Hey guys, I am so sorry for publishing this so very late. I was very, very busy and had a truly monstrous case of writers block. (Seriously, I spent two bloody hours deciding if Sherlock's skin was alabaster or marble) Anyhoo, I am publishing this now and it will be shortly followed by today's chapter.) This is day ten (I am a third of the way through this challenge !) "with animal ears".

This is a warning for some violence in this chapter.

Dedicated as always to you, MorMor with a's.

Thank you to every single person for their support. Reviews mean the absolute world to me.

Chapter 10

"You, Doctor John Watson, had left me. You had a choice. You escaped and left me for dead." His kidnapper's mouth formed a thin, disapproving line on the word doctor. John was desperately trying to neaten the thoughts in his mind. This man, Sebastian Moran, had been in his platoon and he had been escorting John to a scene where a medic was needed in the front-lines. They were not expecting an attack. A deranged and very sadistic warlord had captured them for information, information they didn't have.

Eventually, after countless scars, he had come to the conclusion that they either didn't know anything or weren't going to give anything up. Then he had decided to use the two for his own purposes. He had removed them from their separate cells and flipped a coin; apparently John won, or lost, depending on how you look at it. The warlord had given John a choice, he could either save a city full of people from the bombs planted there and be set free himself, or he could let Sebastian go free and he would burn with the city. If john didn't choose, the Warlord would kill them both and burn the city. He had to choose between living with the guilt of one death, or dying with the guilt of millions.

John had to save as much lives as he could. He still remembered that deep yearning to tell the bastard to just let everything burn, but there were children in that city. He needed to save them. His only comfort was that he was sure Sebastian would have done the same. They had been dragged away after John made the choice; he was shot in the shoulder for his slight hesitation. John was set free into the desert with no food and assumed Sebastian was dead. After a while, a patrol had found him. Back at the base he was told that there was no sign of Sebastian and they couldn't afford a rescue mission. The city had been bombed anyway.

John had played these facts over in his mind so many times; he had played out every possible scenario. He has never been able to come up with anything else he could have done.

"Sebastian," he groaned: "it was an impossible situation. What should I have done? Should I have let you go and let the thousands of children in that city burn?" Sebastian's eyes flashed: "They burned anyway." He still had that quiet manner of speaking, it reminded John a little of Moriarty. John tried to find his voice again: "How did you get out?" At this, Sebastian just smiled: "I didn't. I was rescued." No that wasn't right, it couldn't be: "What do you mean? The base told me they couldn't afford a patrol." Again, infuriatingly, Sebastian smiled. A calm and placid smile, for someone who is holding at least a dozen torture instruments. "I didn't say who rescued me, John. But they didn't arrive until I had been tortured again; I just felt it might be my turn to even things out a bit."

Sherlock was running down Baker Street. He had been searching for three hours, without the slightest hint of a clue. This person was brilliant at cleaning up after themselves. He felt like he had when he saw The Woman for the first time, entirely blank. He had no idea where to go or what to do. It was a relatively new feeling, the road had always been so clear for him. He leaned against a wall and lowered his head into his hands. He needed to think. Mycroft had refused any help until the situation with the parliament had been sorted out. Sherlock wanted to scream, because for the first time in his life, he felt entirely helpless. There was always a way out, so why couldn't he find one this time ?

John was in agony. He never thought he would have to feel this pain again, the pain of torture, the meaningless desecration of his body. He tried not to wince as Sebastian lowered the scalpel to one of his old scars, separating the scar tissue with almost artistic accuracy. John stayed strong, he didn't scream. He remained quiet until Sebastian violently yanked of the part of his shirt that covered the ugly, convoluted scar the bullet had left on his shoulder. When Sebastian yanked his arm forward, dislocating the very shoulder that still hadn't healed, that is when he screamed. "So," John managed to sneer through gritted teeth: "This is your big plan, give me some more ugly scars?" Sebastian's eyes had taken on a truly insane glint at these last words: "Oh, it is ugly scars you're worried about. Do you want me to make them pretty then? Well you are sly, saving your own skin like that…" His voice trailed away, leaving the sickening dripping sound of John's blood on the concrete floor to fill the silence.

He seemed to be musing. Suddenly he had purpose. He yanked the leg of John trousers off, causing it to tear at the knee. He positioned the leg so the side of John's calf was facing him. "Well, I guess foxes are sly right? I'm not really the artistic type, but I could give you a pair of pretty fox ears," he grabbed the scalpel, beginning to trace deep lines into the flesh. Deep lines that unmistakably formed grotesque fox-ears in scarlet on his tanned skin. Now John was terrified, Sebastian was completely insane. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, it seemed that he couldn't take any more. His body began to fade and a tangible darkness swallowed him into relief.

Sherlock had never felt so alone and useless. He grabbed his violin, butchering the strings until they were on the precipice of snapping. He couldn't think. The only useful thing he had ever been able to do and it was stolen away. He had the distinct feeling that he was surrounded by people who could swim, while he was slowly drowning. He couldn't swim without John, maybe long ago, but not anymore. He sank onto the floor, carelessly tossing his violin away, causing a cacophony of noise.

The tears felt hot against his cheeks. He reached his hand under his chair, lifting the lining to remove a small wooden box. The needle was hovering inches over his marble skin. And then there was a thump against the door. Not a knock, a thump. Sherlock was about to let Mrs. Hudson get it when he remembered that she was visiting relatives. Then he thought he would let John get it. A sharp pain resounded through his chest at the thought of John. He threw the needle aside and walked to the door. He was flooded by the overwhelming feeling that, just this once, he should answer the door.

As Sherlock pulled open the door, a blood coated man collapsed onto his shoes, there was a note tied around his neck. Sherlock's legs grew week when he recognized the face. This was what was left of his John. He fell to his knees, long spidery fingers scurrying over John's skin as he hunted for the faintest trace of life throbbing in the doctor's veins.

To be continued

Guys, I'm sorry. I have a bit of a to be continued fetish. Until a bit later today, all my love.