"Once! He only showed me once."

Mycroft Holmes looked up from his desk, startled by John's outburst.

John Watson stood in the doorway of Mycroft's office realising he may have started the conversation he'd been practicing in his head half way through.

"Ah," Mycroft had pulled himself together in an instant. "I wondered how long it would take you."

It had been 1 week 3 days 5 hours and 45 minutes since Sherlock's plane had taken off, carrying him away to Eastern Europe. It had taken 1 week 2 days 20 hours and 17 minutes for the phrase '6 months' to filter through John's head before it became '6 months until I die'. And it had taken 9 hours and 28 minutes for John Watson to resolve on a course of action, take a cab to Pall Mall and storm up the stairs of Mycroft's apartment.

"That... that explains the lack of security." John was panting slightly now.

"Oh the security was there," Mycroft assured him "Just set up as a permeable membrane if you will - they were to allow you through unimpeded."

"OK. Oookay," John took a deep, steadying breath. "You sent your brother off to die in some Serbian hellhole and you knew I would work this out?"

"Please John, let's not make assumptions, it may not be the Serbians who get him this time." The flash of fire in the doctor's eyes made Mycroft reconsider joking.

"You're going to help me get him out." John said, his voice barely kept even over his seething anger "You sent him there, you know he's in danger, you knew I was coming, you must have a plan. Also, how long were you planning on waiting to see if I figured this out? Because it's not like time is of the essence here or anything. Mike."

"As long as it took - he does have another 5 and a half months left to him you know."

"No! No he dosen't because..." John broke off, considering the best way to convey his sentiments to the emotionless creature in front of him.

"He only showed me once, the scars from Serbia I mean. Do you get the implication of that?"

Mycroft shifted in his chair slightly, curious in spite of himself, and gestured for John to continue.

"Sherlock Holmes is not a man to hide his scars. Hide his pain, yes, whilst the wound is still fresh. Heaven forbid anyone should work out his body is human. But after that what would it matter to him? It's not worth his time to bother covering up something as superficial as a scar, as long as people don't think he's any less intelligent. And Sherlock has quite a few scars. Yet with his back - I only saw it once."

John remembered the day well. 5 days after the return. Sherlock had risen from his customary seat to wander off to his bedroom. John had noticed a streak of red through Sherlock's white shirt.

"God, Sherlock, have you hurt yourself?"

Sherlock jumped at the question and spun round.

"No of course not." The answer was too quick

"The back of your shirt Sherlock, come on I've already seen it, you may as well let me look. Won't breathe a word I promise."

Sherlock's reaction had been uncharacteristically unsettled. He started to back away from John, refusing to turn around.

"Sherlock..." John was getting worried.

"Fine! Have it your way. You'd probably find out eventually."

And Sherlock had turned around, unbuttoned his shirt, and exposed his back. John gasped.

"Sherlock only hides a wound that is still fresh and hurting, so as not to show any pain. Do you understand the pain he was in after Serbia?"

" I was ther-"

"And you watched! Mycroft this was torture. Someone taking days in trying to hurt him. Someone enjoying making him suffer. And all the while his family had been watching without lifting a finger to help him."

"It would have been unsafe."

"I don't care. Well, I do, but even if that was true that wasn't how Sherlock saw it. What I'm trying to get you to understand,"

John closed his eyes, trying to forget the criss cross of bloody wounds across his friend's back and arms. Trying to forget Sherlock's reluctance to let him help. Trying to forget the depths of horror in which he knew Sherlock was living and had not yet recovered from.

John pinched the bridge of his nose. "What I am trying to get you to understand is that we do not have 6 months. This is not a matter of black and white, life or death. This is about an already broken man being pushed past the point of no return. Mycroft there will come a point at which we can no longer rescue your brother."

John knew from Mycroft's face that he was making progress. "Mycroft, we need in, and we need to get him out."

Sherlock ran. He ran through the forest, over ditches and dead trees until he reached the river. This wasn't like last time, he kept reminding himself, they had caught him last time. He dropped into the water and started making his way upstream.

OK so he'd been compromised here, but the mission wasn't a loss yet. His disguise had been too good, he was sure, for an accurate description. Time for cover story number two. Provided he survived the night of course.

Sherlock kept himself focused on the task at hand: namely getting away and masking his scent. But somewhere in the last 10 days, amongst the cold and pain and fear, he had stopped making plans for his return to Baker Street. He had been entertaining ideas of how to slip back into his old life at some point during his exile. Whether that was through pardon or disguise he wasn't sure yet. However, the longer he went on, the further away his old life seemed. And without that motivation, how long could he last?

Sherlock Holmes trudged on into the cold Serbian night, not yet aware that his hope had run out.

-/-

First fanfic, so if you could please R & R I would be super grateful, con-crit of course being welcome:)

Have a few ideas for continuing this, let me know if you think it would be worth it.

Hope you enjoy, thanks for reading!