John balanced the coffees precariously on the days paper as he made his way back from the hospital cafeteria, winding through the corridors, his shoes squeaking on the shiny linoleum floor.

Having been released from the intensive care unit, Sherlock was now in a room on the eastern wing of the hospitals fifth floor. He was improving greatly and the doctor had told the intolerant patient that he would be released, all things going well, in the next couple of weeks. Not soon enough thought John regretfully.

Sherlock was bored out of his mind, stuck in the daily tedium of hospital life he had taken to terrorising the nurses, deducing and demanding things as if their only purpose was to entertain him. The hospital would certainly be glad to be rid of them.

It had been nearly 17 days since they had found Sherlock in the concrete basement of the abandoned factory. 16 nights in the hospital, of which John had spent all of them with Sherlock. He knew he could have gone home, slept in his own bed, escaped the noise and constant interruptions which came from living in a hospital. Lestrade had told him to take a break, and Sherlock had complained numerous times about Johns constant presence 'don't you have anything better to be doing?' he had said grumpily only that morning.

Despite this, and despite the fact he would never in a million years hear Sherlock say it, John knew he was glad for his presence.

John had tried his best to keep him entertained, bringing books, crosswords and almost every board game he could get his hands on, although the latter had largely ended with arguments and John was certain there were still pieces of a broken Snakes 'n' Ladders board lying scattered under Sherlock's bed. But they had both secretly enjoyed the games nevertheless, it was like old times.

Nighttime was a different story, there was something about the darkness, something which seemed absent under the comforting gaze of daylight which made Sherlock cry out, tossing and turning, writhing between the sheets as if he was reliving each agonising moment of the torture he had endured. He never managed to wake fully during these periods, despite Johns attempts to drag him back to reality. Only the sound of Johns voice seemed to reach him through the disoriented haze, the mumbled, meaningless words tumbling from his mouth and his hand grasped firmly around Sherlock's wrist were all that seemed to push the demons back down into the deep recesses of Sherlock's mind.

They never spoke about the nights. Perhaps it was better that way, Sherlock didn't make any indication he wanted to discuss it, and John didn't press the matter. It was the unspoken agreement they had come to, and it worked.

John arrived back in the room, setting the coffees down on the table next to his seat and sinking into it. Sherlock was fast asleep, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson had visited that morning and it exhausted Sherlock. He was tired constantly, the restless nights providing none of the relief his exhausted mind and body demanded. Sherlock tried to hide it, but there was no disguising the bruise like circles around his eyes, or his almost humorous tendency to doze off whenever the opportunity presented itself.

John glanced at Sherlock's phone on the bedside table, noticing four missed calls from Mycroft.

After Sherlock had woken dramatically from his drug induced stupor and demanded Mycroft, John had sent a nurse running to the cafeteria to find him. Sherlock had then proceeded to inform Mycroft about his suspicions that the old man, the kidnapper, the torturer was working for a person named Crawford who Sherlock believed was involved in a larger and far more sinister plot. John had barely listened, instead he had watched Sherlock closely for any sign that his memories would claim him again and he would find himself back in the basement, back in the old mans painful clutches. The conversation had exhausted Sherlock, John could see the colour draining rapidly from his face, the bandaged hands trembling weakly.

It concerned him that Mycroft had known who Crawford was, or at least had heard the name. But it didn't really matter, Mycroft had been informed, he could deal with it from there and so John had decided that Sherlock had talked enough and needed to rest.

Mycroft had risen without complaint, promising to get in contact if he found anything out, then he had left. John had the distinct feeling he felt it very difficult to see his younger brother lying broken in the hospital bed.

Sherlock stirred, opening his eyes blearily to look up at John "took your time with the coffee" he said propping himself up in bed, wincing slightly and putting his hand to his ribs, three broken, two fractured. John had made a mental note of every single injury, knowing Sherlock had a tendency to forget about them and do something stupid like try to pick up a fallen book from the floor, forgetting about his ribs, his back, his sides, his shoulders and the more general fact that he couldn't actually stand unsupported. John had returned from the bathroom a couple of days ago to find him sitting awkwardly on the floor, unable to get up again. Typical, stubborn Sherlock had simply stuck out his bottom lip like a toddler and reported that lying in bed was boring and wanted to sit on the floor for a bit to get a better view of the x-ray room down the hall. He had uttered it with as much conviction as one could manage in a hospital gown (which wasn't actually that much)daring John to say something different.

It hadn't been worth the argument and so John had waited patiently until Sherlock thought enough time had passed for his excuse to carry some weight at which time he had demanded to be returned to his bed, as if the whole trip was a pre-planned venture.

He thrust the coffee into Sherlock's still bandaged hands.

"Are they letting me out yet?" Sherlock asked immediately

John sighed "Soon" he replied patiently as Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically and drummed his bandaged fingers on a thick brown folder resting which lay on his legs.

"But I'm fine" he whined

"Is that right, try walking to the loo then" John looked at him, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Sherlock glowered at him for a moment, his eyes narrowed, "I'm busy" he retorted opening the folder and disappearing behind it.

"That's what I thought" said John settling back into his seat having made his point. He glanced at the folder, his mouth falling open slightly "Is that my medical file?" He half shouted.

Sherlock surveyed him dispassionately over the top of it "Yup" he said, drawing out the word and emphasizing the 'p' in his most annoying tone, "Quite fascinating, I didn't know you fainted during a dissection at medical school"

"I didn't faint" John growled snatching the file from Sherlock's hands and putting it far out of his reach "I...slipped... and hit my head"

"It definitely said fainted" Sherlock replied crossing his arms.

"How the hell did you get this anyway?"

"Nurse Gladdy, I'm her favorite patient"

"Well, we both know that's a lie"

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, a look of false hurt on his face but a voice from the doorway made him pause.

"Not interrupting am I" It said.

"Oh it's you" said Sherlock turning his face towards the other wall as Mycroft strode into the room, shutting the door tightly behind him.

"You could try picking up your phone" Mycroft reprimanded sternly

"I would if it was important" Sherlock said, sinking into his beds scrunching his face up at the sight of his brother.

"This is important"

"I'm surprised you're even here, I thought the elevator was broken. Did Anthea carry you up the stairs?"

Mycroft sighed

"She'll never text again" Sherlock shook his head in mock grief "Such a waste."

"John, would you give my brother and I a moment" said Mycroft, ignoring the younger's Holmes's remarks.

"John stays" said Sherlock sharply looking up at his brother defiantly.

John crossed his legs and remained in the chair.

"Fine" Mycroft's voice was firm, no longer any patience for arguing.

"What have you found out about Crawford" Sherlock asked, deducing the only reason why Mycroft would have left the office in the midst of the Egyptian elections.

"Very little" admitted Mycroft grimly "His name has been popping up around Europe for quite some time. We believe he's second in command of a criminal and terrorist network called OASIS. Although no one actually seems to know who he is or what he looks like. He's a ghost, a whispered name behind closed doors. From the way he avoids surveillance its most likely he's ex-secret service."

"So what's he up to?" asked John leaning forward in his chair. Sherlock was looking at the ceiling, his fingers steepled under his chin, thinking.

"That's the problem" scowled Mycroft "We're not entirely sure. There's been a series of disappearances of minor government and media officials in Eastern Europe over the few months that he's been linked to. But again there's been no actual sighting of him, our best guess is that he's hiding in Southern Germany."

"Why don't you bring him in then, isn't that what you people do?" said John. It wasn't a question.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at Johns words "Because we don't have solid evidence linking him to anything at all, as I said, he's flying under the radar, trying to keep his hands clean. Even if he walked right into MI6 headquarters we wouldn't even know it was him, let alone be able to arrest him"

"Hasn't stopped you before" Sherlock muttered.

"Well it has this time. Whoever Crawford is he had friends in high places, if we haul him back to Britain to interrogate him it could be very dangerous to our relationships with other countries, that's a risk we're not willing to take."

"So that's it, you're just going to let him waltz around Europe with a bunch of criminals" John said, an accusing tone in his voice, had Mycroft forgotten the role he had played in Sherlock's capture?

"Of course not" Mycroft replied coldly. "We sent three of our best agents to infiltrate OASIS six months ago under deep cover. We lost all communication five weeks ago. Until yesterday. A coded fax turned up at MI6, it didn't say much except that OASIS is planning an attack on London. We have reason to believe other cities in Europe may be targeted as well."

The world needs more fear Mr Holmes

"So that's it" Sherlock said, lowering his hands and turning to look at Mycroft "that's why you're here Mycroft isn't it. An impending threat to British security, a faceless man who evades your every attempt to catch him and of course the fax from your uncover agents. A single piece of paper confirming your suspicions that your secret service, perhaps even your own government department has been infiltrated and compromised by an underground group of criminals."

Mycroft smiled slightly "When organisations claim to have people everywhere its usually just a figure of speech... We're putting together a team of course, but it takes time to investigate them, we have to be careful, the mole could be anyone. We have to know they still belong to us, that we can trust them. If Crawford knows or suspects something, whatever he's planning may happen sooner, too soon for us to stop it."

"But doing nothing in the mean time would be too dangerous" It wasn't a question, Sherlock spoke more to himself than his brother who nodded in confirmation.

"If OASIS is planning an attack on London then thousands of people are in danger. That's assuming London is his only target. " He paused, taking a hard breath and John looked up in surprise. Mycroft's eyes were dark, there was bitter regret in his face, a grimace as if the next words cost him great pain "Of course we had to discuss all possible alternatives"

"Of course" Sherlock was watching his brother now and John couldn't see his face.

"I tried to explain you were ill, that it wasn't appropriate to..."

"It was the only logical conclusion" said Sherlock quietly "You need someone you can trust, someone you know OASIS doesn't control and who would be of use to you in the field"

Mycroft nodded, a pained expression on his face "I'm sorry Sherlock."

There was a pause in which neither brother looked at each other, but an entire conversation seemed to take place between them, the conversation which said 'I didn't mean to involve you in this Sherlock' and 'its okay, I know you didn't have a choice.'

"Hang on a minute" John said loudly interrupting the silence. Both Holmes brothers looked up in identical expressions of surprise, as if they had forgotten the third participant partial to their conversation.

John was on his feet, the pieces of dialogue falling quickly and harshly into place "If you're suggesting...if you even think for one moment that Sherlock Holmes is traipsing across Europe like in some bloody Bond movie to investigate this criminal organisation then you've got another thing coming" He spoke slowly, threat dripping from each of his words.

"Listen John, there are peo-" Mycroft began hastily

"No you listen Mycroft" He spat out the name, he was shouting now, but he couldn't have cared less about the other patients sleeping at that point " In case you've forgotten he's in the bloody hospital, He nearly died, and now...now you and your bloody people want to throw him in the field to do your dirty work. I don't think so"

"This isn't just about Sherlock, there are lives at stake now, real, innocent lives."

"Brotherly desire to keep him safe worn off has it" snarled John

There was a flash of something in Mycroft's eyes at those words, was it hurt? "Do you think I like this anymore than you? Do you think I would be here if there was another way? I tried to-"

"Well you didn't try hard enough" he shouted, had Mycroft forgotten those days in which Sherlock was missing, when they didn't know if he was dead or alive, had he forgotten how it had felt?

Somehow he doubted it, that's the thing about pain, it demands to be felt. But then why? No, it didn't matter why, there was no choice anyway, John would not allow it.

John was breathing heavily "Its not...don't even think this is an option" he said quietly, his voice shaking with rage.

"John..." It was Sherlock now, he spoke slowly, reasonably

"What" John spat, rounding on his flatmate, shooting daggers from his eyes "You're choosing a bloody great time to become a patriot Sherlock"

"Its nothing to do with that" Sherlock replied, annoyed at the accusation "Crawford had something to do with capturing me, the murders, the old man, the missing people from the streets, it all comes back to him"

Sherlock's voice was determined now, but his eyes were softer, almost pleading, willing John to understand. "I need to find him."

The fight went out of John as he met Sherlock's gaze. It was more than solving the puzzle, he could see that. Whatever the old man had said to him, whatever had happened it affected Sherlock far more than he let on. It was more than the physical wounds, behind Sherlock's facade of arrogance something lurked in the darkest retreats of his eyes, perhaps it had always been there, but now sometimes John could see it, now and then, a hurt, a regret, a guilt. And it scared him.

Everyone, if they live long enough, will lose their way at some point. It is a hard, simple truth of living. One day you wake and suddenly the life you know is a stranger, its although you turned your head, just for a moment and when you looked back you found that your entire world has changed. Your day to day life suddenly unrecognisable. There is an inescapable feeling that something simply doesn't fit and there is a restlessness which accompanies that idea, an unease which can destroy you.

You find yourself alone in a dark wood, the path home, back to the world you once knew washed away. You have to choose now, falter or forge a new road.

And choosing is never easy, no matter what you choose, you're gonna wonder if you should have done things differently. There's no right or wrong, there's simply making the choice, because now you have to live with it, no matter how it tastes. And from that moment there is no going back to how things were, how you thought things were, not really. All you are truly left with is now.

Whatever reason had drawn Sherlock into the old man's path, whatever he had discovered buried deep inside himself during those days in captivity, it had changed him, thrown him out to sea and left him floating there, wondering where the life raft had gone. Somehow Crawford had become an anchor to reality, a puzzle, a point of reference to which Sherlock was drawn to. He was determined to follow this path now, there was no hint of uncertainty in the eyes John looked into. Whatever answers Sherlock needed, whatever he needed to do to fight his way back, it was this.

And there was no way John would stand in the way of that, he knew from experience that when a man was lost, he needed to plunge ahead, he needed momentum less he pause long enough to feel the inescapable crush of reality. There would be a time for talking, for dealing with these demons. There would be a time for John to grab Sherlock and tell him it was going to be okay, but that would come later.

Sherlock had decided to do this and nothing John could say would stop him, it would only push him away and John might never get him back.

There was only ever one choice.

"What do we have to do"

John spoke with a finality, a deep sense of resignation in his voice as he broke his gaze with Sherlock and turned defiantly to Mycroft, challenging him, daring him to say that John couldn't go, that this didn't concern him. But Mycroft didn't even blink as if he never doubted for a moment that John would accompany Sherlock.