it off of you. Well you wouldn't have had any
service anyway I suppose.'
I gave him a mischievous smile and he grinned back. Mycroft rolled his eyes and went back to
studying the list.
'I would say get a room but really, you already have one.'

Chapter End Notes

I know. I know. Everyone's overly sentimental and emotional and totally out of
character, but just go with it.

Hopeless Dreams
Chapter Notes

You know how the last two chapters were kind of happy-ish? Yeah, don't get used to
that.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

'Something's bugging me.' Pondered Lestrade. I rolled my eyes at him, trying to sit up properly.
God did I hate being bed bound. Lestrade hummed loudly to try and gain my attention.
Reluctantly, I gave in.
'Enlighten us Lestrade, what is, as you so eloquently put it, 'bugging' you?'
He coughed once to clear his throat before beginning to speak. 'Why did the driver man tell us
you'd be dead by dawn. It is, after all, why he revealed your location; because he thought we'd be
too late.'
John perked up at this.
'Good point actually.'
Then they both proceeded to look at me like I held all the answers in the universe. Which, to be
fair on them, I often did. Maybe not all the answers but frequently the answers to their questions.
'They were going to kill me. One of them was in the middle of doing so when another burst in
yelling at the other that he should really check his phone. My understanding was that there was a
drastic change in plan.'
Lestrade accepted this completely and didn't go on further with his line of enquiries on the matter.
John, however, had a whole barrage of queries, just ready to shoot at me.
'What do you mean he was in the middle of killing you?'
'He was just about to kill me.'
'What did he do to you?'
'Nothing really. He was going to kill me but got interrupted.'
'When was this?'
'Just after I was taken from the cell neighbouring yours, I believe.'
'So what? He was just waving a gun in your face?'
'Pretty much, yes.'
'I'm not sure I understand your answer. Pretty much?'
'Fine. Yes, he was. You're being pedantic.'

'Answer me honestly. Did they hurt you when we were at that base together?'
'No.'
'You sure?'
'Yes, I mean apart from the usual rough treatment of prisoners. You saw me. They gave me
bandages, what more do you want.'
He whispered the last sentence so softly, that it was almost inaudible. 'I want to know I wasn't too
late.'
'You could never be too late.' Bending my head down as to try and gain eye contact from his
downcast gaze, I gave him a stern look. 'Honestly.' Because that was the godforsaken truth. As
long as John did eventually show up, he just couldn't be too late. I'd wait for him till the end of my
days if I had to. So although I had lied about the method that they were using to kill me, that
second comment was as honest as I got.
Finally he looked up at me and I stared at him in a desperate attempt to put my point across.
Lestrade whistled obliviously, probably watching birds out the window or something equally
mundane.
John licked his lips. Once. Twice. 'Ok.' His voice was hoarse but at least we now understood each
other.
'Good.' I agreed quietly, settling back down into my pillows.
*
Lestrade had somehow managed to get a full sized whiteboard into the hospital room and on it we
made a haphazard mind-map of all that we knew.
I contributed what I had overheard at the base and acted as a scribe for Sherlock. Lestrade added
what he knew about the driver and all his theories on the whole case. Mycroft helped with what
he had gathered after analysing Sherlock's list. Mrs Hudson brought Shepherd's pie.
'So you ended up in Scotland?' Lestrade asked sceptically, chewing a mouthful of mince and
potatoes.
'Yes. I presume we deviated back and forth, but the main movement was north ward.'
'How did you escape?' He questioned and it amazed me that no-one had asked that before now.
'Oh, I didn't. They let me go. Dropped me off in a skip after punching me to limbless putty.'
The atmosphere turned rather gloomy following that statement as we all sat in silence. The only
sounds being those of knives and forks scraping on plates. Sherlock didn't eat much; he never did.
He said that even just eating the amount that he did made him feel nauseous.
Ensuing six months of barely eating anything, I could understand why he felt sick and tried my
best not to pressure him into eating anymore. Yet it was hard not to when he looked so deathly
skinny.
It was later into the evening when he brought it up again.

'It was a mistake.' He stated, mainly to himself but loud enough that we could all hear. Frowning
to himself, I barely managed to make out when he spoke quietly, 'So what was the second time?'
I hummed in question. 'What was?'
'Letting me go. It was a communication error, something went wrong.'
'How do you know?'
'Well apart from the obvious fact that they recaptured me shortly after releasing me; the man who
interrupted my almost murder said something about how the entire team that let me go got shot.'
'Blimey.' Cawed Lestrade.
'I don't feel too much remorse.' Sherlock muttered and I have to say I thoroughly agreed with him.
'Well I guess not.' Lestrade inputted.
'Have you found any bodies, Detective?' Mycroft asked, briefly looking up from his phone.
Lestrade fixed his gaze on the whiteboard as he murmured to himself in thought.
'No.' He finally concluded. 'No shot bodies.'
'They must be rather good at the clear up.' Mycroft commented and Sherlock made a faint sound
of agreement.
The sun had long since set and the patter of rain was audible from the rooftop. Sherlock fell asleep
unusually early, his gentle breaths echoing around the room as one of the machines he was
hooked up to, beeped and flashed steadily.
Both Lestrade and Mycroft regarded him silently, compassion in their eyes. I tried not to look. It
was too painful.
Sherlock wasn't a fragile, porcelain doll, with cracks running riot all over him; yet this is what he
had been reduced to and that thought alone made my heart ache unbearably and my insides feel
empty.
Oh, Sherlock.
Leaving him to his peaceful slumber, we all exited the room with light footsteps. Lestrade closed
the door painstakingly slowly, in an all too careful manner. Turning round to face us, he asked
glumly,
'So what do we do now? We have no leads, no ideas on what they're actually planning, and
Sherlock's gonna be in there for at least another week-'
Mycroft, thankfully, interrupted his depressive list.
'We do what we can, Gregory. We support Sherlock, we keep our minds sharp, and we wait.'
*
Light from the glancing moon glinted off of broken glass as they dragged me through the window.
My grasp on consciousness was already slipping but as they heaved me over and a knife like
shard stabbed me in my ribs, I howled and kicked and screamed.

I regret that now.

The nurse that came to my aid was swiftly dealt with. Coldly shot by a man who's heart was
unlikely to ever thaw, then carelessly thrown out the window like litter. She deserved so much
better than that.
Tied up, I was taken down to the pavement via a window cleaning lift. A quick and easy
operation. Another gun shot rang through the building.
My mind felt numb. My body clamoured in pain. My heart lost hope.
So this is the end.
*
Mycroft called me at 3am and frantically I rushed to the hospital. Lestrade called partway through
my journey to deliver the same news.
Upon arrival, the hospital spun around me and I threw up on the grotty, London paving stones,
still wet from rain. Heaving and crying and despairing, I collapsed to the floor. Heads in hands.
Tears on cheeks. The sharp tang of vomit, fierce in my mouth.
Someone got me an orange blanket and I didn't know whether to laugh or cry some more.
Through a screen blurred by tears I saw the lights and colours of the ambulances and police cars
swimming together, like a painting that had had all its pigments fused into one massive smear.
At one point, when my sanity had all but deserted me, I came to the conclusion that this must be a
nightmare. Just another overly vivid dream. Everything was hazy and blurred, the feelings were
too intense and overwhelming; it made perfect sense at the time.
This has to be a dream.
This better be a dream or so help me god. I can't do this. Not again.
*
None of it was a dream.
I painfully woke to find I was strung up once again like a piece of meat. The cell was dark, damp,
and a pungent aroma filled my nostrils. In the centre part of the room a doll like man sat, legs
crossed, posture slack and relaxed. Dead eyes stared back into mine.
The man in a suit grinned at me wickedly before flicking open a knife. Moving closer, as if this
was a dance, his glassy stare, eerily, never left my own.
'You've been a very bad boy Sherly.' He purred, stroking the blade carefully over my bare chest.
'But you did just fine in the end. Followed the plan perfectly, I'd say. Now we've got you just
where we want you.'
A line was carved out just underneath one of my ribs. Roaring out in anger and anguish, I struck
out at him. Kicking my legs out, jutting my body this way and that.
He just returned to cut another line on the other side, words continuing to drip from his lips
'You must have had your doubts. The first time you escaped it was because we let you go. The
second time it was much the same, pretty boy.' Laughing manically he moved forward so his body

was pressed to mine. 'We let you go.'

*
It was 1 month after that fateful night that everything really went to pot. 1 month after that
wonderful evening when we all sat eating Mrs Hudson's Shepherd's pie and going on in a way
that let us believe that everything could be all right in the end. That it would be all right in the end.
Maybe that evening wasn't exactly 'wonderful' but one must embellish the truth when the truth is
so bleak.
In 1 month everything would go drastically downhill.
By 2 months Lestrade would be suspended, pending an official investigation. Mycroft would be
suspected by the country as the head of a terrorist group; corrupting the British government from
the inside out. Molly would be missing and we'd all be hiding away as everything seemed to
crumble around us.
It would all start with Sherlock's death.

Chapter End Notes

hahahah. I'm an awful person, I know.

No Lucky Breaks
Chapter Notes

I really bloody hate this chapter. Oh well.

Money. Power. Control. All consuming. All devouring.

At a risk of sounding clich, those who 'want to rule the world', are more often or not motivated
by one of the things listed above. The motives of the unnamed, suited man, who everyone
addressed as 'Sir', were less than unclear.
This man seemed to be all too similar to the late James Moriarty, Satan rest his soul. It appeared
that he just wanted to watch the world burn. Not for his own personal benefit but purely because
he adored the chaos. At first I almost believed he may be a protege of the dead maniac, seeking
vengeance. Yet that was a theory that didn't quite add up.
He had no real reason for carving into my chest. He didn't ask for information. He didn't want
anything from me apart from my pain driven screams.
He just wanted to clearly display his dominance. Of how I was his and how he held all the power.
I quickly deduced how he didn't get the most enjoyment from seeing me in unbearable agony but
from when I begged. Begged him to stop for all that was good and humane.
I could see in his eyes how he wanted me.
He wanted me collared and on my knees. Serving him like an obedient dog.
I managed to only implore him to stop once. Then a fiery defiance ignited and brightly burned in
my heart and eyes.
I was adamant over the fact that I was not going to be some random psychopath's bitch. And
rightly so.
*
I was rendered unable to move or speak for an hour after I arrived at the scene. The paramedics
tried to relocate me from the cold, damp pavement to the ambulance or inside but I silently
refused. Lestrade also tried. Tried and failed.
Mycroft gave me a knowing glance.
Two nurses dead. Both unscrupulously thrown out the smashed window. A window cleaning lift;
an easy escape.
Greg explained all this to me. Frantically running his hand is through his iron hair as he paced
back and forth in front of me. It was obvious to see he needed something to do, something to think
about, something to solve.
While his mind itched for something of which it could occupy itself with, mine had a burning to
be made numb.

At that moment I found it easier to fathom Sherlock's draw to drugs. Although I promptly shook
that thought from my head.
I think Lestrade drove me home but I find it hard to recall any specifics.
I was at a complete loss. It was insane -absurd- that he could have been so violently wrenched
from my yearning grasp, for a third time. Three times. Four if you count his 'death'. On four
separate occasions he had been taken from me.
I was just so tired.
My limbs felt heavy as I dragged them to bed, for there was nothing else to do. My lungs felt as if
I there wasn't enough air in the world to fill them. My heart didn't feel anything. Its shattered parts
pulled apart so abruptly that no-one could fix them.
The rope had been drawn out so tautly that its snapping was almost inevitable. I'm not sure what
happened to the walker.
Screaming into my pillow, wretched tears fell from my wretched face. Fists violently banging the
walls. Pillows flying at my dresser. A lamp soaring through the air, landing with a satisfying crash.
Quivering hands, a set jaw, tension poisoning my bloodstream.
Light fingers touched my cheek. I could almost imagine they were his. Damp skin masking a
blaring heat. I sniffed. It was as pathetic as it sounds.
I'm not sure what time I went to sleep. Neither am I sure when the endless stream of tears stopped.
But in the morning Mrs Hudson had cleaned up the broken lamp from outside my room and a
steamy cup of tea awaited me in the lounge.
The sun shone all too brightly from the curtains yet there were no tears left to cry. So instead I sat
numbly on the couch -as sitting opposite his chair was the definition of painful- and tried to
concentrate on the tea scorching the inside of my throat and mouth.
Oh, how it felt inappropriate that the world was allowed to carry on as normal while I was a
shaking mess on my sofa. Alas that's how it works. One disaster for a small group of people did
not, and would not, prevent the Earth from turning.
Little did I know how this one disaster to a small group would spread like wildfire.
*
'What drove you to a life of crime?' I asked the guard who refused to talk to me. The silence was
driving me insane and I was unbending in my rejection to lapse down into the incessant ramblings
of a stir crazy maniac.
I hummed contemplatively. There wasn't a lot that I could tell from an unmoving man who stood
noiselessly, dressed in completely black work clothes, oversized gun at the ready. It was like
doing deductions on a statue. The only notable thing was an old gold cross hanging from his neck,
half tucked into his shirt.
'I wouldn't say you're ex-military. Although military drop out, perhaps. You don't look like you
could survive the armed forces. Don't look determined or put together enough. Don't look like you
could stand taking orders. You look like the kind of reckless man I normally deal with when
Lestrade takes me on for boring cases because apparently 'I owe him a favour'. I always seem to

owe that man a favour. It's dreadful really. He's part of the police force he should know better than
to call in too many favours.' I paused the man looked indifferent, perhaps slightly amused.
I continued regardless. 'No, you're just the kind of sloppy criminal that leaves fingerprints on the
weapon or blood on their clothes. Your boss however, he looks like an interesting man. Quite the
Moriarty type isn't he?' There was a flicker of recognition at the name. 'Oh you've heard of him.
Well you're in the criminal business and you're currently guarding Sherlock Holmes, of course
you've heard of him. He's quite notorious, isn't he? He was, even.'
Sinking back into my chains, I relaxed. I didn't realise how calming, babbling on to myself could
be in place of the thick smog of muteness.
'Anyway, back to you, boring criminal #256. You obviously don't come from a wealthy family or
you'd be a more high class criminal. I'd say that you don't like me -I believe there's probably a club
for that by now- as your finger keeps on itching for the trigger. You'd like nothing more than to
blow my brains out in a pattern on the back wall. But you can't because you're an obedient lap
dog who's wise enough to know that the repercussions would be immense. Maybe I shouldn't take
it personally. Maybe you want to shoot most people. I mean I'd barely said anything before you
started mimicking ending me.'
He glared at the floor at this and I couldn't help but think that maybe I had got something.
'Or perhaps I've done something to offend you previously. Let's see.' I studied his face and
suddenly it clicked. Obviously there wasn't a mirror in the room but still I could picture my smug
smile. 'Rafael Buxley.' Delight filled me as his eyes snapped up to mine. Immediately narrowing
in a vicious glower. 'I think life imprisonment is suitable for a serial rapist. Especially one who
allegedly assaulted a minor. Shame he killed himself. He got an easy way out. Do you think he's
in heaven? Because if so, I must inform you-'
I only flinched once when the bullets soared less than half a metre away from my head. Despite
the silencer, a gun shot is a gun shot and gun shots are loud. My ears rang and my head pounded
and there was blood, my blood, dripping down to the floor from the cuts on my chest but still I
managed to finish my sentence.
'-it's well known that God doesn't like rapists.'
Two other men entered. Yelling.
'What the fuck was that?'
I got a new guard soon enough. Getting rid of them, one by one, was a bearable past time.
*
There were no lucky breaks.
No easily fooled driver to trick. No CCTV footage. No useful witnesses.
No Sherlock.
Mycroft rarely talked. Grief holding itself over him. Rendering a powerful man silent.
Lestrade didn't joke anymore. There was no teasing. No playful jests at Sherlock and I being
together. In fact it was an occurrence if anyone spoke his name out loud. Sour in your mouth,
bitter in the open air.

Molly cried. A lot. I cried with her. I probably cried more. At first I tried to be the strong one,
gently cradling her head in my arms. Eventually that became too much of a hard task.
She couldn't believe it. Neither could I.
Two weeks passed and the pain seemed to have been soothed. If only by a fraction. At some point
I almost compared it to an open wound that was slowly closing itself up. Then I almost hit myself
because of how stupid that was. Sherlock wasn't dead. He was alive somewhere, probably getting
tortured. And here we were, almost giving up.
I don't know what drew me to his grave. After all it was just some hired kidnapper's body down
there. Yet there I stood. Motionless as the words rolled off my tongue.
'I don't know what to do. It doesn't seem like there's anything to be done. I'm letting you down, I
know. You can't imagine how fucking guilty I feel right now. We're all fucking grieving for you
and what fucking good is that going to do you in your fucking torture cell.' I inhaled deeply. 'I just
wanted to say that I'm sorry for failing you Sherlock-' I paused after saying his name. It felt so
foreign on my tongue. 'Fuck! Here we are avoiding your name when it's the only thing that we
should be saying. We're gonna find you Sherlock.'
The sky was blue and a lone crow soared past, momentarily ruining the seamless block of colour.
I tilted my head up and gripped my fists by my side. The shout was probably louder than I
expected.
'We're gonna fucking find you!'

A Final Farewell
Chapter Summary

Short chapter to tide you over.

A homeless woman gave me a letter. She explained, in a very hurried manner, words tumbling
over each other, that she hadn't exactly known when to give this to me because Sherlock came
back but then disappeared again.
She left as quickly as she appeared.
Dear John,
I understand that if you receive this letter it means that I have walked right into their trap and am
now in their capture/I'm dead. In either case, I know this may be a pointless argument, but please
try not to be too sad. I won't be sad. As long as you and Molly, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson (as well
as Mycroft, I guess) are all safe than I'll be happy. Ergo if I am happy than you have no need to
be sad :) I don't wish for you to be bogged down by grief or whatever, it won't do either of us any
good, so try your best to smile.
A tear dripped down onto the page, slightly smudging the ink. Hastily, I rubbed roughly at my
eyes.
I find often that I can't express all that I want to and I fear that even when I have the opportunity
to write all my thoughts down, it still won't be enough. I want to tell you that you're amazing and I
care about you deeply, whatever that means. You've made me a better man and just generally
improved my life in so many aspects that it's hard to keep track of them all. You are the strongest,
bravest man that I have ever known and what you lack in brains you make up for with diligence.
(Don't take offence by that it was intended to be a joke although I'm not sure how it comes across
in writing).
A quiet laugh escaped my lips and I could almost feel my eyes crinkling affectionately at the
corners. Opening the door to 221b I paused in my reading to climb the stairs and make myself
comfortable in my chair.
I hope you understand how much I appreciate you -how much I've always appreciated you- you
and you're companionship. You made me believe in friendship and love... Now I must confess, I
feel a coward for saying this through a letter but I don't think I'm capable of making this
declaration to your face so, so be it. John Hamish Watson, I love you. I truly do. I'm in love with
you and I don't think I'll ever love anyone as much as you and urgh why is it so hard to turn
thoughts into words? You're amazing, John. You're the best. The most kind, compassionate man
I've ever been able to enjoy the company of and I do believe I've never cared for anything else in
my life as much as I care about you. I'd do anything for you (ok maybe not anything, that is a bit
extreme) and if that is not what love is then I fear I will never experience love because any feelings
stronger than this will surely be too much for my heart to handle.
Gulping, squirming in my chair. I couldn't breathe. This couldn't be real. I couldn't believe it. I just
sat, hands grasping at the arms of my chair as I tried to get my heart to chill the fuck down as it
rammed itself into my chest repeatedly. Air wouldn't go into lungs and I couldn't hear a thing over

the blaring in my ears. Eventually I managed to compose myself enough to carry on reading with
bated breath.
So that's it. I love you. I have loved you. And for as long as I live it is most likely that I will always
love you. But don't worry, I'm not fooling myself with the fancy that you love me back and I want
you to know that that is perfectly fine. You're not gay and I'm not exactly lovable. Yet it's ok. As
you said all those years before, it's all fine. Your friendship will always be more than enough.
More than I deserve. I'm not sure what compelled me to confess my love for you, I just guess I felt
you should know. That I shouldn't die without telling you. Not that I'm certain that I will die but
unfortunately it seems like the most likely option.
More tears streamed down my face. It wasn't fair that a single letter could be that much of an
emotional roller coaster.
Thus we come to the end of my letter and I must say my (probably) final farewell. Goodbye, John,
you're the best, please carry on to be the best. For me?
Your friend, William Sherlock Scott Holmes.
My hands clenched and unclenched involuntarily as something swelled inside my chest. I'm still
not sure what it was, too complex to identify. Folding the letter carefully, I placed it on the desk as
I went to go and lie numbly on his bed.
He can't die without knowing that I love him too. He just can't.

Empty Beatings & False Alarms

Chapter Notes

Ok, so I've made a plan and I'm going to give this story a sort of ending in around 31
chapters but there is going to be a sequel afterwards dealing with the aftermath and
such.
Just thought I'd let you know :)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

It was almost a month after Sherlock was captured that we found a definite lead.
And by a 'definite lead', I mean a huge, red, neon arrow pointing to his location. Not literally, of
course, but as close to it as you could get. We were all sitting around the table, clutching our
disposable paper cups of tea, looking at maps and all the tiny clues that didn't actually tell us
anything at all.
We were abruptly disturbed by what could be described as a whirlwind but was actually just
Molly flying in, slamming the door raucously on her way. Her words came out as a rushing stream
of urgency and we had to give her a drink and get her to breathe before she repeated everything in
a perceptible manner.
'Ok, so I was walking down the corridor, on my way to lunch, when this man with a hood and
scarf round his face grabbed me and pushed me round the corner, into this small sector that doesn't
have a security camera. I only know that 'cause Sherlock often pointed it out. He then asked me
how good my memory was and then told me this postcode, wait a sec, I wrote it down.'
She grovelled in her bag and produced a receipt with the numbers and letters scribbled out on it.
'He said we'd find what we were looking for here. I googled it on the way, it's a massive office
building belonging to some international energy company or something.' She panted as we all
stared blankly at her. 'Well? Come on!'
Grabbing my hand she began almost sprinting out the room as I attempted to drag my jacket over
my shoulders with only a single hand free. Greg and Mycroft were soon on our tail. We all hurtled
into the black car, Mycroft hurriedly yelling the place to the frazzled driver, then we sat with
manically bouncing knees and rapidly thrumming fingers.
Another unusually loud outburst from Molly brought us all out of our trances.
'Mycroft!' She exclaimed, almost banging her head on the roof of the car as she jumped up in her
seat like an overly excited child, fuelled on way too much candy. Ferreting about in her bag she
pulled out an envelope. 'He said to give this to you.'
All eyes were on the elder Holmes as he cautiously took the envelope from her hands.
He read it at lightning speed and gently enclosed it back inside the paper container.
'Well?' Greg asked, tone impatient.

'I have to go meet someone.'

Greg's reply of an angry huff showed exactly what he thought of that statement.
'You're gonna have to give us more than that.' He said, as the car dramatically shifted as it took a
sharp corner at break neck speed. I somehow managed to not fly into Molly as she crashed into
the door with a thud.
'They want me to go in and meet them.'
I raised an eyebrow apprehensively. 'Alone?'
'It appears so.'
Molly frowned, gripping to her seatbelt as the car hurtled round another bend. 'That doesn't seem
like a good idea.'
Mycroft didn't answer.
We shortly arrived at our destination and I all but flew out of the car in anticipation. A startled
Molly and Greg followed after. Mycroft lingered.
Working our way around the perimeter of the building, we waited around outside as Mycroft
entered, back ram rod straight with something akin to nerves. I was practically vibrating with
apprehension. Molly lay a steadying hand on my arm.
'It'll be ok.'
I knew she had my best interests at heart. I knew it. Yet somehow the words seemed so empty and
so lacking in anything real that I couldn't help but shrug away from her as something cold
sprouted inside my chest.
This could go badly. So badly.
My eyes locked onto one of the men walking out from the building. Smart suit; navy. A white
shirt; neatly pressed. A briefcase in hand. I watched as he walked away with powerful strides, the
glint of sunlight from his oversized golden watch reflecting off sharply.
I pondered on what Sherlock would have been able to tell me about him. His working hours, his
yearly income, his love life, how near a promotion he was, if he was born into a rich family or
rose from nothing.
Somehow these thoughts soothed me.
*
I didn't like 'Sir'.
Of course you could just assume that a disobliging captive, taken against their will, would
obviously not like their captor but sometimes the people you are captured by are extremely
interesting.
'Sir' was infuriating.
He was an Irene Adler -as I had come to calling those I couldn't deduce much from- and he didn't
like to give even the slightest of hints away easily. He was a mystery. A catacomb of delusion and

darkness buried deep under mounds of contradictions and false motives. My mind couldn't handle
the questions he posed so then refused to acknowledge them. Yet there were no easy escapes.
Eventually I got stuck with a guard who's feathers I couldn't rile and ruffle up. Eventually just
pushing down the pain and listening to the empty beatings of my frail, plastic heart was not
enough. Eventually I got bored of the dank cell with its plain, dull walls that screamed of a life of
complete mediocrity.
I'm not certain why but the shade reminded me of a case where a woman thought her husband
was cheating and suspected he had killed one, maybe more, of his mistresses. Obviously, I had
immediately dismissed the case as unworthy, in its flat, commonplace status of failed marriage in a
humdrum life. The prospect of a man murdering his mistresses, however, brought something more
interesting to the table.
It turned out that the man did have mistresses, 7 to be precise, 2 of which who didn't even speak
English, but unfortunately he wasn't a murderer. John told be that I was using 'unfortunately'
inappropriately, again, although the taste of disappointment on my tongue begged to differ. It did
turn out though that the man had murdered one of his mistress's dogs hence the coming home with
blood on his sleeve and in the interior of their car and deep within his fingernails. Apparently he
hadn't been very methodical in his killing.
The woman stayed with him nonetheless. John -being the one who actually held a genuine interest
in the lives of others- asked her why. She said that it was 'easier'.
The wall reminded me of her. The woman stuck in a loveless marriage because it was easier.
It took me a while to realise how much that thought depressed me.
I attempted to think of happy things (childish I know, this isn't that bloody Disney movie with the
flying children in it, after all) but all the happy memories seemed to contain John and that was just
so much more painful then not thinking at all.
You see this is the problem with getting attached. With caring. When you're separated from them
or if you lose them completely, then the pain is so fucking bad you wonder why you ever let
yourself get involved in the first place. It's why we learn to not give ourselves to someone else too
quickly because in that transaction we are giving them ultimate power over us.
Strangely enough though, I don't regret John. Not a little bit. Not at all
He made me feel whole and I guess I'd rather of felt whole for a little while and endured emotional
anguish at other points because of my attachment to him, than never felt whole at all.
But fuck, my heart did hurt an awful bloody lot.
*
It was a false alarm. All that aggravation of emotions and taut tensions and strained suspense; all
for a false alarm.
Mycroft exited with a less ashen looking face then when he had entered, but the distrusting,
dubious appearance he had gone forthright with had long since crumbled to one that spoke of
hope that had been put forward but then lost.
I probably didn't give him the space he needed as I flew at him, bombardments of questions at the
ready. At one point Lestrade firmly placed a hand on my arm as to get me to lay off, yet in my
determination to get immediate answers I merely wrenched my arm away.

It took Molly physically dragging me off him and lightly slapping me round the head for me to
give up on my useless crusade. It was at this point that I fully realised the existence of tears all
over my cheeks.
It appeared that hope being dangled out like a carrot, only to be abruptly snatched away affected
me as much as it did Mycroft. In the car ride home I apologised for my behaviour, quietly and
ruefully. Mycroft gave me one of the few genuine smiles I've ever seen him produce. We were in
the same boat, being rocked and capsized by the same merciless seas. I guess this was the closest I
had ever felt to the high and mighty Mycroft Holmes. It felt nice, amidst all the chaos and
disasters, to have someone who could relate to you. I think we all need that sometimes. Someone
to understand our pain.
The car dropped me off at home where I proceeded to stay for two days straight. Sitting in silence.
Appreciating it yet however not enjoying it in the slightest. I would have sacrificed so many things
just to have the sound of Sherlock's mournful violin echo through the building at 3am in the
morning, reverberating around the whole flat. And what I would have done to hear the sound of
experiments being dangerously conducted in the kitchen. The rattle of test tubes, the impolite
demand for more bloody Petri dishes, the sound of something disturbing being heated up in the
microwave followed by the small explosions and sparks as it fully rejected it as something that
should definite not be heated up.
In my noise deprived madness I almost hired a violinist to play on his violin. To play one of his
neatly handwritten pieces, the only time when his handwriting wasn't a completely unfathomable,
ambiguous scrawl that was almost as enigmatic as the man himself.
'How would you describe me, John? Resourceful, dynamic, enigmatic?'
Apparently so.
On the third day I went into work. Sarah had been informed of my situation, probably by Mycroft,
and gave a weak smile as she attempted to persuade me that it was 100% OK for me to stay at
home a little longer. Even she knew there was nothing to smile about. And she knew barely
anything.
I stayed at work for a few hours but left when every patient started driving me insane. Their
problems seemed so minuscule so completely and utterly inane and ridiculous that I couldn't help
but want to scream at them all that that there were far worse things out there then a damn fucking
tummy bug.
It wasn't their fault. Of course it wasn't and I felt immediately guilty the second I stormed out the
building.
I guess we all get wrapped up in our own lives sometimes and that can lead to us comparing our
awful lives to others's seemingly pristine existence. Evidently, no one has a perfect life that hasn't
been tarnished of blemished by the throws of being human.
I sat on a park bench and tried to think of how lucky I was. I had food, clean water, shelter; a
comfortable lifestyle. Although with a shattered heart stuck temporarily together with blu-tack,
lucky was the last thing I felt.
Pulling the letter from my pocket, as I had come to carrying it around with me for assurance of its
genuine existence, I just stared at the swirls of graceful black ink put down so purposefully but yet
so effortlessly that you could almost see the smooth movements that were used to execute each
fine stroke. I didn't comprehend the words or register their meaning I simply watched it with a

fixed look, imagining how Sherlock would have written it. With a slanted hand and a lightly
clutched pen.
I could almost envision Sherlock's hands writing it. Agile. Competent. Dexterous.
It was at this moment that my phone alerted me of an incoming call. Then like a movie that hasn't
quite finished being produced the sound synced up with the image and it was all brought to life.
My mental picture of Sherlock was joined up with the voice. The voice which sounded out of
place with its distressed tones juxtaposing the gentle imagery my mind supplied. It took my brain a
second to catch up and fully realise that it was Sherlock -Sherlock- talking to me and I gasped for
breath.
'Sherlock... What?'
*
He smiled at me as he handed me the script.
Not a smirk or a wicked grin, just a plainly authentic smile. Now Sir's reasons for this quick
display of happiness were definitely less than pure, presumably just gleeful that his plan was in
motion. He was young after all.
I tentatively took the phone from his grasp and held it in my hand like I wasn't sure if it was a
bomb or the most precious stone on earth. I dialled the number from memory.
Cough, clear your throat, breathe, don't forget to breathe.
'John. John. Can you hear me?' My statement sounded raspy, scared almost. Sir nodded at me
encouragingly. 'John, you have to listen to me, John listen please.'
'Sherlock... What?'
The sound of his voice, a voice I never dared to hope I'd hear again, made something explode
deep inside my chest. Bursting and blazing like a fire that was lit by an eternal spark in a dark
night that drowned out all other hopes and dreams. John was the one hope and dream that my
sordid heart clung onto even in the bleakest of times. The one wish.
'John! Go back, go back to building. I'm going to be there.' The script was short and had nearly
ended and I'd barely heard John's voice, a fact that made me want to scream and cry and bang my
fists against the floor in whatever order came naturally.
'Which building?' John said and his tone was steady if a little high strung and on edge. I could
almost see him moving into action, keeping the conversation going even though he knew exactly
where he was headed.
'The um, the one you went to three days ago.'
'Why? What's happening?'
'I'm not certain-'
Sir's face was stern. Like an aggressively welded steel mask. Cut the call.
I stuttered, wanting to cling onto this line with John for as long as I possibly could. 'I-I have to go.'
John's words came out so fast they were almost indecipherable, 'I got your letter an-'

John's words came out so fast they were almost indecipherable, 'I got your letter an-'
Sir hung up as he was mid-word.
I legitimately screamed at him. He hit me around the face and got the guards to drag me away.

Chapter End Notes

Sorry but the next few chapter updates may take a while. I'm pretty busy with school
work (excuses, excuses, I know) and I'm suffering from, what I like to call,
bloodyhell-why-can't-you-write-decent-sentences-syndrome.
So you know. Hold tight.

Greatest Fears
Chapter Notes

I've started doing song lyric thingies. I don't know why. Just roll with it.

I'm screaming at the top of my voice

Give me reason but don't give me choice
'Cause I'll just make the same mistake again
~ James Blunt: Same Mistake

When I was younger nothing scared me more than losing Harry's hand in a crowd. If I lost my
mum or dad's hand it was probably my own fault as I wandered off on my own accord, to go
exploring or whatever. Yet when I lost Harry's hand it was almost always because she let go of it.
Whether it was to go run to a shop window or run after some friends she had spotted; you could
count on Harry to ditch me whenever she felt like it.
However, now, as a fully grown man, the fear of losing someone's hand in a crowd had long since
worn off. Although in the few instances where Sherlock had grabbed my hand, I'd known -even if
I brushed it off as my undying want for some human contact and nothing to actually do with the
man himself- that I didn't want him to let go.
At this mature age my greatest fear, that landed in the realm of likely possibility, was losing
Sherlock.
Apparently, I'm made of tougher stuff then I thought as I'd endured this multiple times. Although it
sure as hell didn't make it any easier the next time it happened.
I got a cab to the building and told the driver that if he didn't get me there presto then I'd hand him
over to the British Government and when he didn't take that as much of an incentive, I told him I'd
pay him one hundred. He sped up at amber lights then.
Practically bouncing off the walls of the cab, I attempted to find some sort of calm by watching as
the packed pavements of London flew by. It didn't work. Reaching into my pocket to stop my
hands from banging on my manically bouncing knees, I pulled out my phone and called Mycroft,
Greg, and Molly. Mycroft didn't answer but the others said they were on their way. By the time I'd
finished, we were almost there.
Clouds were hovering, grey and thick, ominously veiling the sun. My hands were practically
shaking as I pulled out my wallet and grabbed all the notes and chucked them at the smugly sitting
cab driver.
'Nice doing business with ya.' He smirked before he drove off, leaving me shaking like a leaf on
the curb.
It disturbed me how frazzled I was. I was a soldier. I'd faced the battlefield. I'd watched men,

friends, die right in front of me. I'd come face to face with master criminals, with a seven feet tall
contract assassin. Yet having this opportunity to meet Sherlock and having no idea what was
going to happen -was it a trap? Was I going to end up dead?- made me more anxious and agitated
then I ever could of imagined.
I was scared of the unknown. Terrified of what may happen to me. To Sherlock.
I moved from the curb. Staggered footsteps, heavy footfalls. I saw him the moment I looked up
from the gum ridden pavement.
Eyes sunken in their sockets, surrounded by a mess of bruising, and still, those eyes were as bright
as always. Vibrant and alive in a way that nothing else ever was or could ever be. The two specks
of colour in an otherwise monotone world.
I only realised he had run towards me when those two circles of sea tainted eyes were mere
centimetres away from mine.
He initiated the hug. He hugged me. He wrapped his arms around me and nestled his head into the
crook in my neck. Curls of hair, his hair, tickled my jaw.
It took a few seconds but eventually I grabbed onto him so hard my arms started to hurt.
He was wearing some sort of strange, bulky pack strapped to his front but, in my elation that
Sherlock was in my arms, I ignored it temporarily.
'Sherlock. Oh my god. I thought -oh god- I thought...'
My hands scrunched into the fabric of his jacket as I buried my head further into his shoulder.
'It's ok. It's ok. I know.' He said and he was crying and I was crying and I just let everything else
fade into the background and become white noise as I clutched onto him for all my worth.
I don't know how long we stayed like that for but it was long enough that a small crowd had
formed around us and I felt like I had a bruise from the pack thing digging into my stomach. I
don't know how long we stayed like that for but when Sherlock let go, I realised it wasn't nearly
long enough.
'You can't leave me. Not again.' It was barely a murmur from my lips as I fumblingly smoothed
my hands over his shoulders and the thick material of the jacket that covered them. Daring a look
up into his eyes I saw that they matched mine in their red puffiness and the way they glistened
with tears. However something else glanced through. A sharp shot of guilt that buried itself into
the corners of his eyes. He looked to the floor immediately.
'I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry.'
*
They geared me up with explosives and a thick jacket then loaded me into the nondescript black
car with blackout windows. It was the definition of dramatic. One rough, jerky journey later, in
which we went round different blocks in a circle several times, I was heaved out of the van and
pushed into the battlefield.
'You have four minutes with him, then you fucking run into that building. Security will be on you
fast. Take a left, go down the three steps then go into the room with the red door. Shut it behind
you and wait.' Hissed the man into my ear, spittle flying across my cheek.

I raised a brow in wry defiance, 'And if I refuse?'

'We shoot up this whole square, around 200 dead.'
'Would that be more or less than if I go blow up a building?'
'You're the one who's fucking Sherlock Holmes, you tell me. But know that John, Molly, Lestrade
and Mycroft will definitely not survive the mass shoot up.'
I sighed. So this card is being played, again. 'I should really not have friends.'
He laughed. A barking cry in my face. His breath smelt like cigarettes; it made my fingers itch.
'That'd probably be wise, now go and don't fuck it up.' Shoving me not-so-subtlety with the butt
of his gun, I careered off towards the main road where John would most likely be unloading out of
a cab.
I felt dizzy on my feet. Nauseous in my stomach and pained in my mind. With my thought process
lagging behind my legs, I saw John and ran. My arms round him. His arms around me. Everything
seemed like ok could be a possibility. Of course reality destroyed the vision of this ever being ok,
as I let a dry sob wrack through my throat.
I was going to die and for some reason that thought came way behind the thought of how nice it
was to have John there, holding me. Letting go was the hardest part.
'You can't leave me. Not again.' Ok, maybe that was the hardest part. It was like he could see my
thoughts and exactly what I was going to do -had to do- next and then picked the exact worse
thing to voice.
I winced, thrashing my head violently to the side as to look anywhere else but at his despondent
face. He saw it in my eyes. He knew it before I said the words.
'I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry.'
Then I was running. Feet pounding into the ground as if to break it, break through it all and crash
through the centre of the Earth. My name was being shouted, again and again but it was as if the
world was on a quiet setting and nothing could really get through my protective cocoon of bubble
wrap.
5 metres away from the building. 3 metres. 2 metres. I dared a glance back at John. He was
yelling, mouth wide open as he screamed my name.
'SHERLOCK!'
Being restrained by my abductors, he thrashed against them; pulling his body this way and that, in
an action of pure frustration and desperation. I briefly registered Molly in a similar situation in my
peripheral. I turned and sprinted into the building. The echoes of my name following behind me
like a trail of smoke. I struggled to breathe.
*
Legs made of lead as I staggered after his rapidly retreating figure. Everything coming together.
Falling in to place. A bulky pack strapped to his chest, an international building. Forcing my legs
to do my bidding and hauling my body towards him.
'Sherlock!'

Limbs moving faster, pace quickening. Leaden legs turning into efficient, steel, mechanical
extremities; powering me along.
'Sherlock!'
Molly appearing a few metres to my left. Seeing my distress and shouting with me.
'SHERLOCK!'
Mighty, forcible arms dragging me back. Keeping me from my goal. Jerking and squirming and
twisting to try and get away. Hands like claws digging into the flesh of my arms which gradually
turned limp by my sides.
'SHERLOCK!'
A flash of those mesmerising eyes that I'd forever wished I'd memorised.
Then he was gone. In the blink of goddamn eye. I felt everything crumble within me as I lost sight
of him.
It was a reoccurring event that I would experience my biggest childhood fear of losing Harry's
hand in a crowd. It became a reoccurring event that I experienced my biggest adulthood fear of
losing Sherlock. The explosion threw me back in an instant.

More Flowers
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

You were the love of my life, the darkness, the light.

This is a portrait of a tortured you and I.
Is this the, is this the, is this the end?
~Thirty Seconds to Mars: Up In The Air

I didn't have much input in the planning of the funeral. Although Mr and Mrs Holmes were very
keen on my involvement.
'You matter -mattered- to him more than anything else, you're as crucial as anyone else in all of
this.'
Violet told me before excusing herself politely so that we could both tear up in separate rooms.
Eventually she lost the will to do so and came back in for a messy hug. She smelt vaguely of
lavender perfume that hadn't been refreshed since yesterday. I cried into her shoulder.
Surprisingly, I didn't feel the smallest bit embarrassed after.
The flat was littered with flowers. Well, it started off as being littered but eventually I was just
overwhelmed with the sheer amount of dying plants, now taking up space in the middle of the
floor. Some of them were sent anonymously but others were accompanied with notes.
He helped me with my grief and found the closure I was in need of, I'm sorry for your loss -Stacey
Harrison
He will be greatly missed. -Jonathon Wood (Constable at The Yard)
This man was an enigma and he will be sorely missed. From the staff at Bart's
Sorry for your loss John, thank you for finding my child. Sherlock Holmes will never be forgotten.
-Timothy Spraggon
The news showed a shrine that covered a part of the square where the building had exploded.
Approximately 94 people had died in the explosion. There were 80 or so more casualties. I had
helped out as many of them as I could. My instincts had overridden my shock and grief as dazed,
bloody bodies lay about me and the screams of hundreds accompanied them as a soundtrack.
I sobbed as I helped people get away to safety. Cried, as I lifted rubble off of those who were still
alive. No one seemed to care that my face was stained with tears and watery snot as long as I
helped and boy, did I do everything I could to help.
When my name had come up on the TV as they renowned me as a saint I flung the remote at the
wall and stormed out the room. I wasn't a saint, I wasn't a hero. I was a man who had been in the
wrong place at the wrong time and had the medical expertise to help. There were others who had
done more. It didn't feel right that I got so much credit just because of my link to Sherlock. It didn't
feel right that I got praised despite the fact that I let Sherlock go into the building in the first place.
It didn't feel fair that I got flowers off of people that I hadn't even helped.

Thank you John

Thank you Dr Watson
The world owes you -JJ
You should be awarded for your bravery -Lisa Stanley
I even got flowers and letters from people who specified who they were. I didn't mind these as
much, as long as I had actually helped them.
To our hero -Fey and Tina Lewis (you saved us from a falling beam)
Thank you for your help that day Mr Watson -Frank Reynolds, a man you courageously helped
Although the thanks still felt misplaced. Guilt weighed heavily on my mind. I replayed the day
again and again. Surely I should have been able to stop Sherlock from running into that building?
Shouldn't I?
Mrs Hudson tearfully told me I was being ridiculous. I think she could have told me that a
thousand times and I still wouldn't have believed her.
Sherlock blowing up a building was a very controversial subject. He earned the sympathy vote
from many but those who had lost someone in the building were less forgiving. In my statement it
was disclosed to the world that I thought that Sherlock had been forced to do what he did. That he
was a man who helped people. He solved murders; he didn't not commit them. I said I believed
that it wouldn't have been a threat to his life or well being because, how could it? He died in that
building anyway.
No, I said that the consequence for not going into that building with a jacket lined with explosives
would have rung a higher death toll, otherwise Sherlock would have done it. I said that Sherlock
had endured months and months of torture and he had been captured and recaptured and
recaptured again and he didn't deserve the blame for what he did. I knew it like I knew that my
shoulder was scarred.
It was nice that so many people believed me. It would have killed me if Sherlock died in utter
disgrace, again.
We didn't wear black for the funeral. It didn't seem right. Sherlock wasn't a traditionalist so neither
was his funeral. We dressed in navy like his silken robe and his beloved scarf and some added
purple to their outfits as a nod to his signature shirts.
Both the family and I knew that we wanted to celebrate Sherlock's life instead of just feeling sad
that it had ended. After all there was a lot to celebrate. He'd lived more than a dozen lives and
there were thousands of noteworthy days that could be put into a speech.
However in my speech I didn't even talk about an exciting, exhilarating day. It wasn't filled with
explosions and criminals but instead it was a pretty mundane day that followed the wrap up of a
case. Sherlock was exhausted and starved and we spent most the day watching TV as he
complained to me about watching said TV.
'It's dull John. Mind numbing.'
'She just hid a body after he framed her for his murder! How could that be dull?'
'Yes but we're not involved, it's all made up. Why should we care? It's not real.'

'I don't think you understand the concept of TV.' I laughed as Sherlock glared at me.
'I do understand the concept of TV, it is to-'
'Shut up and just watch it then.'
Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he shrugged further into the sofa, lifting his feet up to rest them on
my lap. 'Fine. Pass me a blanket.'
'It had been a dreary day and there was nothing particularly special about it.' I smiled slightly as I
explained this to the crowd of teary eyed friends and family. 'Well, he did thank me for making
him food which was rather remarkable.' A burst of light hearted chuckling emerged through the
room. 'But apart from that Sherlock didn't really do anything particularly notable. Of course he
made a few of his incredible deductions but he didn't run off on a six paragraph explanation at
ninety miles an hour of how he deduced them.
'Yet I still appreciated him being there. Because Sherlock Holmes, although undeniably
extraordinary, didn't need to do anything amazing for me to-to,' I paused as I inhaled a shaky
breath as I felt tears well in my eyes. Was I really going to confess my love for him at his funeral?
Screw it. 'For me to love him.'
Violet released a dry sob from her throat as I stared down at the polished wooden floor. 'He was a
friend who saved me from loneliness. A man who shone light into my darkness and someone who
can never be replaced. Someone who no one would want to replace because he stands on his own
as a figure of intelligence and greatness.' I sighed as I looked over the faces of everyone sitting in
their seats, fingers scrunching into fists as they willed themselves not to cry. 'Thank you Sherlock.
For everything.'
We were all vacating the building, Sherlock's family and myself waiting behind to say goodbye to
everyone and thank them for coming. The last man out was not someone I recognised. He gave a
slight nod to me,
'Sorry for your loss.' Then moved straight onto Mycroft, giving him a weak smile before pulling
him into a tight embrace. 'I'm so sorry 'Croft.' And just like that Mycroft relaxed into the other
man's arms. His shoulders shuddered as he let silent sobs stutter through him. I hadn't really seen
Mycroft cry before. The unusual sight gave me the feeling of eating stones; a heavy weight in my
stomach.
Looking away, as it felt wrong to stare upon such an intimate moment, I glanced over to Siger
who was looking at the pair warmly. Violet was giving them a tight lipped smile. I took from that
what I could.
More flowers were laid out outside the gates. Someone had even taken the time to spray paint in
stencilled letters 'we still believe in Sherlock Holmes'. It had become a thing that people said to
defend Sherlock from the claims that he went and blew up the building willingly. It wasn't much
but it made me smile.
.*.
A few days later I went to Bart's. I don't really recall how I got there or when I planned to go there
yet somehow that's where I ended up. I traced the lines of the familiar walls. Paced the corridors
until I made it to the lab where Sherlock often frequented. I only stopped my mindless traipsing
when I overheard Sherlock's name being murmured by well known voices.
'So it matches Sherlock's?' Asked Lestrade. His voice was gravelly, hoarse.

'It's undeniably Sherlock's DNA. I had to check it myself though. Just to be sure.' Came Molly's
timid reply. Greg sighed.
'Thanks for the clarification Ms Hooper, it's best to be sure.' Then footsteps were receding and I
moved out of sight but not until I heard the slight murmur from Molly of,
'Unless...'
.*.
I didn't like being in the flat. Although sometimes I never wanted to leave it. I was contradicting
like that.
Some nights I slept in Sherlock's bed, other nights I couldn't bare to go in his room.
I went to the top of Bart's a few times. Near enough to the edge to tempt fate but not far enough
that fate actually became inclined to push me off with a single, strong gush of wind.
Just because I had accepted Sherlock's death and become used to the idea of him not coming back
didn't mean that every waking second I didn't feel miserable and wrecked. It didn't mean that my
sleeps weren't filled with vivid, spine chilling nightmares that left me waking up with a cold sweat
blanketing my brow and an ache so deep in my chest I felt like my heart was missing.
It didn't mean that at all.
Molly's 'Unless...' ran circles through my mind but the last thing I needed, the very last thing, was
false hope. I didn't need an impossible fantasy to chase, especially as I had just come to terms with
it all. Even if this acknowledgement did nothing to help me sleep at night.
I went up to the roof for what I vowed to be the last time. I looked down at the crowds. A pair of
eyes met mine. Jumping back, I slipped, falling over in a mess on the rooftop.
The man from the funeral.

Chapter End Notes

I stole the TV show plot line from Hollyoaks as it was on for ages in an omnibus
string of episodes this morning ;)

Accusations & Betrayal

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

I never thought I'd need you there when I cry

And the days feel like years when I'm alone
And the bed where you lie
Is made up on your side
~Avril Lavigne:When You're Gone

'Terrorists in our Holmes?' Read the front page title. Clear and bold and unmistakable. I blinked
at it twice.
'I mean how could they?!' Yelled an obviously outraged Greg. 'It's all lies! Lies and slander andhow the hell were they allowed to publish this?'
I gulped and looked up from the paper, licking my lips twice before talking in a dry, cracked
voice, 'What does it say?'
Greg sighed as he eventually put an end to his high strung walking back and forth, wearing holes
into our floor, and sunk back into the sofa. 'What doesn't it say?' Dragging his calloused hand over
his fatigued face he continued wearily, 'It says that Mycroft and Sherlock were sort of in it
together. That Mycroft was the one who abducted Sherlock and he then exploited his suicidal
tendencies to make him blow the international building up.' He paused, momentarily, to gauge my
reaction, 'It's all bullshit obviously but people are buying it. Apparently it's filled with loads of
facts that are real so it makes the lie seem more plausible. I don't know, that's what Mycroft said.'
'One big lie, but people will swallow it because it's surrounded by truths.' I murmured to myself,
remembering the time I said something similar to Mycroft before Sherlock's fall. Something
clenched in my gut. Everyone believed the lie last time, will this time be the same? Images of a
seemingly unaffected Mycroft being marched away in handcuffs while the police made sly
comments of what a freak he was, flashed through my head. That couldn't happen, not again.
'Is there enough evidence for a serious enquiry to be made?' I asked, my voice hard and entirely
too detached.
Lestrade looked once at me, once at the paper then craned his neck to look up at the ceiling while
a heavy breath fell through his lips, sounding almost like a soft whine. 'I'm not sure.'
.*.
By the time I left to buy some bread, milk, and the morning paper; every newspaper held the same
story.
'Holmes brothers in it together?'
'Suspected terrorist in our midst.'

'Did Mycroft exploit his brother's suicidal tendencies?'

As I walked down the pavement some people moved out of my way as if they were hyper aware
of my presence and were determined not to touch me. I kept my eyes in front of me. Just get to
Tesco's and you can go home.
Unsurprisingly, I left the shop without my morning paper.
People parted for me like the Red Sea, well those who weren't totally absorbed in their phones that
is. Some people took a few photos in a not very discreet manner and I projected death glares onto
each and every one of them.
Murmurings surrounded me as people took part in gossip and idle speculation.
'He must feel so betrayed.'
'I mean his brother was behind it all...'
'Do you think he believes it?'
'Who would he do that to his brother though?'
'Do you think he knew?'
They shrouded me and wrapped around me like a cobra, tightening its grasp until I was
suffocating. I quickened my pace. Storming through the parted crowds with a look on my face that
told people exactly what I'd do to them if they got in my way. My breath came out in heavy
heaves, like I'd been running for miles, as my senses became overwhelmed. Too many people.
Too many voices. Too many words I didn't want to hear.
A nondescript black saloon with tinted windows rolled up onto the curb, even with the threat of
abductors and terrorists still being on the loose, I opened the door straightaway and ducked my
head in.
Mycroft grabbed my arm. 'Get in. Now.' I was barely seated before the car started rushing off,
annoyed drivers beeping at us as we swerved past.
I inhaled deeply as I caved into the leather seat, not bothering with a belt. 'What's happening
Mycroft?' I asked, despair seeping through into my fragmented words. 'Sherlock's barely been
gone three weeks and I can't, I can't, deal with all of this.'
The older man gave me a soft, pitying look but didn't say a syllable until we were more out of the
way. 'My apologies John.' He said and well wasn't that just a promising start? 'But I don't think
this is going to be easily sorted. It seems that they may have evidence against me, although how
this investigation came about without my knowing astounds me.'
I bit down on my lip as I stared numbly out the window. Grey clouds swirling above our heads
like the impending doom I felt was nearing. 'What are we going to do?'
'Get out of London.'
.*.
When we got to the countryside manor -and make no mistake, it was a manor- a rather flustered
looking Greg greeted us at the door.

'They've released those texts.' He exclaimed, marching up towards the car.

'What texts?' I questioned, going from weary to alert in 0.2 seconds. Greg looked past me and
over to Mycroft.
'The ones you and I sent before the building blew to kingdom come.' He said and I glanced round
to Mycroft who appeared stern and almost impassive. I don't know why, but I had a feeling that he
figured this would be coming.
'How did they get them?' He asked eventually, sliding out the car and slamming the door to
punctuate his question.
Greg looked meekly at the floor. 'I left my phone alone in the office, anyone there could have got
it.'
Mycroft rolled his eyes. 'Don't look so bereaved. They would have hacked you and seized your
phone anyway.'
We all walked into the grand building in silence, the crunching gravel under our feet the only
thing brave enough to make a sound.
'How bad can these texts even be?' I asked Greg as we strode round the echoing corridors filled
with ornate mirrors and vintage tables.
Greg sighed. 'As a stand alone, they'd mean nothing but what with all these conspiracies going
round people are going to add them to the pile of proof against Myc.' I frowned at the nickname.
When did everyone start shortening Mycroft's name? First the man at the funeral, now Greg. I
ignored these thoughts however as there were much, much more pressing matters to deal with.
'Well what do they say?'
Greg's mouth twisted into an uneasy grimace. 'Right. Well, um, you know the day of the
explosion, yeah? Ok, course you do, well,' He stalled and I raised my eyebrows in an unimpressed
look as we stood face to face in the corridor, 'You know how you called me to tell me about how
Sherlock was going to be at the square and I said I was on my way?' I nodded plainly. 'Right, well
I lied.'
A rather guilty looking Greg then proceeded to explain what had actually occurred that day,
starting at early midday about an hour before I received the call from Sherlock. He received a call
from Mycroft telling him to meet him at an office block only two streets away from the soon to be
exploded building.
'He said that he'd been called there, someone actually called his mobile, told him it was his last
chance to find Sherlock.' He paused for a second and I pounced like a cat after a light beam, not
really sure what answer I was blindly chasing after.
'And no one thought to call me?' I meant it to come out in quite the outraged exclamation yet the
sounds that stumbled from my mouth were shy and cautious.
Greg scratched the back of his head as he looked to the floor for guidance. 'It didn't seem right to
call you out when it easily could have been another hoax?' He answered in a questioning tone,
then a little quieter, 'Also I think Mycroft was instructed specifically not to.'
'Just tell me what the texts are.' I spat out. Angrier than I'd been in weeks. A strange sense of
betrayal seeping through the cracks and stirring up a torrent inside of me.

Swallowing, the detective appeared smaller and more uneasy than I'd ever seen him but still I
carried on scowling at him till he answered. 'In the ones they've released Mycroft says, the office
building address and 'come now'. I put back 'on my way?' Myc asks, 'have you found him?' and I
reply, 'no such luck.'' Greg paused to scuff his shoe on the polished wood, quite a childish action
that looked bizarre being done by a grown man with silver hair. 'Later Mycroft says, 'the building
is going to explode either way.''
I stared at the wall behind Lestrade for a long time after he said that. Regarding the detailed
wallpaper as if I could see right through him. Which I couldn't. I couldn't see through anything, I
couldn't see what had happened and I didn't understand what he was on about. Moreover I
couldn't find an answer as to how these texts came to be and why I was never notified.
Flicking my gaze to the other man's eyes I tried to see into his thoughts. His face told me he was
remorseful, guilty even. I couldn't see anything else.
Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the
truth.
I tried. Then I turned and walked away.
.*.
Curled up on an unfamiliar bed, I attempted to remember a time when everything was less
confusing. When I knew who was bad and who was good and the distinction was as clear as the
distinction between hello and goodbye. When I knew who was on my side.
Sherlock was always on your side. For everything that mattered he'd always be there. Right by
your side.
I sighed as I rolled over on the plush duvet. It was too cushiony for my liking. I felt like I was
falling into it while the bed underneath was too solid and unyielding. Like a rock covered in layers
upon layers of feathers.
I missed my bed; I yearned for Sherlock's.
Of course, logically, I knew that Greg and Mycroft didn't have anything to do with Sherlock's
kidnapping or the terrorist attack. However that didn't mean that a little voice in the back of my
mind niggled me about what had happened that day.
Those texts were incriminating to say the least. They weren't solid evidence because they could be
taken in too many different ways yet the fact that it showed they had knowledge about the
forthcoming explosion and didn't do anything to prevent it, well, I knew it was going to start an
uproar. And when people hate someone it's much easier to feed them slanderous lies about that
someone and for them to gobble them right up.
I'd seen it happen before.
Even though I disliked the bed, with a passion that probably wasn't deserved of an inanimate
object, I slept on it straight for a solid twelve hours; awakening with that strange feeling of
confusion and thinking that you've been asleep for centuries and have probably woken up to find
the world has been taken over by dolphins and red ants.
Stretching and trying to force the crick out of my neck, I stood and drew back the curtains. The
night was still in its element. Endless black skies dotted with white specks of stars, glimmering in
the dark. There wasn't any light pollution out in the middle of the countryside and everything
looked so much brighter. Clearer. I couldn't open the locked window so instead went downstairs

to take it all in.

The air was cool. A brilliant rush of algid breeze flew past me in an refreshing stream. Lifting my
arms up I could almost imagine wings and the feeling of flying. Feathers being ruffled by the fast
passing wind, lifting me up and far from the floor. It was a nice fancy and I let myself be taken
away by that idea of unrestricted flight. I closed my eyes and let the cold air flow all about me.
I lay on the grass, the thin, green blades stroking my cheeks. I could imagine Sherlock being there
with me. He loved the stars, their beauty, their random aesthetic. Even if he did know little about
space. Well, apart from that random fact about that supernova/star thingy in the painting forgery.
I pondered on how we could have laid side by side or perhaps we could have laid in opposite
directions to each other, with our heads placed together in the crook of the other's shoulder. I
might have told him I loved him and he would have freaked out and short circuited, eventually
asking what I meant by that. I wondered if I could have shocked him into silence.
Then he could have told me he loved me back and our fingers would have laced together perfectly
as we stared up at the exploding stars billions and billions of miles away.
My cheeks were damp but a small smile rested upon my face as I dreamt of these possible
situations that could have happened had things been different. Maybe there's an alternative
universe out there where that exact situation plays out perfectly. I smiled more so at that thought.
When I woke again the sky was dusky, the sun barely peeking over the horizon and my fingers
were intertwined with the fine leaves. Holding them tightly in my hands like they were my only
tether to the Earth.
The back of my shirt was slightly sodden and my shoulders ached a bunch but nothing hurt more
than waking up to reality.
.*.
Greg gave me timid looks throughout breakfast and Mycroft rolled his eyes at Greg's reluctance to
address the subject that left us in awkward silence.
'Gregory would you please stop looking like a kicked puppy and put your thoughts into words.'
He said as he sat down with his tea. I stirred my own slowly.
Lestrade sighed, 'John I want you to understand what happened that day. We didn't just jump in
and ignore you, it was complicated. I didn't really get what was happening.'
Mycroft's phone rang at that moment and our heads all snapped round to stare at it.
'Who has your number?' I asked unsurely as the phone buzzed about on the wooden surface.
'Only Anthea.' He replied picking up the phone with an expression that showed signs of
apprehension, 'What is it?' He asked as he made to leave the room as murmurings of words could
be heard from the phone.
We waited in a thick tension that filled the room like smog, sneaking glances at each other over
our steaming cups and long forgotten bowls of oatmeal. Mycroft emerged a few minutes later with
a grey face and eyebrows knitted together in a mix of confusion and stress.
'What's happened?' Greg questioned immediately, scraping his chair across the tiles as he rose.
Mycroft blinked himself back into the real world and stared at the table. 'Molly Hooper has been

reported missing.'
All our drinks were left to go cold.

Chapter End Notes

Sorry if this is a little confusing, I may have to add a few more chapters to clear it all
up as it's pretty vague at the moment.

The Darkness Fading In

Chapter Notes

Arghh nearly 3,000 hits XD I can't believe this dumbass story has got so many
views!
Thank you for all the kudos and the comments, gotta love them!
Anyway, back to the story...

Just like the wind, you're gone.

Leaving me breathless and alone.
Tell me why you left, tell me where you went.
Tell me why am I worth the lines.
~The Early November:Tell Me Why

I hated the manor like I hated my guest room bed; with an unnerving amount of venom. I hated
the dark walls and their ability to suck all the light and life out of the room. I hated the way the
corridors were manifested inordinately with gaudy, gold rimmed portraits of high class citizens
long since dead and forgotten; reminding me of how life is a limited duration and how everything
fades into the background eventually. Of how when some people die, no-one will mourn them or
keep them alive in their memories.
I wondered if anyone would remember the family that occupied this manor or if they too would be
consigned to oblivion.
The windows were large but the keys were mostly lost as if even the house didn't want me to
escape.
'We have to leave. Molly needs us.' I pestered Mycroft, begging him like I was some sort of child
that followed his every order.
'We can't.' He repeated, giving no reasons as he had forced them all upon me already. Tension ran
high as I skulked around the large estate which was so bereft of life I named it the manor of
cadavers. I smirked to myself as I thought of how Sherlock would have appreciated that name. We
probably could have named a case that.
I found Lestrade in the library. If anything he was more distraught about Molly being missing than
I was. Well I guess he was never numbed by Sherlock's death so all his emotions were still in full
working order. Mine, however, seemed to bounce from one extreme to another. An hour of being
cocooned in an insensitive, dull stupor followed by an hour of not being able to stop my fists from
banging against those godforsaken walls as water drops clouded my vision.
Lestrade was reading one of the few books left; it was a very sparse library. What remaining titles
resided, weren't the best as they hadn't been deemed worthy enough to be taken by previous

inhabitants. I picked one at random. It was in German. I put it back down on its dusty space.
'We should leave.' Said Lestrade. It was the first thing he had said to me all day and it had been
the last thing he said to me the day before. I sighed pitifully.
'I know.'
'Then why don't we?' He didn't look up from his book, not even a glance. I stared out the
window, just looking upon his slouched, grey figure depressed me further.
'Because we can't. Because you and Mycroft can't leave as you'll be arrested. Because if I leave, it
might be a trap and I'll get captured as well. Because if you two end up in jail and I end up in a
dungeon then no will be able to stop the next attack. Because,' I looked to Greg and finally his
gaze met mine, 'It's not like we did a great job of finding Sherlock anyway.'
He sat back on his chair and it groaned beneath him like even the furniture there was hostile.
'Then what are we supposed to do? We haven't been doing anything apart from eat, sleep, and
wander mindlessly through the house as if Molly hasn't been kidnapped and as if we've not been
framed and as if Sherlock's not been bloody obliterated!' He yelled, words blunt but wielded with
the effect of a sharpened sword as he slammed his book to the ground as if it was the sole
perpetrator of all this disaster.
Blinking, he captured my eyes with his, as his hard, brown eyes turned softer in the sunlight.
'John, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say that last bit.' His voice sounded pathetic, even to his own
ears, I imagine.
I looked once more to the window, out into the fields and trees and decrepit paving stones. I
walked to the door, not once making eye contact again. Pausing in the doorway, I didn't turn
around as I spoke out into the corridor that looked like it could carry on for miles, 'You've been
here for me, this entire time, Lestrade. I'm here for too, just don't- don't say things like that.'
He apologised again before the sun set. It wasn't a long rambling apology just the words, 'I'm
sorry,', spoken in earnest.
I forgave him.
.*.
The next day Mycroft delivered good news over breakfast just as I was beginning to forget that
good news existed.
'The Prime Minister is going to speak out today about this whole ordeal.'
'Is that good?' Lestrade asked hopefully, mid slurp of his morning coffee.
'Depends what he says.' I commented, trying to remain impassive about what could have been a
great turn around.
Mycroft shook his head as he bit into the last blueberry muffin. It was strange watching Mycroft
eat, it felt like he should be above all that, all those menial things that ordinary humans do. Of
course I had thought the same thing of Sherlock at first but he barely ate anyway. 'He's a personal
acquaintance of mine, he knows I'm not a terrorist, he's always trying to track my movements.'
I nodded in approval as Lestrade gave me a grin. 'Of course, I too, am personal acquaintances
with the PM. We go out for brunch every other Tuesday, he's a sucker for brunch.' He joked in a
thick, pretentious accent and I laughed as I joined in with the light hearted banter.

We sat and watched in taut, stretched out silence as the Prime Minister started to make his
statement to the country. Camera flashes illuminated his face as overly eager photographers and
journalists all fought to get to the front. Questions were yelled like bullets being fired from a
machine gun; fast as hell and in barrage of one after the other in very quick succession.
The man in question cleared his throat and breathed into the microphone. 'There has been much
speculation flying around about the recent terrorist attack that shuck our country. Yet now is not
the time that we should go to blame each other on the basis of flimsy evidence.' He paused and I
went to look at Mycroft who appeared strangely unaffected. 'Mycroft Holmes has served this
country well for years and is someone who I wholly trust. He has worked against terrorists and
spies and organisations that threaten our people's safety and has served this country better than any
other man I know.'
Again, I looked to Mycroft, 'Does he even know what you do?'
Mycroft smirked, 'He thinks he does.'
'He would have no reason to do this. He has no motive and it would make no sense for him to do
what he has been said to have done. The texts are incriminating but they can be explained. He was
lured there by the actual kidnappers and was trying to find his brother who had been abducted
three times and has now been, unfortunately, taken from us permanently. He is not the perpetrator
of these crimes and he is not to blame.'
He ended his little speech with a curt thank you and replied to the still ongoing bombardment of
questions with a short, 'No further comment', before he was whisked off back to number 10.
The three of us stared at the screen for a while as another report came up. Lestrade broke the
silence with a cough and then, 'Is that it then? Can we leave?'
Mycroft shook his head in reply, 'No, that would be a mistake.' He said, leaving without another
word. I stared after him as I crossed and uncrossed my hands over each other. Greg patted my
shoulder. 'I'll make some tea.'
.*.
I wasn't really sure about what exactly had happened but the general gist of it seemed that loads of
information had been leaked. It held no pattern and seemed so random that I couldn't really
understand it. It's only relevance was that the sole thing that linked it all together was that it would
all be information that someone in a high up governmental position who had influence in the
secret services would know. Aka, Mycroft Holmes.
There was a list of names I didn't even recognise and linked to them was basically their whole
family tree and all the connections they had to people in powerful positions. There were bank
statements and people's addresses and post codes and loads of information about the military that
really shouldn't have been available to the public.
Lestrade snatched the printed list from my hands. 'Theresa Burton, Janet Bosworth, Frederick
Gates...' He murmured under his breath like a mantra and I clicked my fingers under his transfixed
eyes.
'What is it?'
His eyes met mine as his shoulders sagged. 'Three people on this list were murdered in their
homes by a bullet fired at long range. They were the three murders I was investigating when
Sherlock first went missing.'

My mind went numb as my train of thought halted abruptly to a stop, like a roller coaster ride
where you go up and up and up until you pause at the very edge of your descent. Greg gave me a
desperate look and my train flew down the other side of the roller coaster. 'This is great!' I
exclaimed jumping up from my seat as I grabbed the paper back. 'Obviously not the dead people
because that's still awful.' I added sincerely as I reminded myself of how inappropriate being
happy about murder can be. 'But this shows that Mycroft didn't do it!'
Greg gave me an exhaustedly confused stare and I gestured back to the paper. 'These people were
killed after Sherlock gave the kidnappers the information about them. So it's not only Mycroft who
knows all this leaked information. It's also the kidnappers because they're the ones who,' My voice
faltered as I tried to force the words out. Licking my lips I inhaled deeply as I said in softer,
regretful voice, 'Tortured Sherlock for the info.'
A remorseful expression flashed by Lestrade's face before a gleeful smile took its place. 'You're
right. John, you're right!'
A clap sounded from the doorway as Mycroft leaned against the wooden frame like he would
upon his umbrella. 'Well done, John.' He said and something in his tone told me he was merely
softening the blow for more bad news. 'However, it could also be said that I ordered the kill on
those people after I had abducted/taken Sherlock away, as to make it appear that it wasn't just me
who knew and leaked the information.'
I sat down back in my seat, head in hands.
'Isn't that a bit of a far fetched theory?' Lestrade's gravelly voice rang out from behind me.
'It's well known that Sherlock has worked on murders far more elaborate than this and that I either
match or overtake him in intelligence. They know that I would have covered my tracks. That I
would have thought of everything. In a world where I'm at the helm of a criminal organisation,
nothing is too far fetched.'
Greg and I sighed in unison.
.*.
We were all sat down for dinner when Mycroft's phone buzzed.
'Anthea?' Greg asked, scraping his fork against his plate as it screeched in protest. Mycroft
hummed in response as he picked it up.
'What's it say?' My question sounded empty, an obvious sign that I didn't really care anymore.
'Someone has texted one of my personal phones from Glasgow.' He replied, eyebrows knitted
tightly in a frown. 'All they've put is 'I'm sorry.' and it was sent from a burner phone.'
Greg gave either a look of puzzled displeasure or perhaps it was a look that meant he was deep in
thought as my mind turned to how likely it was that the text could have been from Sherlock and if
so, what it meant.
Eventually my rationality overcame my hope as I told myself of how it was impossible for the
dead to send texts from Glasgow. Even if Sherlock had risen from his grave before...
.*.
We learnt what the text had meant next day as we watched the news.

The prime minister had regained his position at a sort of podium outside 10 Downing Street and
coughed once as he went to speak. The three of us stared with eager, anticipating eyes.
'Mycroft Holmes holds great power within our government and despite his attempts to silence me
through blackmail, I must voice that I fear him to be a very dangerous man who may be a threat to
our lives, our country, and maybe the entire world.'
Greg gave a startled cough choke as he grabbed his silvery, iron hair in a fist. 'What's he doing?!'
He yelled at the TV which I was still staring at; hypnotised as all the figures blurred together then
faded into black. I watched the inside of my eyelids for a while as I heard Lestrade's vehemently
oppose what had just been said as Mycroft took it all in resignedly, declaring that they must have
blackmailed the Prime Minister into making a false statement.
The blackness was calming in a way, as I let myself realise fully that although this was the end for
us, it was the start to something so much more darker and deplorable.
In my mind, they had already won.
They had won long ago, with Sherlock's death.

An Unveiling or Two
Chapter Notes

Hello, yes, I am still alive and here with another chapter. Ta da.

A video was released of Molly's capture. Theories were thrown out and people flocked to them
like ducks to bread. One of them got really big. Mainly because it made sense and even I had to
admit that.
When Sherlock was first kidnapped there was no evidence of him being taken; so much so that we
didn't even think he had been abducted. Yet when Molly was captured it was obvious. It seemed
unlikely that these kidnapping masterminds had just suddenly become so sloppy and careless in
their work to leave a very blatant roll of CCTV footage for the world to find.
Mycroft said of how it showed that they did it on purpose so that people came to the conclusion
that many people, including our internet theorists, had come to; that Sherlock wasn't actually
abducted that first time, he just went and joined his brother secretly. It explained why there was no
evidence of Sherlock's kidnap but there was a video for Molly's.
One of the officers who had helped with Sherlock's rescue had talked to the press. He'd just gone
and spilt the beans like anyone else who was offered a neat enough amount. Lestrade was beyond
disappointed. The story was released and it got the much fought after front page spot.
'Conspiracy Unravelled; The Holmes Plot'
In the article contained details of how we had searched for Sherlock. Of my desperation to find
him but with no mention as to how Lestrade had been almost equally as eager to recover him as I
was. There was info of how I too had been captured and Lestrade had sent the team roaming
round the woods in what was described as 'a chase alike one of a wild goose's' and how I had
been the sole rescuer of Sherlock.
Of how if I had not been taken and 'freed' Sherlock; Lestrade wouldn't have found him. The
article then said of Sherlock's brutal third abduction with sorrowful mentions to the two dead
nurses. It speculated on how, when I found Sherlock it may have somehow convinced him to not
be involved in the terrorist plan anymore, referencing our strong friendship throughout the years
and how we impacted each other's lives.
It said of 'what if John, his best friend and loyal companion, led him away from this treacherous
path as they made their escape together, meaning that the person at the reins of this unknown
organisation had to bring him back by force. Hence the atrocity that was Sherlock's third and
final capture.'
And I hated the fact that it made sense. It wasn't truthful, it wasn't real but it made sense and at that
time it was the only answer the public were getting so it was obviously the one they were going to
buy into.
Mycroft became even resigned. I didn't even think that was possible. Although he did come out of
his shell when the man from the funeral came around.

I'd almost forgotten him amongst the mess that was everything else but consequent to seeing him
at our front door, memories of his piercing dark eyes meeting mine upon the rooftop on that grey
day; came flooding back.
'Oh, um hi? You were at the funeral weren't you?' I asked awkwardly, scratching the back of my
neck. I knew literally nothing of the guy at this point yet something about him made me feel the
wrong side of uneasy.
'Yes, Victor Trevor.' He replied with a calculated smile and an outstretched hand.
'John Watson.' I said, hearing the faint tone of caution in my voice even from my own ears as
something insidious flashed past his eyes.
'I know.'
We talked no more as I guided him to Mycroft, our footfalls along the polished wooden floors
noise enough.
The man was alike to a chameleon. A shapeshifter. He was business like and detached around me
-a stranger- but the second he saw Mycroft his whole appearance changed. He floated into
something more gentle, welcoming. His figure becoming somewhat smoother and more open.
'Hey Mycroft.' He said, speaking softly as a smile graced his lips.
'Victor...'
And then, feeling like an intruder, I left the room, closing the door silently behind me.
'Who was that?' Lestrade asked in the kitchen, biting into an apple.
'Victor Trevor? He was at the funeral.' I shrugged going to pick up one of the shiny, red orbs of
fruit. 'Where did the apples come from?'
'He dropped them off at the servant's entrance, with a help yourself note.'
I frowned. 'Don't you know what happens to people who eat apples off a stranger after they've run
away from their homes to an old house in the middle of nowhere?'
Lestrade grinned. 'I'm sure you can find me a Prince Charming.' He said, taking another crunching
bite. I put my apple down and boiled the kettle.
.*.
Victor stayed for dinner, he'd brought round more food besides apples and even some more of
those blueberry muffins that Mycroft seemed to enjoy ever so much. We mainly sat in amiable
quiet, Lestrade once in a while asking about how everything was going in the outside world.
'I'm seeing your faces everywhere, that and the missing girl's. It's getting weird, I feel like you're
bloody watching my every move.' Victor laughed, grinning at the rest of us as he shovelled a fork
into his mouth.
'Well normally I would be.' Mycroft smiled slightly for the first time in a few days.
'I always forget you're the creepy guy watching us through the CCTV 24/7.' Lestrade joked as
Mycroft raised a brow at him.
'Yes Lestrade, in my position, all I ever do is watch you run about chasing criminals and fail to get

'Yes Lestrade, in my position, all I ever do is watch you run about chasing criminals and fail to get
the milk as you go out for groceries.' Mycroft replied derisively as Victor looked on with a smirk.
Lestrade chuckled and shrugged it off,
'The fact you know I always forget the milk shows that maybe you do.'
And the way that Mycroft's apathetic front faltered for a second into a small smile told me that
there was perhaps something that I didn't quite know about there. It seemed, as the conversation
dragged along, gaining in speed as it went, that perhaps there was a lot that I didn't know about. I
looked on with a confused frown as Mycroft and Lestrade and then Mycroft and Victor referenced
things I had no idea about or said inside jokes that didn't really seem in the least bit funny.
I retired to bed early.
I'd learnt of how Victor had been a childhood friend to Sherlock as he'd spoke of their youth
together in a much more joyous way than I imagined Sherlock himself would have actually
described it. And God, I so wanted to hear Sherlock's account of his childhood far more than
Victor's seemingly sugar coated bullshit.
Naturally, I had no actual idea as to how much truth was in Victor's tales but the way he conveyed
Sherlock made him appear very out of character. I reprimanded myself for thinking this, an 8 year
old Sherlock would obviously be very different to the adult Sherlock that I had known. For
starters, the adult Sherlock didn't dress up like a pirate and wake up his brother with a plastic
cutlass, telling him to surrender his ship or else. Although I'd always guessed he'd had a partiality
for dress up.
Then I was left sitting in my dreary room, alone as the cold light filtered through the window,
thinking of Sherlock which evidently lead me to missing Sherlock. Desperately. As if there was
any other way I could miss him, which there wasn't.
I thought back to the funeral. I don't know why, maybe I am a masochist at heart; hell bent on
causing myself pain. The second funeral had been so much worse than the first or maybe it was
just fresher in my mind. New wounds hurt more than old scars after all.
Yet it did seem worse all the same. For the fake one there was a body in a coffin and something so
real about it being there. In that one we could bury 'him'. At the second one we had nothing but a
blood sample and the memory of the building bursting as it blew up into a thousands of pieces that
soared far and wide.
I think what made it worse was that his parents had been there. His parents who I had had so few
encounters with, were crying and grieving and well, wasn't that fucking heartbreaking. Their son
is dead, is what I had thought and for some reason their son and my Sherlock were, again, two
different people. Sherlock wasn't a son, someone who had a childhood with loving parents who
had then been reduced to wracking sobs as Siger had dropped his head down onto his wife's
shoulder. Sherlock had been a detective. An adult. The least mature adult I had ever met sure, but
an adult nonetheless.
I don't know why I found it so hard to think of Sherlock as anything but what he had been when I
had been in his company, what prevented me from seeing him as the little boy with soft hair and
big, bright eyes, playing pirates with his big brother. Something just rendered me unable to.
Mycroft had held himself together like the machine he'd trained himself to be and I absolutely
hated that because that's what Sherlock would have done had their positions been reversed. And
that wasn't a good way to deal with grief, with anything. However outside he clung to the man, to
Victor, and his shoulders shuddered as he silently howled. Which sounds like a ridiculous notion
but it made sense. He had cried quietly, so quietly you could barely hear, however that didn't stop

you feeling the emotion, the undying, raw pain that wailed out underneath his skin like a beast
desperate to escape.
Here is where I paused in my reminiscing of the funeral and instead thought on the matter that was
Victor Trevor.
Victor Trevor who hadn't been at the first funeral because he had fucking known that it wasn't real
because Mycroft had fucking told him and yes, that really fucking pissed me off. Victor Trevor
who had been childhood friends with Sherlock yet who I had never heard of or even met previous
to this. Victor Trevor who had been Mycroft's shoulder to cry on. Victor Trevor who had been
staring at me when I'd been on the rooftop with a look that I couldn't decipher.
Victor Trevor who brought us apples and muffins and news from outside our little country estate.
Victor Trevor who seemed nice enough but gave me a bad feeling. It was getting hard being so
untrusting of everyone and everything.
.*.
Just when I thought it must be impossible for any other Sherlock related things to be unsurfaced; a
video of his second kidnapping was released.
And wasn't that just convenient? A video of Sherlock walking, all by himself, to the black van
without there being any evidence he was being pressurised into doing so. It all fit in so perfectly
with the story that I couldn't believe it.
'This has been a set up from the very beginning.' Came the bitter voice of Lestrade as we watched
the video for the third time. Images of me pulling a gun at Sherlock as I yelled at him to stop. He
knew I'd never shoot him, he didn't even have to call my bluff.
Mycroft sighed, a solemn, pitiful sound as the video ended with me screaming Sherlock's name. I
cringed at watching myself and turned it off.
'I've got go now, surely.' I said. 'They're portraying me as some kind of hero, I can set the record
straight as to what happened. I can clear your name.'
Mycroft shook his head. 'How will you explain where you've been? They'll think I had you
captured too, like Molly, convinced you to come up with this lie to clear my name. Maybe I'm
using Molly against you, maybe I've threatened your family. Who knows, who cares, the point is
your story is no longer valid.'
'So what you're saying is because I've been holed up in here my whole account on this is
worthless?' I replied defeatedly as Mycroft nodded his head.
'Fucking hell.' Lestrade said and all I could think was exactly. 'We are so screwed.'

Light and Demons

Chapter Notes

Sorry for the drawn out wait. This chapter was a bit of a bugger to write, not going to
lie. Fingers crossed its actually half decent.

Looking for misery, but she found me

Lying naked on the floor
(Stay away, sweet misery)
I was headed insane, the devil told me his name
But hes not welcome here, anymore.
~The Maine:Misery

For how long can you sit? How long can you sit staring at a melanoid wall with a feeling of
undying hopelessness wrenching into your gut and infecting you with its funereal poison? How
long until you start crying out for help from your dark pit of despair? How long until you start
screaming for it?
Or will you just go numb? There's nothing you can do; your hands are tied, you can't leave. So
you just sit in the inky black and try to let all the emotion wash over you, wave after wave until
your lungs are so full of water you no longer care.
Or do you go insane? You can't linger but nor can you depart. You're stuck in this permanent state
of limbo and there's nothing you can do and there isn't anyone who's going to come and make it
all better. It's too late for that. You've already lost everything. Except the bleak, Stygian walls that
continue to surround you.
'People are no longer going to the Diogenes Club in fear of being associated with Mycroft.' A
voice announced from the doorway. I didn't bother to turn around. Turns out, I can sit in my own
cocoon of dejected melancholy for quite a substantial stream of hours.
The room, I felt, was the epitome of all that I was feeling; sadness, dread, grief, etcetera The
voice rang out again and into the dark. 'I believe Mycroft is having a rather bad time with it all
really.' He said and I tried to ignore his words. There was no reason to have to hear, repeatedly,
what I already knew.
Squinting, I tried to make out the outline of bricks in the wall, wondering if counting bricks could
occupy my mind for a while, so I wasn't just left torturing myself with thoughts of the actual
horror show that was unfurling. My mind was a strangely muddled place at this time.
I heard footsteps shuffle in the doorway, not as a sign of awkwardness, just as a reminder that he
was still present. I remained facing away, leaning back on my forearms as I stretched my
previously crossed legs. The tops of my toes weren't even viewable in the mirthless black as I

looked forward in slight amusement. Mycroft would be ok. He could manage this situation, like he
managed everything else, in a measured and well calculated way.
I sighed, lying back down so my eyes were staring up at the ceiling.
'Come on now.' Was murmured from the room's only entrance and I closed my eyes in forged
obliviousness as I contemplated an alternate series of events, leading me to a different situation
where I wasn't shut away from the rest of the world in a drab, sunless room. The voice came back
sterner this time, a hint of malice seeping through into the previously calm tone.
'Don't make me get Sir.'
I rolled my eyes under my lids. He spoke my name with stern warning poisoning each syllable,
'Sherlock...'
~*~
It's strange to imagine luxuries such as beds and pillows when you've been sleeping on the rock
hard, algid floor for days, waking up every morning (is it even morning, who can tell?) with an
aching back or side and shivers rapidly making their way down your spine. I curled in upon
myself for warmth, it hurt my injuries but pain was a familiar friend and all in the mind anyway.
At least that's what I told myself as I lay down, head resting on my arm, long since gone numb.
In my palace things were going wild. Moriarty banged on the walls of his cell and the sound
ricocheted impossibly round every single space in my head.
'SHERLOCK!' He screamed and as I tried to walk away I only found myself being drawn nearer,
like all the forces were pressuring me towards him in a paradoxical mess of corridors. 'I know you
can hear me Sherlock.' He taunted, voice a whispered hiss yet still audible throughout every room.
'Why don't you come and say hi?'
Growling, I shook myself out of there. Another demon's torment greeted me in my wake. Sir had
a similar devilish lilt to his voice. He lacked the light Irish tone but still he had that kind of sing
song way of speaking.
'Good afternoon my dear.' He cooed, circling me like a hawk as I lay vulnerable, if he was going
to hurt me more, fighting back would do little except inflate his amusement. 'Have a nice slumber?
I thought you'd still be trying to find a way out. Given up so soon, what a shame.'
He prowled around me once more. Footsteps echoing around the room as he walked with purpose
and intent before crouching down as to be nearer my eye level. He had brownish hair that I
guessed could be considered a very dark blonde and hazel irises that were dusted with gold and
outlined with burnt umber. They were far too soft for his character; eyes too kind to belong to
someone who revelled in watching people beg for mercy.
'Don't say you've lost hope, Sherly.' He said, mimicking concern in the phoniest of ways.
But I had. My only hope prevailing, that of a quick death. I raised my brows at him and he
exhaled an icy laugh under his breath.
'Stay awake, Sherly,' He whispered softly, warm fingertip going to stroke the shell of my ear;
light, like a ghost's breath. 'I'm going to bring you a play thing.'
~*~

For all there uselessness I still remembered my instructions. Run, fast, left, three steps, red door,
wait. And that was exactly what I'd done. Like a dutiful puppet on a string.
The moment I entered the room I knew I wasn't going to die. With the phantom feeling of John's
arms around my frail frame it felt like a relief. Yet when my brain caught up to the irrationality of
my heart, I knew this was more a curse than an answered prayer.
A dead body, around my height, around my build, lay crumpled on the floor in the corner of the
room. Discarded like waste. A man came in another door, he pointed his gun at me as he ripped
off my jacket then put it on the corpse. The lifeless body looked drained of both soul and all
bodily fluids but it was covered with blood.
I remembered my blood dripping out of my arm, drop by drop. 'Now bag up his blood, it'll
apparently be useful for later.' That's what one of the men had said. I felt strangely sick at the
thought.
Then I was being hurried out of the room and down into the sewers as I heard the roar of the
explosion and the screams of the scared.
~*~
Moriarty wouldn't leave my mind. He was like an infection; a toxic disease. I kept drawing
parallels with him and Sir. The manic way they appeared, the thoroughness of their plans, their
love of destruction. Differences between them became clear as well. Moriarty saw me as a worthy
opponent, a player who would match him in the field. He also found he no longer had any use for
me once he had me beaten in his game. Sir, however, saw me as someone he wanted to take down
and once he had done so, he wanted to own me. Like a trophy of his conquest. Having power
over me obviously brought him some kind of distorted joy.
I was more fun to him when I was under his thumb, with no way of being a proper adversary.
He stroked my lip as some thug behind me let the hot poker hover just over my skin. I could feel
the intense heat radiating off the iron stick and the prolonged build up was almost as bad as the
infliction itself. The expectation of pain before it came as I waited in quivering suspense,
calculating the level of agony that the torture would create and wondering if there was any way I
could stop it.
The poker made contact and I howled as it traced the line of my spine. Sir's fingers lingered on my
jaw as I hopelessly thrashed against my chains in abandon. He gently shushed me as I stopped my
mindless spasming and the fire was replaced with cool ice.
Moriarty came to my mind again, 'Do you think you deserve this?' He hummed thoughtfully. 'I'd
tell you that you do but I'm a part of you, Sherlock, so what do you think that means?'
'Go away.' I murmured. I was too tired. Too tired for the pain. Too tired for the nonsensical
comforting of Sir. Too tired for Moriarty's taunts. 'Just go away.'
And he did and I was alone once more in the black as I resigned myself to a life of affliction and
misery.
It didn't matter if I deserved it. None of that mattered when it was going to happen either way.
~*~
I lay on my side. Curled up once more as I faced the corner of the room, as if blocking out
everything else would just make it go away. My back burned. Blood lay over it like a flaking

blanket that provided no warmth and no comfort.

Sir had washed my hair that day. He'd run his hands through it and complimented me on having
such nice hair, as if I had any control over what my hair looked like. I'd been showered down with
a hose and then I'd been branded. Some sort of emblem with 'Sir's' printed in small letters, encased
in a circle, on my left shoulder blade. Then he'd ordered that blood was poured down underneath
the brand and all over my back.
He took photos of his art. I had no doubt I'd have to look at them later.
The blood was drying on my back. Crisping off like scales as I yearned to scratch my skin off.
The burn down my spine stung insistently and the branded area throbbed. I closed my eyes and
imagined a maze. A maze where through way of eliminating routes I'd eventually find the right
one and escape. A maze where escaping was actually on the cards.
I didn't hear the door open, I only realised it had when I heard Sir's voice. 'Wakey, wakey my
dear.' He sang and I formed myself into a tighter ball despite the blazing pain I felt in my back. I
absently pondered if I could even endure another torture session before he spoke again. 'I said I'd
bring you a plaything so here you go.'
There was noise of a scuffle and the sound of tape being ripped harshly off. Something behind me
fell on the floor, a shaking hand came to stroke back my hair and I flinched away. 'Oh my god.' A
pause as she let her finger caress down my tear tracked cheek. 'Sherlock?'
~*~
Molly stirred on the floor. She'd cried herself to sleep. The tears were much against her will, but
she sensed the overwhelming hopelessness of the place, the way I was no longer looking for a
way out. The way I had resigned myself to the fact that there wasn't one.
It was her first night and she was crying.
I tipped half of my already measly portion of oats into her bowl and savoured my water in small,
stunted sips as I let it drip through my cracked lips and down my parched throat. She looked so
tiny, arms slung over her bent up knees, making her into an almost ball like shape. I wondered if I
should wake her; if it was cruel to wake her from what could be a pleasant dream and bring her
back into this nightmare.
I continued watching her sleeping form. Sleeping was about at tedious as the real world to me.
Nightmares were somewhat guaranteed and it seemed my mind was capable of coming up with
even more inventive torture methods than Sir was. There was no respite from the suffering and I
found myself heartily hoping that all was peaceful in Molly's head as she slept.
When she arose she did so with a look that clearly demonstrated her fallen hopes that this was not
going to be the reality she was going to wake to.
'Hey Sherlock.' She croaked and I shuffled nearer to bring her her food and water. 'Thanks.' Her
voice was grateful yet the way her eyes scoured over my body obviously displayed her guilt. 'I ate
properly yesterday, you need this more than me.' She pushed the bowl of oats back and I took a
second to stare at it dumbly.
Even before my months in captivity I was not used to acts of kindness being directed at me and
after my multiple abductions even more so. People who were kind to me often had an ulterior
motive and I spotted ulterior motives like I spotted ink on a ring finger; most often easily.
It made sense, logically, that I should devour the contents of the bowl. I hadn't been delighted with

a proper meal for weeks while Molly had eaten adequately just yesterday, yet still I insisted that
she ate, only letting her scoop a few spoons of her serving into my own tin bowl.
No-one came in for the rest of the day. Molly had a barrage of questions as what had been done to
me but lost the will to ask them after I answered a few truthfully. I didn't mean to worry/upset her,
however I was perfectly conditioned to answer my questions swiftly and in as few words as
possible, often giving them a very blunt tone.
She held my hand and huddled close next to me in the darkness, helplessly seeking out some sort
of comfort in amongst the depressing desolation. I complied, holding her fragile hand in mine as I
willed the room to warm up, if only to warm her freezing fingers. She couldn't stay here. Deep
down I knew it. Then as her head lolled against my shoulder as she slept, my mind became
resolute as hope glimmered like the reflection of light on a shard of glass.
My thoughts were crystal clear as a mantra sung it's repeated chord in my mind.
I'm going to get us out. For Molly.

Disobediant Pets
Chapter Notes

Disclaimer: This chapter is trash, I'm sorry.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Is there something more than what I've been handed?

I've been crawling in the dark looking for the answer
Help me carry on
Assure me it's ok to use my heart and not my eyes
To navigate the darkness.
-Hoobastank:Crawling In The Dark

'They installed a lock on that door, a few days after I got here. At that point my hands were
restrained and there was a guard standing there 24/7, but still it was nice that they trusted me not to
escape with no lock on my door.' Molly looked over at me, a slight laugh coming through
between her lips. I found it helped keep the both of us on some level of sanity when I talked
through things in my usual manner.
I leaned in closer and whispered, 'However, the door itself is still weak. Interior doors in houses
like these often are.'
'So what? We break down the door?' Molly asked, excitement rising in her voice even as we still
carried on speaking in hushed tones.
'We could, but breaking down the door might create enough noise that the people upstairs are
alerted and I think I may have a better idea. Before I had nothing to use as a lock pick but now I
have you.'
'You what?'
'You're still wearing your own clothes, correct?'
'Um...'
~*~
I looked away as Molly removed her bra and then awkwardly moved nearer so I could take it
from her discreetly. It was an easy task to remove the underwire from both cups and then I had
two thin pieces of wire. One for a tension wrench and one for the actual pick. Passing the now
wireless undergarment back to her, I began experimenting with the wire.
I couldn't hear the electric buzz of a camera in the room, nor could I see any flashing light but due
to the complete darkness surrounding us it was hard to see if there was one in the room, or not.
There had been cameras in all my cells before, apart from the cells in the base where the blood
letting had happened. All the cameras had been obvious, barely being concealed or hidden.

I believed Sir had enough faith in his security to not feel the need to find a thermal imagine/night
camera. Plus I knew how he enjoyed the whole cat and mouse act. I'd escape, he'd reel me back
in. It kept things 'exciting'.
'Pets are always more fun when they think they can escape. Stay hopeful Sherly.' Is what he had
said. I just hoped that my camera detecting skills were still to a high standard.
'Can you really make a lock pick out of those?' Molly asked, amazement underlying her words
which were sheerly covered in inspirited expectation.
'Yep.'
'So what now?' And there was the rustle of her clothes as she moved in closer, so our words were
sure to be inaudible to the guard marching past our door.
'The timing will be hard. Sir has guards walk past at seemingly random times so I'm unable to
establish any kind of regular pattern. These guards are then presumably doing something more
productive with the rest of their time.'
'So how will we know when to go?'
'A guard just walked past now, if another walks by soon after them then it's most likely another
won't go by for a while. They're trying so hard to be random that they keep on being predictable.
One will walk by then another shortly after then maybe a third but most likely not as they leave it
for a while. They're trying to go from short durations between each walk by and check up and
long ones in a seemingly random order but it's not exactly working as they're thinking too hard
about the pattern beforehand and that's the thing about completely random patterns, anything that
happened previously should have no effect.'
'I think I get what you mean.'
'Good, because we're going to be keeping track of the guards for a few hours.' And that was the
first time I smiled in a while. A plan was in place and there was the slightest chance that it would
work and Molly was clinging to that chance and I soon found that I was too.
I was quick to remind myself that hope was a dangerous thing.
-*One guard passed, then less than a minute later another. 15 minutes and a third. 20 minutes and
number four. 3 minutes and five. 1 minute and the sixth. Half an hour and a seventh. And so on.
After the fifteenth guard, I began working the lock as Molly questioned me on how I knew now
was the right time.
'Guard number fourteen came 4 minutes after thirteen, then fifteen came 2 minutes after that. The
long waits seem to go up to half an hour and we haven't had a 30 minute break since number
seven. The last few long breaks have been quite low, 10, 15, 20 minutes, so a longer one is due.'
I moved my head nearer the door and listened for the click as I pushed the pins up using the
underwire that I had spent the last few hours filing into an appropriate shape. One at a time they
moved into place until I found the tough pin and carefully pushed it up till it set.
'So we should have some time before another guard checks the cell?' Molly asked and I nodded
with a smirk. Twisting the tension wrench I felt a rush of satisfaction as the lock opened.

'Are you ready?'

'As I'll ever be.' She replied, both nervousness and anticipation apparent in her voice. I nodded
and cautiously edged the door open an inch. No one about, no one on the stairs, still no cameras.
'Well, let's get out of here then.'
~*~
'It's cute that you thought you could escape.' Sir mocked, a wicked grin painted on his face as he
stroked the edge of my jaw with his finger. 'I mean I'm glad you did. Planning and executing
surprises is essential to keeping a relationship alive. Spicing it up and all.' And the smile he wore
was so terrifyingly genuine that it both disturbed me deeply and interested me perversely.
'I think I want a divorce.' I muttered and it only made his grin widen further.
'Oh Sherly, don't-'
I cut him off and my voice was an octave deeper and rough like sandpaper, angry and feral in a
way that surprised even my own ears. 'Where's Molly?' His eyes sharpened, lost their friendly
facade, as he tutted gently.
'Now, now my dear, don't go asking questions you don't want the answer to.' And his words were
smooth, woven out of silk, but served on a viper's forked tongue. 'You tried to escape, there must
be repercussions otherwise you might be foolish enough to try again.'
And this is when I pounced. Claws bared as my finger grabbed the lapels of his suit and threw
him against the wall with a delightfully loud crack. I held him there, breathing heavily as my back
burned from the exertion and my whole being was caught alight in anger's flames.
'Don't try and trick me.' I hissed. 'I tell people that, I rather hoped everyone would have got the
message by now.' I moved my right forearm to apply pressure to his exposed neck and curved
down to whisper harshly in his ear. 'It doesn't work.'
Then I released my grip as two pairs of hands were predictably grabbing my shoulders and
dragging me down. Someone delivered a kick to my gut as another hit down hard on my back,
forcing me to double over on my knees as I gritted my teeth against the pain, still staring up at Sir
who was adjusting his suit jacket and sleeves. He returned my look with a smirk.
'That's enough boys. I like him with a bit of fight.' He called and they followed his orders, moving
away almost reluctantly, probably annoyed that they got hyped up for nothing. Nice. Sir signalled
for them to leave and they did so reluctantly as well, checking to make sure they're boss didn't
want them to stay in for protection. He narrowed his eyes and they departed immediately. 'You
believe I'm tricking you?' And there was interest in his tone as he leaned casually back against the
wall.
'Molly's not dead.' I stated. 'Don't try to fool me into thinking she is. If she was, you're an idiot
because she gave you the perfect leverage over me and after all this, I'm doubting that you're
really that simple minded. Plus if you were in the possession of such stupidity you would have
killed her slowly and painfully, right in front of my eyes. Or perhaps in a nearby room so I'm just
left hearing her cries and wondering how long she's got before the final scream. But seeing as
neither of those things have happened, I ask again and don't think you can lie because have you
forgotten? I'm a detective, for me reading lies is like reading lines from a book; an easy fucking
task. So you ready now?' I asked as I gave him an unwavering stare, voice rising in volume as I
spat my final question vehemently, enunciating every syllable distinctly and resonantly. 'Where. Is.

Molly?'
'Fine, I concede. You're right. Course she's not dead.' He affirmed and even though I already
believed that, relief still managed to swell inside me. 'She is however, going to think you are. You
see you might not be susceptible to my fairy stories but she's fair game.'
'She won't believe you. She's smart and you're obvious.'
'Oh yes, but she will.' He replied and the smug, self-assured look on his face made me fear what
he was going to say next. 'You're obviously familiar with lysergic acid diethylamide.' He said and
I wasn't sure if he was referring to how I'd know it because of my job or if it was a jab at my drug
use. Either way, I frowned at him.
'Yes, I believe those of us who aren't trying to prove something call it LSD.' I said dryly, as my
mind conjured up ways in which the premise of LSD could go.
My jibe didn't affect his smirk though, as his confidence only seemed to inflate. 'Anyway, let's say
I know a guy, who knows a guy, who knows a guy who dabbles in creating potent LSD mixtures
that don't exactly create the fun euphoria of floating.' He drawled, thick and slowly flowing words
like dripping honey off a spoon.
'So you're going to drug her and then tell her I'm dead? Come on, you've got more than that.'
'I've got a little extra up my sleeve of course, not that I feel obliged to tell you despite that
wonderful expression on your face.' His teeth gleamed as he smiled and I bit the inside of my
cheek and twisted my head to the side a little to try and contain my bubbling rage while he
watched in the fascinated way that a child does an animal in a zoo. He chuckled, 'Fine, for that
look, I'll feed you a bite more. I'm going to show Little Miss Molly some, ah, visual aids to help
heighten her, um, experience, let's say.' He slung me a wink and left without another word,
fingertips going to ghost over his neck as he went, switching off the light before he made his way
leisurely up the stairs.
-*I sat in silence for a long time after Sir left. I wanted to yell, scream, bang on the walls. Yet I
knew, I knew, it wouldn't help anything and I was feeling more rational and in control of myself
than I had for weeks. So instead I sat in the middle of the room with crossed legs and steady
breathing as I plotted out the general structure of the building.
We hadn't gotten very far, the ground floor was swarming with people and with Molly in her
dirtied dress and me in my rags, we were spotted like high visibility jackets in amidst a sea of
black. However I had seen quite a bit and from the rooms I had seen I could make a rough guess
to the rest of the layout of the stately residence.
We were definitely in the middle of nowhere -possibly somewhere in Norfolk due to the flat
landscape and reoccurring tree types- I knew that much from the view I saw out the newly barred
windows. Sir obviously didn't mind me escaping the basement but completely leaving the
property? He was desperate to not let that happen.
Yet despite how hard I attempted to stay focused, keep my thoughts in line and my emotions in
the background, my mind kept straying to Molly, emotions fighting their way to the forefront.
Situations she might be enduring painting themselves vividly in my head as a sat, fists clenched
with a tautly tied knot coiling deep in my stomach. Sir had been right about me being familiar with
the drug. I was well acquainted with the effects of it and knew exactly what one might expect to
experience if they used it. Well versed in what a good trip and bad trip entailed and as I sat with

my ever coiling knot, I found myself wishing, for once, that I was ignorant to these things.
A bad trip with LSD produced highly intense negative emotions like irrational fears that wouldn't
be soothed and heightened anxiety as well as involuntary thoughts of hopelessness and paranoia. I
knew it could cause panic attacks in severe situations. I knew that after a particularly distressing
LSD incidents people had been reported to suffer from PTSD. I knew that the drug's effects
would be strongly affected by the setting and I couldn't imagine that Molly would be in a pleasant
one. I knew that those under the influence were supposedly more susceptible.
I also knew that there were working computers upstairs with an Internet connection and I
desperately attempted to focus on that instead and ignore the distinctive voice of a certain Irishman
in my head singing about how at least with Molly I had decided whether or not she deserved it.
-*5 hours, 6 hours, 7 hours. I grew restless. Restless and scared. I wanted to see Molly, make sure
she was alright. 8 hours, 9 hours and I didn't even care anymore. I didn't care if it was Sir coming
in to tell me that she was terrified and believing every lie he fed her. I just wanted news. Wanted
to know how she was doing, for better or for worse. Being in the dark, both literally and
metaphorically, was turning out to be a harrowing ordeal and I despised it, briefly wondering if
this is what John had been going through when I was abducted. Pitying him and all that he had
braved as well as being strangely thankful that he at least now, believed me to be dead. Death was
final. You could seek closure after death. Not knowing was torture in itself.
'I want to see Sir.' I demanded, voice hoarse yet somehow still powerful as I bellowed at the next
guard that entered. He laughed and threw me some bread.
'And I want my own personal sex slave, boo for you.' He replied and I made a disgusted face as
he swiftly left.
Sir did come an hour later. He rapped on the door and called, 'Room service!' Entering with a
flourish and another fucking grin on his face. 'You won't believe the night I had, Sherly.' He said,
regaining his spot, leaning against the wall. I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the light.
'I want to see Molly.'
'Oh, don't worry dear, she's on her way. Completely dead to the world but on her way
nonetheless.' He smirked at my growl. 'You're awfully protective of her, is there something there
that I missed? You sweet on her, Holmes?'
'She's one of the last people on this bloody Earth that should have been dragged into this mess.' I
admitted quietly.
'Aw, how pathetically adorable.' He said, apathetically shrugging me off even as his eyes
screamed with curiosity. 'Well here she comes.' Heavy footfalls echoed down the steps and the
door swung open. The huge man dropped Molly down onto me and I scrambled about frantically
to see if she was alright. Elevated pulse, pupils blown wide, slight muscle tremors, needle mark on
the antecubital space, sweating profusely, five slices on her arm. I glared up at Sir.
'You bastard.' I spat as I stroked the hair from her forehead and held her as carefully as I could in
my arms.
'Thanks, I do try. The incisions were because she kept on closing her eyes.' He explained as I
gently brushed over each one with my fingertip. I projected all the venom I could into my stare at
him.

'If you think, for one second, that you can get away with hurting my friends then you really should
have done more research.' I fumed.
'Rest assured, Sherly, I did my research and actually I'm rather surprised at what you're willing to
do for your so called friends. Although I'd like to see you hurt me while you're stuck in here,
deary. Now come, I know you're interested, ask me what I exposed her to.' He sang but I didn't
reply. He carried on regardless. 'Fine, as long as you're begging me for answers. I showed her our
home movies.'
'Home movies.' I snorted mirthlessly. 'You mean the videos of my torture sessions?' And it all
added up now, that's what the cameras had been there for.
'What can I say? Those videos make me smile.'
'It's nice to know my captor is as twisted as I thought he was.'
'A thought that should help you sleep at night.' He agreed and all I was thinking is the longer I
could keep him talking and distracted the longer I could keep Molly with me.
'Nothing about you helps me sleep at night.'
'And so it shouldn't.' He said then pulled out a photo from his pocket, throwing it for me to catch. I
let it fall to the floor with neither regard or concern. 'It occurred to me that your brand is on your
back, where you can't exactly see it so you will look at that photo or I will brand your front too.'
He told me, a storming, authoritative tone seeping into his voice.
I picked up the photo and registered the image blankly. It was my back. There was a brand, a
burnt line down my spine. There was blood dripping down the bare expanse of skin. I raised an
eyebrow, 'Are you expecting compliments?'
'I assume any compliments from you would be thoroughly laced with sarcasm.'
'Obviously.' I replied and Molly's breaths had become more even, less erratic and I sighed quietly
in something akin to relief. Sir made a huffing noise that sounded one part disapproving and two
parts affronted at not being the centre of my attentions.
'Take her to the other room.' He ordered coldly and the man who looked to easily be twice my
size stepped forward to take Molly but I slid in front of her in a desperate attempt to stop the
inevitable. He shoved me aside, hit me round the face when I moved back to stop him. I aimed for
his eyes yet I had no strength and he had it all. Grabbing my wrist he twisted it painfully behind
my back and forced my face to the floor.
He left with Molly. My only effect on him, a jab to his left eye.
'What was that?' Sir asked, his genuine curiosity apparent. 'You knew you couldn't keep her here,
why bother trying?'
'Emotional weakness.' I murmured to myself and he just rolled his eyes and made to leave. I called
out to him as he reached for the door. 'You've made a mistake you know.' I said, spitting out blood
from the side of my mouth as I attempted the superior smirk that he commonly seemed to wear.
He turned to me in an instant, interest flickering in his eyes. 'Only to be expected. I am human
after all.' He replied with another wink and then sighed at the humourless look I returned him
with. 'Fine, what have I done now?' And the way he whined was so strangely alike to that of a
surly teen, that I just stared, taken aback for a second before answering.

'You've left me alive.' I told him evenly. 'If you have a plan, always kill those who may get in
your way. It's villain rule number one.'
He conveyed an expression disgruntlement. 'I know, I know. But I'm allowed a little selfindulgence, aren't I? I mean, just the thought that I have you trapped down here like some sort of
exotic pet excites me, my dear.'
I hummed in thought. 'I had a case once when an illegally kept pet broke free and killed its owner,
the staff covered it up and let the animal free across London.'
'Perhaps I should get you a trainer.' He started, the idea clearly making him gleeful, and I stood,
stalking up to him on legs that could barely keep me standing. He retreated outside, slamming the
door in my face, not wanting a repeat of last time. 'Or maybe a tamer would be better suited.' He
called, whistling as he jogged up the stairs.
I knew though. He'd made a sorry mistake and now that he'd hurt Molly, I knew he was going to
regret ever leaving me with breath in my lungs.

Chapter End Notes

Yeah, I have no idea if you can pick a lock with a bra but it'd be cool right? I found a
video somewhere where a guy picks a padlock with a bra underwire? Apologies if
you're a lock expert and this offends you, I am but a lowly fan-fic writer who tries to
research without all that much success.

Magic Tricks
Chapter Notes

Heads up! There's a part in this chapter where Sherlock does ~stuff~ in return for
something. It's not that major but I'd rather not upset anyone by not mentioning it
beforehand.

Nothing can take me

And less keeps me there
'Cause sleep it's a beast
Polar and bare.
-The Never Ending:When the Dark Falls

The guard who delivered my meal was one of the more chattier ones. I like to believe that I could
have initiated conversation with any of them but the fact that it was him made it easier, so I was
not complaining.
'Is it possible that I could get some light down here? Nothing fancy. Just a torch or something. I'm
getting tired of all this darkness.'
The man gave me an amused grin. 'Why? Can Sherly Wurly not sleep without a night light?' He
laughed at his own joke. I raised a brow and again wondered if Sir had directed everyone to call
me names that definitely were not my name or if they did it of their own accord. I wasn't sure
which situation was more disturbing.
'I've been down here for an awfully long time and it seems I'll be here for even longer, possibly till
I die and whether that's naturally or until your boss gets bored of me, I don't really care but until
then is it really that much to ask for to have a little fucking light?'
'A torch, you say?' He asked and I knew that he was just humouring me, he had no intention of
getting me anything. I nodded anyway, eyes widening with anticipation. He laughed, 'So you can
what? Use the batteries to build a bomb? Clobber me o'er the head with it? I don't think so sweet
cheeks.'
'I may be intelligent but making a bomb with two batteries alone is beyond me.'
'You still ain't gettin' no torch, love.'
'You still aren't getting a torch.' I corrected his double negative, a clearly derisive tone in my voice.
He narrowed his eyes at me in return and I shrugged him and his glare off. 'Correct grammar is
important... love.' The added on pet name made him smile wickedly once more.
'You're cute. I get why Sir likes you so much.' I frowned, watching his face critically. It seemed
that I had an admirer. A disturbed admirer, but an admirer nonetheless. Well that was unexpected.
Snorting, I jutted out my chin and protested in an almost whining voice. 'I am not cute.'

His grin grew. 'Sure you're not, darlin'.' I rolled my eyes and turned away, he lingered before
leaving.
~*~
Sir came down to 'chat' and inquire over what I had been planning to do with a torch and if I had
really believed I could fool a supposedly simple guard to get me something that would obviously
have other purposes. He asked me if my brain was rotting and told me he was disappointed in my
transparency, all the while I sat in stubborn silence, refusing to engage in his tormenting
conversation, clenching and unclenching my fists.
'Where's Molly?' I finally demanded.
He giggled like it was an adorable, little secret and I stood abruptly, rising to my full height to give
off the impression I wanted him to feel intimated. He raised an eyebrow and took a step back so
he could look me up and down. 'Oh, Sherly, when are you going to learn that you can't threaten
me? You're as weak as a kitten and have the body of someone who's spent the last year in a
concentration camp.' His lips were upturned in delight as he looked me up and down.
I smiled as if I had just detected something from what he had said. 'She's still in the building.' I
stated and the tiny reaction he had, told me it was true. It was a microscopic twitch that showed his
anger at himself as he thought he'd given something away. I gave it to him, it had been hard to
spot.
'Maybe she is, maybe she isn't.' I took a step towards him, he held his ground even as my figure
loomed over his. Then I cocked my head to the ceiling and screamed.
'MOLLY!'
Primarily, he jerked back in shock then he cackled like a hyena, hostile and raucous. A sound
almost unrecognisably human. 'She can't hear you my dear.' He said while I yelled again and
stormed over to the wall to bang it with my fists enough that I drew blood, all to the snide
backtrack of Sir's snickering.
'Oh Sherlock, you truly are a pathetic sight. You're going to make your throat hoarse, my dear.' I
glared at him and screamed once more. He shrugged noncommittally. 'Fine do whatever you
want, but don't give in to the fancy that it'll make a difference.' Then he left and not so long
afterwards, when my throat was starting to hurt, I stopped.
~*~
The same guard from before was the next guard to check up on me. He was just about taller than
me, with broad shoulders and dirty blonde hair cut short. He came into my cell and quietly shut
the door behind him, standing in front of it with his arms crossed.
I smirked. 'Oh it's you again. How charming. Is the work they've got you doing up there really
that boring?'
'You wouldn't believe it, Sherly.' He said with a crooked smile and I wasn't sure if he was
implicating that it was tediously dull or if it was so out of this world that I wouldn't be able to
comprehend it.
I stood up from my previous crossed legged position. 'Try me.' I whispered, taking a few sultry
steps towards him. He cocked a brow and unfolded his arms.

'Nice try darlin' but I ain't gonna to tell you nothing.'

I sighed and shook my head. 'Jesus Christ, it's I'm not going to tell you anything. Haven't you
learnt anything about double negatives?'
He smiled again and placed a hand on his hip. There still wasn't any light in the room but the light
from outside shone around the door frame so I could just about make out his figure. He pulled out
a torch and shone it straight in my eyes. Blinking, I staggered back as I shielded my eyes with my
hands. After so long in the dark the blaring light burned. He laughed and then shone it at the wall
behind me instead. 'I'm a criminal, do you really think I give a crap about grammar?'
'Having good grammar and being a criminal are not mutually exclusive.' I replied. 'I appreciate
you bringing a torch.'
He laughed again. 'Don't think I'm giving this to you.'
'Never thought you would, but a little bit of light is always nice for this.' Then I was stalking
towards him, a hand on his shoulder as the other cupped behind his head, reassuring him that I
wasn't trying to sneak anything out of his belt or pockets. He was shining the torch up now so he
could see my face and his eyes glinted with both interest and curiosity, his lips curling up to speak.
I lapped his words up in my kiss.
He didn't waste any time in shoving his tongue in my mouth and letting his large, calloused hands
roam all over the bare skin of my back before they settled in my hair, which after a minute or so,
he used to yank me forcefully off.
'What do you want?' He breathed, throaty and rough.
I smirked and scraped my hand through his military cropped hair. 'I want some more water.'
'That can be arranged.' Then he was pulling me into him once more as his tongue invaded and his
teeth took my lower lip as hostage. At least he tastes like cigarettes. His hands moved over my
back again. Squeezing at my prominent shoulder blades and running lines over my ribs. Groping
my arse tightly, he pulled me in so I stood flush against him with my arms slung round his neck.
This went on for a while until we separated for breath. I moved my head down and kissed along
his jaw and neck.
'Don't leave any marks you whore.' He demanded and I rolled my eyes as I sucked gently at his
skin. He sighed contently. Purring for me like a cat. 'I haven't had anyone since I started this
fucking job. Not even a snog.' I straightened out and ran a finger over his lips.
'You poor, deprived thing.' He snorted and I took a step back. His hands remained firmly planted
on my arse. 'Although you've been down here for a suspiciously long time. You might want to go
now. I doubt Sir would like it if you played with his toys.' I suggested as I lightly stroked down
his bulging biceps. It had occurred to me that this plan could go terribly wrong and I could end in
way over my head. I wasn't exactly willing to give this man free reign over my body, even as I
tried to convince myself it was only transport and this was for as good a cause as any.
Anyway a make out session seemed like good enough pay for a glass of water.
He pulled me in again and for a moment all I could hear was the alarms blaring inside my brain. I
knew I couldn't fend him off. He could do whatever he desired. My body went stock still and my
arms dropped to my side, ready to have to try to wrangle the torch or anything that could be used
as a weapon from his person. Ready to tell him that if he tried anything, I'd tell Sir and he'd
probably be screwed. That or it'd give Sir ideas of his own...

Yet instead of forcing my face down into his crotch or bending me over, hands braced against the
wall he just rutted into me. Head balancing on my shoulder and several layers of clothing between
his hardening dick and mine. I guessed I could cope with this. He rutted into me four times before
gathering his composure and discarding me like a dirty tissue, pushing me away with force.
He hadn't orgasmed and he ground his teeth together and grabbed his crotch in a firm hold.
Breathing deeply he adjusted his trousers and went to exit the room. He paused with his hand on
the handle.
'Turn around slowly with your hands raised, palms open.' He demanded and watched me intently
as I did just that, under the light of his torch. Once satisfied I hadn't stolen anything from him, he
signalled for me to stop.
'So you're not as idiotic as your grammar would suggest.'
He laughed. 'That's quite a compliment coming from Mr Sherlock Holmes himself.'
'A nice, big glass.' I reminded him as he left, he nodded in reply.
I wondered on when the last time someone had addressed me in such a way. 'Sherly' had become
much more common.
The guard was unmarried but had a child. Probably a daughter who he didn't get to see very often.
He also had money struggles which probably led to the crimes which wound him up in Sir's
circus. He had a military background. He was a chain smoker and had four fillings. I stored this
useless information and sat back down in the middle of the room with my eyes closed, wiping the
last remnants of his kiss off with the back of my hand.
So this is what it's come to.
~*~
The guard returned with a one litre flask. He directed me to stand in he corner of the room furthest
away from the door.
'Now once you're done you're going to roll this flask right back to me, alright?'
I rolled my eyes. 'I do love it when I'm treated like an imbecile.' I snarked. He ignored me as he
huffed out a heavy breath and rolled the flask over, keeping his torch and gun trained on me as I
unscrewed the lid and drank. I filled up the plastic cup that I'd kept from the last meal time and
rolled back the flask.
'Someone's a bit wary aren't they? I would have thought your bathroom break wank would have
relaxed you.'
He didn't react. 'We've just been reminded of how dangerous you are. Boss doesn't want any of us
giving you weapons, after the torch incident and all.' Then he left and it was written all over his
face that he knew he had said too much. A quick snog didn't make us friends. I was still the
prisoner who wouldn't hesitate to knock him out with a flask if it meant I could escape. The fact
that he'd had his tongue in my mouth didn't change that.
"Dangerous".
It was obvious that Sir thought I was desperate, clinging to straws in the hope that something, a
torch, a flask, could get me out and to Molly. I'd show him desperate. With my mouth and throat
now wet, I began to scream.

'MOLLY!'
~*~
I stopped. I sipped some water. I started again. Yelling, screaming, banging, kicking. I made as
much noise as I could.
She thought I was dead. She thought she was alone in this. And even if she didn't, the doubt
would be there. The niggling unsureness that would corrupt her thoughts. I wondered if she could
hear me. It was unlikely to say the least.
Another guard came to check on me. He laughed and told me to save my breath, I'd be doing
plenty of screaming later. I pointedly ignored him. Now was the time.
There was a considerable amount of rot and damp around the room and also surrounding the door.
I imagined the original door from decades ago was made of solid wood and that it had, in course,
become dank and rotten. On my short excursion up to the ground floor I had noticed that the few
doors there in the mostly open plan had been replaced with the more modern and also cheaper,
solid core doors. These were laminated on both sides and painted with a wood finish.
The door to my basement cell was a hollow cored door. These doors gave no insulation and
barely any security. I expected that the previous inhabitants and whoever had had the new doors
fitted, cared very little about either the temperature or the secureness of their dingy, unfurnished
basement. It was timber veneer covered on both the front and back and was not actually hollow on
the inside, as the name might suggest. It was presumably filled with cellular cardboard or some
type of construction paper arranged in a honeycomb pattern, although what it was filled with was
neither a concern of mine nor a care. What mattered was that it was by far the easiest type of door
to break down.
I cried out, sharp, loud and furious, as I landed a strategically placed kick near the door's lock. My
outcry carried on as I banged the wall and massaged my bare foot. A few minutes later, I kicked
again. The sound covered by my screams and blending in with my rowdy abuse of the walls and
door.
It gave way on the third kick and I smashed through.
My yells and shrieks became gradually quieter as I put the door back in place. My throat burned
and my hands were bleeding. But at least I was out of there.
Once everything had quietened down and the wall of constant noise had been replaced with a
smothering silence, I stood in the corner and waited for the guard I knew would be coming down
soon. I grabbed the wooden chair and waited in the shadows.
I hit him with more force than I would I have thought I could. His body crumpled like paper and I
caught him by his armpits as he became malleable in my hands. Before he could regain
consciousness I injected him with one of the sedatives that I found in his belt band. I'd spotted it
on the other guard. At hand to put me down when they needed to.
We switched outfits and I positioned him back in the room. Facing the corner, legs cross, back
bent and head hung low. I even added a little of my own blood onto his limp form. It wouldn't buy
me much time. The next guard would come, find the door was bust and know something had
happened but if they didn't see anyone in the cell then they'd immediately run upstairs and alert
everyone. However, if they saw what looked like me they'd most likely stay and call for help so
they could keep an eye on what could be me, gun and torch trained on the body.

Under a slightly closer inspection, I knew it wouldn't fool anyone. The body was too muscular,
healthy; very unlike my malnourished, scrawny self but it'd still buy me a few seconds or perhaps
even a few minutes. I knew how valuable every second was and if I hadn't had to change into his
clothes, I wouldn't have bothered. Yet I had to if I had any chance of going unseen, so I did.
~*~
It was like a magic trick. First the false lead.
Molly was away somewhere else in the this wretched place, believing that I was dead. It would
have been suspicious for me to not appear to be planning an escape.
The torch was something that could clearly be used as a weapon and I knew that it was
questionable enough for the guard to alert Sir about. Then when Sir visited to reprimand me about
the torch I played the role of an angered man who's plan had been foiled, clenched fists and stiff
necked silence.
Kissing the man had not been part of the plan but I perhaps underestimated how quickly my throat
would become parched and my voice useless, so it came in handy.
Also, while the guard on his first visit had talked of night lights and battery bombs, I had
catalogued exactly what he was wearing, what weapons he had on his person and how easy it
would be to grab one. I then peered round him to the door he left ajar -as visiting me was normally
a hasty in and out job with little need to shut and lock the door once they'd entered- to see if I
could spot any change or extra security that had been installed outside after my last escapade.
The only new addition I had managed to spot was the wooden chair with an uneven leg that sat
opposite the door, next to the stairs. It presumably meant that someone was going to sit outside
and guard 24/7, a thought that made me want to give up on everything and repeatedly bash my
head against the wall until it was all over, yet no-one had sat there, I would have heard them. So
that gave me the incentive to hurry and escape before someone did.
Second the distraction. Obviously this took form in noise. Screaming, shouting, banging on walls.
Third the switcheroo/illusion; the guard made to look like me.
And lastly in my trick came the disappearing act.
~*~
I climbed the steep, concrete stairs and edged open the door. It was mainly the same as last time.
There were less people about though. I had guessed this. Last time, when I had escaped the
basement with Molly, there were at least two dozen people in sight. Huddled over computers,
making calls, arrangements, checking files. They were planning something. Something that
probably required the people who were now missing.
I combed my hair back and with all the grease and grime in it, it stuck in place. Then I opened the
door and slipped out, keeping my head bowed and my back to as many people as I could. Next to
the door there was a tick list, I checked the guard's watch and ticked off my time. The next
scheduled check in on me was in thirteen minutes. The one after that in ten. I checked my
peripheral and walked quickly through what used to be the kitchen. Head down, sights on the
wall. A lot of the interior walls between rooms had been knocked down, creating a vast amount of
open space. I made a beeline to the more sheltered area I had spotted last time.
It was out of the way. The computer screen was facing the wall, meaning I could hide my face
and what I was doing. No-one looked up as I made my way to it. The sound of keys click-

clacking and people slurping coffee by the gallon filled the room, creating an atmosphere alike to
that in one of those boring office buildings. I sat down and turned on the computer. No-one was
occupying the space. There was no half filled mug or any semblance of previous work. I sighed,
slightly more at ease and booted it up.
My hands were shaking ever so slightly and I searched the draws of the makeshift desk for
something to eat. I was rightly pessimistic. As soon as the computer turned on, my hands flew
over the keyboard. There was nothing complicated or impressive about it. I used the Internet maps
to find out where I was and logged onto my email and emailed Mycroft directly. I knew he'd be
able to trace the email anyway but I thought I'd just save everyone some time. Every second was
important after all.
'Help?-SH'
Then, because I had eight more minutes until the next shift was due and safety nets aren't as bad as
they sound, I emailed the London police, the nearest police force, and DI Dimmock for the sole
reason that I knew his email.
'I am alive. So is Miss Hooper. Come quick. 25+ armed men are here. Please help. -Sherlock
Holmes.'
I went and ticked off the next time a check in was due as well as the one after. I sat on the
basement stairs for a few minutes then left in search of Molly. This was where it felt dangerous.
Downstairs everyone was working. Eyes down, focused on whatever they were doing. Elsewhere
people were walking around. They looked about them, at there surroundings, at the people they
passed. Luckily for me, I'd always been good at creeping about and going unseen.
Ducking into rooms, quickly going to stare at a window when someone passed by, eyes cast
down at a notebook I found as I hurried past groups; I gradually made my way through the manor.
Thanks to Sir I knew Molly was still in the building. But due to the fact that he was certain she
couldn't hear me, I started my search for her on the top floor to see if there was an attic. I was
certain that that was where she would be. I was put in the basement so she was put in the attic. It
made sense.
But then I heard it. I was searching for the stairs to the attic when a scream sounded. It's din
seemed so recognisable and it took me a second to figure out why. The outcry was my own.

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