A/N: Okay, so, no cliffie this time. A bit of angsty John figuring out Things.

Warnings: Noncon scene, not as graphic as previously.


Chapter Four: Rescue


When the elevator opened, Lestrade knew something was wrong. John was positively glowering. His color was bad and he looked like he'd gotten little sleep the night before. But it was more than that. No, there was something much more. There was a set to his jaw, where the tension seemed to make it vibrate it was strung so tight. It was midafternoon, and Lestrade had everyone he knew on the case. It was Thursday. Sherlock had gone missing on Monday night. They'd raided the empty house Wednesday. Today was Thursday, and the clock was ticking. The pattern was the body would be found on Monday, along with another missing person. So the fact that John was upset was certain, but no, as he got closer, he realized his eyes were red. Very red, and very puffy.

"I've already forwarded this to Mycroft. He's doubled the agents dedicated to it. I thought you should see it," John said as he slapped a disk into his hand. "It came in my email just after noon today."

Lestrade stared at it and back at John. "Okay, come on," he said, and summoned Anderson as he passed by the desk. As soon as they entered the office, John turned the blinds on the windows and sunk into the chair as Lestrade put the disk into the computer. Lestrade looked up questioningly.

"I can't watch it again. There's no sound, but there doesn't need to be," he said, looking out the window into the afternoon light.

Lestrade ran the disk. A message floated across the video first. "Hello John! I know you miss your dear, sweet boyfriend, Sherlock. So I thought I'd give you a look at how he's doing in Jaffrey's hands! Yours, JM." Anderson and Lestrade exchanged glances as it came to life.

The first image was black and shaky as a lens cap was taken off, and they were looking directly into the pudgy face of the man they were looking for. He grinned and wiped the lens with a cloth, then moved it to affix it to the wall, it seemed. He adjusted it and they saw Sally slumped in a chair. "She's alive," Anderson said after she moved a bit. Then he began arranging the room. A table, chairs, tea, a recliner. He seemed to enjoy the set up. During that time, Sally lifted her head, and it seemed she didn't note the camera. Then she was yelling something outside the range of the camera and she flinched, looking away. Jaffrey appeared, dragging a stumbling Sherlock in the dress he'd been in the picture in. The camera was good quality, full color, but no sound. They watched as he insisted on Sally getting something, and Anderson frowned at the gesture.

"He told him to give her some," he said softly. "But she doesn't look happy, whatever he said."

After a bit, they watched as he pulled a folder from a table and they recognized it. He started questioning Sherlock, and he resisted. And then it was like another man took over the mild looking man, the sudden violence and viciousness of the beating he gave Sherlock for some reason and the attack thereafter left both detectives wide eyed and wanting to look away.

"Don't worry," John said softly. "It gets worse."

Lestrade frowned and glanced at Anderson. The rest of the scene placed out, where he took Sherlock and cradled him, petting him and treating him like an errant child. Sally was biting her lip and they could see the blood running down her wrists in the video from her own struggle.

Just then, Lestrade's phone chirped and he had a message. Check your mail. Just a thought.- JM

Lestrade paused the video and pulled up his mail. A video in an email. He opened it. It appeared to be the same video John had, but when he opened it a blast of sound came from the speakers. "Greg, m'boy," came a slightly Irish lilt. "Thought you might want to hear things. So here you go. Give Jawn mah regards!" Then the video began anew, this time with full sound. Now John did get up and come around, matching the images with the sounds. By the time they had got through the first scene a second time, all three were slightly green. John was incredibly amazed at his friend's ability to avoid screaming as long as he did. Then the video sped forward, obviously nothing but sleeping. Then it slowed to the conversation between Sally and Sherlock during the night, which made John's face burn, but neither of the other two in the room acknowledged it. Other than, of course, a small grin shared that John didn't see at all.

"I don't know if I can watch this, again," John said as the next morning began.

Sally slept as Jaffrey woke Sherlock, who was obviously out of the influence of the drugs now. But even then, he didn't attack him with a typical level of snark. It was obvious the assault the day before had taken a toll on the detective. A great toll, by the posture and the pained look on his face. Until he was pointed out the fact there was a camera. And then Sherlock cussed, albeit mildly, and it completely set off the man again.

"This guy is highly unstable…Sherlock said worse things before and he ignored them…" Lestrade said, frowning as Sherlock's eyes followed the man out. It was obvious he was scared of what he would do. He was actually trembling, John noticed. Sally was still sleeping, the conversation between Sherlock and Jaffrey had been quiet, almost too quiet to be heard clearly.

"I image that Sherlock's at a complete loss. He normally can handle anyone, but this guy, there's no way to predict how he'll act or react," John said, swallowing hard as they watched him return with a cart.

Neither Anderson nor Lestrade could hide the horror as they watched him use a heated spatula on his mouth, and the shriek of pain that brought Sally awake made them all gasp. Then the hotplate, and very berating were no better, forcing him to say things, to call him that, and it was easy to tell from the blood running and the swelling of Sherlock's tongue that it was painful to even talk. Then, they cringed and were entrapped by the second assault, and petting him, telling him how much he loved him. They flinched at his words to Sally, that she should hope Sherlock didn't die, because she'd be shot the second he did.

"Forward the one with sound to Mycroft," John said softly, turning away. "He needs to hear what he's said; maybe it will give him some clues. Can we get a still frame of the building that we can zoom in on?"

John's phone buzzed. Did you like the video, John? Doesn't he scream pretty? After I sent you the soundless one I felt that perhaps his screams should be shared. -JM

John was sick and shoved the phone back in his pocket. They had to find him. Soon.

-Elsewhere-

Sally woke with a start, but luckily not to Sherlock shrieking in pain. She wasn't sure what woke her, but from the high windows, it was late afternoon now. She was really feeling the effects of no food or water, though. She looked over to find the blood back on the IV had been replaced by saline. Sherlock hadn't moved, and his mouth was even more swollen. His breaths were ragged and she wondered if the swelling was going to block his airway soon.

She looked up to see he was coming back. He smiled at her, then went to Sherlock's side, shaking his shoulder. Sherlock mumbled thickly around his swollen tongue.

"Doll, wake up for Daddy," he said, shaking him harshly again. Sherlock still didn't respond. There was a snort from the man.

"Wake up, Dolly, or Daddy is going to be mad…" he said again, and Sally recognized that dangerous edge to his voice. He would flip out again, and this time who knew what he'd do…

He turned and left suddenly, and Sally let out a deep sigh. Okay, maybe he would just come back later. It was quite obvious he was unconscious from the shock and trauma; it wasn't like he could help it. That bastard was the one who'd done it to him. The burns alone were enough. She glanced up and realized he was coming back, and in the dim light, she saw the furious mask on his face. Oh no, she thought. He couldn't…

He kneeled in front of his face again. "Doll," he said with a forceful tone. "Either wake up, or I'm going to do something not nice to make you wake up."

"Hey!" Sally yelled. "Stop it! He can't…"

He stared at her, those beady eyes bright. "Keep talking, and I'll shoot him right in front of you, then shoot you."

She swallowed and watched as he reached out to the hand he hadn't burned and grasped his index finger and yanked it sharply. Sherlock moaned and tried to pull away. He repeated it with his next finger. But still, it didn't wake him. He was shaking with anger now, such anger, and Sally didn't understand why or what was happening. He then took his whole hand, and gripped his forearm to lay it on the arm of the chair, and with all his strength, slammed down on his hand. That woke Sherlock with an agonized scream, and Sally flinched to hear the crunch of bones.

Sherlock stared at his arm, now twisted, bone jutting from the skin and back at the man. His face had returned to the pleasant calm. His jaw worked around the swollen burning mess that was his tongue but he couldn't get anything out past the white blinding pain radiating from the compound fracture of his forearm.

"I'm sorry, lovely, but you wouldn't wake up and I got angry. Here, I'll bandage you up. But remember, it is entirely your fault for refusing to wake up when I called you," he said, and set the bone roughly, getting another scream out of Sherlock, muffled as it was by his swollen mouth.

"Wha dith I do?" he asked, looking at Sally with teary eyes as he walked away to get bandages, she presumed.

"You didn't do anything, Sherlock. He's crazy. You were unconscious," Sally assured, watching for his return. Sherlock stared at the bleeding wound, the bone now back in place, eyes hazed with pain and fear. Blood ran and dripped onto the floor as the skin around it started to turn vivid purpleish black.

"I didth do unythig," he muttered. "Nuffin'."

He came back, and wrapped the wound. Sherlock looked up to see the IV fluids. He smiled, patting the lock in the crook of his burned arm. "Sorry, Doll, you can't eat or drink after you made me hurt your mouth, so I had to do this. Maybe next time you'll remember your mouth. And when I call for you to wake you need to wake up. Understand?"

Sherlock nodded, but realized too late that wasn't enough as his head was snapped to the side several times as he backhanded him repeatedly. The mask of fury was back and Sherlock found himself whimpering at the sight. "Yeth, yeth, du-dah," he said quickly as soon as he stopped hitting him. Tears collected in his eyes and spilled out despite willing them not to. He couldn't deduce a bloody thing about this man!

"Good Doll, good. Now, let me show you how much I love you," he said, ripping the dress's neckline open further.

0000000000000000 Noncon scene 000000000000

Sherlock's breath quickened and he shook his head. He couldn't take this again, not now. His body was wracked with pain and his head was spinning and he was kissing his neck like he was some sort of lover. A strangled sob escaped his lips as he moved one of the shackles and he was put on his back, and somehow, this was worse. He could see him now, every detail of his face. No, he'd rather be on his stomach or side, so he didn't have to see him, then he could distance, forget.

"Pleth, hurth…" he muttered, trying to look away, only to have his head wrenched violently toward him.

"Doll, it is your fault you're hurt. I told you at the outset that I would be gentle and love you, but you've made me do these things, just like the others! I thought you were better, but you still misbehave! So I have to punish you, and sometimes, I get carried away, so I have to love you! Just to make up for my actions…" he said, biting into Sherlock's collarbone harshly.

His hands were under the dress already, lifting his legs up and putting himself between them, rolling the skirts expertly until they rested on his pelvis in a neat fold. It was disturbing that he knew how to handle the dresses like this so well. Then, again, the fingers, and the sting as the already present tears reopened. He blinked back the water that stung his eyes as he felt his hips lifted and the merciless movements under him.

"See, so much better when you get used to it, right?" he said as he snapped his hips forward, and watched as Sherlock keened loudly in the back of his throat, choking on spit and blood from his mouth as his back arched.

He hurt everywhere and he wasn't sure what hurt the worst, but he knew that he nearly blacked out before he was done, and was barely coherent when he finished, which was good because there was nothing in his stomach for him to throw up anyway. He felt the kisses along his jaw and he jerked away from him as the dress was unfolded again. A shiver shot through him as his hand rested on the inside of his thigh for a long moment under the skirt. The top of the dress was torn now, his chest half bare, and one sleeve missing.

00000000000 End Noncon Scene 000000000000

Sally closed her eyes and ignored the sounds. How many times was this bastard going to do this to him? When he was done this time, he stood and she looked to find see him inject Sherlock's bare arm and pat him. "There, now, sleep away until morning, Dolly. You'll wake when I call this time, I know you will, such a quick study," he murmured into Sherlock's ear.

Sally was sick to her stomach as he left again, looking back to see he'd been left in a different position, this time laid out on his back, one shackle over each side of the chair, keeping his arms open and apart. He blearily blinked and turned toward her.

"M'sowwy, S-sally…" he muttered.

"What for? You're the victim here…"

"Hmm, drug ya in wit mah. Sowwy. And can't get ya out b'fer too late…" he said with a sigh.

Sally swallowed. "I guess you're right about that. But then you always are right, aren't you? One cuppa over four days doesn't look too good for the organs, huh?"

"Nah," he muttered and faded into a heavy sleep. "Die first, shoot ya."

She was too exhausted to fight the sleep that crawled into her vision. No, she was not able to fight it.

-The Yard-

It was almost dark when they got the next one. All they could do was stare in disbelief. There was no way to predict the guy.

"He just broke his arm because he was too unconscious to wake up?" Anderson said, frowning, actually looking ill.

Suddenly John held up a hand. "Stop! Pause it!"

He leaned forward. The camera seemed to have shifted somewhat, giving a better view of the high windows. "Zoom there," he said, pointing to the windows. The tech that was with them did that. "Son of a bitch," John muttered, pulling out his phone and running toward the door. "I know where he is!" Anderson and Lestrade were hot on his trail.

It was an hour drive to get there, but as they pulled up in the darkness, they could see faint light illuminating one of the abandoned warehouse's windows. "Has to be it."

Lestrade shook his head. "How did you figure this out?"

He smiled at him. "The windows. We had a case out here once, and I remember Sherlock commenting on the way the windows were made. In fact…" John's eyes went wide. "Oh, my God…no wonder. This was where we busted one of Moriarty's crew for something he'd arranged. This is all about revenge… Come on. We can't wait for Mycroft's people. We have no idea what he has planned, or how long Sherlock can last with the injuries he has."

They took off toward the building. Before long, they were inside, quietly sneaking. They heard the sounds of someone snoring. They followed them. If Lestrade and Anderson decided to leave to go the other way when John opened the door on the sleeping Jaffrey Dalton, no one spoke of it. And if the two men decided to ignore the muffled screams coming from behind them, no one spoke of it either. They most certainly never spoke of the fact that John emerged with his weapon in hand, and his front soaked with blood. In fact, no one ever saw the body after Mycroft came in and made the whole situation disappear with his typical efficiency.

John shucked his bloody jumper and they abandoned their need to sneak because the threat was gone. Jaffrey was no longer a threat. They came into the large room they recognized from the videos, John making a beeline for the chair where Sherlock was slumped, and Anderson running for where Sally sat.

"Sally!" he said. Her head popped up and her eyes were wide.

"Mike?" she asked, looking around at the torchlights. "Is that you?"

"Yeah, we found you," he said, standing up.

"Sherlock…get him help, he's hurt…" she said, looking over.

Anderson nodded. "We know. They…sent us videos from that camera over there," he said, gesturing with the torch to the wall.

She blinked. "Oh God, so you saw what he did…oh God. He…I couldn't do anything! I've never felt so useless! And he…Mike, he did everything he could to make sure he didn't hurt me…I didn't…"

Mike nodded. "I saw, I saw…"

"Even at the first place, Mike, he…the things he said and did…I…" she said. "I have to see him, get these off me," she said, jangling her hands.

John was at a loss. He stood and stared, and there wasn't near enough light. He didn't want to move him. After a minute Sally and Anderson came up beside him and look. She was clinging to him, obviously suffering the effects of dehydration.

"He looks worse up close…" she said softly, reaching out and touching the damp curls on his head in a gesture that was far too loving for Sally Donavan toward Sherlock Holmes.

Just then, the room was flooded as the lights were switched on and a pair of paramedics came rushing into the room. John didn't ask, he just set to work getting the shackles off his friend and telling the paramedics where the injuries he knew of were. He suggested they intubate him immediately due to the mouth injury and the high dosage of opiates in his system. John could tell his breathing was labored, and he was glad they found him. He wasn't sure how much longer he could have lasted on the strong dosage of drugs he was receiving with his airway somewhat blocked.

He leaped onto the truck with the paramedics, carefully watching their every move. He tried hard to hold his tongue until he had to yell at one for trying to move the compound fracture without thinking. His army voice certainly got things done when necessary. Before long, they were at St. Barts and in a private ICU. John, no matter how much he wanted, was sent to the waiting room. Anderson and Lestrade were both waiting there already when he came back.

"How's Sally?" he asked, looking up.

"She's going to be fine; they put her on a saline for the dehydration. They're going to keep her overnight to keep an eye on her kidney function," Lestrade said with a deep sigh.

John nodded, ignoring the unspoken question. Lestrade finally couldn't wait the silence any longer. "And Sherlock?"

John swallowed. "He's in surgery. They're going to have to put his arm back together with pins. The ankle the said should heal on its own. We'll see about his hand and his mouth. They've intubated him, of course, and he's on all sorts of tubes. He's in a drug induced coma until they're sure he can breathe on his own. They're worried about the swelling...it had progressed down into his throat by the time we got him in the truck. Now, we wait."

Anderson slumped into one of the two clean plastic chairs with a deep scowl on his face. "I don't understand it, not at all."

John sighed and slumped beside him, running his hand through his own blond hair. "The guy was completely psychotic. No pattern, nothing. Moriarty used him because he was exceedingly easy to manipulate. He's that good. He managed to convince a pedophile to switch MO and kidnap an adult."

Lestrade shook his head and stared at the floor for a long moment. "I'd never believe it if I hadn't seen it."

So they waited. Finally, a nurse came to tell them that Donavan was able to receive visitors. John left the nurse with instructions to come get him from Sally's room if anything changed with Sherlock, and they headed off together.

"Sally," Lestrade said, smiling softly. "How do you feel?"

She smiled. "Loads better after they got me hooked up. How's Sherlock?"

John shifted and shook his head. "Not really sure yet, they're putting his arm back together right now. They've already done what they could for his other hand, and the ankle, and the stitches he needed. But they're worried about his mouth, so he's in a drug induced coma for now."

Sally nodded. "I couldn't believe what he did to him, John. I just…my God. How can someone do that to someone? I mean, he made him say things, and kept holding me over him, threatening to cut me or shoot me, and swearing that he'd let me go if he did what he asked, but he never meant to do it."

John sighed. "He had planned to kidnap me with Sherlock," John said softly. But I was away at the damn conference, so he went for nearest person. I'm sorry, if I'd been there…"

"Nothing would have changed, John. It would have been me looking for you instead of the other way 'round," she said. "I just…I never understood before. I just thought…I assumed…he had no feelings for the victims. But I saw differently. I don't know…but he loves you, John. I don't know that he understands it, but he loves you."

John nodded. "Yeah, I know."

"No, John, I think he loves you," she said, cutting her eyes at him. "I mean, I know we're always joking about you two shagging, but no…there's more to it. I know he was drugged. But there was something there…"

John swallowed hard and blinked. "Oh…" he said softly, and then wandered down to find the coffee again.

He stood before the coffee stand staring at the white Styrofoam cup with the swirling black liquid inside it. What did this mean, really? John had felt so lost while they were looking for Sherlock, like he could hardly breathe until he knew that he was alive. And now he was alive, and here, and safe. But what if he wasn't the same? The same stroppy, brilliant, sarcastic bastard that somehow manages to make the smallest smile mean so much more than anyone else. He scrubbed his hands across his face for the millionth time.

"Mr. Watson?" a voice said.

"Doctor," John corrected, turning to face a nurse.

"Oh, sorry, Dr. Watson, the doctor would like to speak with you. You're the one who will be taking care of him after discharge?" she said with the soft clinical manner.

"I will," he said, following the nurse into Sherlock's room where a tall doctor with blond hair stood looking over the chart. Again, John felt his stomach flip. Once they'd gotten him into the light, it looked so much worse than they thought inside the dim building. His face was covered with bruises, his lip had needed stitches. But what of the rest? He was laying on his right side, his hand with the burn secured with a restraint above his head.

"Dr. Watson, I presume?" he said, looking up.

"That's me, so, what do I need to know?" he asked quietly, realizing his voice was strained.

The doctor nodded. "Considering you're a doctor, surgeon I was told?" John nodded. "Well, you know how some of this works post surgery. His arm was shattered, I'm not really sure how it got broken that way…"

"The guy laid his arm across a chair arm and forced down the hand and wrist until it snapped through the skin," he said distantly, running a hand over the hard cast. He didn't miss the flinch from the doctor.

"Ah, yes, and the ankle is broken, but it was easy enough to cast and should heal normally. His right hand has a second to third degree burn over the palm…almost…" he started.

"Hot plate. He held his hand on a hot plate while the element was red."

He noticed the twitch in the doctor's jaw at the admission. "Yes, well, it may require a skin graft. I'm not sure yet. I'm most worried about the injuries to his mouth and tongue. I hate to ask, but do you know how that happened? I was told, of course, that the situation was kidnapping and torture, but not the details. I am having trouble understanding the injuries to his mouth."

John nodded. "He heated a spatula on the hot plate and forced it into his mouth and held it closed, I'm assuming long enough for the metal to cool."

The doctor just blinked. "That explains the cuts on the inside of his cheeks and the severe burn to the tongue and the roof of the mouth. He was lucky, the swelling from that alone could have killed him within the next twenty four hours. Either that or the massive amounts of opiates we found in his bloodstream. I was told he used to be an addict? You may have trouble over the next two weeks."

John nodded. "I think the drugs will be the least of the problem. How severe was the rest of the trauma from the sexual assaults?"

The doctor swallowed. "Stitching, quite a bit. You said assaults?"

"I think at least three times, though the first was by far the most violent from what we could tell," John said, and caught he look on the doctor's face. "The perpetrator sent videos of the torture to us."

The doctor nodded. "Wow, that's…I'm sorry. Just the injuries alone are bad…"

"He was a serial. Sherlock was the only one we saved. Three others died before this. But he won't hurt anyone again. Not ever," John said with a deep sigh, sweeping hands over the dark curls again. "For once I can't get onto him for putting himself in danger, it came for him. And I couldn't stop it this time."

The next week passed quietly, the sound of the machines was only briefly punctuated by the snores and soft sounds of John shuffling around the room. Of course, he'd been given a private room with a pull out couch. Mycroft had been by, but nothing had changed. The swelling had gone down, but infection was starting to set in, so he was on high doses of antibiotics as well. At the end of the first week, he was taken off the breathing tube finally, doctors having decided that he was okay to breathe on his own. The swelling had gone down enough that Sherlock's mouth was able to stay closed, which was a huge improvement.

Over that time, John came to a lot of realizations. He was a perfectly rational man. He was a doctor, and an army man, and he could be logical, though nowhere near as logical as Sherlock. He thought back to the fact that Sherlock corrected everyone if they were wrong about something. But the one thing Sherlock never corrected was when people assumed they were a couple. Not one time. And Sherlock corrected everyone all the time. Even if they got the slightest detail right. Right down to correcting them about him being a sociopath and not a psychopath. But not when people thought they were together. He sighed. What exactly did that mean?

He thought of the things that Sherlock did for him that he did for no one else. He would apologize. He would think of him. He'd ask him if he'd done something "a bit not good" even. And he'd correct himself. He got grumpy and yelled and insulted, but he never seemed to insult John to the level he did so with others. No, there was something different about the way he acted with John.

"Hey, John," came Lestrade's voice from the doorway. John looked up with weary eyes.

"Oh, Greg. On your way home?" he asked.

"Yeah, Sally came back today. She's helping sort out things for the other three boys on this case. We…didn't think it would be fair to have Sherlock do anything with it, but Sally thought she should do something. Questions came up, but they were dealt with," Lestrade said, looking uncomfortable in the doorway.

"Come, sit down if you have time," John said, glancing at the comatose man beside him.

Lestrade nodded and came to sit beside him in a small chair. "Anything yet?"

John shook his head. "They took the tube out today, and so far he's doing fine on a mask. They're weaning him off the sedation, but they don't expect him to wake for another day or so. And then, we don't know exactly what shape his mind will be in."

"Do they think the drugs will leave any lasting effect?" he asked.

"They think that he should be detoxed of them and past withdrawal by the time he wakes up this time. But we'll have to watch him," he said with a sigh. "The emotional trauma…we don't know. He could wake up and be perfectly fine, and all Sherlock like, or he could be catatonic. Or somewhere in between," John ran a hand through the dark curls as he spoke.

Lestrade nodded. "You know, when he told Sally you saved him, he wasn't kidding. Before you came along…it wasn't pretty, to be honest, John. He changed after you came into his life. He changed a lot in a lot of good ways."

John nodded. "So they really hedge bets on whether we shag in our spare time, huh?"

Lestrade snickered. "Oh yes, there's a pool."

"You've got to be kidding me…" John said, turning eyes on him with a glint to them that had been missing the last two weeks.

"Oh yes, indeed. Everything from secret lovers to shagging in the Yard cloak closest on cases."

"They know I'm not…you know…like that?" he asked, arching a brow at him.

Lestrade smiled gently. "Yeah, and Sherlock doesn't have feelings, mate. He's beautiful, you may as well admit it if your smitten with the bloke. Get it over with."

With that, Lestrade stood with a cracking pop to his back and stood and walked away, leaving John more confused than ever. It wasn't like the thought of being gay bothered him, he was completely fine with Harry and listened at length. And he'd never looked at another man with any sort of attraction whatsoever. But, then, as he looked at the lax face and bouncy dark curls of hair that were far more limp than they should be, he wondered. Was it possible to love someone without considering their transport? He smiled at the thought. Sherlock would be so upset at his transport. But then, it was a lovely transport, if John admitted it to himself.

He fell asleep slumped in the chair, head cradled in his arms as he leaned onto Sherlock's bedside. It was strange, but he felt a crawling sensation on his head. He blinked blearily and realized someone was touching his head. He sat bolt upright, realizing that it was Sherlock's fingertips running in his hair. He looked up and aside from the slight finger movements; there was no other indication of consciousness.

"Sherlock?" he called out. Eyes fluttered under the lids. "Sherlock, it's John, can you wake up for me?" he asked, voice cracking toward the end.

Green-gray eyes fluttered open and were completely unfocused, but open. John smiled, standing and looking down into his face. "Sherlock, hey," he said softly.

"J-John?" he croaked hoarsely. John pulled the nurse call and demanded some ice chips and a cup of water immediately.

Before long he was spooning ice chips into his mouth, a few at a time, both his arms strapped down, wrapped in bandages still. His eyes were still hazy and there was a feeding tube running down his nose behind the oxygen mask. He settled the nasal tube on, and put the mask aside, keeping an eye on the oxygen stats as he did so as he had waited on the nurse to come back.

"There, does that feel better?" John asked, sitting.

"Hurts…tong…" he said, and he could tell he was moving his tongue around awkwardly.

"You remember what happened, Sherlock?" he asked gently, and when the pained expression passed over his normally impassive face he knew he clearly remembered. John then groaned inwardly. He had photographic memory. He would remember every single painful detail with vivid clarity. Part of him desperately hoped that he would have forgotten, that the trauma would have triggered a bout of amnesia. But we were talking about Sherlock.

"Sally?" he ask, his eyes drooping already.

"She's fine, Sherlock. You did a good job. She was in and out of here in no time. Dehydrated, starving, but other than that, she was fine. She's already back at work. You've been here a week now. They were afraid of your breathing because of what he did to your mouth. They had to tube you and put you in a coma," John explained, knowing that he would find these details essential.

He let out a sigh. "Didn't mess that up, guess," he muttered before he fell into a fitful sleep.

John's heart nearly broke at the words. He remembered the things he'd told Sally, about messing things up all the time. And he wondered how often someone had told him things were his fault that were out of his control. He sighed.

Later that day, Donavan and Anderson turned up, surprisingly. She had brought a bouquet of wildflowers and sat them on the table, startling John awake from a light doze.

"Oi!" he exclaimed, sitting up, startling both the newcomers. "Oh, sorry, startled me."

Sally looked nervous, and Anderson stayed toward the doorway. "Yah, just wanted to see how he was, Lestrade said you texted to say he woke up a little this morning."

"Yeah, let's see if we can't get a repeat performance, he was asking after you."

Despite what she'd endured by the consulting detective's side, she felt her stomach clench at the thought he was still worried about what happened to her. John leaned over and gently shook Sherlock's shoulder.

"Sherlock?" he queried close to his ear. "Wake up, Sally and Mike came to see you, should at least say hi, okay Sherlock?"

His eyes immediately began to flutter at John's voice and then blearily blinked open. He looked around and saw John above him.

"J-john…go home…sleep, m'fine," he said, his voice still rough.

"Nope, come on, I have more ice chips for your throat," he said, carefully shoveling a few into his mouth.

"Hey, Sherlock," Sally said from the side of the bed, bringing his eyes to focus hazily on her.

"Sal-ly…" he said, giving her a soft grin. "John said yer better. Good."

She swallowed, looking back at Anderson. "Sherlock, I…can you tell me why?"

Sherlock looked completely confused. "Why?" he asked finally after a long moment.

"Look, after all the crap we," she indicated her and Anderson, "have put you through, the insults, put downs, everything…I mean I've practically called you a murderer in training and worse…and you did everything you could to protect me from getting hurt. Surely there was some reason behind it that I'm missing, Sherlock. I just…I don't understand. There had to be some deduction or thing you figured out to make you act that way."

Sherlock still looked confused. "Why…" he said quietly, looking away. His voice still had a muzzy and fuzzy edge to it from the pain killers and the sedation that was wearing off completely now. "I…it's all I have." He said at length. "Selfish, to keep people safe, for me," he said quietly. "Nothing I could have done was gonna save us. He was going to kill us both, figured that the first day. It didn't matter, in the end, except to…to prolong it. Wh-when he broke my arm, I knew I w-would die from it, and…I thought at least you'd die fast…a bullet was better than dehydration, it wouldn't have been long. Didn't want you to go through that…but I couldn't let him kill you…I didn't…didn't wanna see it…I…" His eyes were starting to flutter again.

"Sherlock?" John asked. "You okay?"

He swallowed. "Ice?" he asked. John picked up the cup and fed him more ice chips as the other two occupants just stared at each other.

Sherlock laid there for a while. "Thanks, John," he said with a sigh and everyone couldn't believe their ears. Sherlock. Thanking. "Thanks for it all…"