Warning: This chapter will be graphic and much less light-hearted that what I usually do. It will reference brain damage as well; if that subject is sensitive for you, you might want to skip to the next chapter.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Thanks to the Guest review that left this prompt for me!

This is set post-Reichenbach, and assumes that Moriarty survived the rooftop.

"I'm so glad you came, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson crowed as they finished eating. "And of course you, too, John, it's just that I didn't expect Sherlock to be here."

"Neither did I," John said, smiling. "It took a lot of convincing-"

"Not convincing, just explaining the purpose of 'socialising'!" Sherlock interjected.

"But he came round when I told him you'd be upset if he didn't come."

"I wouldn't be that upset," Mrs. Hudson said blatantly, taking another sip of wine. "I'd probably think we'd just dodged a bullet; knowing him, I was slightly afraid he'd arrive here with a human head or something similar."

"Well, I didn't," Sherlock said indifferently.

"Shall we go back to Baker Street for the cake?" John asked, handing the check to the waiter.

"Hmm, you and I can, John," Sherlock said, suddenly distracted by a text on his phone.

"What do you mean?" John asked, looking at Sherlock then Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock looked at John exasperatedly. "John, I thought you were attempting to apply my methods!"

"Well, I am, but not - like - consciously, or anything!" John said defensively.

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. "You think that you can reach this level of deduction subconsciously? If so, then I hope that you deal with failure well, because that won't work. John, you've got to be constantly observing, and always asking yourself what those observations mean - you can't just expect to think you're going to do better and automatically make a decent deduction."

John threw his hands in the air. "Fine, alright. But what are you saying? I don't even remember why we started talking about this."

"Mrs. Hudson won't be coming back for cake with us, and that's because she's having it with someone else."

Mrs. Hudson looked shocked. "Sherlock Holmes, who have you been talking to?"

"No one, I saw. It's so absurdly obvious! Look at her jewelry! It's new, and when was the last time Mrs. Hudson bought heart-shaped earrings for herself? Oh, and let's not forget the fact that she's wearing her best dress, makeup, and perfume!" Sherlock's voice changed to a high falsetto. "'Oh, Sherlock, you can't tell that she's having cake with someone else because she's dressed nicely! Of course she's dressed nicely, it's her birthday!' Well, have you noticed that she's resisted eating a majority of the meal?"

"Sherlock," John began.

"Mrs. Hudson doesn't care what she eats, she's Mrs. Hudson! Clearly she's planning on eating more after this and she also wants to look good for that person she's meeting! 'Well, maybe she's just not hungry, Sherlock!' Think again! She's received two texts during this entire meal and responded to both, and consider: When was the last time you saw Mrs. Hudson get two texts in the span of an hour, let alone respond to them?"

"Sherlock!" John said again, more urgently.

"The simple and only conclusion is that she's going out with her new boyfriend for cake after this meal, which you should have easily realized, John, if you'd actually tried to apply my methods like you said you would!"

"Sherlock!" John said angrily. The restaurant was silent, listening raptly because Sherlock's voice had gotten incredibly loud by the end of his deduction. "Sherlock. Not okay."

Mrs. Hudson had a hand over her mouth. "You just broadcasted it to the entire restaurant," she said faintly. "And every bit of it was true!"

"Apologise," John said firmly.

"What for? For being vigilant and quite frankly cleverer than you?"

"Sherlock, there's a line, remember? And you've just crossed it by a mile," John said in a low voice.

"I don't see a line."

"It's bloody metaphorical!"

"Funny how you can see a line, considering how incredibly dull you are, yet you cannot see the obvious fact that Mrs. Hudson's meeting her boyfriend after this," Sherlock intoned. "I apologise, Mrs. Hudson. I did not intend to embarrass you."

Mrs. Hudson stood, her face pale. "Thank you boys for coming," she said, managing a smile. "I've got to go. I'm meeting my boyfriend." With that, she hurried out of the restaurant, the tips of her ears red.

"I cannot believe you," John said, standing too. "I cannot believe you."

Sherlock only looked at him with confusion. John couldn't help but feel a pulsing fury at the ignorance the detective could possess.

"You're a freak," John told him.

"I'm not a-"

"Yes, you are. Any other normal person would not do that."

Sherlock continued to look bewildered, and started to answer, but John didn't hear because he was throwing his jacket on to leave.

"John-" he began, but John didn't look back as he took the first cab. Sherlock stared blankly after him.

The second that John had told the cabbie where to go, a pang of regret stabbed at his chest. He'd called Sherlock a freak. A freak. It was the word he'd always hated Sally Donovan for using, the word that made him pity his friend, the word that encompassed all of Sherlock's unique qualities but gave them an ugly spin.

He considered phoning Sherlock, but remembered that the detective detested phone calls, so instead sent a text to him.

Sent 6:58: I'm sorry. I'm heading back to Baker Street, can we talk?

Received 6:59: I'm on my way back now. Can we refrain from a 'talk'?

Sent 7:01: I need to apologise. Not just through text.

Received 7:02: I'd rather that we unanimously considered this a formal apology. I have no desire to have a sentimental conversation.

Sent 7:05: At least let me apologise to you?

Received 7:06: No need. I just got a new case. Will you join?

Sent 7:08: Absolutely.

John entered Baker Street, relieved to see that he had gotten there before Sherlock. It was expected, since he left first, but he didn't want to walk in with Sherlock already lounging in his armchair, deep in thought.

It didn't take long to hear Sherlock's quick footsteps on the stairs.

"John!" Sherlock burst out. "A case!"

"I know," John cut in. "But first, I feel really, really bad for calling you a-"
"Please, John. I don't care. What I do care about is this case! Look!" Sherlock brandished his phone. John read the screen.

Received 7:05: Ino. Dqzokj sehh zea ej pdenpu iejqpao eb ukq zkj'p ykia owra dan benop. Ykia wjz lhwu. 32 Xenyd Nkwz. FI

"That doesn't make any sense," John said finally.

"Yes, it does. I don't think it's meant to be a difficult cryptogram. It's meant to intrigue me. Simple Caesar Cypher, probably. Look, see the two words after 32? Most likely a street name, because why else would there be a number and two words following that are capitalized?" Sherlock said, his tone getting more and more excited. "John, that means that the four letter word at the end is either 'road' or 'lane', if we apply the balance of probability. Now, the first three letter word. There's a period after it, so it's possibly some form of greeting…" He wandered into the kitchen, getting out a notebook and pen and muttering to himself.

"John, could you search the most common two letter words in the English language?" Sherlock asked absentmindedly. John obliged, opening his laptop.

"Let's see… of, it, in, is, be…"

"Probably an 'i', then," Sherlock said. "I'll input the key and see if a sentence comes from it; if not, we'll try something else."

Sure enough, Sherlock was right. He quickly filled in the letters while John watched, and slowly, the message was revealed.

Mrs. Hudson will die in thirty minutes if you don't come save her first. Come and play. 32 Birch Road. JM

"John, let's go," Sherlock said immediately, and he threw his Belstaff and scarf on. They left the flat perhaps quicker than they ever had.

"This is it," Sherlock said when they stepped out of the cab. 32 Birch Road was an abandoned house, and it looked like a very old, hardly refurbished flat. He approached the door, John noticing how his narrow eyes were taking in every minute detail of the house.

"Remember, John, this is Moriarty," Sherlock said quietly. "Keep your gun at the ready."

John subconsciously ran his hand along his gun, ready to pull it out in an instant.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock called out once they were inside the house. His voice echoed eerily. There was no answer.

"John, you go upstairs," Sherlock said. "I'll check down here."

"But you don't have a gun. We shouldn't split," John countered.

"John's right," came a new voice from behind them. John turned just as a sharp pain hit his neck, and from the wince Sherlock made, he'd felt it too. John felt his neck, slightly panicked, to find a small dart. He pulled it out dizzily, looked up and made eye contact with Jim Moriarty, and could feel himself falling as the floor flew upwards and knocked him into unconsciousness.

He woke up with his wrists and back throbbing. Disoriented, it took him to remember that they had gone to 32 Birch Road to save Mrs. Hudson before Moriarty had shown up.

Sherlock was sitting across from him, looking fully alert. John struggled to focus; whatever the tranquilizer had been, it was strong. His hands were handcuffed behind him, around a metal support pole to the house. It seemed they were in the basement.

"How are you awake already?" John asked, his words jumbling together as though he had marshmallows in his mouth. He shut his eyes, willing the vertigo to go away. He had no inclination to vomit in this soggy basement.

"I have a much higher resistance to drugs, remember?" Sherlock said. "And there's no use trying to escape the handcuffs. They're too strong."

Sudden footsteps came down the stairs. Two pairs. One was wearing shiny, polished black shoes, and the other thick boots.

"Psychology is fascinating," Moriarty's voice warbled as he came into sight with his lackey Moran. "If I'd sent a text simply saying that I'd kidnapped your dear landlady without the cypher, I'm sure you would have asked me for proof that I'd actually taken her."

Sherlock's face had drained of color.

"But once you were distracted by a pretty code, all distrust left you. Interesting. You didn't doubt for one second that I actually kidnapped her."

"So what? Is she safe?" John asked angrily. "Stop playing these games!"
"Yes, I thought it was clear that was what I was implying. I didn't touch her," Moriarty said, frowning. He turned to Sherlock. "You know, I get that it's fun for you to keep your pet around, but he really is stupid."

"What are you going to do? Torture us?" Sherlock asked, a bored expression on his face, but John knew that he was faking the disinterest; he couldn't show Moriarty fear. At least, that's what John hoped Sherlock was doing.

"No, that's dull. Cliché," Moriarty said, drawing out the word. "You remember I said I'm changeable. Well, I've changed my mind. I'm not going to burn you, Sherlock. I'm going to do something better."

"Let us go?" John interrupted.

"No. I was thinking last night, I wonder how the world would react to a brain dead Sherlock Holmes? I bet it would be rather amusing to see."

"No!" John shouted, all dizziness from the tranquilizer gone.

"John," Sherlock said calmly. "Please be quiet." He shifted his gaze to Moriarty. "So how do you plan on doing that?"

Moriarty turned to Moran. "Show him," he directed. Moran pulled out of his pocket a sharp tool. "Lobotomy, through the top of the head," Moriarty explained. "Don't be scared, Sherlock. I'm sure that John will be there to help you once your brains have been realigned. Who knows, maybe we'll cure your sociopathy? The doctors of the nineteen forties might have been on to something."

For the first time since John had become his flatmate, Sherlock was speechless, and trembling.

"Don't you dare," John said in a low voice. "I swear, if you touch him, I'll rip you apart and stab you so many times that your corpse is unrecognizable. I swear that to you. Do it to me instead. Not him."
The very idea of Sherlock's brain being damaged by Moriarty was distorting any sane thoughts John was having. He thrashed against the handcuffs to no avail.

"Let's get this done," Moriarty said to Moran. The latter approached Sherlock with the knife.

"Stop it! No, do it to me instead, not him!" John shouted.

"John, while your sentiment to your friend is touching, you're not going to change my mind, not a bit. There's nothing you can do about it," Moriarty said in a high voice.

Sherlock was watching Moran carefully - John could see his eyes darting over everything that he was doing; no doubt he was looking for any sort of leverage against Moran - any deduction - but must have come up with nothing, because he switched to make eye contact with John.

"John, it'll be alright. Don't worry about me," Sherlock said in a level voice. "I suppose I should tell you that you're the bestest friend I've ever had."
"No - stop it," John said, hardly aware he was shouting. "No, no, this isn't it. Moriarty - don't do this, please, no, don't do this to him - please -" He was begging now.

"There are lots of articles online that tell you how to deal with brain dead loved ones," Moriarty said. "Don't worry, John, I'll make sure he doesn't die. That would ruin the fun!"

John was straining against the handcuffs, and could feel his wrists bleeding heavily from it, but didn't care in the slightest. "Sherlock, I'm sorry I called you a freak tonight!" was all he could think to say as Moran placed the tool against Sherlock's forehead. "I'm so sorry!"
"I forgive you, John," were Sherlock's last words before the knife was plunged into his head. John could hear a strange mix of ringing and screaming in the room, and suddenly his wrists were free with a loud crack - he had broken through them, somehow, miraculously - and had dive-tackled Moran to the floor, slamming his head against the cement, punching, digging, scratching, biting him. Anything, anything to get him away from Sherlock, and when he felt the surprised larger man go limp, he moved onto Moriarty, who was standing with an expression of amusement, as though this were all a game. He slammed into the consulting criminal and smashed the latter's head against the cement floor. Warm, sticky blood splashed onto his hands, and when Moriarty too was unconscious, but with a strange frozen smile on his face, John turned to Sherlock.

"Are you alright?" he cried out, undoing Sherlock's handcuffs. "You're bleeding!"

"Very astute," Sherlock said, before passing out. There was a huge wound gouged in his head, but from what John could estimate in his stricken state, there was a small chance that it wouldn't be fatal. John ran to Moriarty's slack body, fumbling through his fancy suit for a phone, and found one; with shaking fingers he dialed 999.

"Sherlock, it's alright, an ambulance is coming," he said, cradling his friend's bleeding head. He put pressure on the wound, wrapping Sherlock's scarf around it, and feeling tears free fall from his face. With a shock, he realized that last time he had cried was when he was shot in Afghanistan. "Come on, stay with me Sherlock." He remained that way until the sirens and lights alerted the ambulance's arrival.

Seventeen hours later, Sherlock was up and talking.

According to the doctors, if the wound had been a centimeter deeper, he would have suffered irreversible brain damage. John could only sit there, trying not to imagine his friend losing his mind palace and everything he had worked so hard for.

"Is… Mrs. Hudson okay?" Sherlock asked slowly.

"Yes, she's fine. How are you feeling?"

"Fine. Headache."
"What's your name?"
"Sherlock Holmes."

"What's my name?"
"John Watson."

"What's the date?"

"Sometime in 2017. John, you know I don't pay attention to something as trifle as the date. That's a waste of space in my mind palace."

"Okay, you're fine," John said, breathing a sigh of relief. "Sherlock, you almost had permanent brain damage. From a lobotomy. From Moriarty." His words got slightly higher with every sentence.

"How did we escape?" Sherlock asked, frowning. "I am embarrassed to admit that, while my memory is high functioning, I don't remember."

"Well, I attacked Moriarty and Moran, right after he stabbed you to start the lobotomy. Er, it was a bit morbid and violent, when I attacked them. I think they'll be in the hospital for a while."

"How did you get out of your handcuffs?"

"I'm not sure," John said. "My wrists were bleeding, so I suppose I was pulling against them quite hard, and when he drove the knife into your forehead, they just cracked."

Sherlock grinned. "Fascinating. I've never been in the presence of hysterical strength. That's what it's referred to as. Superhuman strength when under duress."

"So you probably don't remember me apologising. About, well, what I said to you tonight."

"You already apologised. Through text, and at Baker Street."
"I feel horrible about it, Sherlock."

"Don't worry, John. I think saving my life compensates for it," Sherlock said.

"Do you remember what you said right before Moran started the lobotomy?" John asked suddenly.

"No. I hope it wasn't sentimental," Sherlock said, already scowling like he knew the answer.

"You… you said I was the bestest friend you ever had," John said. "I hope you know you're my best friend, too."

Sherlock didn't say anything, but sat there with an uncomfortable expression.

"Sorry, I'm done-"

"No, John, it's fine."

"No, really, I'm done. I just wanted you to know that," John said, and smiled at his best friend.

I think that was just about the corniest ending I've ever written. I felt it was necessary, though, because it about killed me to write John calling Sherlock a freak. Ouch.

Thank you so much for reading this and again thank you to the wonderful Guest review for this prompt! Please please drop me a review because I'd be so grateful :)