I do not own any part of Sherlock Holmes, or the BBC show Sherlock.

Takes place post episode three of the second series (The Reichenbach Fall), so please be aware of spoilers.

Eyes behind masks

by Kaiyo no Hime

Chapter Ten

John stared at the scene, his left hand tightly fisted, and resisted the urge to be physically ill. Donovan had said that he wouldn't like it, but he had never thought he would see this spread out before him. He had never thought he would see anything as horrible and gut wrenching as the night before.

And god, god he had been so wrong. This was a thousand times worse.

Lestrade's hand on his shoulder, two hands around his shoulders, leading him away from the crime scene, did nothing to interrupt the flow of thoughts through his head. That was him back there. That his was his corpse. It was his body that was brutalized and desecrated.

That was John Watson on that couch. John Watson was dead.

"John," Lestrade said slowly, snapping his fingers in front of John's face, "John, it was just another one of those dolls. Nothing more. John, can you hear me?"

"Yeah," John nodded slowly, taking in a deep breath, "Yeah, yeah, I understand," he whispered.

Lestrade nodded, and led him out of the house and had him sit down on the steps outside. John nearly laughed, it was the second time in two days that he was sitting on damp steps, his entire life shattered in front of his eyes. Although, this time it was worse than just seeing Sherlock. Sherlock was a corpse, John knew Sherlock was a corpse. But seeing himself in there? That was far, far worse.

"He... he hasn't killed another male victim," John whispered, his hands at his shoulders, trying to keep warm, "Where would he have gotten the bones? Has to be another doll. You need to look for other male victims."

"Hey, can we get a blanket over here," Lestrade shouted as John began to shiver and shake.

"Too fast for him to have done this last night, would have taken time," John's teeth began to chatter, his mind slowing down as he struggled against something mentally, "Had to have had this planned out. Had to have had this all planned out."

"Yeah John," Lestrade nodded, taking the orange shock blanket from the paramedic and wrapping it around John carefully, "We'll get him, don't worry. He won't get you, wouldn't dream of allowing it."

"Would be better if Sherlock was here," John slurred as he felt his eyes began to close, "He would have gotten him."

"Yeah, yeah he would have," Lestrade said.

John smiled at the thought of Sherlock running through the streets, chasing yet another serial killer, and let his eyes close and his world go black.

John opened his eyes with a groan and stared at the ceiling above him. White, immaculate, and very, very posh in an odd, understated way. Not a standard hospital then. Not the bed back at Mycroft's, that's for sure. He would have at least recognized that. And he very much doubted that Mycroft would have been annoying enough to have an IV put in.

John sighed, and brought his free arm, his right arm, up and over his eyes. He had passed out at a crime scene like some sort of queasy civilian. Yes things had been bad, but he should have at least been able to keep on his feet. He was never going to live this down.

The door creaked open slowly, and John turned to stare at the visitor.

"Was all this really necessary? I passed out, I wasn't shot," John growled.

Mycroft smiled cheekily.

"John, you went into shock," he pointed out, "You did not merely pass out. Given that your state of health was in doubt, it was thought best to bring you to medical facilities. I might also point out that you have been unconscious for nearly six hours, and your iron levels were a tad low."

Six hours? John swallowed at that. Maybe, just maybe, he had needed a hospital. But that didn't mean he had to admit it. It was still embarrassing to say the least, and he highly regretted it ever having happened in the first place. He was a doctor, dammit, he should be able to handle a simple crime scene. He hadn't gone into shock and passed out when he had come home to the look-alike corpse of his dead roommate that had been set up in his living room.

"So you saw what was there as well then," John sighed, trying to decide if he should sit up.

The problem with being tired in comfortable beds was the lazy desire to never sit up.

"Yes," Mycroft shifted uncomfortably, "I saw the scene. From photos of course. I'm rather surprised that Lestrade allowed you near such a scene."

"Lestrade didn't know," John pointed out, "We showed up together, it was Donovan that showed us."

Mycroft's eyes tightened for a moment, and John was suddenly very worried that he had just sentenced one poor Sally Donovan to a tiny cement cell with no light. Though, given what he had seen at the scene, the absolute graphic horror of the thing that was there, he was slightly inclined to be angry at the woman. But not to the point of thinking being at the receiving end of Mycroft Holmes' wrath a worthy punishment.

"Lay off, whatever you're thinking," John sighed, "Save your fury for the bastard that's doing this. He deserves whatever you were thinking right now, and worse."

Mycroft nodded, his finger tapping for a moment on the umbrella handle. Though, to be honest, John wasn't quite sure what he would do to the Doll Doctor once he was caught. He wasn't sure what he would want to happen to the man. But, even if he could not imagine it himself, it was nice to know there was someone who could think of far worse things.

"Am I free to leave, or am I to be kept here under lock and key," John said, biting his tongue to keep from adding the phrase 'like a doll' to the end of the sentence.

He had already seen how someone who thought of him as a doll would care for him. And that was not a pleasant thought.

"Yes, we may leave now," Mycroft nodded, approaching the bed to help John up as the shorter man yawned, "And you will finally get at least eight hours of sleep."

"I don't think my body could even handle eight hours of sleep at once," John smiled, removing the IV with practiced ease, and wincing as his foot touched the floor.

He hadn't thought he was that tired. Mycroft, ever observant, smiled politely and allowed John to use him as a makeshift crutch as they made their way out of the hospital. He was glad that he had just passed out while sitting, and the hospital had left him the decency of his own clothes. That saved him from being worried about flashing Mycroft when they had been leaving.

"I," John paused as the two men carefully maneuvered into the discreet black car, "Thank you for this, Mycroft. All of this."

"Of course, John," Mycroft nodded to the driver, "Your safety is of the utmost importance to me."

John shook his head and smiled, staring out into the bright London night. He couldn't believe that Mycroft bloody Holmes was now acting as his knight in shining armor. Would wonders never cease.