AN: Gratuitous amounts of Sherlock whump in this chapter. And a little bit of John angst. Oh and is that a ship on the horizon?! *grins wickedly*

For the third time over the course of an hour, Sherlock's back lurches violently off the sofa, his eyes flashing open in a mixture of intense pain and determination. "Again!" he gasps, sweat pouring off his face. He grabs on to Anthea's hands until his knuckles turn white. For her part she doesn't even cringe.

"Sherlock, maybe – maybe we should take a break?" John says as he rushes over with a glass of ice chips and a cold rag. He drapes it over his friend's brow.

"Can't. I can't John. I have to — I was right there — the Door, John!" he babbles almost nonsensically. He tries to get up, but John gently pushes him back down.

"You're going to over do it," he says kneeling, and rubs an ice chip against his dry cracked lips. Sherlock's eyes fall closed, and he allows this little bit of relief. John checks his temperature again and finds it's still hovering just over 38 C. "If your fever goes up any more I'm putting my foot down," he says firmly, glaring likewise at Anthea so the message is clear.

He has a feeling that her motivations are a lot more self seeking than she let on. Between her personal vendetta, and Mycroft's impatience, John worried that Sherlock would snap. They had only been at it for four days, but Sherlock seemed to be weakening at an alarming rate. Even though he was a medical professional, John still had no idea what he was dealing with. All he could discern from Sherlock's symptoms were the bouts of chronic pain and dangerous fevers that could spike at anytime, and adjust accordingly. Water, rest, soup broth, rest, Lucozade, and cold compresses. It didn't feel like enough, and every time they thought they were making progress the pieces of Sherlock's mind that were pulled from the wreckage slipped through his fingers the instant he was lucid. The defeat of this drove his frustration through the roof subsequently aggravating his insomnia and fever all over again. It was a volatile mix, a slippery slope; unforgiving and unpredictable.

Sherlock described it as a block in his mind that turned his awareness up to overwhelming degrees. Apparently it was meant to protect him, but the wires got crossed along the way that threatened to kill him. According to him, his brain compensated the only way it knew how and created a firewall around his memories. That's why Anthea is here. She has a skill, it seems. She used to use a variety of meditation methods that allowed her to access the subconscious and attempt to draw certain information out like a siphon. It was for this reason, Sherlock explained that Moriarty, and subsequently Mycroft found her quite useful.

The way he put it, anyone could torture someone for information, but the results were unreliable and there was always the chance the subject would die before anything useful could be gained. But if they could be tricked into believing a different reality, then they would also become more amenable to their captors. It was what they had tried to do with Sherlock through a mixture of fear serum and pain until all that was left was the base structure of his working mind. He was a vehicle of stratagem and autonomy, responding to directives and accomplishing objectives.

Truly, like a well-oiled machine.

John shudders and feels that familiar prickle of guilt.

"Again, John. I need to go again," Sherlock says through clacking teeth as the fever rages behind his eyes.

"You need a couple of minutes," John says firmly, pressing a straw to his lips to get him to take a proper mouthful of water. He pushes it away with a trembling hand.

"We don't have time, John!" he shouts half way levering himself into an upright position. His face pales dramatically and his eyes grow wide. John recognises what is happening immediately, and is there just in time with the plastic bowl just as Sherlock vomits painfully. Through out his retching, John props him up better and sits next to him on the sofa. He can see the tears in Sherlock's eyes, and can't help but put an arm around his friend's shoulders as he shakes violently. John tries not to show it, but this is beginning to get to him.

"It's all right. I've got you," John soothes as Sherlock whimpers.

When he's finally finished he sags weakly against him, and John wipes his mouth with the damp rag.

"We're done today. You've had enough," John says.

Sherlock clamps a hand around John's wrist and looks up at him with vulnerable pleading eyes. It looks like it's taking all his energy just to hold his head up. "Please, John. One more time. I was so close."

John wipes a hand over his face. God he's exhausted. "I really don't think you should. It goes against all of my better judgment."

"John," he says and it almost comes out as a sob. Almost. He huffs a breath out of his nose fighting with himself and the desperate look on his charge's face.

"You're dehydrated. I'm going to go get you some Lucozade, and if you can keep it down for thirty minutes then you can go again. But only one more time, clear?"

"Crystal," Sherlock says, voice like gravel. John eases Sherlock back against the cushions and retrieves a bottle from the fridge. He hands it to him with a look that means 'and I mean all of it' to which Sherlock only grimaces and flicks open the cap.

To placate his frayed nerves, John goes back into the kitchen and attacks the dirty dishes with a vengeance. A low pressure builds behind his eyes, as his inadequacy and worry crash over him. It's staggers him to know that Moriarty was only a small part of the bigger mess that Sherlock is in, and the more he begins to piece together the last few years of his friend's life, the more despondent he feels. Would it ever, truly end? His hands are shaking by the time he works himself into this hopelessness, and he drops a glass which shatters against the porcelain. It's the last straw he can take.

"Fuck!" he hisses and throws the sponge in the sink. He pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to take some deep calming breaths, but he's quickly realising it's not working, and if the ringing in his ears is any indication, he's actually on the verge of a bloody panic attack. He tries desperately to focus on something, anything, other than the welling feeling in his chest threatening to cut off his oxygen. His gasps come out harsh, barely muffled over the steady sound of the running tap.

"John?" Anthea says from behind him. He nearly jumps out of his skin, almost having forgotten she was here for a moment. He tenses and grips the edge of the sink until his knuckles bleed white.

"Yes?" he says without turning around he hopes it comes out sounding strong and nonchalant. Apparently it doesn't because he can hear her sigh.

"He's going to be all right," she says, and he can feel her taking a few steps towards him. He grits his teeth.

"How do you know that?" His voice breaks, betraying him. "I've never seen anything like this before, I don't — I don't know what to do," he confesses. The air is thinning as he speaks, and his eyes blur with tears.

Suddenly, Anthea is there at his side, warm and smelling of jasmine. She turns him around to face her, and he can't bring himself to look her in the face.

"I've never seen this either, but I know he is in capable hands," she whispers and brings his left hand up between them and turns it so it is facing palm up. He clenches it a few times, trying to get the tremor to cease. She smoothes his fingers flat and traces a soothing pattern along his wrist and the lines of his hand with her thumb. The repetitive motion centres him, and breathing gradually becomes easier. He looks up into her face, and notices that her eyes are closed and she's humming a tune barely audible over the din of the running water. He tilts his head a little, surprised by this, and simply looks at her. He would have never believed her of such a common act of kindness, what with her constant aloof and superior demeanour.

"Thank you," he breathes, beginning to feel more in control. Her eyes flutter open, and a small, almost meek smile graces her lips. She leans around him and turns off the tap, the water draining down the sink with a gurgle.

"Where did you learn how to do that?" he asks.

"My mother taught me. She studied holistic medicine," she says and then blinks as if surprised at her honesty. He knew a closed book when he saw one, and so he was a little surprised at her easy admission as well. Something in her expression changes just then — a duskiness in her deep brown eyes that reminds John of the desert sky at night. His breath is shallow for an entirely different reason, now. "You really care for him, don't you?"

"I do. He's….well he's basically my whole family," he admits. Her fingers curl into his until they are tangled together. She nods, a flicker of pain crossing her face, and the corners of her mouth turn down slightly. He knows she is trapped in her head again like that first day when the darkness of her past rose up behind her eyes like the tide. He realises that her involvement in this must be overwhelming and incredibly painful, and he feels bad for judging her so harshly before. He stokes his thumb over her knuckles attempting to return the comfort.

"Thank you for doing this for me — for him. The both of us," John says leaning close so his voice doesn't shatter this little bubble they've created. He's suddenly filled with the urge to kiss her. With his other hand he gently raises her chin and their eyes collide.

John is actually startled out of all thought due to her imploring gaze. For a moment he's reminded of that completely bare-bones feeling that Sherlock's scrutiny usually inspired, but this is different. Sherlock was always able to look at him and see the minutiae that made him who he was, whereas Anthea's gaze delves deep into his core and he feels not only seen but known. He's not sure, but he thinks he forgets to breathe.

Anthea closes the gap until they are mere inches apart, and she smiles with sad eyes. She brushes her delicate nose against his in an Eskimo kiss, and he exhales shakily before she pulls away. He aches with her loss, and his hand lingers in hers as long as it can before she turns and makes her way back out to the sitting room.

John stands in the middle of the kitchen, a low tingling sensation settling in his stomach. He can't put a finger on it, but he feels like he's forgetting something. He puts his fists on his hips, and it doesn't dawn on him for almost a full minute that the thing he's forgetting is Mary. Mary, his girlfriend that's due back from Costa Rica in less than three months. What's more disconcerting is the fact that he's not entirely sure he wants her to come back for once. He wipes a hand over his mouth and huffs a breath out of his nose, before finally following after Anthea.

When he enters, he sees that she's already begun, hovering over him murmuring soft soothing words.

Sherlock is once again in his supine position while Anthea's warm fingers methodically rub across his brow and over his temples getting him to relax. His eyelids are drooping as he settles in, but just before they close he panics for a moment.

"John?"

"Right here, Sherlock," John says coming over and sitting on the coffee table next to Anthea. He takes Sherlock's outstretched hand to dispel some of the delirium already creeping into his eyes as his fever steadily rises. John touches his fingers into his pulse point to monitor his heart rate. It begins to calm again as he sighs and finally succumbs to Anthea's ministrations. After a few moments, Anthea presses three fingers to the centre of his forehead.

"Sherlock," Anthea's velvet voice intones. "Follow my voice until you can feel yourself just behind the wall of my fingers, but don't break through yet."

He doesn't stir, so Anthea presses the knuckles of her other hand against his sternum enough to be uncomfortable but not to hurt. He moans.

"Stay behind the wall, Sherlock," she warns, and he stills. John can feel his pulse pick up slightly. "Can you hear me?"

He licks his dry lips. "Yes," he croaks.

"Good. Tell me what you see."

"Nothing," he frowns, "it's dark. Cold."

"It's not dark, Sherlock. It's dawn, can't you see the way it lightens the sky?"

"…Yes."

"Look around. Tell me what you see."

"I see —" Sherlock abruptly stops, his pulse rocketing up almost instantly. "No, no, no."

"Tell me, Sherlock. You have to tell me," Anthea insists. She replaces her knuckles with her palm and massages his chest gently trying to coax him.

"It's the Door. It's always that bloody Door," he groans miserably, and his grip on John's hand turns to iron.

"Open the door, Sherlock," Anthea commands.

"I can't —"

"Yes you can. You've done it before, remember?"

"Wha – what?"

"Yes you have. You just have to reach out and open it."

Sherlock stills, and a small frown of determination creases his brow under her fingers. He begins to shake and pant, a brand new sheen of sweat glittering on his neck and upper lip. He tips his head back trying to dislodge Anthea's fingers, but he doesn't have very many places to go and he begins to panic.

"Sherlock," she says, more stern this time. "Open the door."

"It hurts. My – my head. Where is she?"

John and Anthea look at each other at this. This was new.

"She?" John asks. "Who's She?"

"It's not relevant," Anthea dismisses.

"Wait it might be," he tries to argue, but she ignores him and turns back to Sherlock.

"She's not here. You'll have to go alone."

"No, no," he sobs. "Make it stop." Tears leak out from under his tightly closed eyes. John bites his lip wondering how much more he can take before he jumps in. Like always it's hard to see him in pain like this.

"The door is almost open, Sherlock," Anthea says switching to a more urgent tack. She frames his face between her hands. "You can start to see behind it."

"It's bright. Too bright." His legs begin to thrash trying to free himself from her grip. John can't feel the fingers of his right hand anymore as Sherlock's grasp tightens further. His pulse his hammering relentlessly as the fear and pain overtakes him.

"Yes, it's full of light. There's someone behind that door, focus. You know this person, don't you?"

"I – I —"

"You know his face. You've seen it. Now all you have to do is tell me his name."

"Argh! Stop! I can't!" he screams.

"Stop," John says, but Anthea isn't having it.

"Tell me his name, Sherlock!" she shouts.

"I can't!"

"Yes. You. Can. Now focus!" She gives him a little shake.

"M – Mohr! Sh – Sheldon Mohr!" he gasps and then screams again, the spasms overtaking him until his muscles lock and contract wildly.

"That's his name? The Director?" she bullies.

"Yes! Mohr. Sheldon Ferris Mohr. I can see his face! Oh god..." he groans.

"Anthea!" John barks.

"Come back, Sherlock," Anthea says and puts her fingers back against his forehead. "Come back through."

"Where are you?!" he shouts, completely lost in the labyrinth in his head. "I need you!"

"The door is shut now and you're safe, can't you see it? It's locked again and you are closing your eyes as the sun sets. Focus on the growing dark and feel me at the front of your mind."

"Please, come back!" he keens, oblivious.

"Anthea, it's not working!" John snaps. Sherlock's face is completely flushed and his teeth crash together as he shivers violently.

She sits back and presses her knuckles hard against his sternum and he jolts almost upright, eyes flying open as he gasps for air.

"John? John!"

"I'm here, I'm here," he says and moves over to where Anthea was just sitting so he can ease him back down. "Did you get what you bloody needed?" he bites out. Anthea is already gathering her things while simultaneously texting on her mobile.

"Yes," she says and doesn't even look up. "I need to leave now, and I won't be back for a few days. He needs his rest."

"No shit," John grinds out, checking his temp. He didn't even need a thermometer to know his fever was well over 38 and possibly pushing 40.

Anthea is suddenly there with a flannel and a bowl of lukewarm water. He didn't even hear her go to the kitchen, too wrapped up it trying to get Sherlock to drink some water. He fought back weakly, clearly confused at where he was.

"Thanks," he grunts, and before he can take it, her hand darts out and grabs his one more time.

"I am sorry, John," she says seriously. "I had to."

He looks into her eyes, and he feels that curious jolt pass through him again. He breathes out heavily.

"I know," he says and looks back to his shattered friend. Sherlock mumbles and sobs incoherently, his sweaty curls sticking to his forehead. "I'm just afraid of what this has cost him."

AN: Gathering steam for the end of part one here, friends. Thanks for your feedback. It's really spurred me on into not giving up with this thing.