Well, I totally failed at my scenic construction assignment...

Thank you so much for sticking with me, I'm a sucker for reviews so please feel free to leave one, even if it's to tell me what you had for lunch today.

I was about half an hour early to one rehearsal, so the Metro newspaper rewarded me by giving me a double spread article about Benedict Cumberbatch as the lead role in Danny Bouyle's new play 'Frankenstein' (with a rather nice photo to look at too). That kept me squeeing for a good 20 minuets :3

...

He had bitten his lip, he had clenched his fingers into the ground, he had made every possible attempt to keep himself from crying out. Three burly men had pinned him to the ground, so his back was exposed, he had felt the spikes tickle his skin, they tugged, pulled and ripped at his flesh a little, small rivulets of blood had coursed down his ribs as he struggled to get up, roll over, do something...

They said they had been 'gentle' with him, John suspected that it was going to get a hell of a lot worse. The skin over his bullet wound had been torn open by the wire, newly healed skin had been ripped open once more, he felt a little bit perturbed that they would make him have to go through the healing process again.

Huddled in the dark cell he began to think of things to pass the time and take his mind of the fact that his back had just been perforated. He thought of Harry, her dirty jokes and easygoing nature...he thought of 221b Baker Street, Mrs Hudson bustling around, trying to tidy up the organized chaos of the flat, despite the fact she was their 'landlady, not their housekeeper'...He thought of Sarah, feeling a little guilty that the last words they had spoken to each other had been less than friendly...

He finally thought of Sherlock. A little jolt slapped at his insides and he wasn't sure why. He thought about how dull Sherlock would find this buisness, the strange way he flopped on the sofa, his stupid experiments in the kitchen,in the back of John's mind, he could practically hear the haunting refrains of a violin...

Something -he wasn't sure what- made him jolt out of his reverie, a slight shiver raised goosebumps across his raw shoulders. He could hear the door open, and Markin's footsteps reach nearer.

'How you feeling doctor?'

'Piss off.' John knew a smart mouth wouldn't help him, but he couldn't resist.

'Now now,' Markin growled, clicking his fingers so a group of rough looking men crept up behind him, 'Klause is looking forward to the next session, but my boys want to have a little fun, it's been a while since we've had this business.'

Someone held John upright, large hands grasping his injured shoulder roughly. A powerful punch caught him in the solar plexus, knocking all the air out of him. John doubled over and tried to draw breath, the oxygen being dragged back into his lungs in short, painful bursts.

'Go ahead guys, but play nice.'

John had been beaten up before, chances were he'd be beaten up again. The blows rained down on him, punches and kicks, John could feel blood on his face and his back. Curling up into a little ball to shield his stomach he felt consiousness slipping away from him. After a while he was barely aware of the group attacking him. He didn't cry out, not even when he felt his right arm clearly break with a sickening crack and the pain suffused his entire being...he couldn't, he wouldn't give them the satisfaction...Sherlock. Where are you Sherlock?

...

Sherlock rubbed his eyes, clenching his jaw. Ruard's man had been a little reluctant to help and Sherlock couldn't blame him, Markin's gang was a dangerous thing to ask of someone. But a sneaky bribe from Ruard and the petty criminal promised to do his best.

Sherlock practically ran into Mrs Hudson as he flung the front door open.

'Oh Sherlock dear there you are.' The older lady said gently, relieved to see at least one of her boys home. 'There's a young woman upstairs waiting for you, I think it's about John.'

Sherlock blinked 'A woman?'

'Yes, I hadn't the heart to turn her away. Poor dear, she seemed so distraught, I let her in using my spare key. She was prepared to wait until you came home.'

Sarah. Great, that was what Sherlock needed, a hysterical Sarah blubbering all over the place. Asking questions about John, snivelling on about how she missed him, he would have to keep his face perfectly blank as she warbled about how much she loved him...

He braced himself for the sight of John's girlfriend and strode into the messy room.

It wasn't Sarah. Sherlock didn't recognise the woman at first; but a swift examination, sandy blonde hair, deep brown eyes and the same nose John had.

This was Harriet Watson.

She looked up at him, eyes completely dry, but hollow with fear.

'Sherlock Holmes?' she asked hesitantly.

Sherlock nodded and shook her hand, he could see Mrs Hudson had made her a cup of tea. A strange twisting feeling racked his stomach but he couldn't help but smile to himself: the Watsons certainly had a rapport with tea. He sank onto the sofa as she was perched in John's armchair. For the first time, Sherlock felt useless, he hadn't really considered John's family before. He had no idea on what to say to comfort her, and he found he didn't want to look at her too long, her eyes were just as expressive as her older brother's.

Harry stared at him. 'Tell me everything.'

Sherlock did. He told her everything about his hunt for Terry Markin, the brick and the threat, the kidnap, the phone call and his dealings with Ruard. To her credit, not once did Harry weep or interrupt his story. She just stared at the mug of tea in her hands in a way similar to John when Sherlock explained his deductions.

'So we won't know anything until we've either found him, or Markin sends another message.' he finished quietly.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

'So it's you then.' Harry said hoarsely, 'It's all about you.'

Sherlock frowned. 'Beg your pardon?'

She looked at him and Sherlock resisted the urge to flinch; he had only seen John give that look once before, when he attempted to shoot the Golem. It was a hard, flat stare, full of hatred and cold calculation.

'It's your fault. All this crazy shit has happened to John because of you.'

It was like a slap in the face. Sherlock's own doubts and misgivings were being thrown at him a hundredfold by an almost complete stranger. There was no compassion, no warmth in her eyes, just grief and anger and poison.

'The way John talks about you, I thought you were some great, clever hero,' she continued, 'but you just don't care do you? You just don't give a FUCKING DAMN!'

She was on her feet now, towering over Sherlock. He kept his face and eyes impassive and emotionless as her tirade washed over him, soundlessly hiding his shock. Harry's breath was rapid and shallow, fists clenched by her sides.

'See? You don't even acknowledge that he's still out there! He's probably hurt badly, maybe even-'

She trailed off, half collapsing into John's chair again. Glancing at Sherlock she noticed the cold blue eyes seemed to stare straight through her, didn't this crazy bastard care at all?

'They're going to kill him aren't they?' It wasn't so much a question as an order for confirmation. Harry's voice cracked, and she felt tears pricking her eyes. Her brother, her brave and cuddly older brother was going to die, and it was all because of Sherlock Holmes.

'Quite possibly' came the soft reply.

'I blame you. It's your fault.' She choked through her tears. A tiny muscle in Sherlock's jaw clenched and Harry saw his Adam's apple bob slightly as he swallowed. She couldn't stand this man's presence anymore, it was like raging against some statue, she had a feeling nothing she said or did could penetrate him. 'You may not do it yourself but you're responsible. You're a murderer Sherlock Holmes. You've as good as killed John.'

And with that, she strode past him and out of the flat, making sure to slam the door as hard as she possibly could.

Sherlock hadn't moved, still sat on the sofa he allowed the suffocating silence to swallow him whole, it was a full twenty seconds until he released a breath that he had hitherto been unaware of holding. Among the theories and deductions that buzzed in his head, Harry's accusations cut through like a steel blade, merging together until they became practically incoherent:

You don't care! You're killing him...

You are a murderer!

You've killed him...

You've murdered John.

...

When John awoke, he had three simultaneous thoughts:

Fuck, my arm hurts.

Oh God I could kill for a cup of tea...

That's it, I am never using a DIY service again.

It took him a little while to register that he was, in fact, standing up. His arms were cuffed over his head and attached to a pipe. They had moved him to a little antechamber, smaller than the one he had been in. Luckily, he could place his feet flat on the ground, so his shoulder and arm weren't comletely put under strain. His back ached horribly plus he could no longer remember where the cut on his cheek he had obtained from the brick was, there were so many other bruises and cuts on him to focus on.

He tried to swivel himself around, and instantly regretted it. Pain shot along his arm, making him finally release a cry of agony. When he finally blinked away the water threatening to spill over his eyelids and regained controlled his breathing, he felt a little angry with himself. If he couldn't move very much without causing a massiv eamount of pain, how could he yank himself out of the cuffs?

Thanks to practically absorbing Sherlock's style of thinking by listening to the cases they had been on, John deduced that he was in the centre of the room (it wasn't that good a deduction, seeing as now there was enough light to see).

'Ah, you're awake then.' came Sculptor's voice from behind him 'I was beginning to suspect they'd beaten you into oblivion.'

If John hadn't been restrained or in pain, he probably would have lashed out to the best of his ability, but he couldn't. Sculptor sneaked up behind him and placed a hand tenderly on his bloodied back. Oh God. Don't touch me.

'You know, I've had business with hundreds of people' the man continued, running his hands down John's ribs. The tone of his voice suggests he was reciting a menu; 'Men, women, children. I've never had to do a soldier before.'

Children. This monster mutilated children. The thought chilled John's blood, causing him to shiver. He felt Sculptor's fingers tracing the contours of his back, almost like a lover. The light touches instilled an irrational terror in John. For the first time, John was scared, no, fucking scared shitless of the man.

'They'd broken long before I'd finished.' Sculptor purred 'But I suspect you'll be a little more hardy. My little steadfast soldier.'

John wasn't ready for it. Suddenly he felt the barbed wire claw it's way down his back again, harder this time. John released another little scream, feeling the cold tips rip the muscle a little deeper.

'Ah, how sweetly you sing my friend!' The man behind him laughed, digging the metal into any spare skin he could find.

'How does it feel?' He asked John after a while. John grimaced as his brain tried to focus on either his back or his arm, no good, he blocked out a little of the pain to answer.

'How do you think it feels?' he snapped.

'No.' came Sculptor's voice 'I meant, how does it feel to go through this because of your friend? How does it feel knowing you are the leverage?'

Sculptor walked round to face him now. 'I've been watching the both of you for a while...Sherlock Holmes is practically made of ice. And yet some stupid little man come along and he learns how to feel...how to care. How does it feel, making Sherlock Holmes into a human being?'

John was at a loss, it was a lot of information to receive in ten seconds. This man had been sying on them, he knew everything, it was true that Sherlock was becoming a little more considerate to people. But it had nothing to do with him.

Did it?

'I have no idea what the hell you're on about.'

A cold blade came to rest on John's bottom lip and Sculptor's rat like face was inches from his own. From an unsuspecting point of view, at a quick glance, it would have looked like an almost-kiss.

'I mean, why does he keep you around? It's obviously not your intelligence. How easy was it to bring you out in the open?'

John didn't reply. There seemed no reasonable response and he wasn't sure what answer the psychotic little shit would prefer. However, he expected that silence wasn't exactly going to get him a cuddly toy either.

With one swift movement, the scalpel tore at his lips. As John attempted to spit the blood away, he heard Sculptor's footsteps retreating. A door closed, and all John could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears.

Inexplicably, he forced a harsh laugh out. There was no humour to be found anywhere, but he couldn't help it, it helped block a little more of the pain...

It wasn't until he felt tears running down his cheeks that John realized he was crying.

...

Grr. Sorry, I ran out of steam a little there. See you soon my darlings :)

Next chapter: 'While this is all very fine Sherlock' said Mycroft irritably, tapping his fingers on the sofa back, 'But could you be a little less melodramatic? You're giving me a headache.'