John managed to get Sherlock up off the floor. He slung the detective's good arm over his shoulder and began to make his stumbling way to the outside. His friend was still disorientated, something John was finding disconcerting to see in the normally razor sharp Sherlock, but John decided that could wait. Mycroft had said to get to the main lawn and he would arrange away to get them out. John realised he must have been naive to expect a car.

"How the hell," he shouted to Sherlock over the thumping sound of helicopter blades, "does Mycroft expect to keep this a secret,"

"He doesn't," said a voice behind him, "Come along doctor I've been waiting,"

"Jesus Mycroft, this is a bit much!"

"I told you, I am completely done playing nice,"

"Mycroft..."

John started. Sherlock struggled upright from where he'd been slumped against John. The detective seemed to finally be taking in his surroundings.

"Sherlock?" he said. John anxiously searched his friend's face for recognition, "Come on Sherlock, yes it's us,"

"John!" Sherlock's voice was pitifully weak, but the joy in finding his friend was there nonetheless, "John! You came! It's..." he cleared his throat, "Long time no see Doctor,"

"Of course I came Sherlock, we're going home. Mycroft's here, look-" But Sherlock chose that moment to pitch forward with a muffled groan. John caught him, but Sherlock's eyes were already closed, and he hung bonelessly in John's arms.

John turned helplessly to Mycroft. The elder Holmes' mouth was pinched into a tight line, Mycroft clearly distressed at the state of his brother.

"Get him to the helicopter," Mycroft said, his voice clipped.

John nodded, "Come on then,"

"No Doctor, you are to go on without me,"

"Mycroft?"

"I'm afraid they had one chance. They did have a chance for me to leave and not bring fire down upon them," Mycroft's voice was strangely distance, his eyes far away, "But that was dependent on Sherlock not being harmed,"

John could see the resignation in Mycroft and it scared him.

"No," said John, "No, you're coming with us now,"

Mycroft laughed coldly. "No John, you see, I can't let them get away with this,"

"And you won't, but I'm quite convinced you can do an equal amount of damage from back in London. This is over Mycroft. We've rescued him. And if he's going to stay rescued we need to leave now. And besides, I need your help carrying him."

Mycroft stayed where he was. This was a good sign John thought. Though he'd better bloody get done contemplating soon because- and yes, there was the first wave of armed guards streaming from the house.

"Ah," said Mycroft, noticing them "Yes I don't believe I've managed to get that faction as scared of me as I would like, and..."

John didn't care, he simply gently hoisted Sherlock up again and felt Mycroft take Sherlock's other arm. Together they struggled across the lawn towards escape.

-/-

Sherlock woke up to the plush surroundings of a private jet. His mind immediately began screaming warnings at him. This was a trap, he was on his own, they were coming for him, they were going to hurt him. He sat bolt upright and looked around. John - was it John, was it really John - came over to him, a worried look on his face.

"Sherlock, I need you to lie down again or you're going to hurt yourself,"

It was John, Sherlock decided, really John. John was, Sherlock deicided, the most wonderful thing to look at in the world.

"Come on Sherlock," said John, "Just don't hurt yourself anymore before we get to a hospital," John began to look decidedly sheepish "We need to set your wrist, and some proper stitches and I need another doctor to look at..."

"Doctor stop worrying yourself, you have done more than enough," said Mycroft.

Mycroft.

Sherlock stared dumbly at his brother.

"Sherlock, talk to me, are you alright?" said John.

"Yes John, just a but surprised that you got my brother out from behind a desk," But Sherlock was running through the motions, there was no real barb to what he said.

John laughed. Sherlock didn't think he'd heard anyone laugh in two months.

Sherlock felt the questions began to vie for attention in his head. How had they managed this? How had John persuaded Mycroft to come? What had happened?

But for once in his life Sherlock Holmes didn't let the questions take over. He lay down again, as John wanted him to, on the ridiculously comfy aeroplane sofa. As soon as he relaxed the pain in his body began to make itself felt, but Sherlock felt that a small price to pay. He hadn't relaxed in a long time. Not since he had been caught in Serbia the first time. He settled into the sofa but didn't let his eyes closed, choosing to keep watching John and Mycroft, to keep reassuring himself that they were there.

For now it didn't matter how they'd managed to get out the country, it didn't matter what awful mess was going to have to be untangled back in Britain, it didn't even matter how he was going to explain all this to Mrs. Hudson. Because Sherlock Holmes had people who had come to rescue him and for now, just for now, he could feel safe.