Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but I swear, one day it will be my rightful posession and I will do whatever damn-well pleases me with it.

Hello again! Here I go with another highly anticipated chapter, or at least I hope so. :) Thank you for being so patient with me and waiting for me to get my lazy arse up and do what I'm supposed to do.

I'm sorry if I caused any inconvenience, but I changed the picture of my story and the title. Sorry! I just felt like my old stuff was a bit boring.

Martha Hudson and David entered the dimly lit room, which was only enlightened by a few beams of sunlight creeping through the shutter of the window.

She turned on the light switch which threw a touch of light on Raphael, enough for him to feel a little bit more secure. Why did they have to keep him in the dark anyway? He wouldn't be much use against the ropes and his telekinetic skills were slightly outdated, so why the darkness?

"So, there we go, Raphael?" asked Mrs. Hudson, who felt still a little bit shaken.

"Yes, Ma'am?"

"You have been officially proven guilty." She replied, not able to look him into the eyes. David flinched.

"What? How?" Raphael asked, stunned to no extent. This better wasn't happening. Maybe he was still abed, dreaming?

"Well, David is the witness; he has seen everything you have done. He was the one to tell me-"

"You?" Raphael asked neither believing his ears nor his eyes. "I trusted you; you have always been my best friend and you-? This can't be true." He shook his head.

"I believe it is." Mrs. Hudson sighed. "We will have to hand you over to the police now." She said, half of her face filled with disgust and the other with empathy. Since when did judgment become so hard?

Raphael stared at David, his eyes burning into David's soul. "Why? What has become of you?"

"James Moriarty." He replied, answering both questions in one go.

Raphael tried to gaze at David intensely; he wanted to wish him all the worst in life, that he and his yet to be children may rot in hell. But he couldn't. He was still too much of a friend.

"Good luck mate." He said, trying to erase the empathy in his eyes. He didn't know who would take it worse in the future.

"You too." David said, the tears in his eyes too evident. "I'm sorry, so sorry."

"I know."

Mrs. Hudson dialled the number.

James Moriarty felt like a king. The king of the world, maybe. But more like the king of hearts. Especially the king of David, whose heart he would own alone at once. Now that Raphael was out of the way and Sherlock in a quite delicate way too. James rubbed his hands; this had been the perfect crime and it was just way too easy.

"Sleep well, my darling." He whispered patting the bundle of sleep that Sherlock was at the time. "May god have mercy on your soul."

He wondered whether or not Sherlock would survive. Well, what did it matter to him?

Greg woke up, the sunlight reaching his eyes instantly, leading him to flinch. He winced, his whole body was still covered in wounds and he didn't feel a hint better. At least there was a blanket covering him, but even that hurt somehow. He wished he could escape this hellhole.

He took a peek around the room, finding not much there except the white, sterile decorations of a hospital. So he was in hospital then? The last time he looked, he was still back home. No, not home, their holiday resort- thingy? No it wasn't a resort, it was-? Good lord, his mind was on hold.

"Greg, Greg are you awake? Are you there?" Asked a voice which was strangely familiar. Taking a closer look, he noticed it was, Jo- Joan? Joh- Something with Joh-.

"Joh-?" Greg said, glee in his eyes for remembering at least something.

"Yes, John. Hi." John said, smiling at his friend's behaviour. It was nice to be recognized in such a cheerful way.

"What happen-?" Greg asked, trying to force his brain to work properly once more.

"Oh, you, well-." John cringed; they should really start off with another subject. It'd be better if Greg didn't know what happened from the beginning. Maybe later, but now that Greg had finally started healing it wouldn't be of much good. "It doesn't matter now, rest a little, sleep-"

"Where Sherlock-?"

John gulped. "Oh, he's trying to fix things for Raphael." He looked away, trying to avoid his friend's gaze.

"Raphae-?" Greg said, trying to remember with his mouth slightly opened and then nodding. "What things?"

"Uhm, with his girlfriend, you know."

"He has- girlfriend-d?" Greg asked, suspecting something.

"Uhm, yeah, didn't you know?"

"Who?"

John gulped saying out the first name that came into his mind. "Uh, Lisa."

"Wasn't- yo-u girlfrie-d?" Greg asked, nuzzling his head into the warm pillow.

How difficult can it be to trick a half-conscious, not even properly thinking and almost brain-dead idiot? Well, it seemed the idiot made the difference. Greg wasn't one.

Sherlock opened his eyes once more, just to wake up to the all too well-known darkness surrounding him.

He noticed some bruises and scratches which plastered his body and even some major wounds, but he merely catalogued them and then tried to forget them. Feeling sorry for himself wouldn't aid him and neither would concentrating on something so irrelevant. Besides, he needed to form a plan as quickly as possible. Selfishness never helps out.

"To hear that out of your mouth." John would have said. That idiot. Sherlock chuckled; John had already invaded half of his self. It was better that way.

So, where was he? Some sort of hut? Yes, that was the most probable. Reason for his being here? James Moriarty. That bit was clear.

Sherlock trried to re me m b er, but somehow, it all went blackk and- coold an d-

Shit, he h ad been drugged. At least he had one advantage. His bo dy was already accustomed to the medication, som ething James Moriarty didn't know and no one else di d. If Sherlock wanted to keep s omething hidd en, he did.

Sh erlock tried to sober himself up, but over all to think. Was there anything to go o n wi t h?

Fuck, the court! He had to intervene. No, no, no. He had to leave and that hurriedly. But how?

Oh, James Moriarty, you're not as clever as you think you are.

Sherlock rid himself of the rope that covered his body, using the hook on the wall to free himself. This was too easy. Maybe there were traps on the floor or the wall? Sherlock checked. This really was way to o simple.

He tried to take a few baby-steps into the right direction, but his knees buckled up before the rest of his body could protest. And then he looked down at his knees, or rather the mulch that replaced them.

Seemed like he had underestimated the situation.

The judge had already taken his place, the witnesses were about to and Raphael sat there with his hands tied to a chair whose direction it came from he didn't even know. Let's say the last days here had done nothing for his brain to work any better and he, as a whole, just felt like some kind of mash or pulp or something and god, he couldn't concentrate.

Everything he was able to see transformed frequently or flickered before his eyes. And the air buzzed, not in a good way though.

His head ached like some sort of elephant had trampled on it and what was he here for again? Oh, yes the court, that idiot of Raphael had rape- shit, he was Raphael, wasn't he? Had he done anything?

Oh, this day wouldn't be easy, would it?

"So, Raphael, how old are you?"

"Oh, 17, sir."

"Thank you very much." The judge said, carrying on with a few questions to test Raphael's condition. When he was satisfied, he looked into Raphael's eyes trying to analyze every movement or twitch on his opposite's side. "Raphael, you have been accused of abusing Gregory Lestrade, hurting him in the cruellest of ways and then going as far as raping him, can I qualify that as true?"

Raphael gulped, his eyes pinning around the room, searching for any sort of halt he couldn't find.

"I-I don't know, sir."