Collateral Damage

Warnings: Rated M for future chapters, containing:

Descriptions of wounds, vague descriptions of medical conditions, mentions of possible rape but no actual instances, mentions of drug abuse, traumatic experiences, slightly-graphic torture, (possibly squicky) psychological reactions, sexual innuendo, emotional breakdowns, mentions of alcohol, descriptions of war scenarios, no real Johnlock but lots of caring!John, so take that as you will, etc...

Physical abuse including: electrocution, riding crops, knives, suffocation, being tied up, being drugged, etc...

Psychological abuse including: sensory deprivation, talking about hurting others, etc...

ANGST.

In other words, this is dark. It isn't extremely graphic- not to the point of being MA, seeing as how MA isn't allowed- but everything mentioned is in this story in some instance or another. Lots of angst.

Sherlock had been missing for three days.

Maybe 'missing' wasn't the right word. Lestrade said he had people looking, Mycroft said that, too, but the latter seemed less concerned than Lestrade had. They both said that this had happened before, that Sherlock would wander off for days on end, never making contact, until, one night, he would be back in his flat suddenly and passed out on the sofa.

With Lestrade- and Mycroft, too- John could understand their way of thinking. From what he had come to understand, Sherlock had a bit of a drug addict's past about him. He didn't know for sure, but given the drugs bust awhile ago... Well, Lestrade knew something that John didn't and John didn't ever ask. That was a personal question for someone like Sherlock, who didn't even tell John when he was going out to Barts for the lab. And, anyway, that was the past.

Which was why John had been so unwilling to accept Lestrade and Mycroft's half-hearted attempts to find the detective.

Of course, that had only been twenty-four hours missing.

Twenty-four stretched into forty-eight, by which John had started to panic. He had called Lestrade and Mycroft back, reinforcing the fact that he thought something was wrong. Mycroft didn't seem too concerned, but Greg was easier to sway.

They spent the better part of seven hours traipsing through a soggy London looking for a sign of the consulting detective, but when the midnight bells chimed, Lestrade said that they'd continue their search tomorrow.

They did.

But Sherlock never turned up, John couldn't squelch the flower of panic that had blossomed in his chest, and forty-eight hours stretched into seventy-two and when John stumbled into the flat after three in the morning, drenched from head to toe, Lestrade's hand on his shoulder, he didn't know if he thought he was going to pass out or vomit.

"We'll find him, John," Lestrade said, accompanying John upstairs. Mycroft was traipsing behind them, his umbrella left in the hallway. "He's a capable adult. I'm sure he's fine."

John just sank onto the sofa and placed his head in his hands. He didn't respond to Lestrade's comment because he had this terrible feeling, and he knew that they didn't.

John had heard of these things. Having an intimate bond with someone, being so close to them that, illogically, you could tell when your other half was happy or sad, hurting or in trouble. John had never believed in such things, not until he met Sherlock. All of John's mind was screaming to him that Sherlock was in trouble and he couldn't do a thing about it.

He noted that his hand was starting to shake and he clenched his hands into fists, rubbing his forehead.

"My brother is unpredictable, John."

John raised his head. "Something's wrong, Mycroft. I know you both say that he's run off like this before, but this is different. He has me now. He wouldn't just run off."

He knew that their unspoken response would be wouldn't he?.

"Everything's going to be fine. Get some sleep, John, and we'll keep looking in the morning. We're going to find him," Lestrade stressed. "Change out of your clothes, have a cuppa, and go to bed. I'll call you if I hear anything."

It didn't help, but John nodded and stood and strode purposefully for the stairs. Only after he was tucked away in his bedroom and he heard Lestrade and Mycroft descend the stairs did he move. He picked up his mobile- he would change in a moment- and texted Sherlock.

I'm worried. Please come back. Baker Street is lonely and I can't sleep not knowing if you're out there hurting.

He didn't expect a response and he didn't get one. So, he just found some clothes and went downstairs and had a shower. It didn't help, either. He poured himself a cup of tea and trailed back to Sherlock's room, feeling sick. Where was Sherlock now? And what was happening to him?

"Come on, Sherlock... Just a text. Just prove that you're alright..." John mumbled, looking at the detective's un-slept in bed. "Wherever you are..."

Sherlock fell into a cab, gasping out "221 Baker Street". He closed his eyes tightly, trying to control his breathing.

"Y'okay, mate?" the cabbie asked.

Sherlock clenched his hands into fists and flexed his toes, wincing after he remembered, vaguely, that moving his leg was a bit not good. Broken, he thought, but he didn't remember how. He kept forgetting that it was broken, anyway, until he felt the pain.

His heart was pounding wildly and it felt like he couldn't draw a deep breath. The world was spinning. He just wanted to go home.

"You sure you don't need a hospital?"

Sherlock wanted to groan, but just whispered "Baker Street" again. He leaned forward slightly, resting his head back against the seat. He almost winced as something warm oozed down the back of his neck but, while a little voice in the back of his head whispered blood, he didn't move.

The cab turned a corner and the movement made Sherlock's stomach lurch. He pressed the back of his hand, crusted with blood, against his mouth and swallowed back vomit. It left his mouth tasting worse, worse than the metallic taste of blood that he'd been stomaching for almost three days.

His head was spinning, his vision dimming. He had to stay awake. He was almost back home; he could not fall asleep now.

Just a few more moments, Holmes...

That's what he had been telling himself for the past three days.

Obviously, all the warnings in the beginning of this chapter occur not in this chapter, but throughout the story. I will be pointing out which things happen in which chapters for further warning.

I do not own Sherlock. Thank you.