A/N: I know I left off the last chapter on a pretty terrible cliffhanger, so I've done my best to get this next chapter posted quickly. Enjoy!

Chapter 4: Hope in the Darkness

Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes, Can you hear me?

The unfamiliar voice—when it finally registers—feels like it's coming from a million miles away—maybe a different plane of existence all together.

It's dark, and he's not sure why at first, until he realizes his eyes are shut. After several long moments, he finally finds the strength to open them. When he does the dim light of the dark room feels blinding, and he can barely make out the form of the man in front of him, dressed in army fatigues, rifle at his side, inches from Sherlock, but not touching him.

When he sees Sherlock's eyes open, the tension around his face loosens a bit and says, "Mr. Holmes, I'm Private David Winston, and we're under orders to extract you and return you to London."

Sherlock doesn't know what to say to that. Is this real? Is he dead? Dreaming? Insane?

"Can you stand up?"

Without answering, he tries to move his legs, realizes that he can't, recognizes that he can't feel any sensations in his lower extremities.

The realization should be terrifying, but he's gone past a point of feeling any emotional response, so he simply shakes his head.

The soldier just nods once, then stands up and walks beyond Sherlock's line of sight.

At first, hazy from the pain, hunger, trauma, blood loss, and exhaustion, he wonders if that was a test and if he answered wrong and if the soldier has decided to leave him behind.

But then, less than a minute later the soldier returns, followed closely by several medics, carrying a stretcher and a bag filled with medical supplies.

They speak softly to each other in short hurried tones, but there voices are clearer, slower, and amplified when they direct their words to Sherlock.

"We're going to take your vitals then get you patched up and on the stretcher so we can transport you back to London. You'll be home before you know it."

Home

What does that mean anymore?

Will he return to Baker Street?

Will they lock him away?

Will they just stitch him up and send him on another suicide mission?

Suddenly the certainty of imminent oblivion seems more appealing than the uncertainty of what lies ahead.

But then he remembers what home means.

John.

He holds onto that thought as the pain intensifies when the men—despite their best attempts to be gentle—jostle him on the stretcher. He could almost forget how much everything hurts until that very moment, but now, it comes flooding back.

He gasps and the color drains from his face, and the medic by his side smiles apologetically.

"Sorry, Mr. Holmes. We'll be as gentle as we can, but the helicopter rides going to be a bit bumpy."

The progress is painfully slow as they move him out of his holding cell, and the minute they get outside, he takes in a deep breath—as deep as his broken ribs allow him—but then a moment later he's in the helicopter, with an oxygen mask over his face, a blood pressure cough on his arm, and an entire team of medics surrounding him.

Now, he can hear it, the thumping as the propellers beat the surrounding air. There is a knot in his stomach as the helicopter pushes off from the ground, and every jerking movement makes his battered body hurt just that much more, and so, with no other option, he closes his eyes, and tries to lose himself in his mind palace.

He must have fallen even further into his mind palace than he intended because the next thing he's aware of is a sharp jolt—landing—and then the sound as the engine is shut off and the chopper's motions cease.

Almost immediately, he's carefully carried out of the helicopter and onto the tarmac. At the edge of his vision, he can see a plane—a small jet. The medic follows his line of sight and says, "We're on orders to take you straight to London."

That word—London—is so welcome that it takes his breath away, but before he can begin to formulate a response, he hears, "You have a long flight ahead of you, and you're in rough shape, so we're going to put you under twilight sedation until we land."

There are times when he would welcome the peace of a nitrous oxide induced rest, but now, all he wants is to stay conscious. A part of him fears that he still might slip away, and it would be too much to bear to disappear now, when he's so close to home, so close to London, so close to John.

But before he can raise any objections, there is a mask slipped over his head, and he has no choice but to breathe in deeply, once, twice, three times—

And then the rest is just an empty space in his memory.

When he finally comes back to consciousness, he's already in another ambulance, and he can see the plane through the open doors. It's daylight now, so he knows several hours have passed, although how many, he couldn't say.

All of the sensations—the light, the fresh air, the colors, the people, the sounds, the pain—are too much for him, and he desperately wishes they would put him back under again, but before he can beg them to put him out of his misery, someone comes into his line of sight, casting a shadow over his stretcher.

And while the world is too hazy for him to make out facial expressions, when the figure speaks, he has no trouble identifying the familiar voice or making out the words—

"Welcome home, brother dear."

A/N: I hope you liked this most recent chapter! It's mostly a bridge between the previous chapter and the next, so much more will happen in the fifth chapter. I know we haven't seen nearly enough John in this story so far.

I've been so pleasantly surprised by the positive response to the last couple chapters, and I really appreciate everyone who has taken the time to read the story, and I'm extra grateful to those readers who have taken the time to leave a comment.

I can't make any guarantees about when I'll get the next chapter posted, but I'll do my best to get it up reasonably quickly. Stay tuned!