Hey guys! Sorry it's been a while since my last update, it's just with finals and everything going on there hasn't been any time. But the good news is, I passed all my exams and I'M OFFICIALLY A HIGH SCHOOL GRADUATE! *whoops like a monkey*. So glad the nightmare that is high school is officially over. Thank you for your patience, and I hope you guys like this chapter!

May the gods be ever in your favor,

~James

Aeldin was…lonely. Not that he would ever, ever admit it. He'd matured in form quite a bit over the summer, and he now stood towering over Sherlock whenever the boy fancied to pay him a visit. The horcrux assumed that he may appear to be somewhere around mid-twenties in appearance. As it was, the small room in Sherlock's head which he was confined to was…getting cramped. The four, ugly, peeling walls seemed closer than ever. The shifting mass of the ceiling seemed uncomfortably close to his head. The couch he'd conjured for himself was comfortable enough, but there was little to occupy Aeldin's mind with, now that he had scoured through the memories that his host would allow him to see.

Aeldin was aware that Sherlock was hiding something from him. Something that would vastly alter his entire understanding of the child. And so Aeldin took great interest in "deducing" (as Sherlock would call it) the boy when the youngster came to ask Aeldin a favor or to ask him a question on animagus transformation.

But the boy hadn't shown himself in quite a while now. And while Aeldin was most defiantly not worried he was bored. Out of his mind with boredom, almost. It was because of this boredom that Aeldin began randomly ranting about the room as though somebody was around to appreciate his ire. It was oddly reminiscent of his days as a Dark Lord, and Aeldin wondered if Sherlock would consider it a "bit not good" for him to be recalling crucio castings on his servants with bittersweet emotion, somewhat akin to longing.

Perhaps it was this memory that caused him to lash out at the door. Lo and behold, a week purple shimmer extended from his palm. It dissipated against the door, but it was the first sign of magic, not mental manipulation nor the illusion of power brought about by the fact that Aeldin was currently imprisoned in a 12 year old's skull, but true magic that he had seen since he'd regained awareness in this strange cell of his.

A grin split across his face, though he did hesitate, wondering if he should really be casting crucio in a little boy's brain. And so he decided on a safer spell to hurl at the door. "BOMBARDA!"

****1047****

Lucius marched up towards the Headmasters office with no small degree of satisfaction. If he were a lesser man, he'd have a smirk firmly plastered across his face, but as it was the only clue that gave away his pleased mood was the minute loosening of the tension in his shoulders as he marched up the stairs behind the hideous guarding gargoyle. The door opened before him, and Lucius automatically noted Dumbledore's oddly pensive eyes, though the old man quickly covered it with a benign twinkle in his eyes and a kindly smile.

"Ah! Lord Malfoy, so glad you could make it!" Dumbledore said, spreading his arms wide as though he wanted a hug. Lucius ignored the gesture and primly sat down in the chair across from the Headmaster. "I trust you've been well?"

"I have, thank you," Lucius said smoothly. "Young Mr. Potter has exchanged many letters with my wife and myself, and he and Draco get along swimmingly. During the duration of his stay at our home the two barely left each other's side. I did broach the topic with Draco, and though he were alarmed at first at the thought of marriage, the two became even closer after the revelation, which leads me to believe my son shared this information with Mr. Potter, and the young man found himself pleased."

Dumbledore frowned. "It was never agreed upon to let Harry know, you shouldn't have acted so without consulting me first." Lucius arched an eyebrow at Dumbledore implying Lucius was, at the moment, at all answerable to him.

"But headmaster," Lucius said innocently. "I didn't. I only told my son, as is my right when considering a potential suitor for him, after all. I had no control over Sherlock being told." Dumbledore's frown eased, though his eyes were still hard.

"Of course, of course. It hardly matters now, anyway," Dumbledore sighed heavily and retrieved a scroll from his desk, unraveling it on the space between the two wizards, and summoning a quill and inkpot closer to them. "I have given much thought to this over the summer, and I do believe that it is in best interest of both the boys. However, as you can see," Albus said as Lucius began looking over the contract with a critical Slytherin's eye "Both heirs will only have access to their own vaults and inheritance, and we, as guardians, have no claim to what is in them. Harry will become Lord Potter and Draco will become Lord Malfoy upon your death; the title of Consort will belong to them only if they so choose. Furthermore, Harry will not be considered a member of House Malfoy until his husband is Lord Malfoy. You understand, I'm sure?"

Lucius did not answer until he had finished reading it over. "Of course," he said distantly. Obviously the old man didn't want Lucius using this binding contract to force Sherlock into becoming dark using the family magic, but at the same time…. "I will agree to this if you relinquish your control over the Potter Family Magics to its rightful heir, and put off Sherlock from coming into his Lordship until the traditional age of sixteen." Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, thinking it over. Then he nodded, slowly.

Lucius deftly picked up the quill and signed his name in a quick but neat scrawl, than passed the utensil over to the Headmaster, who did the same. Dumbledore flicked his wrist, his wand shooting out from his deep sleeve. He made a circular motion, then slashed downward while incanting "Quod ita scriptum est: sic fiat semper—" but before he could finish the spell, a force of magic, colored a startling combination of Malfoy Silver and pure white, shot out in a thick wave. It knocked Dumbledore back, sitting down heavily in his chair, the wind knocked out of him. Lucius wasn't as affected, the only way you could tell he had been was the messy state of his long hair, and the gobsmacked look on his face.

"I-I-what—" Dumbledore said helplessly. "I don't understand" he said, picking up the parchment. Lucius stood, taking the parchment from him, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. He stepped around the desk, to Dumbledore's fireplace, and picked up a handful of Floo Powder.

"Gringott's Lobby!" He shouted, throwing down the powder into the flames.

***1047****

Severus watched the little boy as he muttered sullenly to himself while he scrubbed out the inside of a giant cauldron. The little boy who had wormed his way into Severus' heart. The little boy who Severus would go above and beyond his Oath for. This child that Severus would deny to ever consider as his own.

The boy that currently was acting nothing like himself. Severus was not a Potion's Master for nothing. As the child scrubbed away, Severus had been shooting monitoring, examining and diagnostic spells at his back. But there was no sign of anything aside from an extremely weak love potion that would honestly have no effect on the boy anyway because of his huge magical core.

Just to be safe, Severus spent ten minutes carefully, discretely dispelling it from his body. Before he knew it, an hour and a half had passed, but still, nothing.

Severus was growing desperate, trying hard and failing to suppress the panic he'd been feeling since Potion's class earlier that day, and had grown when his Godson and the little Weasley boy had come to beg him to examine Sherlock. The Little Weasley was in tears, and Draco had been extremely distraught. Surprisingly, many of his fellow collogues, older students, younger students, Nearly Headless Nick and even Mr. Filch had come begging Severus to find what was wrong with the child that seemed to have endeared himself to every being in the castle.

There was only one option left to Severus, but it had to be done and he brushed away any guilt that he felt. It was for the brat's own good. Severus readied a vial in his hand, and he began chanting an, admittedly, Dark spell. The fact that Sherlock didn't notice was testament to how off the boy was acting. Five minutes later, and Severus now held a small vial of the little boy's blood, which he carefully placed in his breast pocket.

"You may leave, Mr. Potter," Severus snapped. He needed to get the blood to Pomfrey as fast as possible. Sherlock, the normally sweet but lofty genius, sneered at him and threw down his scrub brush. His adorable features contorted in a way that twisted Severus' insides, reminding him of his childhood tormentor.

Without a word, Sherlock stood to his feet, turned on his heel, and stalked out the door of the office, slamming the door on his way out. Severus couldn't waste the precious moments he wanted to, to allow himself to feel pain at the child's actions, instead hurriedly Flooing to the infirmary.

***1047***

John looked up at Sherlock as his best friend walked through the door. Though Sherlock ignored him as he pulled his Potion stained outer robe over his head, tossing it to the floor where it would be recovered by a House Elf later, and plopped down on his bed, face first. John slid out of bed and cautiously approached Sherlock, sitting on the edge of his bed. "That bad, huh?" John tried to say cheerfully.

Sherlock groaned something that sounded like "Greasy old bat". John chewed his bottom lip before saying "He loves you, you know that right?" Sherlock then looked up at John with equal measures of disgust and are you kidding me? John twitched, drawing his legs up and wrapping his arms around them.

"Are-are you feeling alright?" John asked him gently. Sherlock frowned at him.

"Fine," he said shortly. He didn't elaborate at all. John wasn't that surprised. Gently, John leaned forward and tried to kiss Sherlock's temple, as he had often done previously. But a harsh shove sent him sprawling off the bed. "Ron!"

John looked up at him, at a loss. He felt so confused. He felt like hitting something. "Sherlock?"

"Stop calling me that! Honestly, Ron, what's with you? You and Hermione have been acting so off. I'm thinking it's the two of you that should go get Madam Pomfrey to check out your heads. Really, we're not little kids anymore. It's weird to hang off of each other. I love you, mate, I really do. But you're just being plain weird about it." Sherlock…Harry was frowning at John like he'd grown a second head. No, he was frowning at John like a NORMAL person would frown at something if it grew a second head. John's Sherlock would be horrifyingly interested if something grew a second head.

"Right!" John tried to laugh it off. "Sorry. You know my family, though, Harry. We're always hanging off of each other. And you're like a brother to me, so I guess it's hard to treat you, you know, just like a friend." John finished weakly, but Harry seemed to accept it.

"Oh, yeah. That's fine, Ron. I'd just rather you tone it down a bit, in front of people at least." Harry looked around at seemed to realize the they were the only ones in the dorm, Creevy and Seamus having gone to look for Dean and Neville having gone to check out an evening plant with Professor Sprout in the Green Houses. "Sorry I pushed you," Harry said bashfully. "You surprised me, is all."

"It's alright, mate," John tried to smile back. "I'm going to go fine G-Granger, real fast." Harry nodded wearily, laying back down. With a rush of a bold, painful, unidentifiable emotion, John darted forward and kissed Harry's nose before he could react, then he darted out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Greg wasn't in the common room, and since John couldn't go into the girl's dorm, he did the next best thing and ran out of Gryffindor Tower, running towards the dungeons like the devil was on his heels.

****1047****

Lucius was fuming as he stormed across the floor of the bank. Goblins raised eyebrows questioningly as he passed with Dumbledore close in his wake. His hand was gripping the parchment tightly; he could hear it crackling under his fingers. He was aware he was causing a scene, but at the moment he couldn't care less. All his careful planning and this old fool managed to somehow mess it up. Not only that, but his son would be devastated and Lucius could almost see the look of heartbreak on his precious dragon's face when he was forced to tell him the bonding contract had failed. What had Lucius missed? Wasn't Dumbledore Potter's guardian? Or was Black still in possession of the Potter heir's Godfathership?

By muscle-memory, he wound his way through the labyrinth that was Gringotts towards his personal Goblin's office area. He barely paused to knock before it swung open before him. His Goblin, Fleishack, was sitting at his desk, staring at him with an uncanny look of expectancy.

"Lord Malfoy" Fleishack drawled, his black, beady eyes glinting in the flickering light the crackling fireplace behind him gave. Lucius forced himself to calm down, it was never good to deal with Goblins when not in complete control of oneself. He sighed deeply, unclentching his fists, then gracefully seated himself across from the Goblin. As there were no other chairs, Dumbledore was forced to stand behind him, though if the old man felt awkward about this, he took care not to show it.

"How might I help you," the Goblin asked, his head tilting in a way that, if this were any other creature, Lucius might have called mischievous. Though he wanted to throw down the contract in disgust, Lucius gingerly placed the parchment on the desk. Fleishack's claws scooped it up and onced, bringing it to the Goblin's gaze. "I'm assuming you found some fault in the contract?"

"No," Lucius denied. "The contract was fine. However, upon finishing the sealing of it, the magic rebelled. I wish to know why." The last sentence was bit out between clenched teeth. Fleishack hummed, dragging his claws along the parchment before putting it down.

"I'm surprised this was attempted," the Goblin said, his fangs gleaming white. "Almost as much as I'm surprised they did not tell you." A gravelly chuckle escaped the Goblin as he shook his head. "I apologize, Lord Malfoy, but there is no possible way to seal a marriage bond between your heir and one Lord Potter."

"Lord Potter?" Lucius spluttered.

"Indeed" Fleshack's grin looked almost manic now. "A fortnight ago, your heir and the young, then Heir Potter, came to the bank and paid not only for a bond, but for Heir Potter's emancipation and Lordship." The Goblin's fangs almost seemed to elongate with its extremely pleased expression. "They have been bonded since early summer, and Odiclaw, the one who fastened the bond between them, has told me that a stronger brother's bond he has never seen."

Lucius was in shock. He recalled how vehemently Draco had denied wanting to marry Sherlock, but then the very next day, he'd found them laughing together, all but tangled up in the thick grass of the Malfoy Gardens. He'd assumed they'd come to terms with it, and found themselves pleased. Now, he realized belatedly that they must have already decided on their little scheme by that point.

And yet, Lucius was not displeased. Sherlock would still be an official, if honorary, member of the Malfoy family, just as Draco could call upon the aid of the Potter house if he ever had any need. Furthermore, Draco would still be able to marry into another Line, securing yet another strong tie for the Malfoys. Honestly, if the boys had just told Lucius of their plan, he would have approved. In fact, the boys' plan was far superior to Lucius' original idea.

Still, Lucius sighed deeply, feeling a fond exasperation for his son and the boy whom he'd come to care for. Narcissa would most likely be just as pleased with the arrangement. Dumbledore truly had no influence over Draco, nor Sherlock anymore, excepting his role as Headmaster.

Lucius thanked the Goblin for his time, and gracefully rose from his seat. Nodding respectfully to the Headmaster, who had a look on his face akin to one who'd accidently swallowed a spider, he made his way back to the lobby. Allowing himself a private, tiny smile, Lucius considered when an opportune time to visit his boys would be.

***1047***

"…I don't see any irregularities, Severus," Madam Pomfrey said slowly. Normally, the matronly woman would be appalled at the Potion Master's actions. Taking blood from a witch or wizard without express permission was punishable by ten years in Azkaban, then death by the Bloodletting curse. And yet, just this morning she'd seen for herself just how unwell Sherlock Potter was. Every morning last year, Draco Malfoy made a point of coming over to the Gryffindor table and greeting Sherlock, along with various other Gryffindor First Years. In fact, he'd done it so consistently and often, that he was typically openly welcomed with grins, friendly banter and even the occasional rough housing that young children often engaged in. It wasn't uncommon, by the end of last year, to see the Malfoy and Potter Heirs seated side by side, so close that the entire length of their arms were in contact.

But that morning, young Malfoy had come over to the Gryffindor table, making a direct path towards Sherlock. Draco had even greeted Sherlock with a fond smile, an expression that was rare to see on his pale features, and had raised a hand to place on the smaller boy's shoulder. A hand that had quickly and viciously been slapped away. Harry had sneered at Draco, calling him a "Baby Death Eater" and a "Slimy Snake". It had escalated from there, until Professor McGonagall was forced to intervene before it came to blows, dishing out detention to Sherlock and a warning to Draco.

Madam Pomfrey was well acquainted with the stoic masks of the Slytherin students, as well as the almost legendary Malfoy composure. But as the young Slytherin slowly walked back to his own table, Madam Pomfrey was almost certain she spied tears in those tired, silver eyes. And that wasn't the only instance she observed of the usually fair Gryffindor acting far out of character. He'd mocked several first year Hufflepuffs, calling that House "Hogwart's Dumping Grounds". He'd "accidentally" spilled the contents of a second years' book bag in the hall, telling the girl it only served her right for being such a "nerdy know-it-all" and carrying so many books about the castle. And almost the most disturbing of all, was when Sherlock publicly tore into Neville Longbottom, calling him "Fat" and "Useless".

And yet, there was nothing she could find odd about the blood sample illegally taken from Hogwarts's former favored child. "I'm sorry," she said passionately, feeling a helpless sort of anger. "If I had a sample of his blood from before all this happened, it might be more clear. But as it is, his blood appears to be normal."

"But he isn't 'normal', Poppy" Severus said, almost at a whisper, his hands clenched at his sides. "It's as though the ghost of James Potter has come back to haunt me, taking away the last bit of Lily's goodness from me." And suddenly Poppy was transported back in time, remembering a younger man she treated for a broken leg and multiple abrasions. She remembered the cruel laughter of Gryffindor bullies, and the gentle soothings of a sweet redhaired angel who refused to leave Severus' bedside. She placed a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm not giving up, Severus," she said gently. "Merely explaining to you my findings. Rest assured, I will find what is wrong with him." She paused. "Though, I'm just a Mediwitch. I may have to call upon the help of one of my colleagues from St. Mungos." Severus opened his mouth to protest, but Poppy continued before he could speak. "I trust this woman with my life," she said. "I know she'll be discreet. And as a fellow Hufflepuff, you can promise yourself that she's as loyal as they come." The tension in the Professor's shoulders ebbed away, just the smallest bit.

"Keep an eye on him," Poppy instructed him. "If there's any further change, let me know. And if there's any more acting out, give him detention with me." Severus nodded his understanding. "Also, it might not hurt to question the House Elves in charge of serving the food." Severus shook his head.

"I already did so," he said heavily. "They insisted they added nothing to the food aside from what seasonings they typically add." Poppy sighed, but accepted that the House Elves probably had nothing to do with it. "Poppy," the Mediwitch looked up at him. "If it was in the food, wouldn't the entire Student Population be acting odd?" Poppy frowned.

"I don't know," she said, frustrated, her brow deeply wrinkled. "I just don't know."

***0147***

Harry didn't like it when people spoke about him, particularly when it was behind his back. He almost felt paranoid for feeling to anxious about it, but then again, he could hear them. Hear them wondering what was wrong with him (what are they talking about? Nothing's 'wrong' with him), if he broke up with 'John' (they were never going out in the first place. Honestly. Harry's going to have to talk to Ron about not being so darn cuddly all the time), about what happened between him and Snape (this might be the most disturbing of all) and if Harry was actually an impostor.

He was seriously getting sick of all the looks he was getting, in class from other Houses, and in the Dorm or at meals with his own. He honestly didn't mind it when Ron pressed against his side, as though looking for comfort. But it was embarrassing. Though, Harry always felt kind of bad about telling him off for it, after all, Ron was just doing what they'd always done. And Ron had been babied for most of his life, since he'd been a cripple before Hogwarts.

Harry winced, looking over at where his best friend was slumped rather dejectedly in one of the cushy chairs in front of the Gryffindor Common Room's fireplace. Harry sighed. That kid looked like a kicked puppy, a twinge of guilt flashed through him. He was treating Ron no better than how the Dursleys treat him, expecting Harry to be something he wasn't. Harry realized, with no small amount of shame, that Ron was simply the kind of person who needed to have physical contact. It made sense, after all, the twins tended to walk on either side of Ron, each with an arm slung about Ron's shoulders. Percy gave him hugs quite regularly. And, even though Ginny was occupied with those slimy Slytherin's she got stuck with, he knew that even she sort of spoiled him. And up until this year, when Harry realized how weird it was for boys their age to cuddle, Harry had also indulged him.

Heaving a sigh, Harry walked away from the enchanted chess set he'd been using to play against himself, and picked up his Transfiguration Text book that he'd left lying there an hour ago. Ignoring the other people in the room trying to subtly stare at him, Harry wriggled into the seat, which was meant for one, next to his friend. "Budge over" he said, disregarding Ron's surprised face. Ron obliged, making room for Harry. Once he was comfortable enough, Harry cracked open his text book to a random spot and began pretending to read it, feeling Ron's gaze against his face.

Hesitantly, Ron began to relax, his weight falling comfortably against Harry, his forehead leaning against Harry's shoulder. Deciding that he could indulge Ron a bit more, here in the safety of the Common Room, Harry stretched out an arm, letting his hand fall against Ron's side and tugging his best friend ever so slightly closer.

Ron heaved a peculiar sounding sigh. "I miss you," he said quietly, hiding his face in Harry's robe, though Harry had already spied a trace of dampness on his face. "I miss you, so much." Frowning, Harry tried to look down at him, but was thwarted by Ron's head pillowed in the crook of his neck, preventing him from moving it very far.

"I'm right here, mate," Harry said, just as quietly. Tilting his head slightly up, Ron pressed his dry lips to Harry's jaw, lingering for several long moments. His hand found Harry's, their fingers falling into place around each other. Ron pulled his face back, then kissed Harry again, higher up, almost on the corner of his lips. Harry close his eyes and let him, feeling a peculiar warmth in his chest and a dry knot in his throat. He swallowed, feeling Ron graze his cheek one last time, before settling back down, his head against Harry's chest, both arms wrapped tightly about him. Harry put down the book, which had been drooping in his hand, steadily lower, and returned the embrace.

Maybe…they weren't too old for this…

Harry held Ron tighter. "I'm right here"

******1047*******

It almost started getting normal after that. Except, Harry still didn't apply himself to anything, and his grades slipped from being straight O's to a mess of A's and E's, with the occasional P thrown in for good measure. Also, Harry had stopped associating with anyone outside of the Gryffindor Second year boys, even Granger, with the sole exception of the Weasley family. He wasn't openly hostile anymore, unless a Slytherin came directly to him. Not since he realized it upset Ginny and Ron.

But a collective sigh of relief was let out when Harry and Ron began spending more time in each other's company once more, though Harry no longer solely ate from Ron's plate, nor did they hold hands in the halls. But they did always sit beside each other, as inseparable as ever.

Even still, no body had any idea what was going on with the young man. No body, that is, but Lockhart who was just full of ideas.

"It because fame spoiled him! It's a blessing I'm as steadfast as I am, or I, too, might have become as unagreeable as Mr. Potter!"

"It's the Yojokiki curse! Nasty thing, rot's your brain and leaves you craving lemons. Horrible, horrible."

"A Loloritu Bug bit him!"

"He's possessed by a demon! Lucky for all of you, I'm quite adept in exorcisms! Professor Snape, if you could be so kind as to provide me with oil from the Gruti Flower?"

"Obviously, he's being impersonated by a Death Eater using Polyjuice! Quick, someone grab hold of him while I contact the press—I mean—suitable authorities."

It was worst when the Second Years were in DADA class. Lockhart often tired his own 'cures' on Harry, some which landed him in the infirmary, some which caused Harry to land Lockhart in the infirmary.

"Just try to ignore him, Harry" Ginny soothed him, one afternoon, not noticing how tense her older brother was standing as she embraced the ravenhaired Gryffindor. "He's just jealous of how famous you are. He's only well known among certain circles but everyone knows your name." As Harry preened under her attentions, whispers of "Homewrecker" were echoed about the Great Hall.

For John, it was hardest at night. That was when he was most reminded of how different "Harry" was from "Sherlock". Sherlock used to spend ages tending to his hair, cleaning it meticulously and combing out the curls so that it wouldn't be too much of a mess the next morning. Sherlock used to stare intently in the mirror while he brushed his teeth for three minutes exactly. Sherlock used to slide into bed with John, leeching off of his body heat. Sherlock used to mutter deductions in his sleep. Sherlock used to snuffle quietly against John's chest. Sherlock used to burrito himself up at night, unconsciously stealing the blankets. Sherlock used to dig his fingers into John's night shirts.

Harry did none of that. He barely washed his hair, let alone groom it, so this beautiful curls soon became a snarled bird's nest that stuck up in every direction. He haphazardly scrubbed his teeth for only a few moments before spitting and rinsing. They never shared a bed, and Harry made no sounds at all as he slept, staying entirely still all though the night.

As September turned to October, and the leaves turned from green to browns and reds, John couldn't help but remember those years when Sherlock had left him, left him alone, bitterly remembering Sherlock's promise to never leave him again. John left his curtain's open a crack, so he could see Harry, who lay in his own bed with curtains only half closed.

******1047******

"JOHN! MYCROFT! GREG! SEVERUS! JOHN! JOHN!" Sherlock hadn't stopped screaming for what felt like years. He had no idea where he was, or at what point he'd been brought here. The last thing he remembered was being on the train to Hogwarts. Or was it the feast? Maybe he'd dreamed that. Had he been kidnapped? Oh, Merlin, was John okay? John had surely been with him!

Sherlock threw his entire weight against the door of the small room he was in. And by small room, it was more a closet with the heavy wooden door shut tight. There was no door handle, and he could only tell it was a door by the faint light coming from the crack at the bottom of it. Other than that tiny glow, it was completely dark. Sherlock estimated the size of the room to be one point 3 square feet. He could barely move. If he tried sitting down, it was even more cramped, and for once Sherlock was grateful for how small he was.

"John!" Sherlock sobbed, laying his head against the door. His magic wasn't working, his brain felt fuzzy, and he felt horrible lonely like he hadn't since Mycroft had abandoned him to go to college, or when he was forced to leave John to take down Moriarty's web. His head hurt. His throat hurt from screaming. His eyes hurt from crying. His shoulder's ached where he'd hit the door. His chest felt uncomfortably clenched. How long had it been? Longer than a day, longer than a week surely. A month? A year? Had any time passed at all? Why had John not come for him? "Mycroft. John. John. John. John."