Author Note: Almost the end! Enjoy. Please r and r. I don't own Sherlock.

John's whole body hurt, but the majority of the pain seemed to be coming from his feet. Odd. He vaguely remembered walking a long distance sometime recently, but surely his feet wouldn't hurt that bad.

He opened his eyes.

Daylight was filtering through the living room window of his flat. The living room? Why was he in the living room? And particularly, why was he lying on the floor?

A sigh came from somewhere. John turned his head and instantly regretted it as pain and nausea raced through his head and throat. When he was sure he wasn't going to vomit all over, he reopened his eyes and looked around. Sherlock was sitting on the floor against the couch, his eyes twitching in sleep, one hand flopped on the carpet near John. Gregory Lestrade lay curled on John's favourite chair, and, um, Molly Hooper was laying on the couch.

Did we have a party and I got completely pissed? John wondered. He couldn't imagine any other circumstance in which the four of them would be passed out in the living room.

He needed the loo, urgently. But it was going to be difficult to stand up with his hands . . . tied . . . in front of him.

"Sherlock," he said in a low voice, trying not to wake the others. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock started awake, coming to his feet with his hands prepared to defend himself.

"Sherlock, why am I tied up?" John asked, feeling resigned. No doubt this was one of Sherlock's experiments.

His friend looked down at him. "You're awake."

"That's good deducting, Sherlock. Now why am I tied up?"

John could almost see the thoughts racing across Sherlock's mind, like Sherlock was filtering through all the events and deciding which ones to offer to John. Annoying. He didn't like it when Sherlock lied to him. Reminded him too much of the moments just before Sherlock died. Or the experiment at Baskerville. Or, to be quite frank, all the other times Sherlock lied to him.

"Never mind," John said. "Help me up, I need the loo."

Sherlock helped him to his feet, but instead of letting go of John's arm as soon as John was standing, Sherlock hovered, keeping John's elbow. John thought about shaking him off, but discovered after one step exactly why Sherlock was still there.

He tried not to sound like a little girl when he cried out. After all, they had guests. But the excruciating pain from his feet was like needles being run through him in all the most tender places they could.

"What happened?" John asked.

"You don't remember?" Sherlock sounded both concerned and annoyed. "You were off your rocker, and you cut yourself."

John stared at his friend. "What?"

"You were off your rocker and—"

"I heard you. I just don't—Oh." Memories flooded in on him. They were hazy, sort of like remembering one of his nightmares about Afghanistan. But they explained why his arm itched and why his feet were throbbing and why Sherlock was hovering over him like a mother hen. Like watching a fuzzy telly show, John remembered cutting his own feet ... Remembered what he had cut into his feet.

Humiliating. Stupefying.

Maybe Sherlock hadn't seen his feet. Molly was there, she must have done the patch-up job.

John made a resolution to never remove his socks in Sherlock's presence again. Or anyone else's presence. In fact, he'd just wear socks for the rest of his life.

Once he took the bandages off, anyway.

"Should I carry you?" Sherlock sounded clinical, and the offer was not at all appealing.

"No," John said firmly. "But maybe, my cane?"

Sherlock was back with the cane in minutes. Limping heavily on both feet, John was able to make it to the loo.

When he got back out, Molly and Lestrade were both awake, yawning. For a long minute the four of them all stared, Sherlock, Molly, and Lestrade at John, and John alternating among them. He knew they were waiting to see if he was okay. And he knew it would be easier to just be okay than to give in to any lurking emotions or cravings that were currently hiding behind the pain in his feet. He needed to say something, needed to cut the tension.

Okay, John, no more use of the word cut.

"Anyone want tea?" he asked.

No one actually sighed in relief, but the air moved as if they had. John limped into the kitchen. Was that food, on the floor? In a circle? He didn't remember that. Must have been Sherlock.

Molly followed him into the kitchen. "How are you feeling, John?"

"Um, alright, I s'pose," John said, picking his way around the messy floor to find his tea.

"You banged yourself up right good."

"Yes, thank you, Molly."

He reached up to fetch the kettle on the top shelf, and his arm came loose of the dressing gown it had had on. Molly gasped behind him. John looked up at his arm, seeing the track marks that decorated the inside of it. He grimaced. Apparently she hadn't known about that.

"John, what has Sherlock been doing to you?" Molly demanded.

John turned to find Sherlock, his eyes pleading with his friend. Fortunately, Sherlock was the world's only consulting detective, and he knew exactly what John wanted.

"Right, Molly, time to go," Sherlock said, grabbing her arm and pulling her towards the door. "You too, Lestrade."

John watched as Sherlock bundled their two guests out the door without ceremony or thanks. He knew he should be the one thanking Molly, if the bandages on his feet were any indication. But he couldn't deal with them yet. Tea forgotten, he hobbled back into the living room and collapsed on the couch.

The marks on his arm were fascinating. Each one with a little centre of red, placed at strange intervals all over his arm. They reminded him of something ...

"John!"

John looked up to find Sherlock standing over him. He'd clearly repeated John's name several times before John had heard him, and Sherlock looked impatient.

"Are you having withdrawals again?"

John pondered. He felt mostly pain, coming from his feet (and also, oddly, his shoulder). But the craving was there too, hidden under headache and nausea and pain.

"Yes, I think so."

"How bad?"

"Five, maybe. Not as bad as yesterday."

Sherlock nodded, looking relieved.

"Hang on a minute," John said as another memory stirred. "You shot me up yesterday."

"I have some experience with drug use, John. You were withdrawing too badly to go cold turkey."

John licked his lips. "And today?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and stared at John. "We'll see," he said.

John nodded. So Sherlock had more heroin. That was something they would need to talk about, but not at the moment, when the idea that some was available was causing such strange sensations in John's blood. To distract himself, he returned to studying the needle marks on his arm.

And suddenly sat bolt upright. "Sherlock, I know what this is."

"Yes, John, needle marks. You were kidnapped and drugged," Sherlock said, his tone patronizing.

"No. I mean, yes, but it's more than that. It's a clue. A constellation."

Sherlock grabbed John's arm (none too gently; John winced) and studied it. But Sherlock's knowledge of the night sky had never been too great.

"It's the constellation Orion. See these three marks? That's Orion's belt," John said.

"Oh-h-h." The sound that came from Sherlock was first strangled, then borderline impolite. John watched as his friend jumped to his feet and ran to his laptop. Sherlock's eyes were taking on that manic look he got when he had inspiration in a case. Usually at this point John would be excited too, but right now he was too tired and in too much pain. He leaned back against the couch, content to let Sherlock work.

Even when Sherlock went racing out the door without a single word, John was contented. Sherlock hadn't bothered telling him where he was going.

That meant everything was going to be alright.

AN: Coming up next, we have a confrontation with our bad guy.