A few hours later, Sherlock was reading in the library of Mycrofts house. John had decided to contact Lestrade for some cases, as a surprise for him.
"Come on, Greg. You know he's not been himself for a long time, this would be good for him. Please."
"Alright, John. But one case. It won't be a big one until we see he's back to normal."
"Right. Thanks."
"I'll email you the details. Bye."

John had printed out all the case notes and strolled into the library. "Sherlock, I have a surprise for you." Sherlock made a humming noise to indicate that he was far too interested in his book. John placed the case notes down on the table and waited for him to look up.

"Case," Sherlock said, an observation, not a question. He took a deep breath, still feeling unnerved and rather wary, but not anywhere near the panic mode of the previous two days. He flipped it open, and was greeted with crime scene photographs and an email.

The bodies (or what was left of them) were covered in refuse, plainly out of sewers, half-rotted and partially rat-eaten. The email was from Lestrade.

Good to hear you're back on your feet, so to speak.

We've got the remains of three separate bodies, all confirmed coma patients who died in the hospital from illness. As I'm sure you know, it's not exactly normal for a dead coma patient to end up in a sewer, so we're pretty sure there's some sort of foul play at work.

I know it's not your usual stuff, but we could use your help on this, and God knows you need something.

DI Lestrade

Sherlock stared at the photographs. "I assume you've read the email," he said to John. Before waiting for a reply, he took out his phone and texted Lestrade:

Re: case
I'll take it. Will be at NSY ASAP
SH

He stood and returned to his bedroom, changing into his more normal clothing, and nodded to John, a thank you. "Coming?" He made three steps forward before turning back. "One moment—midday medication." He poured a single pill from his dispenser and dry swallowed before bounding out the door, some hint of his old enthusiasm back.

"Of course, if you want me to." Sherlock frowned and muttered his usual obvious comment, before sliding into one of Mycrofts cars.

They reached the location, one that John had never been to before, within about half an hour. Sherlock nearly jumped out of the car with excitement, although he'd never admit to it. Before John had even undone his seatbelt, Sherlock was holding the door open.

"You have five minutes to tell me as much as you can, go on." Lestrade left Sherlock too look around while he spoke to John. "It's like having a child, isn't it? 'You can have five more minutes to play' and the like." John nodded.
"It's good though. I haven't seen him this happy in months. I think it'll be good for him to come back to work. He needs it."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the smell of fecal-encrusted rotting flesh. "Smells fantastic," he quipped. He kneeled down in front of the remains, no fingers or toes, and not enough face left from the rats to get an identity. Something was missing, something was wrong…

"Liver. Where's her liver? Wasn't eaten by the rats." Sherlock bent down more closely.

We're dangerously exposed when you do that.

Sherlock frowned. He wasn't anticipating Avery's voice. He shook his head slightly to try to push it to the back of his mind.

"Killer had medical training," he said, standing up. "Come on, look. There are surgical cuts on the torso, while the actual dismemberment was intended to throw off that observation."

"So, what?" John asked dimly. Sherlock sighed and pulled him down to look at the body. It smelled revolting, much worse than he'd expected. "Lovely." He choked out. Sherlock asked him to tell him as much as he could from the body. "So, her livers missing. A trophy? Maybe this killer takes a part from each of his victims. The toes and fingers are missing, but that'll be from the rats. The wound where the liver should be is faked, you can tell by the small blade marks around it… That's all I have really. Apart from that, I'd guess the body is older than a month or two."
Sherlock nodded, with a slight gleam in his eyes, which he always had when John told him the obvious.

"Show me the others," Sherlock said. He froze in his steps as he headed toward the road, intending to take a cab to Bart's where the other remains were held, sniffed the air, and promptly vomited.

"Yuck." Liam was making an appearance. He'd also gone very green. "I don't feel well." He leaned on John for support.

"Is everything alright?" Lestrade was looking at him strangely.

"I'm fine, I just shouldn't have woken up." He shook again and swallowed. "I'm fine," Sherlock said, turning the correct colour for a human (or at least for Sherlock). "Back to Bart's."

The other remains were in similar condition, though the placement of the surgical incisions was different. For one victim, it was the heart, for another, the kidney.

"All coma patients?"

"Yeah, but they didn't have anything in common."

"Except for the fact that they were all in comas." Sherlock was using his don't be obvious tone.

"Yeah, apart from that."

Sherlock leaned in to examine the wounds. "These were likely made with a scalpel," he said, gesturing to the wounds near the missing organs. "These with a common butcher's knife." The missing fingers looked lopped off, violently. "So, the killer has no moral compunctions about preying on the weak."

His voice grew cold and he whispered—Avery: "The weak were meant to die."

John followed him quietly, knowing that Avery had taken over by the way that he slipped his hand into Johns. John didn't stay anything until they reached the café for something to eat. He didn't get anything, as he felt sick after being on the crime scene, but Avery ordered himself a large breakfast— John thought this was odd- and sat down to eat all of it.
"So, he probably need your input somewhere in this case, but not right now." Avery chewed his food and look at John with a frown on his face. "You're pissed off at me, aren't you?" He didn't reply as he sipped his coffee. "I'm sorry. You were accusing me of something that I couldn't deal with…" There was a high pitched clearing of the throat behind them. Molly.

"Hello Sherlock, John. I've missed you two. How have you been? Sorry I haven't been to see you… I didn't think you'd enjoy my company." Avery snarled before gulping down the rest of his coffee.

"You were right," Avery muttered. Suddenly he doubled over.

"Oh my God, Sherlock, are you okay?"

"Fine, he's just—he's trying to wake up and I'm—never mind," he said, sitting back up. He took another sip of coffee but blanked out, spilling it, and for a few seconds, didn't even react to the scorching pain on his legs. When he did, he winced. "Avery," he swore. "This is getting irritating again." He belched. "Excuse me." He stood and painfully walked back to the morgue. "I need to examine the bodies in more detail, as well as the hospital records. Probably some clue there."

While he waited for that, he looked carefully at the bodies, taking his magnifier and looking at the pattern of every single nick and cut, eliminating the ones made by animals and filing the ones made by the butcher's knife or scalpel, taking a blank autopsy paper and filling in the precise details (it was obvious Liam had some influence as animal bites were coloured green, scalpel cuts were blue, and knife cuts were red) for future reference.

Taking the folder of hospital details from Molly, he walked out. "I think that's enough to start with," he said, flashing a smile and going outside to hail a cab to go back to Baker Street.

John followed behind him. "Do you want me to come with you?" He asked timidly. Sherlock shot him another obviously look, before getting into the cab.

When they returned to Baker street, John's bags were waiting at the front door. He picked them up, resisting the urge to sigh, and he walked upstairs to put them in his bedroom. When he came out, Sherlock was playing his violin, deep in thought.

John decided to pop in to see Mrs Hudson for a bit, and explain what had happened to cause his actions yesterday.
When he'd had a few cups of tea and left, Avery was dominant, sitting the the chair drawing.
"Hello. Can we talk?"

Avery raised an eyebrow. "If we must." He was still somewhat wary of John, not quite able to shake his paranoid logic, but knew how stupid it was. "Sorry. The nightmare's still with me. That aching fear that everything I knew was wrong. I was afraid, actually afraid." He put his sketchpad down and went to get a cigarette, lighting up and smiling. "That puts the nerves at rest. Haven't had one since before the trial…" He could feel Sherlock and Liam fading in his head, slipping into obliviousness, and he took a luxurious drag, drowning them as much as possible. "What is it you wanted to talk about? If you want," he sneered, "We could do another honesty hour. Haven't had one in a while."

"You know what happened with me and Sherlock, and how we're no longer in a relationship." Avery took a huge drag and sighed. "Well, I regret it. I regret leaving, and I know that it was nothing more than an experiment to him, so he won't repeat it. As he said to me once, 'why would I repeat something if I know the conclusion?'."
Avery didn't move, in fact, his eyes flicked down to his sketchpad. "What I want to know is, do you think it's worth me bothering? Do you even want me anymore?"

"Don't." Avery leapt up from the chair, pointing at John with his fingers clasped around his cigarette. "Don't you get it? If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be here. If it weren't for you and him, me, whatever, I'd never have been…born in the first place." He was obviously angry. "If you don't think it's worth it, than it isn't. If you think it's been a waste of time for me to even try to get through to you, to try to prove to you that you matter, if you think that for one instant I don't care, if you think I wouldn't have killed five people to avenge not only Sherlock's rape but your own, then you are damn wrong, John Watson." He was in John's face, dangerously angry, and after a few seconds, he took another drag. "The fact that you are even questioning whether or not to bother sticking around means you didn't completely mean it in the first place. If there is one doubt in your mind as to how much you care for him, how much he actually cares for you, if for one instant you think he's not worth your time, get the fuck out of my flat." He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself with another drag on his cigarette—his voice had broken to almost his schizophrenically homicidal level. "I love you. You know I'd slaughter anyone who hurt you. Who hurt Sherlock. Either of you. If that's not love, then I don't understand it."

"Last time I checked, we both pay rent." John almost spat. "I obviously care. I love you and him more than anyone else. But, I don't know. I know that if he saw me with somebody else, not that there would ever be anyone else- he'd be angry, or at least upset. He wouldn't openly show it, but I know. And you, you'd be furious." Avery smirked. "I don't know. You just want to shag me, whereas Sherlock actually spent time listening, even though he didn't love me. I just want us to be simple. It's never going to be, is it?" He stood up and went to his room, sitting on the bed with a loud sigh.

Avery followed him. "So you think I just want what's in your pants? Is that what this is about? What happened isn't nice, it isn't pretty, and is sure as hell isn't simple. You think I wouldn't love you if you didn't have a penis? Let's find out." He flung John to the bed, producing handcuffs from apparently nowhere and chained John to the bed. His eyes had completely lost any hint of sanity as he ripped John's pants off, not unlike Moran had, and used the legs of John's trousers to tie him down. "What a shame, I'm sure you were rather attached," he laughed as he flicked open his knife, staring at John's reproductive organs, head tilted dangerously, breathing unsteady. He leaned over and—

STOP!

The combined voice of Liam and Sherlock screamed in his head. He froze, knife inches from John's scrotum.

Don't you get it? That's what they did, they threatened him with knives, tied him up, gagged him, tortured him. You're not like them, you're worse because he trusts you.

"Shut—" Avery was still frozen, fighting to continue his twisted quest to prove that he cared about John as more than a shag.

He is not Moran. He is not Moriarty. He loves you. He cares about you. Why are you doing this?

"I—he—he was going to leave, he was going to abandon us like everyone else, he doesn't believe I'm capable of caring, just like Father didn't believe." His voice was breaking, John starting to sweat as the knife hovered too close for comfort. "I have to show him that he's more to me than sex. I have to prove that I love every bit of him. I have to…to…"

This is not the way to do that.

Slowly he closed the knife and left the room in silence, dissolving into a hysteric bout of verbal self-abuse, leaving John by himself, unable to move.

John sat there, hyperventilating, kicking his legs so he could get the blanket over himself. You know this isn't right, you have to leave. John swallowed air, wanting to scream because the voice in his head was back. And when you leave, then maybe you can live out the rest of your useless life. You won't achieve anything, but at least you won't be dead. "Shut up." He muttered to himself. No, I won't. Not until you pop another pill to hide me away. That won't be for some time, anyway. Avery's probably gone off killing. There's nothing you can do.

John fell into a deep sleep, surprisingly. He wasn't sure how long it had lasted when he woke himself up by screaming. Sherlock/Avery/Liam ran in after a while, to check why he'd been screaming. "Nightmares." He spat out.

Fumbling hands unlocked the handcuffs. "My God. Was it…?" Sherlock breathed deeply, shakily, mortified that he'd been attacked again. John's voice was wrong, small, angry but terrified as he said that no one happened but Avery. Sherlock helped John sit up. "I remember fighting him. I was aware then, so was Liam, but I don't know what happened at all." He frowned. It was plain he'd made a decision of some sort. "We can't control him. We can't stop him." He left and went back to his bedroom, locking the door behind him.

It was two full, worrying hours before he came out again, and the first thing he did was hug John. This was obviously Liam. "Don't let the Monsters hurt you or me or anyone. Not ever, not even Avery. He's a Monster, too. I've tried to lock him away in my head and he's staying where Sherlock and I have put him but he still scares me." He sniffed and rubbed his eyes on John's hair. "Please be okay, John, I love you…"

Then he released his grip, coughing awkwardly, Sherlock again. "You going to be fine?"

"No. Why is it that they can love me, and you can't? You all share a brain." Sherlock blinked at him. "You're the only one who I crave love from, and yet, you're the only one who won't love me." He rubbed his eyes. "I'm so tired. I don't have my medication either. The voice is back, and now that Avery is probably going to attack me, I don't know how I'll retaliate." Sherlock paced around, clearly trying to think. "Anthea might have them, Mycroft made her look after me when I'd been drinking so she had to have them." He stopped pacing and raised an eyebrow at John. "No, no. It wasn't what you're thinking. I was passed out while she watched television." In that split second, his hands were around his throat. Avery. Avery had him up against a wall, breathing heavily and dangerously close to his face. "Avery, stop it. Stop it." He was choking out, and then he felt his feet slowly leave the ground as he was lifted up by the throat.

Avery stared, muttering wildly, almost incomprehensibly, one moment English, then French, then German, and then Latin before back to English. His pupils were almost completely invisible, eventually breaking off into insane laughter as he pulled out his knife, placing it to John's throat and drawing the tiniest amount of blood, before drawing back, licking the knife, and running off out of the flat, taking a pack of cigarettes and a lighter with him, leaving the semiconscious John recovering on the floor.

It wasn't hard to find Hussey on his off day. It was just as easy for Avery to read his habits as it was for Sherlock, so he knew that he always took a stroll in the park just at sunset. He stood in the darkness, giggling, before stamping out his cigarette, composing himself, trying to hide the incoming glee, and stepping forward. "Doctor Hussey," he said, calmly, far more calmly than he had been the past few hours. Almost normal-sounding.

"Oh, it's you, hi. I thought—never mind." He had plainly been expecting something else, someone else, probably someone who'd come to attack him.

"You thought I was Moriarty." Avery's lips pulled into the sick sneer reserved for talk of Moriarty. "Sorry. No such luck. I need to talk to you in private." He pulled Hussey into the darkening alleyway next to the park. He was stalling for time, for dusk to give way to night.

"What?" Hussey seemed surprised at the mention of Moriarty's name.

"Oh, don't think I haven't figured it out. The reason you weren't a help was because you didn't want to be. I've talked to other patients of yours, they were fine. I was the only one you screwed over. I checked the funding on your little experiments. A firm called Rikaspuro. Rich brook in Finnish, apparently." Avery paused to make his point. "You should know by now that no one who works for the Spider gets to live." He blinked maniacally, smiling and sneering. "Did he tell you which chemicals to pump through my veins when you shocked the living hell out of me?" His head was tilted, not the way it was when he (or Sherlock or Liam) were curious. This was a psychotic tilt. "Or should I say that you shocked the living hell into me, or shocked me into a living hell." He was in Hussey's face now, inches away, and the man with the thinning hair had no escape. "Swapping personalities, I could have dealt with. I would have learned to manage. The blank-outs and the missing memories and the sudden jumps in mood. But this. This is schizophrenia, and don't give me that shit about how it hasn't been long enough to properly make that diagnosis—I know what this is. This is screaming in the middle of the night. This is hallucinations so real I don't know if they're standing there or just in my head. This is feeling like someone's coming after me and knowing that at that moment, there's no good reason for it. This is thinking I see them time and time again, when there's no one there. This is hearing voices, not just as thought-whispers, but as real as I'm standing here." Avery's voice was as icy as his eyes, whispering now. He slapped Hussey. "Feel that? I had to do that to Sherlock in France, in the barn because he wouldn't stop sucking the life out of John, literally. And he felt it just as real to him as it just did to you, even though it was only in his mind."

"I—I didn't—"

"Like hell you didn't know. Maybe you didn't know exactly what was going to happen, but you knew it was going to fuck me up. Well, you know what?" Avery licked his lips and flicked open his switchblade. "You don't get to think about it for much longer." He'd pinned Hussey to the wall with his body, and he was taking a cigarette out of his pocket. He lit it, and Hussey tried to run, but Avery drove his knife through the top of Hussey's hand and into the mortars between the bricks, before laughing softly—a laugh that long since abandoned all pretense of sanity. "No, no—you don't get to run away from this," he laughed as he wiped Hussey's blood on the psychiatrist's own shirt. "You don't get to escape the consequences of your little experiment."

Hussey's voice was shaking both with fear and with the pain of the stab wound in his hand. "Y—you're insane!"

Avery inhaled on his cigarette and blew the smoke out around his reply. "Yes," he whispered in a drawn-out, almost sexual voice, not only accepting it, but for the moment, relishing it. "And there's more than just your experiment, more than just the electroshock and the drugs. You told them where to find me in that hospital. Mycroft was very careful not to let anyone know except attending psychiatrists, and you were the only one with past ties who could have told him. You know what he did to me? He raped me. Again. He drugged me up, raped me, and shocked me with a stungun until I passed out. I couldn't move for a day. I couldn't speak for several. And you did that to me, too. So I have my reasons for this, for doing this, for righting this odious wrong." Hussey took a deep breath, but Avery put his hand on his throat, the other one holding the knife to Hussey's cheek. "No, no, no, no, you're not going to get to scream. Shhh, it'll all be over soon." He forced Hussey to his knees. "I'd say this will be quick and painless, but I'm disinclined to lie to a dying man." He placed the knife point against Hussey's left carotid artery. "Any last words?"

"P—please, Sh—sherlock!"

"Avery." His nose twitched at the use of the wrong name. "My name is Avery. You should know that by now." He froze for an instant. "Not now," he snarled, shaking his head. Hussey saw this as a potential chance to escape, but once again, Avery had him by the throat. "They're trying to stop me." He was growing more unhinged as the darkness fell. His head was tilted, his eyes wide and mad. "Liam sees, Liam knows. Sherlock only knows how excited I am. For once, Liam knows every detail and Sherlock knows next to nothing." He let out a snicker. "They're not going to stop me. Nothing can stop me." He took another drag, laughed again. "Time to die, Doctor Hussey." Hussey whimpered. He'd been threatened by the less-controlled of his patients before, but only verbal threats. He knew Avery was more than capable of killing, and more than likely to do so, especially right now. He didn't get to think about it any more. The knife plunged into his throat and sliced across it, through it, and Avery savoured every little bump of resistance as the trachea was cut straight through, the grind of metal on bone as the knife rubbed against the spine. Avery preferred to stand in front of his victims, watching the light leave their eyes, feeling the warm blood squirt, the last moment of their lives on him, covering him.

He slumped Hussey's body against the wall, tapping his cigarette ashes down the exposed throat blissfully. He took the flower from his pocket, the bird's foot trefoil, and placed it across Hussey's chest. Avery laughed as he walked away, laughed at the screaming in his head, at the blood covering him, at the thrill of killing again.

He was still laughing when he went back to Baker Street and up the stairs. He stripped and threw his blood-soaked clothes in the laundry bin while John was in the toilet (Avery had made sure to arrive when he saw the light on in there). After he washed his face and hands to get the blood off, he lay on John's bed, completely starkers, completely bonkers, as he continued to be bombarded with Liam's screaming and Sherlock's panic. It only fuelled him. He hadn't taken his mid-day or evening medication, but he didn't care. Right now, he was insane and far too happy about it, laughing away in the dark room, waiting for John.

John strolled in humming to himself, taking off his shirt before he got into bed. Something wasn't right. He turned on the light to see a fully naked and hysterical Avery lying on his bed. "What on earth are you doing?" John stammered. Avery looked up with a wild look in his eyes, grinning, as if he was very pleased with himself. "Where have you been? And, if you think I'm going near you after you tried to cut my dick off, you're wrong." John grabbed two pillows and left the room. Avery called behind him, asking where he was going. "Sofa, because you're in my bed."

Avery followed him, pinning John to the sofa with his full (naked and very erect) body. "Give it to me. Take it from me. I need you, I need sex, I need all of it." Avery was unbuttoning John's trousers, sliding them down his legs, nibbling John's collarbone. "I need your passion, I need your pleasure."

The only response he got was a punch to the face. It wasn't hard enough to knock him out, but Avery retaliated by punching John the same way. "That's how it's going to be, is it?" He stood up, snarled and slammed John's door—he'd taken John's room for the night.

The next morning, when John awoke, Sherlock was missing. John went downstairs to looking for him and found him curled into a twitching ball, naked, asleep and leaning against Mrs. Hudson's door, a crayon drawing of five people with the words SAVE ME FROM THE MONSTERS in uncharacteristic block capitals in Liam's writing below it. It was above Liam's usual artistic scope, though nowhere near Avery's skill, but John could tell what it was a picture of.

Moriarty, in his suit, grinning as he held a human skull, recently scalped. Moran standing beside him, proud, yet submissive, leering as he cleaned his rifle. Avery holding his kill-knife and his signature flower, a trail of smoke coming from the cigarette between his lips. Sherlock, naked and covered in blood, including that which dripped from his mouth. And below it, John, holding a pistol, looking almost gleefully evil as he pointed it toward Moriarty. Liam must have had a terrible nightmare. The door opened, and John hid for no reason. Mrs. Hudson looked at the drawing and closed her eyes sadly—she recognized what had happened. Liam was awake, if only just, and crying. She took him and hugged him, letting him inside and wrapping him in a blanket, and she caught sight of John as she closed the door and mouthed I'll call you. She shut the door and took Liam to her bedroom where she tucked him in to sleep, starting a CD of classical music she'd saved for lullabies for when her grand-nephew came to visit, which he hadn't done in a few months.

She phoned John. "Poor dear. I don't know what's going on with him anymore. He's in my bedroom, sleeping again, and I've put on some lullabies to try to help him. I don't know what else to do."

John could hear Liam come into the room in the background. He'd obviously still had trouble sleeping, and Mrs. Hudson put the phone to her chest. Liam's voice grew louder as he hugged Mrs. Hudson. "Please read me a story. A nice one. I need the nightmares to go away." He was sniffling, still upset.

"Of course, Liam. I'll be right there."

"Come with me. I need someone I can trust to never be a Monster. I don't want to be alone."

"I'll call you back," she said to John. "Or you could call me, I suppose. Either way, I'll talk to you soon." She hung up and took Liam back to the bedroom with a glass of water and tucked him in again. It felt so wrong to her, a seven-year-old in the body of a thirty-six-year-old, but she wasn't going to ignore his need. She read as if to her grand-nephew, the story of Peter Pan, and by the time she was finished, he was asleep again. She kissed his forehead. "Oh, Sherlock." She left the light on and went back into the living room, calling John back and inviting him to stay in the living room, though she did warn him to whisper.

John decided to sit in Mrs Hudson's room, telling her to go and sleep upstairs in Sherlock's room, because it was never used. She nodded, and walked off making soft weeping noises. Liam snuffled in his sleep, muttering quietly to himself about monsters. John read through the Grimms' book of fairy tales. It was like reading through a book about Moriarty. He had clearly studied this book word for word. He threw the book on the floor, causing Liam to wake up. He looked at him and clung onto Hamish, not saying a word.
"I'll leave, if you want. I know you don't trust me."

Liam sniffed. "Don't go," he said in a very small voice. "Please, please don't go. I'm so scared right now, I don't know why, but it feels like everyone's going to hurt me. You protect me, my lion. I know you won't hurt me even when it feels like you will." He curled into Hamish, fighting tears. "Don't go away. I don't like being this scared, I don't, and I'm scared of Avery and he doesn't stay where I put him in my mind, and I'm scared of the Monsters and I'm scared of being scared of you. I hate when I'm scared of you and scared of Sherlock and scared of My because I'm not meant to be scared of you." He reached to John and grabbed his wrist, pleading him to stay. "If you leave, I'll turn into glass and I'll fall and shatter and never be fixed…" He was clearly exhausted, and his hand was shaking. He drew back and shoved his head into Hamish and let out a scream. "Avery's choir is too loud, make them stop, make them stop…and he's laughing and Sherlock is mumbling and it hurts, please, John, do something…"

"I won't go. Do you want a sleeping pill?" Liam nodded, his eyes wide. John went upstairs, promising to return, and came back with sleeping pills in hand. "Here you go, take two." He passed him the glass of water from the bedside table, and climbed in the bed with him to cuddle him until he dropped off to sleep. "I love you, Liam. I won't leave. I promise."

John was woken up the next day by Mrs Hudson bringing him and Liam tea. Liam opened his eyes slowly, slurped his tea, and hid back under the covers. "He's doing better today, I think." John muttered, nodding at Mrs Hudson.
"Good. I love you two, boys." She smiled, and left the room to make breakfast.

"I love you too," Liam called. He hugged John. "I need my other medicine, the choir is still loud. And Avery…he…he…" He started crying again. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean for bad things to happen, I tried to stop him, I really really did." He refused to explain further and curled up again. "My face is itchy and I smell funny…I need to take a bath." He stood up and went to the bathroom, running a bubble bath and getting in. It was soothing, and he started humming—John could hear it—but suddenly Liam was shouting.

"Avery, please go away, I don't want you here. Please get out of my bath. No. No, I won't. When I get out I'm going to take my medicine and then you're going to go away, go back inside my head. Please don't say that. Please, don't call me that, it's not nice." He started crying. "That would hurt you too. Stop. Stop, that hurts." There was a thud and a gasp of pain. "Stop, Avery, please, you're hurting me." The water splashed and there were bare footsteps coming to the door. The door opened and he was covered in soap suds, a line of blood running from the back of his head and he looked dazed. "Avery's hurting me, I need my medicine please now." He flung himself sideways as if thrown by an invisible hand, his head knocking against the door frame until John grabbed him and he passed out.

John carried him over to the sofa, which wasn't difficult because he was so thin these days. He put a blanket over him, and put him in the recovery position in case he had concussion. He sat down in the chair near the sofa to the end, he decided it was best to text Mycroft and let him know.

Liam is having hallucinations, or so I thought. Until something threw him across the room and knocked him out. He's okay, I've put him in the recovery position until he wakes up. This condition is getting progressively worse, and it's pretty clear we're going to have to find another doctor soon. This time we need to get them checked out, in case they work with Moriarty. I have a slight suspicion that Hussey is. -John

John put the TV on, realizing he hadn't watched it in about a week. The news, as usual was going on about a murder. He listened, in case there was a case in there for Sherlock.

"Yet another murder has been committed, much like the others of the Birds foot trefoil, the victim has a slit throat with a cigarette stubbed out on it. No DNA can be taken from the cigarette butt, sadly. We are not close to catching this killer." John went pale in the face and turned to look at the sleeping Liam next to him.
"My husband was a family man, and even though his job kept him busy he never failed to make time for his children and myself. His death, his murder, has come as a big shock to us all. He was a credit to his field, and loved by many."
The news woman shuffled her papers. "That was Mrs Hussey this afternoon, leaving Scotland yard. In other news, David Cameron has…"

John completely zoned out after that. He was waiting for the phone call from Lestrade, demanding answers. Liam opened his eyes carefully. John handed him his medication before sitting back down. "Liam. Did you know Avery had killed Doctor Hussey?"

Liam shrank down in his blanket. "Y…yes," he whispered. "I tried to tell you, I really did, but Avery wouldn't let me. He…" Liam couldn't find the word. "He choked my voice when I tried to speak. Made me not talk." He looked at the air beside John. "Please, Avery, don't hurt me, I didn't tell him, the news did, please, please don't hurt me." He grabbed his medicines as if hiding from a poisonous snake that was watching him and took them cautiously. "Sherlock doesn't know, he was asleep, I'm scared. Am I going to prison?"

There was a buzz at the door. Mrs. Hudson answered it, and Liam and John could hear the man on the other side—Dr. Jenkins—talking.

"Sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering if you knew how soon Mr. Holmes would be back. I'm his doctor, and he was meant to see me twice last week and once yesterday and didn't keep the appointments."

Liam looked up, still dazed, but apologetic, realizing that John hadn't known he was meant to be coming in twice a week.

"Oh, he's actually in the other room, but he isn't dressed. If you'll stay in here, I'll get him some clothes." Mrs. Hudson brought a pair of Sherlock's pyjamas to him, along with the grey gown that Liam had taken a favour to.

"Thank you, Mrs. H," Liam said, getting dressed, and the mere act of being clothed again relaxed him. Dr. Jenkins came in and smiled.

"Who am I speaking to?"

Liam fiddled with his sleeves. "Captain Liam." He wasn't making eye contact.

Jenkins sat at the far end of the sofa, and Liam drew his knees up to his chest. "How are you, Liam?"

"Not well," he answered. "I'm sorry I didn't come see you. Avery had a nightmare and thought John was going to hurt us so he left. And then John was gonna leave but My stopped him because we need him lots and I've been so scared." He hiccupped, agitated again. "And then we came back home again and Avery almost did a bad thing to John and then he did a very bad thing to Dr. Hussey and then John wouldn't sex with him and got mad and then I had a nightmare and came here and then Avery hit my head on the faucet and the wall and it hurt and I fainted."

Jenkins listened carefully, watching as Liam grew upset to the point that he began severely stressing his dressing gown. "What did Avery do to Hussey?"

Liam shook his head. "Don't want to remember. It was bad." He started welling up, the horrible memory of the murder causing great distress.

"Have you been in control since then?"

"Mostly but I think that's because I tried to box Avery up." Liam stared into the corner, watching Avery. "And Sherlock isn't well."

"Can you let one of them speak?"

Liam shook his head vigorously. "No, no, I won't do it. Avery will get out. I've tried to wake Sherlock but he isn't listening. And I don't want Avery to come out, he'll hurt people." Liam shrank away as the image of Avery approached, intimidating. "He always hurts people, please not me again…"

"Did he actually hurt John or were you able to stop him?"

The figure on the sofa began laughing, sinisterly, and Avery looked up, traces of his earlier hysteria still present, but the medication was starting to work and he was obviously calmer. "No. I'd never hurt John. " Avery took John's hand and licked his lips, a quiet statement of Don't mention that thing I did with the knife. mixed with I still want you.

"Hello, Avery," Jenkins said. "How have you been feeling?"

"Like a monkey in a zoo," Avery spat. "I'm always being looked after. Restrained. Maybe I wouldn't be so angry all the time if someone didn't seem content on locking me up, even if it is in a way that seems almost nice. A gilded cage is still a cage."

John sighed and took his hand away. He decided he wouldn't speak until he was spoken to. "So, John. How have you and Sherlock been?" He looked up.
"Not well. We're not together anymore, if that's what you're asking." Avery snarled under his breath.
"Oh, and why is that?" Jenkins tapped his pencil on his clipboard with a confused look on his face.
"He had a paranoid delusion and accused me of being in league with Moriarty. We had an argument, and now he won't take me back. Experiment concluded, apparently."
Avery snatched John's hand back again and looked at Jenkins.
"However, Avery still seems to want me." He looked at him, almost as if he was disappointed, but Avery didn't notice. Jenkins noted things down before looking Avery in the face.
"You'll be okay, right? Okay. I'll have to leave you two, I have to get home. But I have brought some sedatives and a mood stabilizer for when you're restless and low." He handed the packets to Avery. "Instructions on the back as usual. Okay, I'll see you next week. Goodbye."

He left, quietly, leaving John and Avery in silence. John pulled his hand away and said he was going for a walk, not wanting to be with Avery at the present time.

When John returned about an hour later, Liam was in control again. The first thing he did when he saw John was back was wrap John's head in his arms. "Please be nice, John's head." He sniffled and pulled away. "I fell asleep again and I had a bad dream that the Monster in your head came out and was controlling you like Avery does me again and then he was shooting people like those men wanted and then I woke up and I've been sick." He smelled it, too, acidic breath rather rank. "Please keep evil John tied up and trapped. I don't want to see him again."

"Go and get a shower and brush your teeth, Liam, then we can watch Pirates of the Caribbean with ice cream." John smiled, and Liam nodded eagerly, before running off to the bathroom.

John quickly texted Zapharia, telling her about what had happened. She didn't reply by the time Liam had come out, and John put his phone straight into his pocket.

Halfway through the film, Avery took control. He threw the bowl of ice cream to the floor and pushed John down against the sofa, slipping his hands into his pants. John shoved him off, before turning off the film, cleaning up the mess and going to his room. Avery snarled, and watched him in a predatory fashion until he closed the door behind him. John had made sure that Mrs Hudson now locked the front door of a night, so Avery couldn't kill again. He didn't tell her the reasoning, and it didn't help him to sleep knowing that the only person Avery could kill would be him.

"What the fuck is your problem?" Avery was furious. "I'm sorry about what I almost did. I was screwed up right then. It was the coke and the lack of meds and insane paranoid jealousy." John didn't answer. "Damn it! Say something! I know I scare the shit out of you sometimes. I don't understand it. I know I'm not exactly the nicest of people, but everything I've done has been for either you or Sherlock." His voice was growing hysterical again, rising in pitch. "And you don't want me here! That much is obvious. You said you love me. That's obviously not what this is."

There was the sound of a gun cocking. "If you love me, you'll stop me. If you want me gone, stay there. You have fifteen seconds to take this gun from my hand before I blow my brains out."

John jumped to his feet and smacked the gun out of his hand. "What the fuck are you doing?" Tears were streaming down Averys face, which John didn't expect. John put his arms around him, trying to calm him down. He was pretty sure that the crying was coming from Liam.
"Shh. Calm down. I love you." Avery looked up at him tearfully and frowned. "What? I do."

John climbed back into bed after he'd unloaded and hidden the gun while Avery went to draw for a few hours. He dropped off to sleep pretty quickly, this time, without dreams. Peacefully.

Someone crawled into the bed with John at half four in the morning. Liam, going by the posture. He was curled up and crying, as close to John as possible without being on top of him, and John was just awake enough to hear him whisper.

"Why did you almost do that, Avery?" He hiccuped. "Why did you almost make us go away for good?" Louis came to join them, lying between Liam's head and John's ear, purring them both to a deep and peaceful sleep.

John woke up to breakfast in bed. It was Sherlock who had made it. "I don't know how long I've been out," he said. "The last thing I remember is you telling me that Anthea might have your medication." He pointed out the pill on the plate. "Mycroft brought them around." He sighed. "And Liam, afraid. Just a feeling. Liam was frightened, and Avery was excited. Whatever happened, I know it wasn't good. But that's all I know." He shifted. "Hysteria. We need something to combat it. I have an idea. Post-hypnotic suggestion, a sort of trigger word. A word that you could say to any of…any of the three of me to get us to—to melt, to stop what we're doing and relax. To go limp and block out any bad emotions or memories. Like a word-sedative." He sat down. "I think umqra would be perfect. Not heard in everyday speech. What do you think?"

John blinked. Sherlock had never known the real meaning of 'umqra' and he was convinced that it was just morse code gone wrong. John smirked and nodded. "Yeah, okay." Sherlock smiled. "Thank you, for this, by the way. It's uh, well it's definitely a surprise." Sherlock had never make him breakfast before, and it was actually good.

When John had finished his breakfast, he went to get a shower and changed. Sherlock was texting Lestrade about the case. When he returned from getting ready, Avery had taken over. "Oh, morning." John fixed his shirt. "Sherlock's working on a case today.." Avery snarled and slumped on the sofa, covering his face with a pillow. "Right. Well, it's important that he goes today. You have about half an hour to sit around."

"Because that's all you'll let me do. Sit." Avery was still upset. "You're worse than Fath—" He grunted and turned to face the wall, not knowing what to do. On the one hand, he felt as though he'd only ever be treated as a plague, and he desperately wanted to fight it, but on the other, he was trying to stick to his vow of not hurting John, even with words, and one of the worst insults in the world was a comparison to his own father.

He stayed that way, silent and still, for around ten minutes before rolling over and leaping up again. "Need to go to Bart's," Sherlock said. "Have to use some of their equipment, as well as take another look at the bodies, as well as the patient files. Try to find anyone who may have been in contact with all three of them and would have the skill set to do this." He was packing a small bag as he spoke, all of his medicines (including his old one) going into the bag, the case files on top.

John decided to not bring up the comment about Sherlock's father. Instead, he nodded and watched Sherlock pack the bag.

They got outside and hailed a cab. Sherlock stared quietly out of the window, while John tried to make idle chit chat with the cabbie. Suddenly, the cab screeched to a halt, causing Sherlock and John to almost hit the glass separating them from the driver. "What the fu-" before John could finish his question, they were dragged out of the cab into a nearby building. "Not again." John clung onto Sherlock's hand for dear life as they were tied up and gagged on the floor next to eachother.

Moriarty strolled out with a grin on his face. Sebastian followed him, his gun in hand. "Hello you two, nice to see you again." He cocked the gun and smiled.
"We need to be somewhere." John tried to mumble through the gag before he was slapped in the face.
"Shut up. We have a proposition." Sebastian smiled, before standing next to Jim who was licking his lips.

John saw Sherlock lose control of Avery and Liam, and they all erupted out of him, going through a phase of helpless sobbing, wild furious struggling, and paralytic fear in a matter of seconds. His left fist closed and opened behind his back, desperately wanting to escape, wanting this to be a hallucination.

"Someone's a bit agitated," Jim said, the missing portion of tongue clearly visible. Avery struggled again, to the point where the ropes had started to draw blood, letting out a primal roar behind the gag. Sherlock took control again and just stared helplessly, trying not to utterly blank. His mind was racing with the ideas of what Jim's "proposition" was.

"You die or he dies."

"Who volunteers to be raped while the other watches?"

"I'm going to take you both far away from London where no one can find you."

Experimental drugs

Torture session

"What would you do to save your siblings?"

"Would you really kill us, given the chance?"

Buried alive

Kill a stranger or have John/me killed

Possibly rape in above conditions

Russian Roulette

For him, the physical, for me, the mental, agonies beyond what we've yet experienced

WHY SO SERIOUS?

The last thought, the flashback from Avery's favourite film broke through, the voice of the Joker almost as real as the other hallucinated voices (which, right now, were tumultuously loud, at least Avery and Liam, and he was just barely holding himself dominant). The chilling voice added to Sherlock's distress, and he felt like vomiting. His eyes rolled slightly as unconsciousness threatened to overwhelm him. Liam whimpered, though not dominant, and Sherlock just waited for his nightmares to become reality.

Moriarty giggled while Sebastian pointed the loaded gun at John's head. "We realized it's not enough fun for us to… what would you call it? Rape you. Although, John…" He stroked his head while he licked his lips, "…you are my favorite." John twitched with disgust. Sherlock suddenly turned into Avery and struggled to get up. "So, we want you two to fuck. Right now. In front of us." John started to shake, hating the idea right down to his core. "You'll be at gunpoint, of course. Couldn't risk you two running away, now could we, boss?" Sebastian looked at Moriarty like a puppy who was begging for its masters attention.

Avery charged Moriarty, headbutting him as hard as he could, dazing both men momentarily. He would have continued to do so, if Moran's gun hadn't cocked into place. Instead, Avery settled for a muffled version of "I fuck when I want, not when some bastard tells me to."

"Alright, then, I guess I'll just have to shoot him."

Liam screamed as Moran pointed the gun back to John, and slowly worked his trousers off. His eyes said I hate this but I won't let them kill you, I love you, but with the gag he could say nothing. His lower half was exposed and he lay down, not wanting this at all, but preferring to trust John.

"Ah-ah-ah, no, Sherlock, we know you prefer to be top." Liam whimpered as the gun was trained on him, and slowly he crawled over to John and lay next to him, crying, his eyes pleading. Please John, I don't want to hurt you, please agree so they won't shoot us. Then I promise to never want to sex. Never ever. He hoped his eyes got the message across.

"Boss, this isn't going to work. Shall we move them into the room?" He slid his hand around Jim's neck and whispered something, leaving Moriarty giggling like the maniac he was. "Come on boys, we have a special room for you. We won't be there, you'll be in private, if you like." John frowned, confused as to why they would leave them alone. Of course they're filming you, idiot. It's just like porn. John shook his head with a groan as he and Liam were dragged to the room.

The room was small and dark with a double bed. Clearly Moriary and Moran had used this bed before them, because the bedding was messy and there was used condoms nearby. "Get in the bed, John." Seb cut the rope around John and Liam before running out of the room shrieking with laughter. John pulled the gag off Liam's mouth and hugged him. "I know what they're doing, Liam. They going to film us, and then they're going to put it in the media, we'll be disgraced."
"Correct boys." A speaker blasted. "You're still at gunpoint, get on with it."

"I don't want to sex, please, please, I don't want to, but I don't want them to hurt you and you being safe is more important than me not being scared." Liam was shaking and crying, looking up at John from his little ball. "I don't know how to sex anymore, I didn't want it so I deleted it. Should I let Sherlock out?" John nodded and Liam shuddered, for a moment of utter blankness—no one wanted control. But then it was Avery.

"Didn't want it to be like this." He frowned, furious. "But if it's porn they want, let's make it the most boring sex they've ever seen."

"We're waaaiting."

Avery flipped the camera off and rolled over on top of John and whispered. "Think you can manage to be less than your usual fantastic self?"

"I can try," John tried to smirk but his misery took over. "Do we have to?" He whispered. "We could find an escape route or something." Avery shook his head and slowly unbuttoned his shirt, wincing as if it was painful. "I don't wish to alarm you but," John looked down at his pants, "If this is boring, I won't be able to… y'know. Right now I feel pretty sick, this is giving me all kinds of flashbacks." He closed his eyes and put his head in his hands. "I can't do this. Not while they're watching."
"Well it's that, or your life, Doctor." Sebastians voice boomed through the speakers. Avery growled up at the camera, flicking it the finger before pulling his pants off. "Avery, I don't think I can do this, I'm scared, even though it's you."

"I know, I know, and that's their point," Avery whispered. "We can't let them win, John." He sprawled over John. "Just trust me, focus on me. This is no different than the battlefield." He was having trouble, too, but managed to put up a pretense of calm. "Just pretend it's me. Only me." He leaned in and used his most seductive voice. "I am the world. We are the only people here. And I love you. I would never hurt you." He stroked John, trying to make him melt, force him to relax, touching him in places John was most tender but trying to block the cameras so it could not be used against him in future. "Focus on us."

John sighed and closed his eyes. "Okay." Avery closed his own eyes and kissed John softly on the lips whilst he grabbed his hips. John felt no effect of this, instead he felt incredibly uncomfortable. "This isn't working." He whispered. "It's like I can feel their eyes boring into me." Avery nodded in agreement. "I'm not turned on at all. This is going to be a problem."
"Oh god, can't you two do anything right? It's a simple task. Do you value your heads being on your shoulders at all?" Avery flicked the finger at the camera yet again before turning back to John, kissing his neck, trying his best to make the situation work.

"Do you not understand this could be life or death?" Avery was no more excited than John was—his thoughts were occupied with how he was going to kill Moriarty after he made them do the same. Suddenly, he froze and his eyes glazed over. "Liam's beginning," Sherlock whispered, flashing back badly to the night after Valentine's Day, the night the enormous Y resembling autopsy cuts had been carved into John's chest.

"Okay, what you need is some help, obviously," Moriarty's voice called. The door opened and Moran came in, holding two vials of liquid. He grabbed Sherlock's face and forced the liquid in, holding his nose closed and mouth shut until he swallowed. The same was done for John.

"What was that?"

Moran smiled. "Just a bit of angel dust." The door closed. Sherlock gulped and turned to John, taking his hands desperately.

"John. What you're about to experience, it won't be pleasant. Not for us. Not for me in particular. PCP has been known to mimic schizophrenic symptoms—hallucinations, depersonalization, aggression, suicidal impulses." His eyes had begun to shake. "It's what I am when I've missed my medication. I never wanted you to feel it, to know what my mind has twisted into." He allowed a slight smile. "Perhaps it'll help you understand me." Moriarty's voice came over the stereo again.

"And action!"

"He isn't getting us for sex. Maybe he'll get us for drug use." His eyes were starting to shake more violently. "Some people phase out, some people grow aggressive. Some self-mutilate." He began shaking, not from the drug, but from terror as the hallucinations had already begun, double the intensity of his normal waking horrors. "I…floating…John?" He scrambled at John's arms as if he was falling, hallucinating that he was tumbling backwards into a vat of thick, warm blood, hands grabbing at him, stroking his face, his neck, his bare torso. He couldn't fight the vertigo. "Jjjohn," he slurred. "Ffffalling."

And John's hallucinations had begun, too, plaguing him with swirling visions, as if he were being drawn back and flung forward, something pulling his consciousness out before snapping it back in again, and in his mind, memory mixed with perception, and there was blood pouring from Sherlock's mouth.

He tried his best to reach forward, but instead, his hand melted away in front of him. He went to scream, but he couldn't move his mouth, and it felt like his throat was being squeezed. He could hear Liam quietly weeping in the background, while Avery was loud and looking for him in the darkness that was suddenly swirling around him. Sherlock was telling him to keep calm until they reached each other.

A loud voice, louder than thunder, shrieked with laughter above them. A deeper voice, sharp like a flash of lightning jolted in between where Sherlock and Avery's voices were coming from. "Wow, boss. They're totally mashed." The voice laughed, and John felt a very hot slash across his face.

Avery'd struck out at John, who in his eyes, had grown demon horns and spouted laughter from his nose. There was blood as the fingernails ripped into John's cheek, but Liam fell over backwards as Sherlock drowned in Chopin and particle physics.

"Rayon de miel," Sherlock shouted. His skin had turned to honeycomb, bees flying in and out, tickling, scratching, laying eggs, bursting forth. "Bees, hive, honeycomb!" He writhed in pain, in the sensation that he was not a solid being. Wild trypophobia hit, the imagined hexagonal chambers of his skin too much to bear, and he screamed. Even in this state, he knew the effects would likely last for hours. He rolled over, but the crinkling sensation as the hallucinated honeycomb of his skin crushed under his weight was very painful. "Honey-blood," he mumbled. "Larvae, smoke them out."

He screamed and kicked out, making contact with something he didn't register was John's side, and there was a sharp crack as several of John's ribs were broken. Sherlock heard it as a rifle-shot. The buzzing of the imaginary bees flying in and out of his skin tripled, and he swatted at himself, trying to fight them off.

"Wellell, thisis isis newew," he heard in a deep parody of Moriarty's voice. "Thethe greatat Sherlocklock Holmeses, scareded ofof beehiveshives."

"Abeilles," Sherlock gasped. "Les abeilles sont dans ma peau!" He made a disturbing gasp/moan/scream/shout that was somehow even more haunting than the whine he'd made in the hospital after he'd been raped, followed by gagging and then convulsions.

John slumped onto the floor, everything was spinning around him. He crawled over to the bed, dragging himself onto it, to pull the covers over himself. When he was fully covered up, and could see nothing but black, he tried to sleep, even though he could hear Avery screaming. Something thumped on top of him, he guessed it was a person, but because everything felt floaty, he couldn't tell. He popped his head out of the covers, to see Avery on top of him, Liam, Sherlock and another version of Sherlock's personality; Two Moriartys', and Sebastian. The second Moriarty was sitting down sighing, looking at John in a disappointed fashion, while the other was kissing Sebastian violently.

He decided it was best to go to sleep, so he buried his head in the blanket and tried his best to drop off.

Sherlock/Avery/Liam didn't know who he was anymore. Just a honeycomb human with honey for blood and bees in his lungs, bees that were fighting to get out. He stopped convulsing and felt a tingling inside his head as if something were between his brain and his skull. He grabbed at it, fighting to open up his head to release the creature now strangling his mind, and ended up ripping out large chunks of hair, some of which had scalp attached, and the act of yanking his hair drew significant amounts of blood. "Get it out, get it the fuck out!" Eventually, he gave up on fighting it, resigned to the fact that his mind would be eaten alive by the maggots inside his brain. The sensation faded as the drugs metabolized, and he registered that there was something soft beneath him, something warm, something John. Moriarty was with Moran in the corner, off-camera, clearly getting off on Sherlock and John's pain. He was too weak to move as he was lifted off of John and flipped onto his back before John was placed on top of him.

"Nowow youou haveve twowo choiceses. Eitherther youou fuckuck eachch otherer, or wewe do-oo it to-oo youou whileile the otherer watcheses. Oror…castrationration."

"No, John, I don't…I don't want…" Sherlock/Liam/Avery was too weak to fight back, except with words. He could barely figure out what Moriarty'd meant, but as the drugs were fading, it was easier to realize that the choice was a lose-lose-lose. Either they had sex for Moriarty and Moran's pleasure, they'd be raped while the other watched, or they'd both be castrated. His vision was returning to normal, though everything still stank of drying blood and it was as though the blues of John moved to the left while his reds moved to the right. "John?" His voice fell to a terrified, slurred whisper. "I trust. You. Help."

John peeked out of the covers to look at him. The other versions of him had disappeared, along with the other version of Moriarty. "We'll have sex." John slurred. "Just go out of the room, please." Moriarty nodded and Sebastian followed him out of the room, giggling like school girls.

Sherlock was dominant, and he was struggling to bring Avery forward. It took about ten minutes, or so it seemed, to bring him into dominance. Avery finally took over and looked John deep in the eyes. "We have to do this. They could kill us." John slurred again, his eyes rolling round his head. Avery kissed him, messily, because the drugs hadn't fully worn off.

Avery ran his tongue up John's torso, gingerly. "I know. 'S not what I want. But I'd rather this than…than their other way." His vision was still wrong, still phasing sideways and twisting. "And I will do this right back to them one day, and worse, you have my word." Part of Avery was enjoying the fact that John had no choice but to accept him. It was finally his chance to try to repent for his twisted agenda previously. But he took it slow, took it gently, almost uncertainly. "It's just like the first time," he whispered. "Just like my first time. When I came back from the dead and had to prove to you I was alive, so relieved that I delved into the most basic of bonds between life-forms. Just us. Safe. Together." He ground himself into John, not with Avery's usual passion, but with Sherlock's hesitancy. He tried to kiss John's mouth, but missed entirely and kissed the wound he himself had inflicted on John's cheek.

And that set Sherlock off, bringing him to front, blind to everything but the taste of blood. "Narcotic," he whispered. "Courage of the soldier, kindness of the healer. Fix the broken bonds. Recombine molecules." The sex itself was as enthusiastic as it had been in France, and the remnants of the drug in his system erased all self-consciousness. He was squeezing, biting, moaning, drawing blood with his fingernails and licking it from the wounds, quivering with pleasure. "I. You. Us. Universe of possibilities, exploration of quarks." He groaned, biting into John's lip and hovering there, sucking the blood from his lips.

And it worked for John, too, despite the pain and despite the fact they were being watched, though that knowledge was in his mind, and it lessened the experience. But Sherlock carried on, caressing John's scars. "Heal you before I can heal me." Sherlock's stamina was low from the drugs, and it didn't take long for him to climax and wear out. He slumped into the blood covering John, not nearly as much as France, not nearly enough to kill John, but more than enough to make John lightheaded. He was worn out, and Liam took dominance, sobbing and hyperventilating at the sight of John both bloody and naked. "No…"

"You two haven't finished." The voice boomed from the speakers.
John held Liams' face. "It's okay. Try and push Avery forward. I need you to try." Liam was shaking and pale in the face. He squeezed his eyes closed and tried. Thankfully, it worked. Avery panted and wiped the blood off John with his hand before kissing him. Though he was spent, he carried on, trying to bring John to climax by thrusting against him. The speakers boomed again, and they could hear Moriarty and Sebastian groaning loudly. "Shut the fuck up." John roared, as Avery licked the blood from his lips.

"John, come on, please, just…" Avery shook his head, his hallucinations returning at the sound of John screaming and Moran and Moriarty enjoying themselves. "I…ngh," he muttered. "Please, John, just try." John continued to shake and scream, and Avery rolled out from under John and stood, raging at the camera. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" He ripped the speaker from the wall and smashed it on the floor, violently and repeatedly, destroying it beyond repair. "You sadistic bastards—I—" Avery roared wordlessly, bashing the door, breaking a hole into it, as well as breaking his fist, but he didn't care. He ripped at the wood until he could reach the handle, ignoring the dangerously deep cuts in his arm and the copious amounts of blood flowing from it.

Avery unlocked the door, and half-screamed in his rage as he charged down the hallway. There was a strangled cry as he was tazed before Moran brought him back, semi-conscious.

"One last chance, John," Moriarty leered. The blood on Avery's arm was already starting to pool in the bed—not lethal, at least not if he got attention soon—and Avery moaned in pain as he recovered consciousness.

"J…"

"If you don't reach a climax, we'll have to have a go ourselves." Moriarty's grin was sickening.

John grabbed his shirt from the floor and wrapped it around Avery's shirt, applying pressure to it to stop the blood flow. He looked down on him, crying "Sorry" over and over, as he thrust into him. Avery was wincing at each movement, but he didn't ask John to stop, almost as if he knew that the sooner this was over, the sooner they could get to a hospital. Avery reached up to kiss John softly, using his other arm to bring them face to face. John tried his best to forget they were being watched, the fact they were drugged and the blood pooling around them. He imagined they were at home, in bed. His mind was racing, looking for anything that would help. He settled on the first time he and Sherlock had ever had sex, and it helped bring him over the edge. Moriarty moaned, as did Sebastian.

By that point, Sherlock's three personalities had become completely dominant all at once and he was very, very aware of the situation. "Gnk," he managed, vision starting to go black from blood loss and terror, and then Liam's small, terrified voice, spoke weakly. "Nnooo…"

Once John had finished, perpetually apologizing, he noticed he was growing drowsy, Sherlock having passed out already. There was a hissing sound as white gas poured into the room and he couldn't stay awake any more, blacking out.

They woke up, in nothing but their underwear, in the dark, in an alleyway on the outskirts of London. It was a bad part of town, and Liam had already woken from the anaesthetic gas. He wasn't moving, in too much shock and having lost too much blood, but his voice floated to John from the other side of the alley. "My?" Liam's voice was very weak, but kept calling. "My?"

John pulled himself up, telling Liam he would be back as soon as possible. He ran to the nearest person, and begged them to call an ambulance, explaining how he and his friend had been attacked and he was passed out. Fortunately, the person he had ran to was a mother with her children. She told the kids to go and play in the park just across the street.
"Oh dear. Yes of course, are you okay? Where is he?" John took her over to Liam, who was passed out in the alleyway nearby. While she called the ambulance, John picked Liam up, trying to keep him conscious.

When the ambulance crew arrived, John thanked the woman and got in, as they took Liam in on a stretcher.

"…My?" Liam's eyes were distant, unable to focus. "Where's My?"

"Your what?" The EMT was sorting him as they went around the corner kind of quickly.

"Brother. Mycroft. My. Where's My?" Liam's vision was fuzzy and he started to black out. "M…My." Liam lost consciousness before the EMTs asked his name, but fortunately one of them recognized him and was able to fill in some of his information.

Mycroft arrived quickly to the hospital, rushing in and demanding to see his brother. Sherlock was in critical care, and Mycroft couldn't see him, although he was told that Sherlock was unconscious with severe blood loss and a broken right hand.

"There's evidence of drugs in their systems. Extremely high doses of PCP within the last day for both of them, and cocaine in the bloodstream of your brother, probably within the last two weeks. Did you know they were users?"

"My brother has cocaine addiction troubles, and I highly doubt that either of them would use PCP recreationally," Mycroft snapped. "If you must know, there's a history of being attacked violently, both sexually and otherwise. Let me see them. Dr. Watson, at least." The doctor nodded and Mycroft sat beside John as they tended to his broken ribs, expression asking him to explain what had happened.

John was in a shock blanket when Mycroft came to speak to him in the waiting room. "He attacked us again." John muttered, almost angrily. Mycroft nodded. "You told me that it wouldn't happen again. I trusted you. You're not the British government at all, are you? What actually do you do? Apart from leaking information about your brother to a known criminal mastermind who has used the information to get to us for what, four years now?" Mycroft bit his lip and looked at the floor, not arguing for once. "I don't know why you want to talk to me. I had to do things that I never want to think about, and I'm not going into detail, because what's the point? Nobody will do anything about it anyway." He stood up and stormed out of the waiting area, leaving Mycroft sitting by himself.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he gasped and started flailing weakly, panicking. "John! John!" He'd had a nightmare while unconscious, while the transfusions were being done, once again dreaming that John was transforming into Moran and he wanted more than almost anything to disprove that dream. "John!"

"Mr. Holmes, calm down, you're alright, you're in a hospital."

He froze and blinked, uncertainly, as if trying to focus. His breathing slowly steadied. "Where's John?"

"He's in the next room, just relax." The nurse smiled reassuringly. "Would you like me to bring him in?"

"Yes." Part of him would worry that black memories would come back, that he wouldn't be able to fight any delusions, but he still wanted John near him.

"Alright."

John came in, (now wearing clothes because Mycroft had left him some) quite slowly. "I'm sorry." John began to cry, looking at the state of his arm. "I'm so sorry, I should have just let them. I'm so so so sorry. Please forgive me." Sherlock used his good arm to stroke Johns face to calm him. "I made Mycroft angry and he's gone now. He deserves it though… I think. I don't know. I'm confused."

"I know, John." Sherlock seemed unusually tender. "And the remnants of the drug probably isn't helping. Aren't? I'm tired." He shook his head, his own vision still swimming from blood loss, pain medication, and the end of the PCP. His head fell backwards onto the pillow, trying to force himself awake. "I'm sorry, I…you weren't the only one who—" He took a deep breath. "It wasn't your fault. It wasn't Mycroft's fault. It was mine, to get to the root of it. I…I'm…I'd…you should never have had the drug, never have been in that situation. Living life in my head. My broken head."

Sherlock stared at John. He couldn't shake the feeling that John had raped him, too, not just Moriarty and Moran. But he knew that was part of Moriarty's plan, John had no choice. Avery was just as furious, boiling hatred for the one he once professed to love, for coming after him when he was vulnerable, drugged up and protesting. Even Liam didn't want John's presence, just wanted Mycroft, the one person he knew would never take advantage of him. He was shaking violently as he drew his unbroken hand away and curled it into a fist. "John…these past five months, six months, however long it's been. I—it h—I know three things. One: my mind will keep betraying me, no matter how much medication I take, I'll always skip, or Liam, or Avery, and when that happens, I…lose myself. Two: Avery will keep killing. There's nothing we can do to stop it, or very nearly nothing. Three: wherever we go, no matter what we do, Moriarty will keep finding us. And those together, I…I just—" His face contorted. "I want—I want to—" He broke down sobbing, unrestrained as if no one was watching, the same torrent of agony that had poured forth when he'd thought John was dead, as if he'd given up on everything. And he had.

"Do you want them to look after you in a hospital? Or do you want me to.." Avery came forward, throwing punches at John. "I'm sorry, I didn't want to- I had to, they could have killed us both!" Avery used his good arm to squeeze John's throat, until Liam took over and let go. He wasn't much better, though, as he turned over and ignored him. "Liam please. I know Sherlock is the only one who sort of understands- If you want, I'll turn myself into the police. Right now. Is that what you and Avery want?"

"Nnno," Liam whimpered. "I want My. I want you to stay. I don't know. I hurt." He curled into a ball, sobbing still. "I didn't want to sex," he whispered. "You did anyway. I know it was you or the Monsters who were going to sex me, but I didn't want it, I really really didn't…" He stayed quiet for a few seconds, patchy hair shaking with his silent sobs. "I want My."

Mycroft was brought in and Liam clung to him with his good hand. "Liam," he said softly. "Do you still love John?"

"…yes." Liam dug his fingernails into Mycroft's tie. "Yes, I do. I hate him still because of the times he was a Monster, but I love him much more."

Mycroft reached down and made Liam look him in the eye. "Then you need to tell him you forgive him." Liam sniffled, rolled over, and looked at John.

"I'm sorry for hating you," he whispered. "I'm sorry we had to sex you too and I'm sorry we broke your ribs when we were a beehive. I think you have more to forgive me for than I have to forgive you for. Do you forgive me?"

"Yes. I don't need to forgive you, I've never hated you. Avery hates me though, I know that. It's pretty much all over." John sat down in the chair with his head in his hands. "I'm sorry, Mycroft. I don't know what to say. Maybe you should just look after your brother while I go away for a while. For the rest of my life, even." Liam sniveled and started to protest. "Liam, please. None of you need me anymore, and I understand. What I did to save myself was wrong. I'll turn myself in."

"D—don't—don't leave please." Liam was crying again. "I need my lion…"

Mycroft looked down at his sobbing brother and shook his head sadly. "May I speak to you alone, John?"

"But—"

"It'll only be for a moment, Liam." Liam fell silent and Mycroft rather insistently led John out of the room. They could hear Liam sobbing, and he wasn't watching them—he'd rolled to his side, feeling abandoned. "I had hoped to look after the both of you at my house. Sherlock would stay in his old room, and, if you wanted, arrangements could be made for you to do the same. There would be an agent in the room next to you. It would be protective custody. It's the best I can offer. However, should you choose to leave him—something that I doubt anyone, except perhaps Moriarty, really wants—I would attempt to convince him it's for the best, though I have no desire to lie to him. And as for turning yourself in, I think your actions would be judged as justifiable, given the circumstances." He stared John down in a way that usually only Sherlock would. "It's up to you."

John frowned. "I need to go home. You stay with him, I'll text all three of them and yourself in the next day or so. I need to decide what's best, and being around him isn't going to help. I'm a rapist. I'm as bad as them." He coughed and nodded. "Bye." He walked away awkwardly, squeezing his hands into closed fists.

When he returned to Baker Street there was a note and a cake box on the table.

'Heard you boys were in a spot of trouble again, and I couldn't cancel my plane to Canada, (I'm going to see my sister.) I left this morning, and thought it'd be nice to leave you something for when you get home from hospital. The beds are made, the dishes are washed along with the laundry. I've bought you more groceries and left my key under the mat downstairs in case you need anything. Hope you both get well soon.
Lots of love, Mrs H. Xxxx'

John shuddered. The thought of being alone in the flat made him feel physically sick. He felt like there were eyes boring into his back, no matter where he sat in the flat. He strolled into the kitchen to make himself some tea. There was a note, left on the window, from the outside.

'I enjoyed last night, sexies! Hope to be seeing you soon. - M xxx'

He stopped what he was doing and slid down the wall to the floor. He'd been to the flat, meaning he could be inside. He could have left cameras, he could have laced poison into the food. He could have even forced Mrs Hudson into writing the note. He didn't want to think what he was capable of.

"Time for you to have something to eat." The nurse placed the little plate of chicken nuggets on the tray in front of Liam. He stared at the food for a few moments, pupils contracting, hands starting to shake, and suddenly Avery took his cast-covered arm and flung the table over with a roar. He ripped the IV from his arm and ran from the room, knocking down anyone who got in his way as he ran for the lift. The doors opened and he screamed for everyone to get out of the lift, and those who didn't obey were shoved violently. He wildly punched the button for the ground floor, the cafeteria workers in his mental sights, before Sherlock took over and he collapsed in a heap, clutching his head and fighting tears.

He reached for the emergency stop button to cancel his descent, pulled the knob, and sat for a few seconds in stillness before pressing it back in and heading to the rooftop. "Only one way out," he muttered. "Only one way." The lift's gravity altered as he ascended. Finally the doors opened, and he walked onto the rooftop and to the edge of the building. This time, it would be real. No trickery. Just a quick freefall and a sudden stop.

"Sherlock," came a soft voice—Mycroft's voice—from behind him. "Please come down."

"I intend to." His voice cracked even on just the four syllables, the same crack as the last time he'd stood on the roof of a hospital, inches from falling to his death. He could hear where Mycroft was (ten feet behind, three to the left, stance cautious)

"Please. Step back."

"You don't understand!" He was on the verge of hysteria, the psychiatric medication not having been included in his IV, and all the voices were back, though Avery's torrent of violence loudest of all. He couldn't see, or at least, didn't register what his eyes were seeing. He was blind to everything but the voices and the wind. "Perpetual torment, Mycroft. Agony. I have to make it stop. He was going to kill the cafeteria workers. Because they served chicken nuggets."

Mycroft's footsteps were inching closer. "Not like this, Sherlock. Don't do this," Mycroft pleaded. "You are an extremely intelligent man, and I've always admired your ability to place your feelings where your mind wouldn't be affected, a skill I've never been able to perfect. Please do that now. I implore you not to do this."

"You…admire me?" Sherlock laughed unsettlingly. "Appealing to my vanity to try to stop me. Good tactic. You know me well." Then the laughing stopped. "It won't work." He inched forward on the ledge, where a simple shift in weight would be enough to let him fall.

"Sherlock! Stop!" Mycroft's voice was more insistent now.

"The last six months have yanked everything I was from me. I was a brain, my body and feelings just footnotes, mere appendices, but…now I'm nothing. Just a mass of twisted neurons in perpetual pain. Hardly the man I once was. I drove the only person I may have actually loved away, possibly for good. I have to make it end." He took a deep breath. "I had hoped that you would never see this, that you'd remember me as I was, when I was whole. Fate is never so kind. Goodbye, Mycroft."

He tipped forward, felt his centre of gravity shift from above the ledge to somewhere in midair. This was it. Finally over. A minor moment of panic struck as gravity had its way with him, feeling himself fall, but it didn't matter now. In just a few seconds, he'd finally be at pea—

A set of familiar, comforting hands grabbed him and pulled him back, and Sherlock collapsed, barely conscious and breathing so heavily he was actually wheezing. Mycroft shouted for paramedics, but Sherlock didn't register anything that was going on as he was brought into the psychiatric ward and given a mild sedative.

When John arrived at the hospital he saw Mycroft outside smoking a cigarette. He was grey in the face. "What's happened?" John nearly tripped as he ran over. Mycroft informed him of what was said and that Sherlock was now on the ward. "Thank you." He ran up the long corridors to the lift. It seemed much slower than usual.

When he got to the room, he was greeted by a nurse. "He's very unwell. Only family will be allowed in at present. Unless you are his spouse?" John nodded, although that was obviously not true. "He's asleep. Feel free to make yourself comfortable."

Sherlock was snoring softly as usual. John noticed two IV's being hooked up to him, one was for his usual medication. He squirmed in his seat, feeling rather uncomfortable. Mycroft came in quietly, and put one hand on John's shoulder. It was a small but rather affectionate gesture.

"I don't know if he'll be alright," Mycroft said softly. "It was Avery. According to Sherlock, he was going to kill the hospital cafeteria staff because they served him chicken nuggets. Sherlock…he couldn't take it." Mycroft's voice nearly cracked and he turned away. "I'm sorry. I…" He left the room, going to the lavatory to hide his tears.

Sherlock opened his eyes slightly. "John?" His voice was soft, low, weak. "I'm…not sure what happened. It's foggy. I just remember wanting to fall." He looked at his arm and the dual IVs. "Antidepressant, undoubtedly. Sherlock Holmes tried to kill himself therefore Sherlock Holmes must be depressed. Brilliant deduction." He tilted his head slightly and sighed. "My mind's…fuzzy. Almost blank. Instead of half a dozen simultaneous thoughts, I'm down to two. Slow thoughts. Calm thoughts. Less intense." He looked at John, curious. "Is this what it's like being you, being ordinary? Sort of…a tube station instead of King's Cross?"

"I suppose." John croaked. "I'm sorry I left. Maybe I could have stopped Avery." He stopped speaking and let out a huge sigh. "I don't know. I'm to blame, I suppose." He ran his fingers through his hair- now shaggy, as he hadn't been to a hairdressers in a few months. Sherlock didn't reply, it was almost as if he was trying to find the correct response. "Are you hungry?" John tapped his hand on his knee. "I could go and get you something that isn't chicken nuggets." He forced a small smile.

When Mycroft returned, composed, John went to the cafeteria to get Sherlock some soup. On the way, he kept his eyes on each doorway that he passed, in case he was pulled into one of them. His paranoia felt like it was getting worse. He shook his head and did what he set out to do.

Sherlock was asleep when John got back. Mycroft had waited, just in case. "You should go and sleep, Mycroft. You don't look well. I'll be here." He nodded, shook Johns hand and left.

Sherlock was dreaming. The dream was far simpler than he was used to. He was standing in a chapel, in a black tuxedo. John stood beside him, in angelic white. They were getting married. But the words were garbled, making nearly no sense.

"Does the John of Fusiliers steal Sherlock of Detective for eternal no-sharing?"

"Always," said John.

"Sherlock of Detective, do you steal John of Fusiliers for eternal non-sharing?"

Sherlock stared, unable to make sense of the words. "I…" Before he could figure it out, Avery phased into view in all-black, right down to the shirt he wore with his tux, and flicked open his knife, stabbing Sherlock in the chest. Blood spread over his shirt, bright red staining the shirt crimson, everyone just standing and watching as Sherlock fell to the ground, Avery carving a hole in his chest and ripping out his heart.

Avery smirked, eyes manic and murderous as he held Sherlock's still-beating heart in his hand. "You didn't deserve this." Sherlock gasped, unable to speak, struggling to move, dying but still aware. Avery turned to John. "Continue the promise-making," he said. John frowned and backed away.

"Cancel. Cancel! Not you! Only for consummation." Avery frowned at John and tried to stab him, too, but Liam materialized and took the knife-attack as the priest (Mrs. Hudson) bound Avery with ropes she got from nowhere. Liam fell to the ground, scarlet covering his old-world dress uniform as he started to gasp for breath.

"Don't fly." Liam clung to John's shirt, staining the white bright red. "Before I go dark, don't fly."

"I'll stay," John said. "You only have a soul. Sherlock long ripped it out. Avery never glowed." Liam nodded weakly, breathing growing slower and slower, crying (and somehow Sherlock was watching, though he was long dead by now, his fingers going cold), grip getting weaker until he was dead. John let out a roar and cradled the body of the child, howling with grief, ignoring both the dead Sherlock and the tied-up Avery.

Sherlock spoke before he woke up. "Doesn't want me. Not anymore. Understandable." His eyes opened and he looked over to John. "Um…I dreamed. We were getting married. Avery killed me and when you said you didn't love him, he tried to kill you. Liam took the knife and you…you said…that Avery and I didn't have a soul but Liam did. When he died, he was the only one whose death you mourned." Sherlock frowned. "Did you—why did you come back?"

"I'd mourn you more than anybody." John swallowed, closing his eyes. "I came back because I was worried out of my mind. I had second thoughts about leaving for good. Avery hates me, and I wouldn't be surprised if you did too. Liam is the only one who doesn't hate me too much."
John sipped on the coffee the nurse had brought in for him. "I feel like shit, though I bet you feel even worse. God. I'm such a dick. I'm sorry." He winced at the word. "I should have let them do what they wanted, then we wouldn't be here, not really." A heavy tear splashed down from his eye onto his jeans. "Ugh. I understand if you three want me gone."

"I understand why you did what you did. And I did it too, remember? Not to mention your broken ribs. And this." Sherlock held up his broken and sliced-up arm. "Self-inflicted, or near enough." He swallowed. "I've done worse. Moriarty's fault, all of it. I—" His face froze. "Av—" He shook, fighting the change but failing. Suddenly Avery's hand was around John's throat again. "I was vulnerable. I was barely conscious, I was hallucinating, I was scared. You took advantage of me. I know it was their fault, their doing, but you could have fought them actually waited for them to come in to rape us, then fought them, killed them, but no, you gave in, you coward, you rapist, you—" He squeezed harder just as the hospital personnel pulled him away. "Get the fuck out of my life, you—you—" He ran out of words and mindlessly roared, struggling against the nurses, fighting them as hard as he could, resulting in his sedation.

John tapped his phone in his hand, thinking about contacting Mycroft. No, he seemed pretty worn out, it'd be best to wait. He felt sick, dizzy and sweaty. He wasn't sure if he had a bug or if it was pure guilt. He wanted to throwhimself from a great height for what he'd done, but he quickly shook the thought from his mind.

When Avery woke, he was strapped up to the bed. John didn't try speaking to him, until Avery screeched. "I thought it would have been better than them raping you, or them castrating you. I didn't want to. I had to. Why is it that you're the only one that doesn't understand? I didn't want to. I'd never hurt you willingly. I have broken ribs and I was drugged up too- not that it justifies anything. So what is it that you want me to do? Kill myself? You tell me."

"I didn't say you wanted to. I only said you did," Avery spat. "And as for what I want you to do, I don't want you dead. Believe me. I'd shoot myself if you offed yourself. I just want you out. Gone. Away from me, somewhere you can't hurt me again or where Moriarty can't get you." He struggled against the straps, shouting, full of rage. "I'm on these meds, so I'm mostly rational, and I don't want you dead. But you make me sick. It didn't even occur to you that they'd come in to rape us again if you didn't, and, even drugged and weak, that we could have taken them?" Avery took deep breaths, realizing that it hadn't occurred to him, either, and that he'd actually gone first. "I'm disgusted. With you. With me. With Moriarty and Moran. Right now I wouldn't kill you. Give me an hour. So get out before I do something I'll shoot myself for."

"Oh, and where am I meant to go? I can't call your brother, he's worn out. I can't go back to the flat, Moriarty has been there, Mrs Hudson is gone. I have no idea where I'm meant to go or what I'm meant to do; I don't know where I'm protected… And we couldn't of taken them, as much as I wish we could of. I've never been that high in my life, and you were pretty much bleeding to death so I had to do something quick…" He stood up and shook his head. "I'll fuck off to a hotel or something. I might even buy a new flat."

Avery stared at the ceiling. "I don't care where the hell you go. Just get out." He sighed as John left, and the instant he did, he felt better. Anyone who had hurt him was gone. He was better off alone.

Mycroft literally ran into John on his way into the hospital. "John? He's attacked you," he said, observing the bruises on John's neck. He looked down and away before hesitantly hugging him. "His mind is…difficult to understand, though especially right now. If you insist on staying away—and, with this development, I am almost willing to encourage it—I'm certain Zapharia would be more than willing to put you up. And if she isn't, I can remind her that I own her flat." He smiled weakly. "Sherlock will stay with me. If that's what you want, of course."

"I'll go to a hotel until I find a flat. I'll never see them again, if that's what he wants. Thank you, for everything, really. If anybody wants me, my phone is with me at all times." He stormed out of the hospital, back to Baker street, just to pack some bags.

"Hello." A deep, familiar voice cooed from the living room. John turned to run but Jim was in the doorway with a grin. "Thought we'd find you here, didn't we, boss? See, since you're my favourite, boss wants you to come with us, for a few days. Maybe weeks. Depends on how I feel." John tried to protest, but as he opened his mouth, a cloth was shoved over it, and he slowly passed out.

When he woke up, he was in a dark room. Handcuffed to a double bed, he guessed- expensive, designer room. Moriarty's house, he thought. There was pictures of Sherlock and John; walking around the streets, in tesco, in hospitals and on cases covering the walls. John sighed and rolled his eyes. His phone was right next to him, clearly meaning to annoy. He listened to it chime every ten minutes, wondering who was looking for him.

"John?" Sherlock had phased in not long after John had left. He registered that he was restrained, and fought to restrain panic. Probably gone for the night, he thought. But when John didn't come fitful hours later, Sherlock was starting to grow upset again. They'd unrestrained him and allowed him his phone, and he kept texting John, trying to either wake him or get him to reply. He kept flashing back to those nights before this had all started, when his mind was one, before he was broken into pieces.

John. When you come back tomorrow, please bring Hamish.
SH

John. You are coming back?
SH

Please. Come back.
S

Don't do this.

Do'nt be ddead.

His hands shook and he felt himself beginning to panic, imagining that John had killed himself over this incident. "Don't. Please," he whispered.

"Let me have one phone call." John shouted, as he'd been left there. Moriarty and Sebastian had been shagging on the floor for about 4 hours, and it was growing rather irritating, listening to the same groans for hours on end. They hadn't touched him, yet. Moriarty jumped up, and put Johns phone on speaker for a few seconds, ringing Sherlock.
"They've got me. I wanted to come back, I can't. Don't think this means I don't care, Sherlock, I lo-" The phone cut dead. Moriarty grinned, pulling out a small blade, running it over John's scars with a gleam in his eyes.

Sherlock's head was still slightly sluggish and it took a few seconds to work out what he meant. When it did, he felt himself blacking out in shock and took a few grunts to keep himself conscious—he had to tell someone. Fortunately, at that moment, Mycroft came back.

"Mycroft—John—Moriarty, he—December again, you have to find him, you have to get him—"

"Slow down, Sherlock. What do you mean?" Mycroft put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder as the younger Holmes twisted himself to try to sit up, his ankles still bound.

"December. Have you forgotten? He's got John! Again! And there's nothing I can do about it. They could be torturing him again, Mycroft, they could be doing anything, anything at all, you have to find him, use the GPS on his phone, do whatever you can, just make sure he's safe!" Sherlock was nearly hysterical, and Mycroft bounded out of the room, headed toward his office and phoning Lestrade on the way. Sherlock called for a nurse, who came running just as quickly as Mycroft had left. "Have to let me go," he said. "Find John, have to save him again, my fault, my selfish stupid fault, Avery!"

The nurse was bewildered. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, but you have to stay until after the psychiat—"

"Let me go!" It was more a roar than anything, and he reached down to try to undo the straps. He was sedated yet again to a level where he was still conscious, but only just.

When he recovered, his phone blinked with a voicemail. It was Mycroft.

"His GPS is currently disabled. We have no idea where his phone is at present, but we're honing in on his last location. He called you from his mobile. It's still on—I've tried calling it, but we can't narrow it down further than the neighborhood. Searching it for him and for Moriarty is going to take time. I'm doing my best."

Sherlock fell back into his pillow and Liam came forward, reading Sherlock's last messages and listening to the voicemail. He howled in emotional pain.

John had passed out from blood loss, only to be woken up on a hospital bed. He sighed, wondering why Moriarty hadn't raped him, and why he'd just let him go. A nurse came into the room, and they closed the blinds. John groaned and asked if they wouldn't mind letting some light in. The next thing he knew, a large syringe was sticking out of his arm. "You didn't think we'd just release you. No. Jim has this place for when he hurts his pets too much." John tried to speak but he couldn't form words. "Don't waste your energy trying to speak, John. There's no point. Oh, by the way, Sherlock has been informed of what we're going to do to you. We sent him a little… shall we say, note?" Seb kissed John before he passed out.

Liam stared at the picture message, a crudely photoshopped picture of John with a gun, and threw the phone across the room, shaking. "Don't be a Monster again please please don't be a Monster…"

Mycroft and a few agents arrived at the house, barged inside, and saw the evidence. There was blood, but not enough to have killed whoever was bleeding. There were condoms on the floor, and more than enough photographs on the wall to prove a definite obsession. This was Moriarty's house. And John was no longer there.

"Get any little forensic clue you can, he's somewhere, we just have to find out where."

"Sir, this place is larger than the biggest Army Base we have." One of Mycrofts workers pointed out. "We need more men." Mycroft nodded, sent a text on his phone and waited for more back up.

When they finally found John, he was crawling towards the door, blood dripping from his chest. "Ambulance." Said one of Mycrofts men to his colleague, he nodded and rang for one.

John wasn't aware of his surroundings, the only thing he knew was that he was being moved somewhere. Probably by Moriarty for more torture.

They put him on the stretcher and lifted him into the ambulance. Mycroft followed in his car, and as they got out and wheeled him inside, he did his best to utter a reassuring "It's alright, John, you're safe now."

It was not the same as Sherlock's hospital—they figured closer was better than more familiar, if they were going to tend to his injuries quickly. Mycroft sent Anthea to sign Sherlock's discharge papers and bring him where John was, and as they came into the room, Liam charged for John and hugged him tightly, crying and not caring about the pain the pressure might cause. "John, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, why did you leave? The Monsters got you again and please don't ever leave me alone again, I love you too much and I'm sorry you always get hurt because of me, I love you, please be okay, please I hope your mind is nice to you this time, please wake up, please say you love me, please say you'll never leave. Please, John, please, I need you and I love you and I want you forever…"

"I wish they'd killed me." John muttered. "I don't know. They had sex in front of me while I was tied up, I was cut and filled with drugs. They could have raped me but I don't know. I don't think they did." He sipped his water. "You can go." He gestured to the door before he turned onto his side, facing the wall. John heard Avery snarl before he came over and turned him to face him. "Go." John repeated. "You don't love me, or want me anymore, I'm nothing but a 'sick rapist' so there is obviously no reason for us to speak."

"Be careful whose emotions you toy with," Avery whispered dangerously. "I…when I was out, when you were gone, I realized…" He frowned. "Soft emotions are not my forte." He shifted in his seat. "And neither are apologies. I was wrong. But if you want me to leave, I will." He stood and went to the door. "Get out of my way, Mycroft. He doesn't want me here any more."

"I'm not going to let you walk out." Mycroft was blocking the doorway, and the brothers' eyes met and made the temperature of the room drop. "I won't let you do this."

"It's not any of your business."

"You're my brother. Your well-being is entirely my business." Silence followed before Avery returned to John's side with a sigh. Avery smiled at John, a very unusual tenderness. He reached to John's wounds, but John slapped him away.

"You're right. I'm…sorry. It wasn't your fault, neither of us thought of attacking them. Hindsight. But don't think I don't want you any more. Because I do. Just…on my terms, not Moriarty's." He took John's hand and kissed it, almost like someone from an old film. "I love you. Never doubt that. I just have strange ways of showing it."

John nodded. "I love you too. I need to sleep, I feel dreadful. Be here when I wake up, okay?" Avery nodded and John turned over, leaving him to his own devices.

When John woke up from a dreamless sleep, Avery was smoking in the corner, reading. "You should really stop doing that in here, they'll kick you out, even if they do think you're my husband." Avery scoffed and turned the page of his book. "I'm sorry, Avery. I really am. I understand why you were angry at me. I just didn't want you to end up worse off than you would have been. I hope you can forgive me, even though I can't quite forgive myself." John sipped sat up and sipped his water.

"Don't do that," Avery said sharply. "Not the water, go ahead and have that. Just don't do the self-pity thing. Makes you weak." He took another drag before stamping it out, having seen nurses on the way, who glared at him as they entered. They checked John over, cleaned his chest wounds, and replaced the bandages, all while Avery watched. He clenched his good fist, uncomfortable, as the voices were starting to come back. He shut his eyes and shook his head slightly before standing suddenly. "Back in a moment."

He rushed down to Mycroft, who had been given Sherlock's pills by Anthea. "I need them. The choir's back." Mycroft surreptitiously handed Avery his pill regimen, now at four pills, and Avery took them gratefully. "Have to wait for them to kick in. Going to the cafeteria. Getting John some food." He staggered down the hallway, blinking uncertainly, and the combination of drugs in his system made him fall sideways into the wall. His blood pressure was too low. He leaned against it for a moment.

"Sh—Avery, do you want help?" Mycroft had come up behind him and spoke gently.

"Fine. Just dizzy. Low blood pressure. Nicotine, along with everything else. And I haven't slept properly in ages. I'm fine." He took a deep breath and continued downstairs. He stared at the food in the cafeteria, trying to work out what John wanted, and felt the voices of his victims as well as Sherlock and Liam start to fade. He smiled. "Quiet," he whispered, picking up a vanilla yoghurt for John and a bagel and some cream cheese for himself. He paid for it and returned to the room, where another dizzy spell took him and he ended up more tumbling into his chair than anything. "Don't worry, I'm fine. Just nicotine plus my other pills and a hint of exhaustion. Got you yoghurt." He held it out. "Vanilla."

"Thank you." John smiled weakly. "When can we go home? Back to Mycrofts, or the flat.. I don't know. When can we leave?" Avery shrugged and sat down. John ate his yoghurt in silence.

"Hello. We can discharge you tomorrow, Doctor Watson." The nurse smiled, fluffed his pillows and left. John groaned. "You can go home if you want. I don't expect you to stay."

Avery smiled, almost disturbingly (for him) gently. "I'll stay. If one of his minions comes to fuck up your meds, who'll stop them?" He reached down and kissed John on the forehead. "I…I thought I'd lost you again. I realized I didn't really want you gone. I want you to stay as much as the others, and when—I had horrible visions in my head when you wouldn't answer your phone. You, in an alley, bleeding to death, unable to reach for your phone. At home, blowing your brains out with your illegal firearm. In a park, looking just like one of…my victims. Slitting your wrists in the bathtub. Getting raped so hard you died. Following Sherlock's lead and jumping from the roof. Doing something stupid and getting shot. Finding the morphine in the—at home, shooting yourself up, knowing it was too much for your body to take. Going after Moran on your own again but ending up with your balls ripped off and bleeding out. Drowning yourself in the Thames." His hand was shaking and a small tear came from his eyes and splashed onto John's nose. "You're the only thing I care about, John. Well, and Sherlock, but that falls under self-preservation for the most part. Just those pictures in my mind…I…I couldn't take it if any of them had been true." He sniffled slightly. "Stupid soft emotions." He chuckled. "Not to mention exhaustion. I meant it when I said I'd rather see you comatose than dead. I'd still have you then. I can't lose you. I…I can't…" He climbed in the bed. "Spouse's privilege," he muttered. "I'm never going to let them take you from me again, I promise." Avery kissed John's ear and put his head against John's, and within seconds, John could feel Avery/Sherlock/Liam's snoring on his shoulder.

John decided to stay awake, out of fear. Though nothing had really happened, he certainly felt like something had changed. He decided it wasn't worth dwelling on, before texting Zapharia.

Hope you're well, things are a bit hectic here.

-John

The nurse came in with water for John. "I understand you're worried about your safety here? Since your previous visit we've secured everything. I'll lock the door for you, you just need to get some sleep, okay love? See you in the morning."

John nodded, and dropped off to sleep, feeling safe for once in the comfort of Avery.

Sometime in the night, Avery reached his arm over John, as if protecting him. He wasn't dreaming, just feeling better with the rising and falling of John's chest beside him. He smiled and gently licked John's ear in his sleep.