Okay, here's a quick update for you! I was shocked by the response to this story, thanks so much! And I seriously am hoping that you don't think this chapter a let down! Loads more comfort and action to come! No warnings this time, cept mentions of the past noncon...

Thanks so much to these reviewers!

Captain Pihkal - Thanks for reviewing LJ & here hun, and for your kind words! Really hope you like this update!

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Anon - Thanks for your comments.

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Laura Denvir - I know, and yep, Im the screwed up one! Now, you better continue to post, like you promised! Enjoy!

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Coma Haud Vestigium - I know, Im evil. Sorry about the cliffie!

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5redroses - I kind of agree about the characters! I saw this prompt as a real challenge, I just hope I pull it off Thanks for reading and reviewing!

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heartfallen - Thanks! Enjoy this chapter!

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Okay, I won't keep you waiting anymore! You are all awesome! Please review again! xx

Worthless

Chapter Two

John rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and stared out of the window as the taxi drove on. He gazed out into the darkness, a scowl on his face. This should have been a good night for him, a nice meal out and perhaps even a good movie at the cinema. That's what he believed anyway. He should have known better.

A fun Friday night out is what normal people do. John knew there was not on thing normal about his friend, or now him, apparently. And he was still angry with Sherlock for the way he had been treated.

He had received the weird phone call, strange even for Sherlock, in which his friend, in a small, pained voice, had asked for his help. John had inquired for more information but, typically, Sherlock had not been forthcoming. He had simply replied with; "Get the address from Lestrade and John, please come quickly." And then, the call had been disconnected. For a long moment, John had seriously contemplated leaving Sherlock "to it" and not bothering to answer the plea for help. But John was not that kind of man, despite him actually believing that Sherlock might well deserve that response. So, he had called Lestrade. One embarrassing conversation with the very irritated Inspector later, John had the address he needed and had quickly found himself outside, trying to flag down a taxi. And now, here he was, heading across London, racing to his friend's aid. Again.

And none of these events had exactly improved John's mood. In fact, he had told himself that the reason he was mainly complying with Sherlock here was so he would actually have the chance to have a serious talk with his friend.

Why does he even need me this time? John wondered. Probably just wants my money for his taxi fare home.

John sighed in annoyance. If Sherlock wanted him to fetch his wallet for him, the wallet that John completely expected to be in Sherlock's pocket, the whole time, he would smack him. Sherlock needed to realise that John was not his errand boy. The truth was that John had been worrying for some time if that was what Sherlock truly saw him as, just a servant or a tool to be used when he required him. John frowned. Could it be that Sherlock actually saw their friendship as nothing more than a handy working arrangement? Sherlock would bark his orders and John would be expected to obey, without question, happy to be entertained by Sherlock's "nuttiness?" Well, if that was the case, John would not let it carry on for one day more. It would end tonight. John Watson was worth more than this and he was about to let Sherlock know it. And if it cost him their friendship, well, at least he would finally know where he stood.

"This is it, mate," the taxi driver suddenly announced, startling John out of his thoughts. The driver tapped the wheel impatiently and then gestured to a row of houses across the road. John had a quick look and sighed. Typically bleak. Would go really well with the rest of his night then. Perfect.

He paid the man his fare, pulled open the door and, with some difficulty, climbed out of the car.

He grimaced. His leg was playing him up tonight.

Figures.

He glanced down at the paper in his hand as the taxi continued on, leaving him behind in the cold, damp street. He used the glow on his mobile phone to light up the paper still in his hand and read the address once again. Number 32, Pipers Lane. He began to walk from house to house, leaning on his walking stick with each step, checking the houses he passed for it's number or name. He wrapped his jacket tightly around himself, feeling chilly. As he walked by, he didn't spot another soul or see any vehicles. He was surprised by how quiet the street was. He stole a look at his watch. Just gone midnight on a Saturday morning. It was strange that any street in London could be this deserted, especially for a Friday night.

He was even more surprised when he found Number 32. Hr stood, gaping, looking from the paper to the house repeatedly. 32 Pipers Lane. This was the house.

There was nobody around. It didn't make any sense. Lestrade had told him there would be two men on the door when he got there and he was to mention to them that Lestrade had given him permission to enter and assist Sherlock Holmes. The property was taped off but there was no sign of activity, not one police officer on guard. This was a crime scene! How could it have been left unmanned? Lestrade had told him to expect trouble as he had left Anderson in charge but he couldn't see the uptight young man anywhere. And it was very unlike Anderson to skive off of his duties. An uneasy feeling was growing in the pit of John's stomach and he heard Sherlock's voice in his ear again, remembering how uncharacteristicely quiet his friend had sounded. John gave himself a little shake. If something had been badly wrong, surely Sherlock would have mentioned something? There was very likely a logical explanation. It was a given that Sherlock and Anderson would have had heated words and Anderson had probably stormed off in a huff. And Sherlock? Well, he had probably deduced what there was to deduce in this house and have wandered off, or decided to make his own way home after all, forgetting he had even called John. If that turned out to be the case, John would kill him.

Everything would be fine and Sherlock would be waiting for John back at Bakers Street, that superior, smug smile on his face.

John was worrying about nothing.

So why did he sound so scared?

John shivered as he stepped up to the front door. He hesitated, unsure what he should do and then he nervously tapped on the door.

For a moment, he heard nothing. He rapped then, loudly. Still nothing.

"Hello?" He called, his annoyance evident.

And then he heard a very soft voice from inside. "It's open."

John frowned. Was that Sherlock? It didn't sound like him. That voice sounded edgy, exhausted. It certainly wasn't the confident, loud tones he was used to.

"Sherlock, is that you?" He called.

No reply.

Watson frowned. After a pause, he took a deep breath, pushed the door open and tiptoed inside. It immediately hit the Doctor just how cold and unwelcoming the house was inside and he couldn't say he was surprised. It was so dark, so empty. Terrible events had happened here. A woman had been brutally murdered and John had read things. Houses could remember. The thought chilled him to the bone.

He rubbed his hands together for comfort. He groped around in the pitch blackness, trying to find a light switch. He was desperate to get some warmth in the place.

"John."

The doctor jumped about in a foot in the air. Was the bloody man trying to give him a heart attack?

He tried to keep the tremble out of his voice as he replied, quietly, "Sherlock?" Then, more urgently, "Where are you?"

He heard something fidget in the blackness.

"I'm here, John."

John looked in the direction of the voice and saw the outline of a tall man sitting not far away from him. John couldn't help but feel a flash of relief. Thank God he was alright. John swallowed down his fear as he stumbled towards Sherlock. He didn't want the other man to know right then how worried he had been.

Of course, if there had been light on the subject, John would have been even more concerned. Especially if he had observed how his friend recoiled away from him as he approached.

Instead, John felt only annoyance as he stopped in front of Sherlock.

"Why are you sitting in the dark?" He demanded

"It helps," came the sullen reply.

John blinks. "It helps what?"

He could almost see Sherlock giving him a belittling look. He tightened his hold on his walking stick.

"It helps me to think clearly, John;" Sherlock replied quietly.

John shook his head. Now, that sounded like the old Sherlock. And he was in one of his cryptic moods. What fun.

Still not being able to see Sherlock clearly, despite being close enough to touch him, John leaned forward. He saw then that Sherlock was sat on the bottom step of the staircase. He stabbed his stick down beside Sherlock and this time he did feel his friend flinch but in that moment, he was too irritated to care. So he chose to ignore it. He was in no mood for Sherlock's eccentricity that night.

"Okay," John began, "What couldn't wait until morning then?" He waited but there was no reply. He tried again, his voice rising along with his temper. "Sherlock? Why did I have to come here then, at this time of night?" He slammed his hands against his sides. "There's nothing here! What the Hell is so important?"

Sherlock still did not answer him.

John clenched his fists in frustration. He may not be able to see Sherlock's facial expression but he could certainly picture it. Sherlock would have that haughty look about him right about then, probably thinking that John should feel flattered that Sherlock chose to include him. This time.

"Are you going to talk to me?" John snapped.

"Is the taxi still here?"

John was taken aback.

"What?" He inquired. That was not the response he had expected.

He heard Sherlock sigh. "The taxi you came here in, John. I'm assuming you didn't walk."

"No, I didn't walk," John threw back.

"Did you ask the driver to wait?"

John was completely thrown. And typically, he felt guilty. Should he have asked the taxi to wait? The street was quiet. Where would they find another? John suddenly felt angry. Why was he now questioning himself? Was he meant to be a mind reader now? How was he damn well supposed to have known that?

"The taxi has gone," he snapped. "I didn't know you wanted me to hold it."

He felt Sherlock move slightly and heard a low moan. He frowned. What was the matter with him?

"So definitely no taxi?" Sherlock asked again.

John was nearly at the end of his tether. Was he playing some kind of game?

"That's right Sherlock," he snapped back. "Absolutely no taxi."

"I see."

At that, John could take no more. He had put up with enough that night and now he was furious, more with himself if he was honest, that Sherlock had actually made him feel guilty. And now he was going to say this piece.

"I see," he echoed, "Is that all you can say?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"Oh, I don't know, Sherlock. Maybe the word sorry would be a good place to start?"

"Why?"

John wanted to hit him, he really did.

"WHY?" He wanted to grab Sherlock and shake him, shake some sense into him. "God damn it, Sherlock. I waited for you tonight for an hour before I gave up. We were supposed to eat out, remember? I booked a table and everything and you made me look like a complete moron, sitting there like billy no mates, all on my own! You couldn't even be bothered to send me a text! Do you have any idea how that made me feel?"

He paused for breath. He could sense that Sherlock was upset, and uncomfortable by his rant. Good. About time he had it drilled into him. You can't treat people like second class citizens and expect them just to get over it. He had to learn.

So John carried on.

"And then, if leaving me in a restaurant for an hour wasn't bad enough, you then wake me up and drag me out here, without any explanation, and also making me interrupt an important meeting at Scotland Yard may I add, don't expect Lestrade to be to happy next time he sees you, and you still won't tell me what the hell is going on!" He leaned closer. "Where is everyone? Where is Anderson, I'm assuming it's your fault he's not here? What did you do to upset him this time?"

Again, his friend flinched.

I'm getting to him.

"You don't trust me, do you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock said nothing for a long time. Finally, he whispered, very quietly; "I'm sorry I didn't text you tonight. I forgot about the meal, and my phone was on silent. I was so caught up with the case. I don't have any other excuse."

John was stunned by the sudden, heartfelt apology. Again, he was unnerved by this very out of character behavior for his friend, and this time he was the one who found himself speechless.

"And you're the only person I trust, John."

John was astounded. Sherlock had never been so open with him. He just stood there. He didn't know how to react. It hit him again, full on this time, just how bizarre his friend's behaviour had been.

"Sherlock, what happened to you tonight?" He asked him kindly.

The Detective let out a loud sigh. "I need to go home, John." Holding on to the wall for support, Sherlock got slowly and painfully to his feet. He swayed on the spot, and John saw this only to well. He also heard Sherlock grimace and his own concern grew with every passing second.

Something was seriously wrong here.

He tried again, this time attempting to go for the light approach. "Okay Sherlock, you've got me worried now! He smiled, not very genuinely. "What's happened?"

The Detective took an uncertain step forward. "Nothing, John. I just want to get away from here." There was desperation in his voice now and John saw that his friend was still clinging to the wall. "Now?" A breath. "Please?"

John reached out a hand for him. "Are you sure you are alright."

Sherlock recoiled from the outstretched hand as if he had been burned and John was madly struck by how well his friend could see in the dark. "I'm fine," Sherlock said, too quickly. "I just need to rest."

John was frightened now. He reached out to steady himself against the same wall as Sherlock and, with relief, suddenly felt the light switch. Thank God. Now, at least he would be able to see. Quickly, he flipped the switch, and instantly bright light flooded the room.

Both men reacted to the sudden light. Where as John merely raised an arm to protect his eyes from the sudden glare, Sherlock's reaction was far more panicked. He gasped as the light suddenly appeared, and instantly covered his face with his hands, moaning in discomfort.

"Turn it off, John." He whimpered. "It's too bright."

John stared at his friend. His coat was torn and covered in dirt, and his hair was dishevelled. He also noticed, with a sinking feeling, how Sherlock was hiding every inch of his face. Being careful not to panic Sherlock further, John began to slowly walk towards him.

"Look at me, Sherlock." He ordered calmly.

"It's nothing to for you to be concerned about, John." Sherlock snapped. He didn't move his hands. "Please don't worry about it."

John's heart was pounding in his chest. And he was terrified.

"Look at me!"

Very slowly and apologetically, Sherlock lowered his hands, and his eyes met John's. The Doctor's own face instantly filled with anger. Sherlock was sporting a nasty black eye and other bruising to his face, but John was mainly concerned about the blood dripping from a wound to his friend's head. He lightly fingered Sherlock's bruises and saw, with sadness, how his friend was forcing back tears. John frowned. Typical Sherlock, never show any weaknesses. Not even to your dearest friend. John needed to check the other man out properly, he could ascertain that the man had many more injuries than what he could see in front of him.

He was also very aware that Sherlock was shaking in agony.

John swallowed hard. "Who did this to you?"

Sherlock pushed John's hands away.

"I told you, it's not important." Now, Sherlock sounded annoyed. "I don't need you fussing."

The doctor was almost beside himself. He had no idea how badly hurt Sherlock was and if his friend didn't start assisting him, things could go from bad to worse very quickly.

"Sherlock," he implored. "We need to get you to a hospital..."

"NO!" Sherlock suddenly shouted, taking John by surprise. "I told you, I'm alright and I meant it! I don't need any hospitals!" He gestured towards the door. "Please, I just want to go home and forget tonight even happened. Lets try and find a taxi?" He stared pleadingly at John. "Please?"

What was the point?

"Okay," John agreed, very unhappily. But he knew he couldn't force his point. Sherlock was to stubborn.

The Detective gave him a grateful nod and then turned towards the door.

And that was when John saw the blood. There was a nasty red stain soaking through Sherlock's large coat. So much blood. Too much blood. John looked up the stairway, and he nearly stopped breathing. There was a trail of blood leading up the steps. John had seen enough blood to last him a life time, he was doctor and had fought in Afghanistan after all but this, this was more shocking than anything he had ever seen before. Because, he knew. He understood, with sickening realisation, the reason why Sherlock had acted so oddly that night. John paled instantly. He swallowed hard, fighting back the urge to vomit and tried desperately to stay calm. He couldn't lose it now.

Whoever dared to do this, John knew, with absolute clarity, will pay.

But there would be time to worry about who did this and how. Right now, he had to worry about his friend. He was all the mattered. And first, John would have to convince him that he desperately needed help.

"Sherlock?" He said, gently. "Did someone force themselves on you?"

Sherlock froze, leaning against the front door, his hand wrapped around the knob. He still had his back to John and then, as he slowly turned to face him once more, John could see he was deathly pale.

"John," he whispered, his voice hoarse and weak. "Maybe I'm not quite so alright after all."

And then, without another sound, he fell. Sherlock could feel himself falling and he was surprised that is was dark again, John must have turned the light off, Sherlock was grateful for that. As he finally surrendered to that darkness, he heard John, as if from far away, calling out to him. And then he could feel his best friend's arms around him, holding him close as the inviting blackness consumed him and he knew no more.

TBC