Fuzzy. Everything was fuzzy. Slurred. Dim.

"Shit," Angelo muttered.

The flashing of police lights could be seen above and below the boards on the window. The wailing sirens drew nearer.

"What do we do boss?" The guy behind John said, panic at the back of his throat.

"We can't get caught. We need to leave. Grab anything you can, quickly!"

The men snapped out of their trance and got to work, quickly grabbing weapons, matches, the duct tape and their black duffel bags.

"But sir, the boy, he knows who we are, he's a witness." Vinci said in his thick accent.

Angelo seemed to think for a moment. "Kill him."

John's stomach sunk, his heart pounding.

"How? We don't have time for the whip, it'll take too long for him to bleed out." He boomed.

Angelo tossed him a knife, "Stab 'm in his wretched lonely heart."

John was hyperventilating, struggling to breathe, tugging against his restraints to no avail.

"Quickly!" Angelo huffed as he grabbed his own duffel bag and followed the other men out the back door.

Vinci looked around, heard tires squeaking. Car doors opening. He knelt in front of John. "I'm sorry about this, I really am. You seemed like a good kid, it's just, you know."

John didn't know. Didn't understand.

"Well, 'ere it goes," Vinci adjusted his grip on the knife. It was long, jagged and pointy. Decently thin but deadly.

He pulled back his arm, bent at the elbow, tattoos snaked from underneath his shirt sleeve. Door pounding. Someone trying to get in. Close. So close.

Vinci looked at the door, frightened, then back at John and thrust the knife forward. John twisted at the last second.

John looked down. The thick handle was protruding out of his shoulder. Pain washed over his shocked body, pumping with adrenaline. White noise filled his ears. Everything was washed silent. John bit down on his cheek, making it bleed but not caring, not feeling. Vinci jumped up, looked at John, then the knife, then the door.

"Shit," he murmured and swiped his bag off the counter and bolted through the back door.

Not a moment later the front door flew off its hinges, three cops filed in, crouched and ready to attack. Two of them sprinted after the thugs out the back door, while one rushed over to John, kneeling down in front of him.

Lestrade. Greg is here, I'm gonna be fine. Damn it hurts.

"I'm sorry 'bout this," Greg whispered. Sorry about wha? OuCh!

Suddenly the tape was off his mouth and John could breathe again. Great gulps of air, hoarsely coughing and regaining sense of what actually just happened.

Someone stumbled through the door, tripping over the threshold. They were running, John looked up. It was him. Oh God it was him. He came.

Sherlock stared at him with wide eyes, frozen. John stared back.

Greg looked up at John, then Sherlock. With a nod John didn't see he dismissed himself from the scene and went to talk to Mycroft, who had calmly followed Sherlock into the building.

Sherlock broke his trance and ran to John, skidding on his knees, possibly scraping them but who cares. Sherlock untied John's hands and legs with trembling fingers. All the while murmuring under his breath. "Oh my God John, I'm so sorry. This is all my fault I'm so sorry."

Tears started running down his cheeks, and once he'd finished untying, Sherlock buried his head in Johns lap, stained with blood. He felt John place a hand on the back of his neck, rubbing back and forth. The hand was warm, and wet.

Sherlock looked up and took a moment to look John over. He was shirtless, but Sherlock wasn't happy about it this time. Faint scratches scattered his abdomen, and a trail of blood leading up to the knife. A knife, impaled in his left shoulder. Side of head, lump, scrape, blood. Hit with blunt object. Sherlock crawled around to the back. He drew in a sharp breath.

Two lines, creating an imperfect X, across his whole back. Red, swollen. Blood. Whip.

Sherlock crawled back to the front and grabbed John's hand. "John," he said, voice breaking.

"Shh, Sherlock , shh, we'll talk later." John said, squeezing Sherlock's hand.

"You need a hospital."

John groaned playfully. "Help me up?" He asked. Sherlock smiled at him and pulled him to his feet, taking the majority of his weight. Sherlock was careful not to touch any injured part of John, his arm clutched around his waist underneath the X. John's arm was leaning on Sherlock's shoulders, his sleeping legs limping, his spine struggling to straighten.

An ambulance was waiting outside.

"Wait, can we just… stop, for a minute." John asked. They were standing just inside the door, so that the medics hadn't seen them yet. Greg and Mycroft occupied the police.

"Of course," Sherlock stopped and helped John half lean on the wall. John breathed, in, out. Tears prickled at the back of his eyes.

John gave up holding back and practically fell into Sherlock's chest, burying his face into the others neck. John was positioned so that the knife sticking out of him was in-between Sherlock's arm and torso. Sherlock's heart broke.

He carefully wrapped one arm around his waist and one carding softly through his hair and down his neck.

"Shh, it's okay, it's over now. You're safe. I'm here, I'm never leaving. I'm here. You're gonna be okay. Im never letting you go, you're safe. Shh," Tears rolled down his own cheeks. They stood there a few moments more, John shivering and sobbing, the shock wearing off. Sherlock feeling helpless and broken and clutching to John as if he were life itself. In a way he was.

"Are you cold?" Sherlock asked, starting to tug his shirt over his head.

"S'okay. Yur warm," John muffled. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and breathed in John. He'd almost lost him. Never again.

"Okay," John exhaled, pulling back slightly. "Let's get this knife out of me." John attempted a small chuckle. Sherlock kissed his forehead. John felt the promise sink into his skin, into his blood and down to his heart.

Slowly they made their way out of the building, where immediately medics swarmed them, taking John away from Sherlock and into the ambulance.

Sherlock watched as John was lifted into the vehicle. He was about to follow, to stay with John but then he felt a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock looked up. Mycroft had a blank expression, only Sherlock would be able to notice the slight difference in his eyes and mouth that expresses condolence and sorrow.

"He will be alright Sherlock." And that was all that was said. Sherlock nodded forwards, not looking Mycroft in the eye. They stood there until Greg came to ask some questions.

"Tomorrow, Gregory." Mycroft said to Greg, interrupting him mid-sentence. Greg shut his mouth, looked them both over, and nodded, but didn't leave.

"Can we wait in the hospital?" Sherlock whispered.

Mycroft looked down, his heart hurting for his little brother. "Let's go home and tell mother, then I will take you to the hospital."

The ambulance sped away, sirens wailing.

Sherlock looked up at him with deep eyes, expressing love and thankfulness.

Mycroft thought about what he could have been. A cold, heartless ice-man. But he had Greg, and he had his baby brother to look after, and he thought that he was lucky. He didn't want to be just lonely and powerful. He wanted Sherlock to look at him like he was his protector, a caring, kind brother who he could trust and count on. He wanted power, yes, he wanted to keep his intelligence, sure, but what he wanted most of all was his friends and family.

Mycroft thought about who he would've been if he ignored his brother and Gregory's advances in order to close himself off from the world and not have any weaknesses or pressure points. But he realizes now that life wouldn't be worth living he was lonely.

Mycroft watches Sherlock walk slowly over to their car and climb in silently. He then follows, turns the engine on and pulls out of the crime scene, giving Greg a kind wave before driving off towards home.