John was having a shit day.

Oh, it had started out well enough. He was still basking in the radiance that his newfound romance had cast on his life (Read: He was trying not to kill Sherlock at every turn because he loved the man), and he was getting used to the food, and he was only working for Mycroft part time – "Compromise, John." – and life had generally been good.

Right up until the moment Jim Moriarty decided to kidnap him. Then it all pretty much goes to hell.

His abductors had given him a sound beating, cracking large fists over his face and driving them into his stomach before putting a black bag over his head and throwing him into a car. Bloody wankers even broke his phone.

He doesn't know where he is, but it's dark and damp and the goddamn door is locked. It's some place industrial, that's for sure. He's bound to a large pipe and gagged, his legs stretched out in front of him.

The door on the other side of the room opens and Moriarty walks in. Behind him follows three men, two pushing an old silver gurney, the other pushing a tray of medical equipment. "Are you ready to play, Johnny-Boy?"

The bottom drops out of his stomach.

DI Lestrade is at his wits end. Sherlock was raising hell in his office, throwing everything he could get his hands on at the walls, and torturing the entirety of New Scotland Yard.

"Sherlock you have got to calm down," he tries to placate his friend. "We'll find him."

His coffee mug, a gift from his wife on their five year anniversary, cracks clean in two as it meets the door. "You have Anderson working the case! Anderson! He couldn't find his arse with two hands and a flashlight!"

"We're doing our best, Sherlock!"

"You're best isn't good enough!"

Lestrade slams his hands against the desk. "I know how much you care about John but you are not helping. Stop terrorizing my team and go do what you do, because being here isn't going to accomplish anything!"

Sherlock stops mid-rant and looks at him. "You're…you're right. There must be something, something I've missed. I'm going to go over the files again."

"Good lad."

"Will you tell me…?"

"You'll be the first to know."

Baker Street is achingly empty that night.

Three days later, as Sherlock begins to feel the first itch on the inside of his arm, Lestrade bursts into the flat, out of breath, and drags me downstairs. "We've found him."

"Where? Is he alright"

"Bank of the Thames. He's in rout to St. Bart's."

Sherlock prays the whole way there.

Sherlock catalogues John's injuries before the nurse ever says a word. Fractures: Three ribs, two fingers, and his jaw. Broken bones: Left leg, right arm, four fingers, one toe, and his nose. Puncture wounds to the left and right hand Dehydration, starvation, a kidney infection, and multiple lacerations, surgical in nature, localized in the chest area. His bandages are heavily soaked with blood and betadine and there is a tube running out of his nose. He's unconscious - "Sedated, Mr. Holmes. For comfort." – and the hospital bed seems to swallow him whole.

Harry is a drunk, sobbing mess and Sherlock is sure that if John were conscious he'd have her sent home. She's being more a hindrance than a help at this point. "Do stop, Harry. Hysterics are useless at this point."

She rounds on Sherlock. "You did this!"

He's dumbfounded. "I beg your pardon?"

"This is all your fault! My baby brother is going to die because of you! Why couldn't you have left him alone and found some other poor git to drag around London, getting themselves half killed every other day?" Her fists are clenched and she's stalking towards him. "Get him out! I don't want him here! Get him out!"

Lestrade pops his head in the door. "Everything alright?"

"No! Get him out!"

Lestrade shuffles his feet. "Sherlock, you need to go."

He feels his jaw drop. "You can't be serious!"

"She's his next of kin. She controls everything, including visitation," he opens the door wide and tried to usher Sherlock through it.

"Lestrade. I…you can't!"

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. It's the law," he places a hand on Sherlock's elbow.

"He's my partner!"

"I know, Sherlock. He's been your assistant for a long time but –

He grasps at Lestrade's arm desperately. "No! Lestrade…Greg…he's…he's my partner."

Lestrade's eyebrows disappear into his hairline. He turns back to Harry, raises his palms to her as if to say 'What do you want me to do?', and gets a scathing look for his troubles. He shakes his head. "Come on."

Sherlock wrenches himself away from his friend and strides over to the bed.

"If you don't come willingly I'm going to have to arrest you and I've done enough of that to last a lifetime!"

Kneeling down beside the bed, Sherlock takes one of John's battered hands in his own and presses his lips to it. "I'm going to fix this, John. I won't let him get away with it. I promise. And…and then," his throat is pin hole thin; "you and I are going to get some peace and quiet. And you're going to get better. I promise."

He drops a kiss on John's forehead and leaves the room.

He spends the next seven days in the dark alleys and byways that crisscross London like so many scars. He uses his homeless network, former suppliers, and acquaintances, promises many things to many people, but Jim Moriarty has dropped off the face of the earth once again.

"What was the point of it all, then?" Lestrade asks when they've hit another dead end. "I don't understand it."

"There's a lot you don't understand, Detective Inspector. You'll have to be more specific."

Sliding into the car, Lestrade lights a cigarette and passes it to Sherlock. "Why kidnap John and not kill him? It would have been easy, wouldn't it? I mean, there's no way he would have been stupid enough not to notice he was still alive when he was dropped in the Thames, so he must have kept him alive on purpose. But why?"

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. "Very good, Detective Inspector. I believe I'm rubbing off on you."

"God help me!"

Rolling his cigarette between his fingers, he stares out the window. The same questions had been tickling his mind since John had been found. It didn't make any sense.

Lestrade's phone rings. He flips it open. "Yes? Yeah. I know. What?" he jerks the steering wheel and does a dramatic U-Turn in the middle of the road. "Stop them. Don't let them do anything until I get there, do you understand?"

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Sherlock snaps.

"Harry is going to take John off life support."

"You can't do that! He's recovering!"

"He's dying you bastard!"

The shouting match is going on round three and the nursing staff is getting antsy. Lestrade is whispering into a phone down the hall and not playing referee, much to Sherlock's irritation. "His heart is giving out. Even if he were completely healthy it would take ages for him to recover! There's no hope!"

For a moment it looks as if Sherlock is going to strike her. "Don't do this to me. Don't do this to us."

"Calm down, both of you. Take twenty and cool off, yeah?" Lestrade reappears, cell phone in hand, wide eyed. "Harry, go get a cuppa. You look like you could use it. I'll talk to Sherlock."

Harry disappears down the hall and Lestrade pulls him inside John's room. "Sit down and shut up," he says as he closes the door behind him. Sherlock sits. "I've…called in a favor."

"I don't have time for this, Lestrade!"

"You have time for it if you want to keep John alive! Now shut up!" Lestrade listens for a moment and watches the shadow of someone walking by flicker through the light pouring in beneath the door. "You're going to have to trust me, Sherlock. Whatever happens, let me do the talking and just play long. Do you understand?"

He shakes his head. "No."

Lestrade swipes a hand over his face. "Just…let me handle this, will you? Just do it. I'll explain later."

Harry arrives, coffee in hand, looking rather put out. "Why are you still here?" she turns to Lestrade. "I want him gone!"

"I'm afraid there's been a development. Sherlock has given me some…new information. It changes things a bit," he sees her gearing up for another shouting match and heads her off. "We're not just taking his word for it. I have someone confirming what he's told me and they're going to – Ah. Anderson. Excellent timing."

Anderson barges into the room without so much as a by your leave and shoves a stack of papers at Lestrade. "Looks like it's true. Papers filed just after Doctor Watson was diagnosed."

Lestrade turns to Sherlock. "I wish you'd told us the two of you'd gotten married. We would have celebrated!"

Sherlock's head snaps up. "We…we wanted to keep it private. The press and Moriarty…we didn't want anyone to know."

"Yeah," Lestrade says. "Makes sense. I'm sorry Harry, but this changes things a bit. Sherlock's rights supersede yours. I'll have to inform the doctors."

Harry looks apoplectic. "This isn't possible! John would have told me!"

Sherlock fixes her with a dark look. "When? When you were drunk? When you refused to call him on his birthday? When you ignored calls and texts from him, pleading with you to get off the booze again?"

"A piece of paper doesn't prove anything," she snaps. "What about witnesses?"

Lestrade consults the papers in his hands. "Molly Hooper witnessed, apparently. That had to have been John's idea, right?"

"Yes," Sherlock looks at the man lying in the hospital bed. "She's always been a good friend to us."

Lestrade folds up the papers and puts them in his coat pocket. "Well. That's that settled then," he puts a hand on Harry's shoulder. "I think you should go home, Harry. Get some rest. Anderson will walk you to your car, yeah?"

She slaps his hand away and stalks out.

"Make sure she gets home alright," he says to Anderson. "And I'll see you back at The Yard."

Anderson remains where he is, looking back and forth between Sherlock, John, and Lestrade, his single brain cell working furiously.

"Anderson," Lestrade snaps his fingers in front of his colleges face. "Harry Watson. Escort. Now."

Anderson leaves and Lestrade closes the door behind him.

"May I see those papers?" Sherlock holds his hand out.

Placing the papers in Sherlock's hands, Lestrade smiles. "They'll check out under scrutiny. I've even got a judge who will go on the record saying he married you two."

"Lying under oath? Isn't that against one of your laws?"

"Strictly speaking, yeah, but I don't think I'd serve time for it."

The documents in his hands are all genuine, down to the last detail. His own name is there, along with John's chicken scratch, and Molly's flowery looping signature, naming her a witness.

"How did you do this? You don't have the resources."

Lestrade looks entirely too pleased with himself. "You're not the only one with contacts."

Sherlock deduces him for the first time that day. Hair freshly cut. Forgot to shave. Armed. Handcuffs in back pocket. Old suit. Grey. Coffee and donut for breakfast. Black coffee, blueberry donut. New tie. Silk. Probably a gift. No. Not new. One previous owner. Blue silk. Expensive. Decorated with….tiny umbrellas?

"Good Lord!"

"Now, Sherlock –

"That's…no. I don't want to think about it. No." He folds the papers up and holds them out to Lestrade.

"Keep them. Though, copies are probably stashed around your flat now."

He tucks them into his coat. "Thank you. I…thank you," he sits on the edge of John's bed. "You don't know what this means to me."

"Sherlock? What Harry said before? You know she was right, don't you? Even if he makes it through this…it's exacerbated his problem. He won't be the same."

"What about a new heart? Could he get a new heart?"

"Well, yeah, I suppose so but the waits about six months."

"Give him mine, then."

"What? Sherlock, no. It doesn't work like that," Lestrade pulls a chair up and sits next to him.

"Why not?"

"Look, I know you delete lots of things because you don't find them useful, but you've got to have information about blood types stashed away in that big brain of yours."

Sherlock nods. "We don't have the same blood type. My heart would be incompatible with his body."

"Not to mention he'd hate you for the rest of his life if you killed yourself for him. Again."

Sherlock gives a dry chuckle. "Yes. He probably would," he says. "You realize this is what he wanted? Moriarty? He wanted to make me suffer by watching John die, knowing there's nothing I can do."

"I guessed that bit."

He looks up from John's beaten and broken body and straight into Lestrade's eyes. "I'm going to kill him. I am going to rip him limb from limb, slowly, and painfully. I'm going to make him suffer."

"I'll…bail you out when you're finished."

Sherlock runs a hand through John's hair. "It's a deal."