A/N: Thank you for the comments! I'm going on tour with my theatre group this week to play for elder and sick people so I won't be able to write another chapter. Please, let me know your thoughts!

Chapter 4 – We Are

Walking through the dark night
Calling out a name
I'm waiting for an answer
How did we end up here?

Try to find a shoreline
No ground beneath my feet
I may shut the mind down
And try to understand

Haevn – We Are

Suddenly, Everything went really fast. From the moment John decided to come along, Mycroft was in control mode. He had canceled John's appointments in no time and arranged a helicopter to bring them to London A driver was already waiting outside for them to take John home so he could pack some things. John went through his house like a chicken with his head off and quickly gathered some things. After a couple of minutes of running around, John sat back into the car which drove off to Brighton City Airport. They didn't speak during the ride.

When they arrived at the helicopter, John and Mycroft quickly walked up the metal stairs, put on their seatbelts and put their headset on. Mycroft gave some instructions to the pilot and in no time, they were on their way to London.

John stared out of the small window, his thoughts lingering. Once he had sat down, his mind began racing. He tried to ignore it, but it seemed impossible. To John's surprise, he didn't have questions. Those would come later. For now he was trying to focus on the facts, something he had learned in therapy. In his mind, he went through the list of facts he knew: 'Sherlock's alive. He is back in London. He was in found somewhere in Europe. He had been there for the last eleven months. He's alive. Sherlock is alive.'

John repeated this again and again, like a mantra. It was the only way for him to ensure that thoughts like "what if" and "why" did not get the upper hand.

After being lost in his own thoughts for a couple of minutes, John glanced at Mycroft. He was also staring out of the small window of the helicopter. Chin up, his recognizable rigid look on his face. But John could see he was worried. His lips were pursed and he had a slight frown on his forehead. John couldn't remember seeing Mycroft worried before, not in this way.

"Where did you find him?" John asked, trying to get some more facts.

"Kosovo," Mycroft replied, not looking up from his window.

John added it to the list of facts in his head and went through them again: 'Sherlock's alive. He is back in London. He was in found somewhere in Kosovo. He had been in Europe for the last eleven months. He's alive. Sherlock is alive.

"When?"

This time, Mycroft did look up. "Two days ago," he replied. He seemed to hesitate a bit.

Again, John went through his list: 'Sherlock's alive. He is back in London. He was in found somewhere in Kosovo. He had been in Europe for the last eleven months. He was found two days ago. He's alive. Sherlock is alive.'

Two days. John was a little surprised by that fact. Anthea stood at his doorstep yesterday. If they had found Sherlock two days ago, it meant that Mycroft didn't wait long to inform John. He had not tried to fix it on his own, which was a first in the history of Mycroft Holmes. Or maybe he couldn't?

'No. No 'what ifs'. Just stick to the facts. You don't know what to expect,'John told himself.

"We are descending in 10 minutes," John heard the pilot say trough his headset. Mycroft took his phone from his pocket and started texting again. John turned back to the window and continued to numerate his list of facts once again.

The car that John and Mycroft had picked up from the London Heliport stopped just outside the center of London in a sophisticated neighborhood with impressive, chic mansions. There was a long line of trees on both sides of the street, all colored in beautiful autumn colors. Mycroft climbed the stairs of a white, stately building, and John followed. he looked for the name of the building on the facade, but he couldn't find it.

Once inside, the building looked like a hospital. But if you looked closer, you could see that it was a very expensive, private hospital. Marble floor, comfortable chairs, attention to decoration and details, no standard work clothes. Of course, Mycroft worked for the British government. Mycroft was the British government, according to Sherlock. Naturally, he could arrange this for his relatives, if he had to.

Mycroft identified himself at the reception with a card and the receptionist nodded approvingly. He then took another card from his pocket and handed it to John. "identification. This gives you access to the entire building, including all wards and treatment rooms."

John just nodded in answer. He followed Mycroft through the corridors of the building. They took the elevator to the third floor where there were various temporary offices and meeting rooms. Mycroft opened one of the doors with his card and entered one of the offices. In the middle of the room was a large desk with a number of files on it. Mycroft sat down carefully behind the desk and John sat opposite him. He said nothing and waited for Mycroft to start the conversation.
He didn't. Instead, Mycroft looked through the pile of files, took one of them opened it. He took a glance at it. John watched him carefully, but he couldn't read the expression on Mycroft's face. He knew the file was a medical report, Sherlock's medical report. That meant that Sherlock was hurt.

After a long moment, Mycroft looked up from the report. He seemed to hesitate for a moment. Then, he handed the report to John.

"There's not much in there. Just some basic facts. No names, no patient history. We want to make sure no one can trace him down," Mycroft spoke deliberately. John started to read.

36 year old man, presented with multiple injuries due to unknown trauma. After examination, patient presents with a severe concussion (but awake and responsive), a fractured orbital rim on the left, a fractured ulna on the right, two fractured ribs on the right side and contusions on his upper body, front and back. Possible internal injuries.

A wave of nausea engulfed John. The injuries made it clear that Sherlock had been abused, and who knew for how long? Maybe for weeks, of even months…
Of course, John had seen worse cases in Afganistan, he knew that. But this was about his former best friend, about the man who he lived with for years. And that fact made a lot harder to read.

"Where is he?" John asked. He tried to keep his voice as steady as possible, but still there was a small quiver in his voice.

"In one of the wards downstairs," Mycroft replied

"I want to see him."

Mycroft put his elbows on the desk and entwined his hands. He leaned his face on his index fingers. It seemed that he had to think about John's request.

"Dr. Watson," he started after a moment of consideration. "I think you ought to know he's not himself right now. We don't have any specifics on what happened to him, but it has changed him. I must to warn you."

"I don't care. I want to see him," John persisted.

Mycroft let out a sigh. "I didn't think otherwise."

Department B12, room 3. That was the department where Sherlock was. It was a nursing ward with extra supervision, Mycroft had told John. To John's surprise, there were only four rooms in the ward. The other two rooms weren't occupied, something Mycroft undoubtedly had arranged. Room three was at the far end of the ward. It had a large window next to the door.
Mycroft had recommended John to stay outside the room for now. John didn't know why, but something in Mycroft's voice told him it would be better indeed. John took place in front of the window, wondering if patients were able to see the person opposite of the window.

Although he was lying with his back to the window, John could say for sure that Sherlock was the one who laid in that hospital bed. His dark curls and his long, slender body under the sheets were unmistakable. John felt his heart beat faster. Until now it could all have been a cruel joke, but now it was real. It really was him.

Mycroft grabbed the doorknob and again, John saw Mycroft's brief hesitation. He braced himself and entered the room.

"Get out," John could hear Sherlock as soon the door was openend.

Mycroft ignored Sherlock. "How are you feeling, brother mine?" Mycroft started, sounding distant and alert.

Sherlock shifted under his sheets to face Mycroft, but John still wasn't able to see his face. "Didn't you hear me? Get out." he said again.

Mycroft started to approach Sherlock's bed. "I did hear you. How are you feeling?"

"Excellent," Sherlock replied sarcastically. "Now, out. Or didn't I beat you hard enough yesterday?"

John froze. The sherlock he knew would never hit his brother. Sure, the two had a special, distant relationship with many unspoken annoyances towards each other, but that never went beyond heated discussions and an occasional insult. Now, sherlock had not only fought Mycroft, but he had done it hard enough for Mycroft to be limping the next day.

Mycroft's eyes flickered briefly at the window where John was behind. "Have you reconsidered your refusal of treatment?"

Sherlock scoffed, anger flickering in his eyes. "Why would I? So I can be your little charity case again? So you can be the big brother who saves the day, again? No thank you, I'd rather die. Now, get the hell out!"

It felt like the ground was swept away beneath John's feet. He couldn't have heard this right, could he?

Suddenly everything happened very quickly. Mycroft refused to leave. In answer, Sherlock began loosening the wires to which he was attached to and tried to pull out his drip. Mycroft tried to stop him, but Sherlock became furious. He started kicking and beating around him. With a swing, Sherlock hit Mycroft hard against his nose.

"Sherlock, stop this nonsense. Calm down!" Mycroft tried, but nothing seemed to work.

John was already at the door to enter when two nurses pushed him aside and ran inside. They acted quickly and injected a drug into Sherlock's drip. In no time, Sherlock stopped kicking and fell asleep almost immediately.

Mycroft hurried out of the room, ignoring John. John followed him to the nearest bathroom. Mycroft was bend over the sink, blood dripping from his nose.

"Let me have a look," John offered.

Mycroft gave him a sharp glance. "Don't bother."

John approached Mycroft. "Mycroft, let me help. It could be broken."

"It's not."

John looked at Mycroft for a second. "Look," he started carefully. "It's not your fault."

"Dr. Watson, Mycroft spoke deliberately. "My brother was held hostage for months. They found significant traces of gamma hydroxybutyrate in his blood. He was tortured, physically and mentally. It was my idea to send him to Eastern Europe. And you are saying it's not my fault?"

The rest of the evening passed by in a haze. Mycroft and John had not spoken about what had happened. Mycroft had allowed John to take a quick look at his nose, which was not broken, and had ordered a ride to take John to his hotel.

John didn't enter when he stood in front of the hotel. Instead, he started walking, his thoughts blank. There was too much information, too much to process. He knew he would go crazy if he had to be alone this evening.

He didn't know how long he had walked. It could've been fifteen minutes, it could've been an hour. He stopped at a house he recognized, walked up to the front door and rang the doorbell.

After a moment, the door opened. Greg Lestrade stood in the doorway, looking utterly surprised by the sight of John at his doorstep.

"Jesus, John! What a surprise! What are you doing here?"

John didn't answer.

"Are you alright?" Lestrade asked puzzeled.

"I need a drink," John answered flatly.

Lestrade looked at him and nodded. He stepped aside and let John in.