A/N: I'm not sure when I will update next, probably Friday I think, but I fly out tomorrow. This could end up being a story Arc, I'm not sure. :) Take care of you.

"One man in a thousand, Solomon says,

Will stand more close than your brother,

But the thousandth man will stand by your side,

To the Gallows foot and after."

Kipling.

"John?" Mycroft's face revealed nothing, Lestrade however took a step towards the hospital bed.

He held the blanket away from Sherlock's back and pointed to the finger marks that left little to the imagination, an eerie calm came over Mycroft.

"I don't have a choice; I can't ignore the evidence Mycroft."

"No, I know you can't." Mycroft sighed as he retook his perch next to his brother and ran his hand tenderly through the dark curls. Sherlock stirred in his sleep and made a small contented sound at the back of his throat, but didn't wake.

"I've, ah sent the needles to be analysed it should tell me what drugs were used and perhaps even the frequency, however blood work will do that as well. At this point in time," John opened the package and laid out the collection items and swiftly took the samples required. He labelled each with his details and handed the bag to Lestrade.

"Would it go to court?" Lestrade looked despondently at the bag in his hands.

"No I'm afraid not." Mycroft intoned. "I'll not have him dragged through the courts to relive it all again if it did in fact happen, no offence John."

"None taken, I'd much rather a negative result." He said in a hushed tone. "He will sleep for a few hours, we'll know more then."

"Gentlemen." Lestrade ran a hand through his short greying hair. "We need to talk and now seems as good a time as any."

John grunted and Mycroft got up reluctant to leave the sleeping man. John ushered them through to a small utilitarian room just off the ward proper with a couple of lounges and desk.

"What's the prognosis John?" Lestrade asked as he paced slowly around the room.

"There were a total of six intravenous injection points on his body, two in each arm, one in his leg and another in his groin. All of which are infected, hospitals are nasty places and he's been treated without care. The wound on his groin is the most pronounced given its tender location. He is lucid but extremely agitated, core temperature is down which indicates he's been left possibly naked and uncovered for a long period of time. He is dehydrated and there is a rattle on his chest which could indicate pneumonia. There are some pressure sores on his back, renal function will be monitored and there are severe lacerations to the base of each foot, cut with something sharp like a scalpel." John drew breath and forced himself to stay in doctor mode until he could take the evidence out to examine in the privacy of his own pain. "Blood tests should also confirm that he hasn't eaten in the last week, and has lost several pounds. He is extremely emotional, which is only partially due to the drugs in his system and he is exhausted. His blood pressure is all over the place as well. So we wait, he needs to sleep, and I need the test results to arrange a more considered treatment course."

"Apart from the bruises is there any other evidence that he'd been raped." Mycroft asked his voice flat with anger.

"No there was no tearing or rupturing I'd expect to see in a rape victim, nor was there an evidence of semen. There is extensive bruising to his genitals and his body but that could have been caused by being manhandled or threatened."

"So you're not expecting the kit to come back positive?" Lestrade sounded relieved despite the appalling list of injuries.

"In Afghanistan the Taliban used various torture techniques, one of which was a psychological rape; for all intents and purposes the victim would believe that the act had occurred despite it not being a physical attack. They used a chemical cocktail on the victim to confuse them and make them susceptible to the suggestion. So in answer to the question, no I don't expect the kit to come back positive, I'm not certain however that in Sherlock's mind it didn't happen, if you follow."

Mycroft angled his head to one side and looked at the doctor. "And his mental state?"

"At this stage confused, emotional and desperately seeking comfort which would be highly disturbing for a sociopath, however Mycroft we have had that particular conversation before."

"Yes, yes I know your theory. However, it is about how one view themself, so again it's a matter of perspective."

"Wait." Lestrade put his hand up. "Are you telling me that Sherlock is not a highly functioning sociopath?"

"I don't think he is, no." Mycroft spoke and startled John.

"Nor is it my medical opinion, such as it's worth. But as his friend, and having been in the company of both sociopaths and psychopaths Sherlock doesn't fit the psych profile."

"So his self analysis is..?" Lestrade looked between the men.

"Bullshit." John answered for Mycroft.

"Ok, so if he says he is and has adopted the attitude then the attack will affect him as though he was, and if he doesn't truly believe he is then the attack will affect him the same anyway? Could this get any less complicated?" Lestrade huffed.

"If it's any help, Sherlock said they used LSD, which is not considered to be an addictive drug mainly because it doesn't produce compulsive drug seeking behaviour such as cocaine, amphetamines or heroin. So if there is good news that would be it. It also means he won't need to be weaned off the drug."

"Guess we should be grateful for that. Now would somebody like to tell me what's going on with Sherlock's band of merry men?" Lestrade asked.

"Ah, that would be partly my fault I'm afraid." Mycroft smiled that feral grin that made people want to run.

"And mine. I involved some of Sherlock's sources to see if they could find him. I assume that Big Joe is in your employ Mycroft?"

He nodded with a smile. "Very good John, but how did you know?"

"His phone."

"Ah."

"His what? You know never mind. So Joe works for you and you used the homeless network to find Sherlock when we couldn't. And they are responsible for all the emergency calls going off at Chase Farm I assume."

"Bloody hell, that's less than an hour from here." John snarled.

"We didn't know John." Mycroft was quick to soothe.

"And the woman?"

"Ah yes her name is Arabella Winston, formerly Arabella Moriarty. She was a brilliant medical student but was clearly insane. Along with her brother James she was admitted to care from the age of seventeen on a regular basis. James left Switzerland and came to the UK; Arabella married her psychiatrist and moved here within the year. It appears that the Scottish Police have an open file on Doctor Winston death."

"Wonderful. Where is she now?"

"She's in a critical but stable condition at Chase. I intend for her to be removed soon. In the meantime Joe is organising the reward to be paid to the network and will come to see you in the morning Detective Inspector to give his statement."

The room fell to silence as each man was lost in his own thoughts. "He was crying." Lestrade finally said unable to look up from the important study of his hands.

"Yep."

"I've known him for five years maybe a bit more, and I've never seen him cry like that."

"Drugs." Mycroft said softly.

"No, I've seen him on drugs; you know I have, not like that though. Sherlock doesn't do scared."

"Nope." John agreed.

"And yet he obviously was." Mycroft concluded. "We will get him through it Geoff."

"I don't doubt it. But Midge?" Lestrade smiled, of all the things to pick up on, it would be the pet name, which if he knew Sherlock he would hate it for anyone to know.

"As in small fly." Mycroft smiled and stood up in one easy graceful movement.

"And love?" Lestrade fixed John with a stare.

"As in I love him." John answered, then nodded his head to see how it felt on his tongue and looked up. "Problem?"

"No." Lestrade smiled and then remembered the bag in his hand.

"Leave that with the ward sister, we can have it checked here." Mycroft's voice sounded distant as he left the room. "John I'll have the kitchen prepare a tray for you, in the meantime I have some urgent business to attend." Mycroft looked down at his PDA and started to send a text.

~~~)))(((~~~

True to his word Mycroft had organised a pot of perfectly brewed tea, a plate of sandwiches and a large recliner with extra pillows and blankets. World weary he looked down on the pale features of his friend.

The beard had to go; he decided it made his head look too big. His eyes, bruised from sleep deprivation flickered under the thin lids, in REM sleep. John pulled the lounge close to the side of the bed and dropped the guard rail in front of Sherlock. He completed the obs himself and settled down with his cup of tea to wait.

Sometime around three am Sherlock began to thrash and cry, John spoke to him softly and the expressive eyes flicked open.

"John?" confusion still evident in his voice.

"Safe now." John answered quietly as he took the long hand in his own and rubbed soothing circles over the palm.

"Please, please." Sherlock moaned and went back to sleep.

Too tired to cry John spent the rest of the early morning, just holding onto that long fingered hand and whispered softly to his friend. And he refused to cry.

At four am his phone alerted him to a text. He peered at the screen in the dim light and frowned, an unlisted number.

Is he alright, my dear? M

And John swore.