The digital clock on the bedside table flashed 11:15. Sherlock lay on his side with John's body tucked up against his and stared at the dark shadows on the wall. He and John were both fully clothed and stretched out on top of the covers, which made it logistically less difficult for Sherlock to slip out of bed without waking John. Still, it wasn't an easy thing to do. He brushed his lips lightly against John's forehead, wanting to savor this last bit of contact with him. Then he rolled over and sat up on the edge of the bed.

Going over the plan in his mind, Sherlock knew that he had to leave his mobile here so that Mycroft and Lestrade couldn't use it to track him. He pressed a button to turn on the screen, the harsh light forcing him to squint in the dark as he opened a blank text and composed a note.

Don't worry. Everything's going to be okay.

If this was his last chance to say it, he might as well say it now.

I love you.

Leaving the phone on the bedside table, Sherlock quickly put on his shoes and snuck out into the hallway. The flat was dark and silent, lit only by the ghostly glow of the lampposts shining through the windows. Sherlock crossed the sitting room and looked down at the street below. As he'd expected, there was a squad car parked along the sidewalk standing guard over 221B. Of course, there were other ways in and out of the flat.

Sherlock crept up the small set of stairs leading to the second bedroom. He had only been in this room once before, but he knew this was where the fire escape was. A strange yet familiar feeling came over him like he was submerged underwater. Without a glance back, Sherlock opened the small window and disappeared into the night.

In the main bedroom, John's limbs twitched as a troubling dream played out on the projector screen in his mind.

He was running down a long corridor unsure of where he was going. At the end of the hall, a door opened, and he hurried inside. The room was dark but he could see a thin figure curled up on the floor. He drew closer and realized it was Sherlock.

"Sherlock!" John fell to his knees and reached out to touch him, to grab him, to hold him, but somehow he couldn't manage it. The boy lay still and unresponsive. As John screamed his name again, he felt invisible hands pulling him away. Dark figures surrounded Sherlock and tugged at his limbs, rolling him onto his back and pinning him to the floor. "Stop it!" John shouted. "Stop it! Leave him alone!"

For a brief moment, Sherlock's eyes opened. He turned to look at him and whispered, "I'm sorry, John."

Why does he always say that? What the hell does that even mean?

John continued shouting and struggling against the hands holding him. A man in a Westwood suit appeared, hovering over the boy. He took out a long knife and held it above Sherlock's chest. Sherlock lay motionless, his face resolutely calm as the man plunged the knife into his heart.

"NO!" John screamed, jolting awake. He blinked and looked around the dark room. His racing heart beat impossibly faster when he reached out and found the space next to him on the bed was empty. "Sherlock?"

John got up and turned on the lamp. He took a deep breath and pressed the heels of his palms his eyes as he tried to shake the panic building inside him. It was just a dream, he told himself. Just some fucked-up nightmare. "Sherlock?" he called again. Then he glanced down at Sherlock's phone lying open on the bedside table. With shaking hands, he picked it up and read the note.

"Oh my God," John breathed. "Oh fuck."

Taking a moment to get himself under control, John pulled his own phone out and dialed Lestrade's number. The call went to voicemail several times, and John was sure he was going to lose his mind when finally he heard the D.I.'s voice on the other end of the line.

"I'm in a meeting," Lestrade said gruffly. "Is this an emer-?"

"Sherlock's gone," John all but shouted into the phone. "He left a note."

"Shit," Lestrade whispered. "Why would he leave in the middle of the night? Did he say where he was going?"

Hardly able to speak, John shook his head. Then he realized how stupid he was being and answered, "No, I have no clue where he is. He left his phone here. Is there any other way you can track him?"

"I'll call Mycroft and have him check the CCTV cameras." Lestrade sighed wearily. "Are you sure you don't know where he could have run off to?"

John closed his eyes and thought for a moment. The one guess that he managed to come up with terrified him. "Where exactly is Jim Moriarty's flat located?"

"It's somewhere near the university, but why would he go there?" Muffled voices echoed on the other side of the line. "I've gotta go. We'll find him, John. Just promise me that you're going to stay put."

"Yes, alright," John responded numbly. Then he rang off and stared down at his phone. "The hell I am."

It was John's first time climbing down a fire escape. The way down was steep and John's hands were slippery with sweat, but he managed to reach the ground without injury. He stood for a moment in the alley and concentrated on figuring out which way to go, wishing he had a map of London in his head the way Sherlock did. He recalled walking with him to the university library months ago and tried to remember the street signs they had followed. Then it came to him. "Luxborough Street."

After about half a mile of running at full steam, John stopped to catch his breath when he drew near the university campus. He doubled over with his hands on his knees, shaking with the effort to remain standing. Big Ben chimed in the distance, signaling half-past eleven. John glanced up at the sidewalk and felt his heart leap when he saw a solitary figure walking under the light of the streetlamps.

"Sherlock!" John sprinted forward just as the boy stopped and turned to face him. Sherlock caught John in his arms as he collapsed against him and clung to him tightly.

"John. Oh my God, John," Sherlock gasped, breathing as if he was the one who had just run a half a mile. He pulled back and gripped John's shoulders. "You can't be here," he whispered urgently. "Jim knows how to hack into the CCTV cameras. He'll see you. He'll know you followed me. You have to go back."

"Sherlock, no," John panted, gasping for air. "Where the hell are you going?"

Sherlock dropped his hands and stepped away. "You tracked me down. You know where I'm going."

"Oh God." John closed his eyes and tried to slow his breathing. "Why? What did Moriarty say to you when you were alone with him?"

Sherlock looked up at the skyline. "I have less than fifteen minutes to show up at his flat. Otherwise he'll return to Baker Street, and then he won't just be coming after me, he'll be coming after you too."

"So your plan is to sacrifice yourself?"

"Lestrade reopened my missing persons case," Sherlock said quietly. "Hopefully they'll find me in the right flat this time."

John sighed wearily and pulled Sherlock back into a tight embrace. "I swore to myself that I'd never let that bastard touch you again."

"John-"

"Sherlock, no," John whimpered. "I won't let him do this to you."

Feeling his resolve start to crumble, Sherlock cupped John's cheek and tilted his face toward him. He searched desperately for the right words to say to make John understand. "Jim is aware by now that the most effective way to hurt me is by hurting you." He rested his forehead against John's. "I promise I can survive anything, anything except that."

John's throat tightened painfully, but before he regained the ability to speak, they were interrupted. The screech of tires and the thud of slamming doors reverberated in the air as black car pulled up by the sidewalk. With his eyes still fixed on John, Sherlock shoved him away and shouted, "John, RUN!"

Of course, John had no intentions of running. Not that he stood a chance of getting away at that point. It was as if he had fallen once more into the nightmare. John yelled and fought against the rough hands gripping him as he watched two of the assailants grab Sherlock and drag him towards the boot of the car. The sound of Sherlock screaming for him to run was the last thing John heard before a black hood was pulled over his head.


When the hood was removed, John found himself propped up against a black leather couch with his hands cuffed behind his back. He blinked in the soft lighting and looked around the room. In the center there was a small table with a tourniquet and a syringe filled with amber liquid lying on its surface, and there was a cot in the corner with a pair of handcuffs dangling from a hook attached to the metal headboard.

Over by the door, Sherlock was pressed forward up against the wall. He'd been uncuffed, but Jim had the boy's wrist pinned over his head. Jim leaned his forehead against the back of Sherlock's neck and breathed him in. "So good to have you home, Sherl," Jim purred.

"Get your hands off of him!" John growled fiercely, heedless of the gun pointed at his head.

Jim glanced briefly at him as if he just noticed that John was there. "And Johnny boy's here too! He's sweet. I can see why you like him." Jim slid his hands down to Sherlock's waist. "Did you let him fuck you?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and shut him out. He had to think. He had to review the data in his head and figure out some way to get John to safety.

"When we met you were just a shy little virgin," Jim crooned, loud enough for John to hear. "You didn't even want to come to bed the first night I brought you home, but still, I laid you down on the mattress, and you took it like a good boy," he rocked his hips forward, "my good boy."

"SHUT UP!" John yelled, struggling against the cuffs. "Stop, just stop it!"

Jim shook his head and backed up towards the center of the room. "He still doesn't seem to understand, Sherlock. I suppose he didn't get a good look at those photographs after all. How disappointing." He lit a cigarette and took a long, dramatic drag. "Sherlock, take your shirt off."

Pressed against the wall, the boy tensed. When Sherlock didn't comply immediately, a small click resounded from the gun pointed at John's head as a warning. Slowly, Sherlock retracted his arms from the sleeves and slipped out of the black t-shirt, his back exposed.

Just when John thought the whole situation couldn't get any more fucked-up, it did.

The bones of Sherlock's shoulder blades and vertebrae protruded under his alabaster skin, which was marred by a patchwork of faded pinkish-white scar tissue. Across his shoulder blades, however, the scars were darker, as if they'd been branded there with a hot blade. These jagged lines formed four letters, one word, "MINE."

John hung his head and took a shaky breath. "Oh my God."

Sherlock hunched his shoulders and shuddered. He could practically hear Jim silently gloating, could sense the pain and rage coming off John in waves. All three of the armed henchmen stood by, watching and waiting, and the tension in the room was going to hit a critical point unless Sherlock said something now to make everyone shut up. He knew what Jim wanted to hear. That high, cold voice was always reverberating in his mind palace, tormenting him with poisonous thoughts.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock said in a low voice. "You never should have gotten involved with someone like me." Squaring his shoulders, he turned and pressed his back against the wall. "I know it's in your nature to want to help people, to want to fix them, but the truth is you can't fix me. There's too much damage done. It's written all over my body, what other people have done to me, what I've done to myself... These scars aren't ever going to heal."

John screwed his eyes shut and bit back a sob. He wanted to run to Sherlock. He wanted to wrap the boy in his arms and tell him all the things he'd meant to say but never had.

You don't need anyone to fix you, Sherlock, because you're not broken. In spite of everything that bastard did to you, he wasn't able to break you. You're the strongest, most resilient, amazing, incredible person I've ever met, and I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you so much.

Trapped and utterly heartbroken, John couldn't move. He couldn't speak. He could hardly breathe. "Sherlock…" he murmured faintly, "Sher…"

"Look at my fucking arm, John!" Sherlock exclaimed, fighting to keep the strain out of his voice. John slowly raised his head, tears streaming down his face. "This is who I am, who I've been all along. I'm a whore and a junkie. I'm his plaything," Sherlock shut his eyes tight, "and I'm sorry, but I can't be anything else. I don't know how."

It was unbearable watching John coming undone at those words. Sherlock swallowed thickly and turned his gaze on Jim. "You have what you want. Let him go."

Jim tilted his head and grinned. "First things first, dearie," he said, pointing to the table. "I need you to show me that you remember how this works."

Sherlock walked slowly to the center of the room and took a seat at the table in front of the loaded syringe. He laid his wrecked arm out on the table and tied the tourniquet above his elbow. It took a minute to find a good vein that wasn't scarred or collapsed, but once he found one, he inserted the needle and depressed the plunger.

As the powerful opiate flooded his veins and clouded his consciousness, Sherlock ripped off the tourniquet and stared up coldly at Jim's smug expression. "Satisfied?"

"What's this?" Jim asked, grabbing hold of Sherlock's wrist. He glanced down at the drawing of a heart below Sherlock's palm and smirked. "A heart?" Jim purred. "Isn't that just adorable?" He took one last drag from his cigarette he pressed the lit end against Sherlock's wrist, right over the heart. Sherlock fought to keep still and quiet as the cigarette ground into his skin and burned him. It wasn't the pain that turned his stomach as much as the malevolent glint he saw flash in Jim's eyes.

Jim flicked the cigarette away and casually lit another. Then he gestured towards the henchman in the corner and muttered, "Moran, take John Watson outside and shoot him."

Sherlock lost all sense of equilibrium.

"NO!" He slid out of the chair and hit the floor just as Moran grabbed John and dragged him off the sofa. The other two henchmen hauled Sherlock off the ground and started carrying him towards the bed in the corner. Weakened by the drugs, Sherlock struggled in vain to break free, to run to John, to shield him from harm. "JOHN!"

"SHERLOCK!" John thrashed and kicked in his executioner's arms. Helplessly, he watched Jim's men throw Sherlock onto the bed and pin him to the mattress. "Stop it! Get off of him!" John yelled. "SHERLOCK!"

Moran's heavy footsteps echoed as he carried John out of the flat. Sherlock thrashed against the rough hands holding him down. "JOHN!" Sherlock screamed, his voice breaking. He couldn't see or hear what was going on anymore, but he kept struggling, kept yelling, kept fighting to make it all stop. This couldn't be happening, it just couldn't. "JOHN!"

Finally the echo of a gunshot rang through the air. Then Sherlock lay still as everything inside him turned to dust.