It was more than an hour later when Sherlock was returned to his cell, bloodied and bruised, though it felt like much longer. He had never actually been tortured before, at least not physically, though John often referred to the way he treated his own body as torture. He had a high threshold for pain, and Moran was not particularly creative – knives and fists, he wasn't even original in his cruelty – but he was surprised at his own visceral reaction to the experience. He wasn't used to being so fully in someone else's control, being violated in this way. He had retreated into his own mind as far as it was possible, but even he could not fully block out what was happening to his body.

He had known that this was a possibility of course, and he had accepted that his death once he was captured was more likely than not, but he didn't want to die like this, his life and dignity cut away one piece at a time until he could no long control himself, no longer keep the fear at bay. He wasn't scared of dying, but he was terrified of breaking. He knew his mind was stronger than Moran's, by far, and was ashamed at how quickly it seemed ready to betray him.

But he still held on to hope that he could think his way out of this. At least they were taking him out of his cell now, each trip a chance for escape or at least to learn something that might help him. And as time wore on and his tactics failed on Sherlock, Moran would become more and more angry and frustrated. He would be less careful, he would make a mistake. Hopefully that mistake would be something Sherlock could use, rather one that involved accidentally killing Sherlock before he got what he wanted.

Sherlock tended his own wounds as well as he could, given that he only had water and a spare shirt to clean them with, and attempted to get some sleep. It was against his nature to give into sleep in a situation like this, but he knew he needed to try to keep his body strong if he was to last. He ate some of the food provided as well. He hoped Mycroft had gotten his message and was on his way. It might be humiliating to be rescued by his big brother, but it was preferable to the alternative at this point.

The same pattern continued for the next three days. Moran would have Sherlock brought to him. They would talk, Moran trying to act like a reasonable, magnanimous criminal mastermind at the start. Sherlock would enrage him by reading him like a book, reciting everything shameful and hidden that he could deduce about the other man – from childhood fears to sexual quirks – and Moran would drop the pretense and try to extract the information from Sherlock by force.

By the fourth day, Sherlock was in bad shape. He was bruised head to toe, and was certain he had more than one cracked rib, as well as broken fingers and toes, several missing fingernails, two black eyes, and more shallow cuts than he could count. He knew he could not hang on much longer. He was beginning to hallucinate in his cell and suspected he had developed some kind of infection. He had begun thinking of ways to end it on his own in order to prevent Moran from having the satisfaction of beating him, but his cell was frustratingly bare and he was watched. He might be able to get one of the jumpier guards to shoot him, though, if he was smart about it.

He was proud that he hadn't given Moran any sign of how close he really was to losing it. Sherlock still greeted him with a sarcastic smile and his usual banter. He knew Moran couldn't stand the idea that his techniques were failing, although this had not yet made him try a new tactic. Therefore Sherlock was surprised when, on the fourth day, Moran sat down in front of him and said, "So. Here we are."

"That's a rather obvious statement, don't you think?" Sherlock managed.

"Mr. Holmes, you do impress me," Moran continued. "You don't look like a person with such inner reserves of strength, either mental or physical. And it's my experience that the really smart ones usually have no tolerance for such unpleasantness. Well, that or it gets them off. I have to say it, you are winning this one. If I keep going you'll likely die and then neither of us will get what we want. So, I'm trying something different."

"Letting me go and praying that I don't come back and slit your throat while you sleep?" Sherlock asked, brightening.

"Not quite." Moran stood and stalked the room lazily. "I'm going to add another player into the mix. Take a page out of Jim's book, since that was so very effective last time. You see, very shortly, perhaps already, my people will have their hands on one Dr. John Watson, and they have orders to bring him straight here, to me. To us. Won't you be happy to be reunited with your…friend?"

Sherlock's heart stopped. "What have you done?"

"Nothing yet. But it seems Dr. Watson has been doing some investigating on his own and is looking for you. I thought I'd help him along. And I am betting that while you'd rather die than lose to me, you'd rather do anything than lose your precious doctor."

Sherlock said nothing. He knew any response would give him away.

"In addition, there is this – I didn't think it too relevant since I was planning on killing you anyway, but it seems I may need an extra inducement, both for you and Dr. Watson, if he's as stubborn as you are." He held up a mobile. Sherlock's mobile, which he had left on the roof before he jumped. It had been supposed to reach Lestrade, his recorded conversation with Moriarty the only solid proof he had to clear his name when this was all over. Lestrade would have known what to do with it, kept it safe. Moran's people must have gotten to it before anyone else could, probably when they went searching Moriarty's body for the smartphone Sherlock had nicked.

"Think carefully, Mr. Holmes. Do you really want to die in disgrace? Do you really want to watch me put Dr. Watson through what I've just put you through? All for the sake of…what? Seeing me in jail? Having a little less international crime for a few years? Revenge on a dead man? I know you're prideful, but are you really that arrogant? There may yet be a way for both you and your companion to escape with your lives and perhaps even your reputations. I know Dr. Watson is very devoted to you, but I don't think even he would want you to gamble his life for the sake of proving your innocence and destroying me."

Sherlock began to laugh, very quietly at first and then louder, as though he had just gotten some great cosmic joke. He had thought he had been hallucinating again while Moran was speaking, but he now realized what he was actually seeing and he could not keep himself from chuckling at the utter absurdity of what was happening.

Moran looked confused and angry. "Why is that funny, Mr. Holmes? I'm quite serious about my intentions for Dr. Watson, I hope you believe that."

Sherlock managed to catch his breath and grinned. "Because, Sebastian – he's right behind you."

Moran heard the click of a gun being cocked at the exact moment Sherlock said the words, and froze. John had indeed slipped up silently behind him while he was speaking, moving so slowly and quietly, sticking so well to the shadows that even Sherlock had not noticed immediately, although he was not precisely at the height of his powers of observation.

"I'll take those," John said, keeping the barrel of his gun nestled in the back of Moran's skull as he relieved him of his weapons. "And that," he added, taking Sherlock's mobile out of his hand.

"You won't kill me," Moran said, though his voice shook. "You're a doctor."

"Then you clearly haven't read my file," John said, and clubbed him in the back of the head with the gun. He went down instantly, and John rushed over to Sherlock. He cut his bonds and barely caught him as he slid out of the chair, weak and having lost circulation.

John hadn't had time to fully register Sherlock's condition before, but now, as he propped him up on the floor, he could see the full extent of the damage. He gasped, horrified. The only thing that stopped him in that moment from putting a bullet in Moran's head was that the man wouldn't be awake to feel it.

"Sherlock…oh my God," he said, quickly cataloging Sherlock's injuries and taking his vitals. "What has he done?"

"I'm okay, John," Sherlock lied. "I'm fine."

"You have a fever, and…a lot of wounds…and broken bones…"John could read the story of the past weeks on Sherlock's body and his expression grew hard. He could see plainly Sherlock had probably had only another day or two if he hadn't come when he did.

"I swear, John, I really am fine. Well, I will be fine. Right as rain once you fix me up." Sherlock tried to sound chipper, though it took an effort. He really was in an extraordinary amount of pain.

All at once the full realization of where he was caught up to John. "You're alive," he breathed. "You are really alive. All that time I thought…" He choked back the emotion that was building inside of him. "I thought I'd lost you forever. And even after I found out, I didn't really believe…I couldn't…I didn't dare to hope…" He stopped, unable to go on.

Sherlock put an unsteady hand on his shoulder. "Forgive me, John. I had no idea you would be so affected."

John's eyes widened with sudden anger. "Affected? You bloody heartless son of a bitch! Affected? What the fuck did you think was going to happen? That I would just get on with my life and forget you? That I'd watch you end up a bloody wreck on the pavement and just be…fine? I swear if you weren't in such a bad way I'd give you a pummeling myself! Affected!" There were tears in his eyes now, and he didn't care. Three months of pent up grief and anger and confusion and relief were going to make their way out whether he wanted them to or not.

"I'm sorry, John. Truly." And he was, Sherlock realized. Usually when he apologized for something it was out of adherence to what seemed to be expected of him, or a desire for someone to stop being mad him. But now he realized he deeply regretted the hurt he had caused John. It had hurt him too, being away, unable to tell John the truth. He hadn't realized how much until now.

He reached out and pulled the doctor to him, wrapping his thin arms around John's chest and resting his chin in the crook of his shoulder. He hadn't even known he'd wanted to do that until he had his arms around John, but the need for physical contact, to reassure himself that this was real, was surprisingly strong.

John stiffened for a moment, still angry, then melted into the embrace, resting his own head beside Sherlock's and trying to steady his ragged breathing. He closed his eyes. "Just don't ever do it again," he said, voice trembling despite his best efforts.

Sherlock nodded. "You came for me," he said incredulously, and realized he was weeping as well, very softly, for only the second time since he was a small boy. John had also been the cause of the only other incident of genuine tears in his adult life. He hoped this wasn't going to become a habit.

"Of course I came for you. I left the instant Mycroft told me. I just wish I'd got here sooner."

They held each other for several minutes more, clinging to one another like children. The emotion was too raw and the relief too great for propriety to reassert itself just yet. When they had both managed to compose themselves, Sherlock smiled wryly. "Now, I have to agree with you that people really would talk," he said, half joking.

John shook his head. "I think I've decided I no longer give a flying fuck about people talking," he said solemnly. He rose awkwardly to his knees. "I know what's important now," he said. Impulsively he pressed his lips to Sherlock's forehead – a fierce but chaste kiss – then looked away, embarrassed, and scrambled to his feet.

Sherlock tried not to gape at him, both stunned and pleased at John's burst of affection. Somehow that one little act spoke as deeply to how much they meant to each other as their whole life together, as John's grief at his death and the words he had spoken after it, as the dangerous journey here to rescue him. And he realized the best thing he could do for John was to pretend it hadn't happened, at least for now.

John coughed. "So, what should we do about Moran? Slow torturing to death with many pointy objects?"

"Tempting," Sherlock admitted, carefully getting up as well. Blood flow had returned to his extremities and the rush of adrenaline and endorphins from John's appearance had given him a burst of strength.

"Well, whatever we do, we had better do it fast – you need a hospital, Sherlock, there's more damage than I can fix on my own."

"It looks worse than it is," Sherlock said dismissively. "Tie him up before he wakes. There must be medical supplies around here somewhere. What happened to the rest of the guards?"

"Killed 'em."

Sherlock looked at him as though he was mad and John snickered at his expression. "Only one, only because I had to. The others are sleeping off a nice dose of ketamine cocktail – which by the way is what they were shooting you up with – in the well-equipped and impenetrable cells downstairs."

"Nicely done," Sherlock said, then swayed.

"Whoa," John said steadying him. "You shouldn't be standing. Look, sit down and I'll take care of Moran."

For once Sherlock did as he was told. John dragged Moran to the next room and bound and gagged him expertly. Then he went on a hunt for a first aid kit. The place was surprisingly well stocked – he found bandages, antibiotics, surgical supplies, painkillers, and more. He grabbed what he thought he'd need and went back up to Sherlock. He was half lying on a couch, eyes closed.

"All right," John said. "Here, sit up. This will take awhile. Take these." He proffered Sherlock a handful of oxycontin.

Sherlock shook his head. "No drugs. I promised."

"Sherlock, for God's sakes this is not the time become a teetotaler!" John exclaimed. "I'm going to have to sew up some of those cuts and set at least four bones. I'm not subjecting you to any more pain than I have to. Now swallow the goddamn pills and take your shirt off!"

"John, those are literally the last two things I ever expected you to tell me," Sherlock said archly, taking the drugs. "Especially in the same sentence."

John snorted. "Oh, shut up." He proceeded to pump Sherlock full of the strongest antibiotics he had been able to find. The infection didn't appear serious, but it had gone too long untreated. Then he got to work, cleaning, stitching, and bandaging Sherlock. John could have used some first aid himself – it appeared not all of Moran's guards had gone down without a fight. His face and hands had several small cuts and he was rapidly developing a black eye.

"So, what did you do when my brother told you what happened? He was strictly forbidden to, by the way, I shall have to have a word with him."

"I punched him in the stomach," John said, a little smugly. Sherlock gave that little private smile he had when he was very pleased about something, and John filled him in on the events since he had left London. Sherlock seemed very nearly impressed with John's accomplishments and listened with remarkably few interruptions.

"Moran seemed pretty certain he would have you soon, if his men didn't already," Sherlock commented. "But you thought you lost them back in Zagreb. How did you manage to get past them this time?"

John scratched his head. "Well, I didn't really. They nabbed me almost the moment I got off that horrific little plane at Ivalo. Lucky for me they apparently weren't his best guys – they underestimated the dosage they needed to keep me under and I woke up in the back of the truck halfway here. There were only two guys and neither was paying a lot of attention to me. It didn't take long to get a weapon away from them and hijack the truck. In fact, it worked out rather brilliantly. I never would have got into this compound without their passkeys. It was pretty easy to ambush the rest of the guards once I was inside."

"Well, apparently I should have planned on having you come to my aid all along," Sherlock said. "Mycroft was dead useless. You're a one man army, you are."

John still wanted Sherlock to go to a hospital, but the nearest one was miles away and he had to concede Sherlock's point that there was no way to escape police involvement if he was seen in his state. Telling a Finnish doctor he had walked into a door would not cut it. John was able to tape up his ribs and other broken bones fairly well, and satisfied himself that there was no serious internal injury. Sherlock still looked a sorry figure, though.

"Let's go home, Sherlock." John said. "Right now."

Sherlock sighed. He wasn't looking forward to this part. "I can't. Not yet."

John looked at him incredulously. "Are you serious? We have the phone full of incriminating evidence about Moran and all Moriarty's other accomplices, as well as the other phone which has enough proof on it to clear your name entirely! I say we drop one with Europol, one with Lestrade, and go back to Baker Street and do nothing but sleep and watch telly for a week!"

"As appealing as that sounds... I need to make sure that every bit of Moriarty's legacy is gone. What if someone else like Moran decides to try and grab power? The police won't do enough, they won't get at the inner structure. I need to use what's on this phone to get them to destroy themselves, to make absolutely sure that not a shred of it survives, that the kill order can never be revived, that no one is left who even remembers our names." Sherlock's voice was firm. "I am not doing this again, I have to finish it this time."

John nodded reluctantly. "Oh, you're probably right. Where do we go first?"

"Not you. Just me."

"Bloody hell, I don't think so! Not after what you've put me through. I am not letting you out of my sight." John was furious.

"John, your company would be…most welcome," Sherlock admitted. "And it would certainly be easier having your skills, both medical and military, at my disposal. But I need to take them by surprise. If they didn't think I was dead before, they certainly do now. I have a plan to take care of that with the relevant individuals, but to the rest of the world things have to look normal. No one can know what I'm doing. I need you to go back to London and continue to act as if… as if I died those months ago, as if nothing has changed. Take my mobile, keep it safe until I return. Or… well, if something happens to me I would appreciate if you would make sure that the record is set straight."

"No," John shook his head. "Absolutely not. I don't care what kind of sense it makes, I am not letting you traipse off into danger on your own while I sit at home, pretending to mourn you, wondering whether you're alive or dead!"

"John, be reasonable…"

"Damn reason! I can't go through that again. I'm going where you're going."

Sherlock gripped John's shoulders. "This is the only way. You have to know that. I promise, I will stay in touch, I will let you know if I'm in trouble. I need to know you're safe, and that there's someone back home who will come for me, no matter what. You won't be able to help me if you're in trouble with me. It won't be like last time, because I'm alive and you know it."

John shrugged him off. "Fine," he said at last, bitterly. "But if I don't hear from you, I am coming after you and good luck getting rid of me then."

"Duly noted." Sherlock could tell John was still angry, but it was the most logical way. And the safest, at least for John, if not for him. It wasn't that he didn't believe in John's abilities – quite the opposite. But he couldn't afford to have John used against him again, and that would be a risk until he had completely eliminated all of Moriarty's associates.

"Now what, then?" John asked, still sullen.

They went downstairs, both armed with some of the more impressive looking, non-tranquilizer guns from Moran's armory.

"You lot!" Sherlock shouted at the groggy thugs. "As you may have noticed, Mr. Moran is no longer in charge here. You have three choices. You can leave here on foot, scatter to the winds, and find more gainful forms of employment. You can stay here and explain to Mr. Moran why you let his home be so easily taken by a single, rather shortish man. Or I can shoot you. You have thirty seconds."

"Hey!" said John at 'shortish'.

"A term of endearment," Sherlock assured him, as they watched the men scramble for their parkas and rush out the door Sherlock had helpfully propped open. No one seemed interested in options B or C.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" John said.

"Preferable to getting the police involved at this point. None of those men had any real spirit or ambition, and hopefully they'll choose a better master next time. Of course some may get lost in the snow and die before they can get to town, but what I gave them was better than what Moran would have."

They went back upstairs to the room John had secured Moran in. He was awake, and struggled against his bonds when he saw them.

"Ah, Sebastian," Sherlock said cheerfully. "Glad you're up! There are so many things I would love to talk to you about, but sadly, our time is limited." He removed the gag from Moran's mouth.

"Are you going to kill me?" he asked, trying to sound defiant, but with fear writ large in his features.

"Me? No, not at all. He might, though." Sherlock motioned to John, and Moran cringed visibly. "But I thought instead I would offer you a business proposition, since you are so fond of them. In exchange for my letting you go and not allowing John here to kill you in the manner he so chooses, you will leave here and never return. You will make no attempt to resume your previous activities, and you will vanish from any of Moriarty's remaining investment interests like morning dew."

Moran looked at him skeptically. "That's it?"

Sherlock dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. "That, and where ever you go, you will tell anyone who has worked for you or Moriarty or who might have any connection with any of Moriarty's plans regarding me, that at the first sign of any attempt to follow through on threats to my life, my reputation, John's life, or the life or livelihoods of any of my associates I will hunt them down and repay them in kind for whatever they've done, as well as for every cut, blow, and broken bone that you have given me. And then I will do the same to you. And then I will let John kill you. Does that sound like a fair deal, Sebastian?"

Moran gulped, and nodded in terror. John and Sherlock marched him outside. "Take that truck," Sherlock said, motioning to a vehicle waiting by the gate. "Spread the good word."

They kept their guns trained on him as he crossed the courtyard and made his way towards the truck, shivering. He had almost reached it, when without warning John cocked his rifle and fired, grazing Moran's shoulder. He yelped and dove for the truck, starting it and peeling out with impressive speed.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed.

John looked unabashed. "I owed him that," he said grimly. "At least. I don't like letting him go. I'm not one to actually kill someone in cold blood, but after what he's done to you… He's too dangerous!"

"He's a coward," said Sherlock. "He'll suffer more from the terror of thinking I will hunt him down again one day, than from anything you or I might actually do to him. And his fear will breed more fear. And if it comes to it, I can actually hunt him down later and take care of him."

Together they searched the house for any paperwork Moran had left behind. Sherlock took his laptop and financial records. "This won't have any information about Moriarty's people that I don't already have, but I'll have Moran bankrupted before he can get out of the country."

Then Sherlock set fire to the house. "Well, that's a pretty clear bugger off message," John said, as they drove away from the inferno in the other truck. "Are you sure you aren't planning on becoming some kind of supervillian? You'd be good at it."

"Thank you," said Sherlock graciously. "But I feel that I showed a rather large amount of compassion, all things considered."

John couldn't argue with that. They parted ways, reluctantly, when they reached Jyivsinkää. Sherlock would not tell John where he was headed next.

"Look, you have to promise to let me know where you are, okay?" Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but John talked over him. "Yes, I know it's not safe, someone might find out, blah blah blah. Are you seriously telling me that genius like you can't figure out how to communicate your basic location on the planet to me without anyone knowing? Not. Negotiable."

"Yes, John," Sherlock said obediently, earning a suspicious look from John.

"You have a lot of healing to do. I still don't like any of this. I can't...I don't want to have to come after you again, is all. Oh, here – I've got your gloves." He fished in his pocket and pulled out the pair of leather gloves from the box he'd been given. "You left them. Too big for me."

Sherlock took the gloves and put them on.

"Just be… be careful." John said, gruffly.

Sherlock nodded. He didn't know what to say at a moment like this. Normally he found it easy to do what had to be done, but he had to admit the encounter with Moran had affected him more than he wanted to admit. Even though he knew it was the right decision, he found himself reluctant to leave John once more.

They stood there awkwardly, not saying a lot of things. Finally, Sherlock threw his arms around John in a stiff hug, then turned and fled the bus terminal before John could react.

Not sure whether to feel morose and abandoned, afraid for both of them, or thrilled his friend was alive, John made his way slowly back home via two busses, three planes, and a taxi. The flat was dark and empty when he got in, and he had rarely felt lonelier. He wished he could tell someone, anyone, about Sherlock but he knew even confiding in Sarah was risky. He was exhausted but couldn't bring himself to go to bed just yet. He put the kettle on and opened his laptop wearily.

He had a single email waiting. The address was blocked and there was no subject. He clicked on it.

Alive. Budapest. Home soon.

I promise.
SH.

John smiled despite himself. "You'd better be," he said, reading the lines over and over. It couldn't be soon enough.