There was three things John knew for sure;

Moran had been following him and was onto John for vengeance.

He'd been knocked out and probably worse and removed from his home.

John's head stung like a bitch.

A light was shining from above him into his eyes, his back ached and his face was throbbing, so were his wrists.

Once his eyes had adjusted he looked down on himself.

Blood stained his newly torn shirt, ragged, rough rope held his wrists in place on what felt like rock that turned out to be a stripped sofa, springs and wood woven on the outside of it, digging into John's back and sides.

He took a deep breathe in wards, regretting the notion as soon as he started.

He mouth was dry, neck throbbing, his lungs stung at the cold air that rattled through them.

"Morning" Sang a voice that echoed into the room and hit John like a first-drunk hangover.

He moaned, his throat sticky and dry made it hard for him to open it.

Shakily he raised his head to look forwards, the room was bright but the light restricted his view, as he strained to see past the bright, naked light from above the voice spoke again.

"You've been on a journey doctor. A long, painful one to won't remember much. That's okay because I taped it. Off to your boyfriend now."

John's first thought was Mycroft but thought it was stupid. Even for Moran. One look at the video and Moran will have to fight off Mycroft's men and heading to jail before John had even woke up.

Then again, Mycroft was Mycroft. Despite his 'Worrying' John was a burden.

So when John spoke, he chose to avoid Mycroft's name.

"Lestrade?" He pushed out, but at best was a quiet whisper. John couldn't hear much apart from the strong ringing voice and a constant hissing in his ears.

Like Shell Shock.

Then a laugh; it shook John's skull like a bomb. Ringing in his ears minutes after it had stopped, eventually it did stop and a word was whispered into his ear, closer than John had thought; "Sherlock".

It was John's turn to laugh.

"Sherlock? Sherlock's dead"

"You sure did fool the public, the press… but you're not fooling me"

"What are you talking about?" John's voice was straining to a normal volume even though he was trying to shout.

"Sherlock Holmes was a fake. That's the story Jim wanted, and he got it. Why on earth would Sherlock give Jim anything?"

"Jim? Oh Moriarty." John shook his head slowly; the ghosted image and James Moriarty filled his head like a vivid nightmare.

His smile in the courtroom, yelling by the pool, writing the "Get Sherlock J" message. It seemed so long ago to John, the days where John had asked Sherlock "What's Moriarty?" were well and truly over. So was he.

The room was silent again, making John totally aware of the hissing in his ear. Blow to the head, hard. He diagnosed broken wrists, shattered hip, sever bruising and scaring on hips, legs, back, face and head then his mind wondered to the blood.

"Why did you patch me up?" He asked in a husky whisper, trying to keep back vomit produced by shock.

"I beg your pardon?" The voice asked, rather shocked with his statement.

"Blood" John looked back down at his clothes; torn and covered in drying blood yet non of him was wet or bleeding. Something must be stopping it.

The voice chuckled "You're good" he could here the pleasure in his voice and pictured Moran smirking into the light, "Sherlock would be proud"

The video was sent and received mere minutes of John's consciousness. Sherlock was sat on the couch in Molly's house with her cat as she sniffed the air, the scent of cooking food simmering through the house from the kitchen.

"Text" Molly shouted, Sherlock got up and strolled into the warm kitchen, abandoning the cat and the 'dull' morning talk show on the silver flat screen.

He took his phone from Molly's out stretched hand and she carried on slowly stirring the sauce that was steaming in the pan.

"Mycroft?" She asked before tasting the red chilly sauce, smiling with pride and gesturing to Sherlock for a taste.

"Unknown" He said back in no more than a whisper.

He clicked the attached file expecting an ad or a late in-coming video from Molly to see a dark blank screen, then a shaky movement of someone turning the camera-phone on them.

The smirking face of Sebastian Moran.

It was 15 seconds into the video when Moran turned the camera to a view of the inside of 221B, John's chair facing Sherlock's chair. A pang of guilt rose up when he saw that John had kept the chair in the flat. It was taken away just as quickly as it had come; replaced by pure pain.
John was being held up by two men in masks who where going a pretty bad job of lifting him up. his knees brushing the floor, his head hanging down onto his chest there was blood and bruises covering his face. He wouldn't have known it to be John if he hadn't shown him the surroundings.
His hair gave him away to. Not a speck of blood had reached his hair suggesting the blood was from further down on the body than the face.

Sherlock couldn't watch anymore of the video. His hands where shaking, moving the phone and his vision was beginning to blur from tears and his knees where like jelly under him.

Sentiment.