Chapter Ten

"Hey, Sherlock, little matey. Time to wake up."

Sherlock groaned into the cobbled floor, and slowly opened his eyes. He put a hand flat on the floor to push himself up, and then retracted it quickly, hissing in pain; he'd forgotten about the glass fragments on the floor.

"Oooh dear, let me have a look at your poor hand."

Sherlock rolled over and curled up, protecting his hand from further damage, but the man above him pulled his arm free.

"You've got some glass in your hand; we can't have that."

Then, without warning, he slammed Sherlock's hand into the floor, burying the existing glass deeper and adding more to the collection at the same time. Sherlock cried out in pain and tried to wrench his hand away, but with little success.

"Whoopsie, sorry." He dropped Sherlock's hand and gave him a kick in the ribs, but Sherlock managed to stop himself from crying out again; he'd quickly worked out that sounding hurt tended to cause you more pain.

Footsteps receded, but within a minute they were coming back towards Sherlock again. Automatically, he curled back up into his protective ball.

"You know something? Daddies don't like little boys who cry themselves to sleep."

Sherlock tensed; they'd heard him last night. He'd managed to stay silent for eight days, but last night, he'd finally cracked. The sobs that had racked his body wouldn't stop, however much he'd tried to stifle them.

And that's when it started, the whip struck Sherlock's back, and its metal hook tore his skin immediately. Then it hit him again, and again, and again. Sherlock managed to stay silent until the fourth crack of the whip, but then he broke, all his self-resolve melting away, and he cried out as slick, warm blood flowed over his pale skin.

At some indeterminable point, the lashings stopped, and then there was shouting, and footsteps moving away. A crash and several gunshots followed, and then a lone set of footsteps came racing towards Sherlock. He tensed again and curled up, which pulled on his wounds, hurting him even more. He gasped and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, bracing for the next blow.

It never came. Someone crouched down next to Sherlock, and he realised they were talking to him.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me? It's okay, they're gone now. Speak to me, please."

"Will." Sherlock breathed, relaxing instantly, and opening his streaming eyes. "Will, you found me."

" 'course I did. You'll be okay, Sherlock. We need to get out of here."

Sherlock nodded, but he let his eyes fall closed. Now Will was here, there was no need to stay awake.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!"

Will was out of his bed in an instant and running. John shuffled along behind him, cursing at his slowed pace. As soon as Will reached Sherlock, he dropped to the floor beside him, and that's when Sherlock screamed.

"SHERLOCK!"

Will grabbed at Sherlock's hand. Even now, he could feel the small bumps of scarred skin where glass had lodged itself in his flesh, all those months ago. He thought of it now, because he was pretty sure that was what Sherlock was seeing behind his closed eyelids; this was the one that always made him scream.

John sank down beside Will, huffing from the exertion.

"Sherlock, you're safe. You need to wake up. Now." Will's voice was just the right balance of calm and urgent.

Sherlock rolled again and curled himself into a ball, pulling his hand from Will's grasp. He rocked a little on the floor, and sounded as if he was muttering under his breath.

"Will? What the hell is going on?" John asked, unsure whether to reach out to Sherlock or confront Will.

"He's having a nightmare. What's he told you about his time away?"

"No, he's Sherlock. He doesn't get…stuff like that." John blinked, looking nervously up at Sherlock, and then back at Will.

"John, everyone gets nightmares. Some pretty bad stuff happened to Sherlock while he was away; it wasn't a holiday."

"I know that." John snapped.

Will was silent for a moment, pursing his lips, then he turned back to Sherlock, who'd stopped rocking.

"Sherlock, come on. Wake up."

Sherlock gave another soft sob, and then he slowly opened his eyes. He was panicky, and his gaze darted from Will to John, before resting on John. His tensed muscles relaxed instantly when he caught sight of his friend. Sherlock took several deep breaths to calm himself, but he was still shaking badly and blinking much more quickly than usual.

"Are you okay, Sherlock?" John asked gently, leaning forwards a little to inspect him more closely.

Sherlock frowned and blinked again. "Where am I?"

"Hospital, in London. You had a nightmare. Are you okay?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yeah. I, I'm alright."

Sherlock gave a small nod in Will's direction. Will got the cue. He knew Sherlock would be fine now, and he knew how much Sherlock hated to be seen like this. He'd never calmed down this fast before; John was certainly a symbol of safety and trust in Sherlock's world. Silently, Will got to his feet, although he had to be careful about the gash on his side, which still hurt if he moved too fast or in the wrong way. With a nod to John, he turned and walked out of the room, but he didn't go too far away; even with the guards outside the door, he was going to leave anything to chance – last night had been far too close a call for Will's liking.

Sherlock sat up slowly once the door had clicked shut behind Will, and leant against the white-washed wall of the hospital room. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes and taking some more deep breaths to compose himself. When John shifted, Sherlock opened his eyes once more.

"Nightmare?" John asked casually.

"I'm fine, John."

"Don't try to bottle this up, Sherlock. I know nightmares aren't just the silly fantasies of kids. I know it's embarrassing, but talking about them does actually help."

"Since when did you become an advocate of psychotherapy." Sherlock snapped; he was too tired for this.

"Since I realised it actually helped. Sherlock, what just happened?"

"It was a bad dream, John. You worry too much. Nothing's wrong with me."

John frowned slightly at Sherlock's defensiveness. "People get bad dreams, they wake up in a sweat, or out of breath, or even cry out. But people do not usually roll themselves out of bed, and scream like you did."

Sherlock gaped for a moment at John's bluntness. "I didn't scream."

"You did, when you hit the floor – are you hurt? Wait, what even happened to you anyway?"

"What's Will told you already?"

"Urm, that Moriarty is somehow still alive, and that my accident was really contrived by him. Will said he got shot last night and strangled – what happened to you whilst this was going on? I take it you weren't sitting at my bedside."

Sherlock looked away guiltily, as if leaving John's side had been a terrible crime. "Moriarty wants my attention, John. Once you're better, we're all going out there after him. This time we are going to make sure he's killed – properly killed. You will come, won't you? I' I mean you don't have to, but…"

A look of sudden panic washed over Sherlock's face. John smiled a little. "Of course I'll come. I'm not losing you again. You're avoiding my question: What happened to you last night?"

Sherlock huffed. "I got ambushed by a man who worked for Moriarty. He tried to abduct me; I ended up with a large amount of sedative in my system, he ended up dead. No harm done."

Despite himself, John smirked.

Lestrade grabbed a coffee from the machine on the way to his office. It tasted hideous, bit there as nothing else on offer. He sighed. Although he didn't want to admit it, things were a lot harder when Sherlock wasn't around. Even in the few short weeks he'd been back from the dead, he'd solved several cases, and provided key information for several more.

With coffee in one hand and several files in the other, Lestrade shouldered his way into his office. He flicked on the light with his elbow, and then turned around. The cup dropped from his hands and fell to the floor, and the files fell too, landing in the coffee which was already soaking into the carpet. But Lestrade didn't notice. He stared, mouth wide open, at the wall of his office opposite the door; it was covered in yellow-gold graffiti. There were pictures of Sherlock and John, blown up to a life-size scale, and across them was red paint, still wet and running slowly downwards. A shining border of yellow paint surrounded them, with the same letters repeated over and over: IOU. In the centre, across both of the pictures, were the words 'Goodbye, John. Goodbye, Sherlock.'

As soon as Lestrade recovered himself, he pulled out his phone, and dialled the first number he thought of.

"Mycroft Holmes."

"Mycroft, you'll want to see this."

Sorry for the late update. I've been busy with school work and just didn't get around to writing. I'm not entirely happy with this chapter, but here it is anyway.