A/N: I'm so sorry this took way too long to write/upload. I've just been so incredibly busy with school and homework that I've barely had time to really sit down and write.

A surprise, indeed, it was.

And Sherlock was still experiencing the ramifications of the demon's brutality four weeks later. It was nearing the winter season now and every chill that Sherlock caught wracked his body with more pain (literal or metaphorical, it doesn't matter at this point) and memories.

For he had tried to block out everything that the demon had done to him in those three days, tried to disassociate it from his memory of John's body, of John's nature.

But it was so terribly hard and exhausting to remember to forget.

Sure, the great mind of Sherlock Holmes was capable of deleting things he deemed of no import, of simply blocking out everything else to focus in or what he needed to observe. His mind palace was massive, so complicated, and so entirely riddled with John and demons and pain and fear, it was on the verge of collapsing.

It still functioned, he still had all that brilliant information; it just took him longer to access it than previously. Where before he could easily find what he needed, easily grasp what he was looking for in only a matter of seconds within his Mind Palace…now, well now, it was as if he had to plow through molasses with a plastic fork just to reach the first door.

The boundless energy Sherlock once functioned with was almost entirely gone. There was no manic pacing in desperation for a case. There was no sweetly infuriating violin music at three o'clock in the morning when he needed something else to do, when he was bored. There was no exasperated begging for a nicotine patch.

There was only soundless pain, misery, and hauntingly vile hatred emanating from the beautifully pale man who slumped in the armchair, or resigned himself to days lying on the couch. (And even that wasn't entirely true—the demon tended to force Sherlock out of the flat on occasion. Perhaps just to watch him squirm in his seat at the uncomfortable sensation on sitting on such a fragile part of his body. Maybe because he just liked to see the sight of Sherlock tense and under the control of his gaze).

What little energy there was left in his (decidedly abnormal) thin body went into healing himself, a process which was taken a bit longer than necessary but came without surprise.

After all, he only really ate when Mrs. Hudson came up and that was rarely nowadays, given the circumstances.

It was just so terribly exhausting.

And he wasn't sure how much more he could take of this…

But, no, he couldn't think like that now. After all, even when he was on the armchair or the couch, he still had his laptop open, his fingers slowly moving over the keys.

Searching.

Finding.

Hoping.

He needed John back. Everyone needed John back.

And at this point, it was only a matter of time.

Because although Sherlock was so very close to giving up, he couldn't force himself to give up so completely on his doctor.

Because John was still there, somewhere. Somehow. Inside.

Sherlock had a plan.

At least, he hoped he had an effective plan. There was always trouble with relying on potentially fallible data. Science and Math was consistent, reliable, logical. Myths and legends were based on the assumed, the justifications for strange happenings. There wasn't hard data, there weren't numbers to prove their existence.

Yet, here they apparently were.

Oh, Sherlock had come to terms with their existence a while ago, had stopped doubting that he had finally gone mad and delirious.

Because that would have been something so utterly crazy, so unlikely, that it was laughable that Sherlock had even started to doubt himself for one minute, even if he had doubted himself before with the case of the Baskerville HOUNDs. But, he could attribute that the drugs that he had inhaled and not to a sound mind that wasn't under the influence. And he knew for a fact that he had not taken any drugs since John had moved in aside from Nicotine patches but those had stopped soon as well, what with John hiding them and making Sherlock promise that he'd stopped using them. Cold turkey, just like they agreed.

Still, a part of him had hoped that it was all just a figment of his imagination—the black eyes, the brutality—but that would imply that subconsciously he saw John as a being of evil and he knew that wasn't plausible.

John, as he said previously, wasn't the most luminous of people but, as a conductor of light, he was unbeatable in all possible ways. Yet, he wasn't just a stimulant for Sherlock when his brain hadn't made the right connections; he was also one of the more complicated humans Sherlock had ever come in contact with. Always a challenge to solve the case of the curious ex-army doctor, John Hamish Watson. Never the same day twice with him.

John was good. He was human. One of the most human, Sherlock would say in his humble opinion. He was honest, selfless, honorable, kind, loving. He was John Watson. He was brutal, brave, annoyingly stubborn. John was human. And John was a mystery.

He was the one man, one anything really, that Sherlock had allowed into his life to become something more than just a passing face, more than just a friend. Because if Sherlock were honest with himself, and he typically was, then he'd say that he had Mrs. Hudson and Detective Inspector Lestrade there as his friends as well.

But, John….

John was just inexplicable. John was a mystery.

And so, John could never be evil. And Sherlock knew that there was no way he could have been. Therefore, all evidence lead to the horrible realization that this was all so terribly fucked up.

But he still had to try. He had to believe because….well, what other option was he left with? Nothing could explain this, no logical reasoning, anyway.

If this were the only way, he'd bloody well take the chance of it not working.

A few more days passed, another week or two—Sherlock stopped counting after a bit—and he had begun taking on a few less tiresome cases via a very reluctant and terrified Lestrade. Just simple ones that didn't take but an hour or three at most. Really, just to get him back on the cycle, the pattern.

Lestrade had agreed, of course, because Lestrade is also a good man, is also human, and he wants John back just as much as Sherlock. So, when Lestrade calls Sherlock to go on a case that takes them out of London for a few days, both men know why.

Sherlock's plan.

It had been slightly annoying trying to find an opening to talk to Lestrade without the demon overhearing, even more so when the demon threatened to do unspeakable things to John's body when it started getting suspicious. But a few moments of highly convincing and clever acting, the demon let it go and allowed Sherlock to enter the house—which housed about five dogs (sixth sense, barking wildly, not good for an interrogation, need you to stay outside)—without him to question the wife of the dead man. And that was when Sherlock had talked to Lestrade, out of the hearing range of the demon and the sobbing woman—dull, boring, the gardener did it, idiots—to quickly pour out his plan. Once he had talked to Lestrade, the man told everyone else that needed telling.

And now, here they were, in Dorchester, talking to witnesses, stuck for a few days. But that would be all they needed.

It was just John, Sherlock, and Lestrade on this case. Mrs. Hudson, Anderson (the git, wife still doesn't know he's cheating on her with Donovan, someone should tell her), Donovan (wants Anderson to leave his wife to have a family with her, but he won't, and thank god for small miracles, there's already too much stupid in the world), Molly, and Sherlock's homeless network were arranging everything back in London, in 221B. The homeless network didn't ask what everything was for or if Sherlock was suddenly into black magic—it would look like black magic, or at least Satan worship—and the others knew about John and the demon. They saw its black eyes not so long after Sherlock did the first time.

It wouldn't take more than a few hours for them to do what Sherlock had left them to do. Careful instructions, don't miss a beat, don't mess up the pattern, don't make it obvious, ceiling, floor, under the rug, do it fast and clean, make no mistake, I've left a recording because I can't count on any of you pronouncing it right, don't fail me, don't fail John.

On the third day of the case in Dorchester, Sherlock received a text.

Solved the case yet?—M

Ah, of course, Mycroft. What could possibly interest him about this case? It was utterly mundane to his standards and Sherlock had already figured it out the day before but needed just a bit more time before—Oh! Yes, of course!

Soon. How's the diet?—SH

Just fine. Now wrap up this case, Sherlock. I have something for you.—M

And I bet it's just as thrilling as Christmas dinners with mummy.—SH

We'll be getting on the train within the hour.—SH

Even if the demon had been suspicious before, there was no possible way it'd have reason to suspect anything. After all, Mycroft was known to demand Sherlock's attention to something. And Sherlock was known to tease Mycroft about his diet.

But to Sherlock, he knew what this meant.

And, indeed, within the hour, Sherlock had cleared away the 'mystery', and had purchased three train tickets back to London. Now all he had to do was make sure he didn't give away any signs of unreasonable anticipation—though, even if he did, one could attribute that to the fact that Sherlock never really liked being away from Baker Street for more than twenty-four hours, if he could help it, that is—or anxiety. Yet, he couldn't stop his racing thoughts or his bouncing foot.

This had to work. If it didn't, Sherlock might as well take that gun to his head like he had so long ago thought about.

This. Had. To. Work.

But, bloody hell, waiting for nearly four hours to arrive in London and then the drive time from the station to the flat was going to be nearly unbearable. Sherlock didn't know how he was going to handle it what with being the impatient man that he was.

He stared out the window, glancing at the scenery racing past, taking in the time based on the darkening sky.

Two hours left.

"That was brilliant, you know", it said.

"Don't. Don't say that in his voice". It's what he said. It's what he always said after almost every case. Those little compliments that made Sherlock smirk or chuckle lightly, that boosted his overwhelming ego. They were his, and that thing shouldn't be—

"Getting a little irritated, are we? Do I need to help calm you down?" It asked, a tight curl of the corner of its lips, the little undertone of a whisper that sent involuntary shivers down Sherlock's spine.

He'd heard that tone one too many times before. "Here, on the train? D'you really think that's the smartest idea? Even you can't be that foolish." Sherlock huffed out even as he brought his legs closer together and angled himself more towards the window.

"I didn't mean that I had to calm you down now. I can wait, Sherlock." It replied smoothly as it leaned back and folded its hands in its lap, smiling that dreadful toothy grin.

Sherlock flinched at the thought. Mostly for theatrics, though. Soon, this would be over. Soon, it'd all come to an end. John would be back. And Sherlock would be fine. And things would be perfectly normal again.