Warning: There will be graphic torture in this chapter.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Thanks to Starcross123 for preparing this chapter idea for me!

"Let's get dinner," John suggested that evening to Sherlock, who was in a foul mood. "How about we get Italian?"

The detective did not answer.

Earlier that evening, John and Sherlock had pursued and arrested the wrong person - the twin of the actual criminal. Come to find out, the twin they accidentally captured was also a robber, so he was arrested anyway. On the downside, they hadn't found the twin they were originally searching for.

"It's never twins," Sherlock had once said.

Well, this time it was, and Sherlock was angry at his error. John tried to distract him from his dissatisfaction at failing the case.

"Come on, Sherlock, we can just finish the case tomorrow, it's not the end of the world," John encouraged. Sherlock picked up his violin and began to bow at the strings without much purpose.

"Right. We're going. You really are a petulant child, you know that?"

Finally Sherlock spoke. "John, I made a mistake!" he protested. "You can't expect me to just forget that I failed the case. You might be able to push your failures out of your fairly simple mind, but mine is too complex! It takes time and effort to delete undesired memories from my hard drive!"

"Oh, shut up talking about yourself," John snapped. "You can resume the case tomorrow. Won't it be more fun for you? Now you have an angry twin to catch, because you imprisoned his sibling. Honestly, Sherlock, for once, just act human and forgive yourself! Everyone makes mistakes!"

Sherlock pressed his hands over his temples. "You're giving me a headache, John. I'm surprised; you act as though you're so emotionally intelligent compared to me, yet you cannot seem to catch the hint that perhaps I do not want to join you for dinner?! You're too… boring! No doubt you'll just talk about your plans for tomorrow, or what Mrs. Hudson is up to this weekend, your job, one of your ex-girlfriends, or something equally dull. Now - leave - me - alone!"

John snatched his jacket from the couch. "Yeah, fine! Just bombard me with texts the second you need me again, alright?!"

Sherlock didn't catch the sarcasm. "I will."

John slammed the door as he left Baker Street. At times Sherlock was an impressive, stimulating, quietly generous friend; other times, he was a stubborn, rude, conceited flatmate. He found himself walking into the Italian restaurant he had been prompting him and Sherlock to go get dinner at and sat down.

There hadn't been any texts from Sherlock. A small part of John that had cooled down walking over to the restaurant remembered that his friend hadn't eaten since the day before, and he reluctantly sent a text to Sherlock, unsure as to whether the detective would respond.

I'm at the restaurant now. You can come or I can bring something back for you.

I'll come. SH

Sherlock's response was quick and ten seconds later John received another text.

Do I have time to finish the violin concerto I'm practicing right now? SH

Even through text Sherlock sounded like a child, John thought, amused. He sent a "yes" back and ordered two pasta dishes, wine for himself and water for Sherlock, who didn't drink. The waiter came over with a bottle of wine and poured John a glass, and before long the pasta had arrived while John sipped his drink, waiting.

Sherlock still hadn't come yet, but John thought it wouldn't be too much longer. At least, he hoped; he didn't feel like eating cold pasta. His wine didn't taste very good and he eventually stopped drinking it.

That was when he first felt nauseous. It came on quickly - one second he thought it was just a bit of queasiness, and the next he was standing up to run into the bathroom to vomit. John bent, shaking, over the toilet, wiping his mouth, a headache pounding in his head. Whatever ailment had overtaken him, it wasn't normal. That was when there was a vice-like grip on his shoulder.

"Are you alright, sir?" came the voice of the waiter.

John nearly choked on more vomit in surprise. "Privacy, please!" he said angrily, realizing he had shut but not locked the door in his haste to retch in the toilet and not on the floor.

"Let me assist you, sir," the waiter said, his strong grip still on John's shoulder.

"Excuse me!" John nearly shouted, vomiting in the middle of his sentence. "Get out. Now!" The part of him that was alarmed at the sick was more alarmed at the persistence and invasion of privacy the waiter was exemplifying.

"Let me help you, sir," the waiter said, and with strength that John couldn't fight back without making a scene, pulled John up with his shoulders and steered him out of the back of the restaurant. The second they were alone by the dumpster, John took his chance and swung at the waiter, nailing him in the gut.

"Are you insane?" John demanded. "What do you think you're doing?!"
He was almost caught off guard when the waiter lunged at him and he was slammed into the side of the building; he recovered quickly and kicked at the waiter's groin, who was subdued for a moment. Unfortunately, John's sick had poor timing, and he vomited again, slowing him down from escaping (it was harder than he would have thought to run and puke simultaneously). He was bent over, retching, when something hard and heavy slammed into the back of his skull.

Oh, no. I cannot pass out, I cannot pass out, I cannot pass out… was all John could think as his vision blackened; he was still standing, and ferociously rubbing the darkness and stars out of his eyes before the waiter could attack again. He was too late, and another slam in the back of his skull sent him toppling to the ground.

Relief tumbled through him as he realized he was still conscious, somehow and miraculously, but there was no way he could win the fight now with an almost guaranteed concussion, so he played unconscious in the hopes that the waiter would simply leave.

That was when he suddenly had the mental image of Sherlock, arriving in the restaurant, looking for John, and seeing that his friend wasn't there. Would he think John was lying to him as a joke? No, the detective was a genius - but the nagging feeling wouldn't stop, and John's eyes flew open against his will.

The waiter was looking at him - not good. John shut his eyes again - maybe the waiter hadn't seen? - but he must have, because his head suffered another collision with the heavy object, and this time, he passed out.

He woke up only about five minutes after having been knocked out, according to his watch. In that time the waiter had tied him to a chair and they were still behind the restaurant, but now a bit of a distance away behind the dumpster. Lovely.

"It's interesting, what a simple disguise can do, or else you would have been suspicious of me from the beginning," the waiter said. John didn't answer; his head was pounding.

"Like a simple… wig and beard," the waiter said, and ripped off his wig revealing dark hair underneath, and taking off his moustache.

John recognized him instantly. He was the other twin, the twin they had intended to catch but didn't, the one that had put Sherlock in a horrible temper. He felt so stupid for not recognizing him earlier; he was identical to the brother they had caught accidentally.

"What do you want?" John asked, his voice strained from his blinding headache.

"Simple. I want revenge for you capturing my brother. We're very close, see," the waiter said, and he smiled. "I suppose if I'm already what people call psychopathic, then I'm entitled to a bit of torture without being judged too harshly, right?"

"I would disagree," John said calmly, as though they were discussing something like the weather, but his sentence ended in a shudder as the waiter opened his coat to reveal an array of surgical tools. John recognized each one that he used quite frequently at work. Scalpel, bone cutter, forceps, surgical stapler, and a dilator.

John was about to bellow Sherlock's name - screw saving himself - when the twin stuffed a gag into his mouth.

"Which one first?" he said, and selected the forceps. "Sorry. That was a rhetorical question. But we'll start with the easiest."

He carefully bent over John and began to jam at his eyes.

John could feel himself yelling but the gag muffled the sound; the dull end of the forceps were being repeatedly thrust into his eyes (which he kept clamped shut), digging harder than any pressure John ever applied to his eyes when Sherlock was being particularly obnoxious. He wasn't sure how long he was sitting there, helpless, as his eyes were mutilated, until the waiter stopped. Very slowly, he opened his eyes, and panicked to find that he couldn't see anything. Temporary or permanent, the twin had done damage.

Keep your breaths steady, he told himself; there was no use in panicking (at least until he got out of this situation. That didn't help much, and he could feel his heart rate increasing.

What if Sherlock doesn't need me anymore? That's not even a question, actually, why would he need a blind man on his cases?!

This was it. This was the last case John would do with Sherlock, because he couldn't do anything with no eyesight. He nearly vomited again; luckily, he didn't, considering the gag was in his mouth.

This also meant that he couldn't see what the waiter was doing. The latter seemed aware of this, perhaps because John was looking wildly back and forth for any sort of light.

"Oh, Dr. Watson, you've only just had the first tool! Next I think we'll do… the scalpel." The waiter's breathing came closer to John, who tried to shrink away, but it was no use being tied up. He felt the sharp knife slicing fire across his jaw.

"I think we need some blood on the lower half of the face, don't you? To match the eyes?" the waiter asked.

That was when fast footsteps interrupted the silence. There was an intake of air from the waiter, who pressed the scalpel deeper into John's jaw, when a sudden crash in front of him indicated someone was wrestling with the waiter. The scuffle seemed to last only thirty seconds, before the gag was removed from John's mouth.

"Sherlock? Is that you?" John asked hopefully.

"Of course it is. Are you alright?" said Sherlock, and John could feel him untying his bonds.

"Well… " John delayed. The last thing he wanted was to hear Sherlock's crushing disappointment that his blogger was blinded and would no longer be able to help on the cases. "I think… I've got a severe concussion."

"I assumed as much. Blinded, too; either temporarily or permanently?" Sherlock asked as the last bond was untied.

John felt his mouth drop as he stood, swaying; he could feel Sherlock move to his side and put his arm around him to steady him before leading him towards, presumably, a cab to return to Baker Street.

"Yeah. How'd you know?" he said, astounded.

There was a baritone snort in response.

"John, you realize that your eyes have blood around them and are quite clearly mangled. The fact that you asked if it was me confirmed my suspicion."

"Oh," John said, stumbling suddenly as his toe caught on the ground; Sherlock's grip instantly tightened and prevented him from falling.
"Watch out, there's a lip on the pavement there," Sherlock said.

"Thanks for the warning," John said, fighting to keep tears away, because he could still feel the panic at not being able to see and he didn't want Sherlock to see him cry.

"Are we going back to Baker Street?" John asked after he had been settled in the cab.

"No, we're going to the hospital," was Sherlock's indignant reply.

"So, how long is it going to last?" Sherlock asked impatiently once John's eyes had been examined, his jaw had been stitched, and he had been given painkillers for his concussion.

The doctor (whom was male but John could discern nothing else about him) took a deep breath.

"Temporary. I think it should last about a week. You'll have to have your eyes bandaged to keep them healing, but I think that your eyesight will gradually return in a week's time."

Sherlock's sigh of relief was audible. After giving instructions, the doctor left, leaving Sherlock and John alone in the room.

"That's a relief," John said as calmly as he could, because the blackness was still terrifying. "I… thought if it was permanent, then, you know, I wouldn't be able to help on the cases anymore, and you'd have to replace me."

Sherlock was quiet. John hated not being able to see his expression.

"It would be difficult for you to come," Sherlock said finally. "But I wouldn't replace you. You're… my friend."

"I'm really sorry, Sherlock. About not understanding how you felt earlier this evening. I should've been less… overbearing. Nor should I have called you a child."

"I had already forgotten," Sherlock said genuinely. "I believe that I might have said things that are offensive, so I apologize for anything I said."
Of course. The genius wasn't aware of what it was that he had said. John accepted the apology nonetheless and smiled vaguely in the direction that Sherlock seemed to be in. "Thanks for coming for me, Sherlock."

"It was no difficult task," was the detective's response, "especially when it comes to my friend."

I love having Sherlock admit that John's his friend.

Anyway, thanks for reading! If you have an idea for an illness / accident / experiment gone wrong / injury to occur to Sherlock or John, please please let me know in a review!

Thanks again to Starcross123!