John had no idea how long it had been when he finally began to return to something approaching awareness again. His mind was incredibly muddled, his only clear thought the bone-deep knowledge that he was no longer trapped in the chair. Instead, he was lying on the floor, his body curled up in as small a ball as he could manage.
He thought there was someone talking to him, a worried and somewhat familiar voice in his ear that seemed to be linked to the tentative hand in his hair. But there was also the voice still in his pounding head, his voice and yet not, that kept repeating strange things that he could almost understand.
An accidental tug of his hair pulled John's attention away from the voice in his head and back to the increasingly frantic one in his ear. He carefully blinked his eyes open, relaxing his body enough to allow the other man to roll him onto his back. The instant he met the pale eyes he relaxed fully, finally recognizing Sherlock. Then, the words Sherlock was practically babbling at him finally began to make sense.
"Please tell me that you can hear me, John. If they've permanently damaged you I'm going to be very cross."
Despite the increasing pain in his head and the oddly familiar disembodied voice that kept getting louder, John's lips curled up in a small smile. "You don't have to shout, Sherlock."
The other man's face lit up for an instant before Sherlock managed to school his expression to something a little less exhilarated. "Ah, good, John. I've taken care of the miscreants who kidnapped you; they won't be bothering you again. Now, how are you feeling?"
John bit back a grimace as he silently took stock of his condition. "I ache all over, my wrists are a bloody mess, my neck probably needs stitches in at least one place and my head is killing me." He was about to mention the odd voice in his head when a figure seemed to appear over Sherlock's shoulder.
She was glowing with golden light, curly hair spilling onto her shoulders and a sad smile on her face. She ignored Sherlock completely, as if she couldn't see him, and focused all her attention on John.
"I'm sorry, my love."
Then she shifted, becoming a redhead with tears in her golden eyes. "Please don't make me go back."
A moment later she was a young bleached blonde. "I can see everything: all that is, all that was, all that ever could be."
John knew that he ought to recognize the three women, that he was supposed to know who they were, but the harder he tried to think the more painful the throbbing in his head became. Then the blonde stepped closer and morphed into a man whose face felt as familiar as John's own, with close-cropped dark hair and the same golden eyes as the women.
"It shouldn't have happened like this. It wasn't time yet." He knelt down just behind an oblivious Sherlock, golden gaze fixed on John. "When you're ready, when it's safe, you'll remember. You'll find something that you weren't even looking for, and it'll be fantastic. But not just yet."
"I don't understand." John wasn't sure if he actually spoke the words or just thought them, but somehow the man heard.
He smiled, and John could see echoes of all three women in his glowing eyes, and at the heart something unearthly. "I want you safe, my Doctor." He reached forward, just brushing his fingertips across John's forehead.
And as John suddenly collapsed unconscious in a worried Sherlock's arms, he mumbled two words.
"Bad Wolf."