AN: Hi there! I haven't uploaded anything since 2014...I feel so bad...I have no excuses. Well, none that I'm wiling to share on the interwebs, anyway.

So here we have a story I wrote in 2014 and never uploaded because I wasn't really happy with it...I'm still not, but reading back after I found t again, I'm really proud of the end, even if the start is a bit stiff. Please give it a chance, the ending is good, I promise!

I was inspired to write this by listening to "Leave No Man Behind" By Hans Zimmer, from the Black Hawk Down soundtrack...I haven't actually seen the movie, but I found this song on another fanfiction and I love it. It's a beautiful piece of music, like most of Hans Zimmer's stuff, and it really adds to the mood of the story if you listen to it at the same time as reading :D

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock or 'Leave No Man Behind'...just to be safe. The cover art is my own, drawing and all.

I hope you enjoy the story!

At first, when Sherlock Holmes disappeared from Scotland Yard a few minutes after solving a case, leaving his constant companion John Watson behind; his friends were confused, but not concerned. It had, after all, happened before, just not for a very long time.

That is, none but John and Greg Lestrade were concerned. They had known him far more personally then the others. They weren't just his friends, they were considered his family, and they knew that Sherlock would not have just vanished. He would not have forgotten to say goodbye to his friends, and to tell John where he was going, if not taking him along. Sherlock had come a long way in connecting with people in the years he had known his blogger. John being married and expecting a child had not changed that. He had even managed to become friendly with Phil Anderson and Sally Donovan in the time since he had come back from the dead, been banished, and returned to help find the also recently resurrected Moriarty.

And now he had disappeared, leaving a worried John and Lestrade in his wake. But both were calm enough to realise that he might have just been too preoccupied with his thoughts, so John pulled his mobile out of his pocket and sent Sherlock a text.

Sherlock, where have you gone off to? – JW

He waited a few seconds, which was all it usually took to get a response from Sherlock.

No reply.

Sherlock? Where are you? – JW

He waited again, both him and Lestrade growing increasingly anxious when he didn't answer.

Sherlock? – JW

Hey! Answer me! – JW

A few minutes went by and John just kept firing off messages as the people around him started to pick up on the tension.

Why aren't you answering? – JW

ANSWER ME! – JW

Are you ignoring me, you prick? – JW

Stop being an arse and tell me where you are! – JW

Anderson and Donavon appeared before them, asking what was up, and Lestrade told them as quickly as he could that Sherlock had disappeared and wasn't answering John's texts. Everyone within earshot stiffened at that revelation. Sherlock never ignored John's texts.

Sherlock, please, tell me where you are? – JW

Sherlock, PLEASE –JW

SHERLOCK! – JW

The tight group around John were getting scared now. It had been nearly half an hour since Sherlock had disappeared, and he still hadn't answered John. Donavon had tears in her eyes, and she was tightly gripping Anderson's hand as they stared at John, who continued to send off messages, barely waiting for a minute between them.

Sherlock, stop this, I need you to answer me right now –JW

Please, stop, I'm getting worried –JW

Okay this is getting quite scary now

Sherlock, please, I NEED to know you are alright

In the last few, John was getting so worried he even dropped the customary initials he always added to his texts, just like the rest of them did. It was their friend group's thing to do. It let the others know they were alright.

At last John just dialled his friend's mobile number. He waited for Sherlock to answer, but just as with the texts, there was no answer. Everyone in the Yard was worried now. This was way out of Sherlock's normal behaviour patterns when it came to contact with his friends. Lestrade had sent messages, even Donavon and Anderson had. They were all unanswered. John only tried calling the once before he turned to Lestrade, fear plain in his eyes.

He only said one thing.

"Where is he?"

Lestrade shook his head, his own eyes betraying his emotions as he ordered Sherlock's phone GPS to be traced, he knew it had one, because they had all had it installed in their phones after that first case together. He ordered the security camera footage to be viewed, he yelled to everyone in the surrounding area that he wanted Sherlock found NOW, and they all scrambled to comply. Except for John. He sat in the nearest chair and stared at the phone in his hand, his fear for his best friend taking over all other thoughts in his head.

Surprisingly enough, it was Anderson who motioned for the others to go and investigate, and that he would handle the distraught man. He, after all, was the forensic specialist, he had nothing he could do, yet, to help with the search for his former most hated person. They left, and Anderson quickly dragged John to his feet and into the small kitchen and made them both a large mug of tea. John drank it robotically, not even noticing when the first few sips scalded his mouth. The warmth spread through his body and Anderson babbled about nothing until John finally responded and they got up and went to see how the investigation was going.

It wasn't until nine pm, six hours since Sherlock had disappeared; that John thought to call Mary. He quickly told her the reason he wasn't home yet, heard her suppressing tears, knew that she was being strong for him, and his love for her grew when she told him to do what he needed to do until they brought Sherlock home.

He then called Mrs. Hudson and explained the same thing. She did cry, but it was short lived as a fierce optimism lit up inside her, and she firmly told John that Sherlock would be fine, because hadn't he come through much worse before? Thinking back on what Sherlock had told him of the years he had spent after faking his death, John found himself hoping she was right, and that he would come through this none the worse for wear. She promised to keep the flat tidy until Sherlock was back, but she was quite adamant that be returned soon.

He didn't have to call Mycroft, as the man himself walked through the doors of the Yard and immediately set upon Lestrade, asking what he knew, and stating that he had men working on the task of finding his little brother.

It was ten in the morning when John, who had fallen asleep in a chair near the investigation centre, was woken by a very rattled looking Mycroft. That in of itself made John's gut clench and his heart race. But it was Mycroft's words that shattered him and made him finally let the tears he had been holding back for hours now, pour down his face as he let his fear overwhelm him.

"There are no leads to be found," Mycroft had stated in a broken voice, his emotions spilling out as they only ever did when it concerned Sherlock, "it's been thirteen hours and we can't find him. He's gone"

Mycroft sat down heavily next to John. The other detectives were all gathered around Lestrade, waiting for orders that he couldn't seem to think of. As Mycroft sat next to Sherlock's sobbing best friend, he couldn't help the few tears that slipped past his control and slid down his face, nor the broken whisper that he was thankful only John could hear.

"Oh Sherlock, my little brother, where have you gone?"

It was three months until they found anything. All cases the Yard had picked up were either solved, or the files meticulously put together and put in a box labelled "FOR SHERLOCK" in big black letters. There were many files in that box.

In the end, Mycroft had secretly contacted Moriarty, knowing of the man's obsession over Sherlock, and had told him quite frankly that he had disappeared. The video surveillance only picking him up once as he was hit over the back of the head and pulled roughly into a car. Al leads from the footage had dried up within hours of it being found. Sherlock's phone, wallet, coat and scarf had been found just outside the Yard. The reason he had left the building at all was quickly discovered as they traced his texts and found one, simply telling him to go outside. The number hadn't been traceable. They had all been angry that he hadn't thought to ask for back-up, but it didn't last. That was just how Sherlock was.

As Mycroft had hoped, Moriarty was outraged that someone had dared to touch what he considered his, and put out all his feelers, locating Sherlock in a week. While both Mycroft and Scotland Yard were annoyed that he had found where Sherlock was being held so quickly, they were also relieved to know that they were finally going to bring Sherlock home.

They were also surprised that Moriarty let them get Sherlock. But he did tell them that he had already taken care of the people who had stolen him, but had not been to the location himself, or let his people go inside. They had only 'dispatched' the guards that had come out to confront them. Moriarty told them that thirty-four were killed in total, and his people estimated that only five were left, so they should be able to get Sherlock out easily.

None of them could find it within them to feel bad about consulting the criminal for the whereabouts of their friend, nor could they find it in them to care that he had killed the men responsible. They were a bit shocked that Moriarty had been so helpful, though.

They all tacked up heavily for the retrieval, not trusting the criminal's word that there were so few guards left. They couldn't have been that stupid to all run out to their deaths, could they? The ride to the cabin in a thick forest Moriarty had told them about was silent, and when the road became too narrow and they all got out to go on foot for the hour long hike to the cabin, the orders were swiftly, and rather quietly delivered. They had waited too long for this, and it needed to be done right.

Three months without the exuberant sociopath had weighed heavily on everyone. John was depressed most days, the only thing keeping him going was Mary, and their unborn baby girl. Mary was picking up on John's mood, but was pushing her feelings aside and helping him keep it together.

Mrs. Hudson kept the flat clean, just like she promised she would. She had cleared out all of the perishables a week and a half after Sherlock's disappearance. John had been there when they had cleaned out all the food. He found it almost funny that the act of throwing out Sherlock's rotting experiments brought both of them to tears. When the final item had been thrown out, they sat together on the sofa, staring at Sherlock's skull and violin, both of which lay on the coffee table, and just sobbed until they both silently got up, embraced and went to their respective homes.

The entirety of Scotland Yard was in shock, and they found that not having the young consulting detective around made the work so much harder. Not just because none of them could ever hope of being as good at solving crimes as him, but because without his comments to distract them, the seriousness of all of the cases got to them so much more. They never knew just how much they relied on the obnoxious deductions to help them cope, to keep them focused.

And Mycroft was just a mess, as were Sherlock's parents when they were finally told, two weeks into the 'investigation', if it could be called that. They, no matter how much they bickered and threatened and blackmailed, were a close family, and the loss of their baby was weighing heavily on all of them.

The cabin was not what they were expecting.

For one thing, it was the size of a small mansion, three stories high. For second, the bodies they had expected to be laying everywhere were conspicuously absent. Moriarty, or the people that had taken Sherlock, had obviously had them removed.

The team of twenty that had been sent for the rescue, John and Lestrade in the lead, quickly cleared the surrounding area, and while half came from the back the other burst through the front door, shooting the obviously poorly trained guards that had either been asleep when they stormed in, or had been in too much shock to raise their weapons in time to defend themselves. There had only been five left.

Lestrade and John stormed up the stairs, clearing the completely empty second floor before moving to the third. It was in a room completely at the back of the hallway that they found their friend, and both nearly burst into tears on the sight.

Sherlock had been badly beaten. Black, blue, purple, yellow and green all swirled on his skin in vivid contrast to the few places of unmarked skin which were a sickly shade of pale grey. He was dangerously thin, all of his bones seeming to stick out, threatening to rip through his skin. He had no shirt on, and his black dress pants, the same ones he had been wearing the day he disappeared, were little more than filthy rags.

He didn't appear to have noticed he had company, as he hadn't moved from the spot in the corner where he was curled up on his side, eyes closed.

John fell to his knees beside his friend, calling for him to wake up, and instantly relieved when the bruised eyelids opened to reveal the clouded over, but still striking eyes of his best friend.

"J-John?" A weak, hoarse voice asked, and to the people who were gathered in the room, it was the sweetest sound in the world.

"Yeah, Sherlock, I'm here" John answered, examining Sherlock, and not liking what he saw. Lestrade came up behind them and asked how he was. John responded with a simple shake of the head and tightening of his mouth. He watched as the frown was duplicated on Lestrade's face.

"Greg?" Sherlock's thin voice broke the tension, and Lestrade was shocked by the fact that he had been called by his actual first name. He knelt in Sherlock's field of vision and tried to smile at him, but knew it came out as more of a strained grimace.

"Yes, Sherlock, I'm here, too," he paused and looked at all the people gathered in the room. The call for the paramedics had been put through, and they were on their way up from the cover they had been settled behind ten minutes from the cabin. He looked and saw that all of them were true friends of Sherlock's even if the man didn't know that himself. They all looked at the beaten man with fear in their eyes, the same fear, the fear of losing him, "we all are"

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked around the room, a sad smile pulling up the corners of his mouth.

"I knew you would come," his soft voice was almost inaudible, but the silence in the room allowed all gathered to hear his words.

"Leave no man behind" Lestrade and John said in unison. It had been their motto for the past three months. They felt tears gathering in their eyes, and something was tying their stomachs in knots. None in the room could help but notice that Sherlock seemed to be fading. He smiled up at them all again. A small, heartbreaking smile that was a mix of sadness and relief, and then he continued to speak.

"I – I held on f-for you," he said, and everyone suddenly knew what was happening, Sherlock was really, truly, dying, "I w-wanted to….see…you a-all one more…time" His breathes seemed to be getting harder for him, and his voice was weaker still. John couldn't stand it. Tears started pouring down his face, and soon all those present were crying with him. The paramedics wouldn't get there in time. They all knew it, and apparently Sherlock did, too.

"Tell my f-family….that I love t-them," Sherlock said, tears forming in his own eyes, "T-tell Mycroft th-that…..he has t-to let me….go. Tell M-mother and father….that th-they couldn't have…been any be-better, and th-that I….I'm sorry I didn't….try h-harder to be be-better f-for…them."

John and Lestrade gripped his hands as a few tears slipped down his gaunt cheeks. They listened to him attentively while their hearts shattered, all knowing that they were hearing the man's final words.

"Greg….I…..I always knew y-your n-name," At this Lestrade managed a small genuine smile

"I know, Sherlock," he replied, his voice hoarse from all the emotions he was trying to hold at bay, "I knew all along that you were just teasing."

Sherlock managed a near-grin, which quickly slipped as he remembered the bruises on his face.

"J-John," He said, and John knew that whatever he was going to say was going to break him, "you a-are…my best friend, John, " Sherlock stated, looking him in the eye, letting John see in his eyes just how much he cared, "take care…o-of M-Mary…and y-your d-daughter," tears were streaming down Sherlock's face now, "I am s-so sorry th-that I…..will never meet h-her." John smiled sadly at him and tightened his grip on Sherlock's hand slightly.

"That's fine, Sherlock," he said, "I'll make sure she knows all about her uncle Sherlock."

"Don't f-forget," Sherlock said, smiling still, "Sh-sherlock ….is a g-girls….name"

John let out a brief laugh, which quickly turned into a sob as he drew Sherlock's hand up and hugged it tightly against his chest.

"I'll miss you," John whispered, and felt Sherlock's weak grip on his hand tighten a little.

"I-I'll miss you, t-too," Sherlock said, before looking around at all his friends one last time, and just as during the last time he died, he drew a deep breathe, looked into his best friends face for the last time and uttered his final words, "Goodbye, John"

His body went limp and the little light that been left in his eyes faded away, and while the rest of the room just broke down and sobbed, John found himself pulling Sherlock's body all the way into his lap, he knew CPR would be hopeless, knew deep inside that Sherlock was never coming back, but he still found himself tightly embracing Sherlock to his chest as he muttered a variant of the plea he had long ago said over what he had thought to be the grave of his best friend. An echo to match the one spoken by his friend.

"I was so alone, and I owe you so much. But please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be….dead. Would you do that for me? Just stop it. Stop this." Those words had never left his head, and he found himself foolishly hoping that just like that last time, Sherlock would appear again, alive, and as endearingly obnoxious as ever, "Please, Sherlock, you're my best friend, please, don't do this to me again, please, I need you." He continued muttering please, over and over again as he slowly rocked back and forth, his tears falling into the matted raven-haired head that was tucked tightly under his chin.

Lestrade was still holding Sherlock's other hand, and brought it up to his face as he cried. He felt like he had just lost a son.

As the paramedics arrived in the room, two of the slightly more in control police force held them back and told them it was too late. They slumped down, the weight of failure was never easy to bear.

Sherlock was buried in the gravesite that already had his tombstone. John visited it every day, just as he had the last time. When Mary had the baby they named her Amelia Sherlock Watson, and as promised, she was told everything about Uncle Sherlock. As she grew up, they were her favourite stories.

No-one ever got over the pain of losing Sherlock the second time. They just pushed it to the back of their minds, only to be brought out on his birthday, Christmas, or the anniversary of the day he died, then they all got together, reminisced and cried. It got easier as the years went on, and they made sure that they all stayed close.

Scotland Yard continued to do their job, and if they couldn't solve a case, for some reason that none of them could ever fathom, they continued to put the files in the box labelled "FOR SHERLOCK", and when the box became full, they renamed the cold-case room after him, and a gold-plated sign was put up on the door, bearing the same words the box had carried, plus a few extra, "For Sherlock Holmes, the world's finest consulting detective, and the best of us all"

Mrs. Hudson kept the flat clean for as long as she could, never able to find the strength to get rid of Sherlock's things, and John had often found a bit of comfort in being able to go and sit in his old chair, imagining his best friend sitting across from him. Sherlock's violin was used by John himself, as he and his daughter learned to play together. John was sure Sherlock would have wanted that. When Mrs. Hudson passed, John, who had become a famous writer by this stage, writing up all of the stories of his and Sherlock's adventures, bought the place, and moved in with his family, going through all of Sherlock's things with the remaining Holmes', finally, after almost a decade of it being left untouched. They kept a lot of it, the furniture and his books, donated his clothes and scientific equipment. His case files were given to Scotland Yard, and placed in the room dedicated to him.

Moriarty had truly committed suicide after he found out Sherlock had been killed. In the note they found he said that the only thing that had been worth living for had been his game with Sherlock. No-one mourned his passing.

The Holmes family became closer after Sherlock died, but Mycroft, never able to heed his brothers wishes, and let him go, made it his obsession to find out the one bit of information that would have brought them all that final bit of closure.

Why had Sherlock been taken? What had those men wanted with him?

He never did find out why, and for the rest of their lives all who had been involved in the investigation felt as though they had failed Sherlock; that they truly had left a man behind.

A great man, who through his friendship with an ex-army doctor, had even managed to become a good one.

AN: So, how was it? Let me know in a review, if you can :) I'm pretty proud of the cold-case room part, and the last line, tbh XD

Thanks for reading! Also, any followers of Don't Speak, I'll be updating that as soon as possible, so stay tuned!

Lotsa love,
Nala