Thanks for reading, guys! And thanks to Sam who corrected my sleep-addled brain's "funky verb tenses"

That's the last time I write a chapter at half past three in the morning I think!

Warnings: Contains slash.

Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC. I only own this plot.

As John made his way to Mycroft's awaiting black car. He could feel the nerves starting to gnaw away at his gut; one of many feelings he had been experiencing all day. In the past few hours, John had taken a shower, changed his clothes and lay down with Sherlock's scarf. Trying to fill the time while his brain was thinking a thousand thoughts a minute was hell. John didn't sleep, and he certainly hadn't been relaxing.

He had taken Sherlock's long coat with him to the car; Sherlock would need his coat. Presuming they found Sherlock in any state to put the coat on... No, John wouldn't let himself think about that. They were going to find Sherlock. He was going to be alright. As the car pulled away from the hotel, Mycroft briefed his companions about the plan.

"Alright, gentlemen. Lestrade and I will take the front and search for security. Anderson, you stay by the gate and take down any of the guards who try to escape. John, you go find a way in. I'm sure there's an open window somewhere. But be careful. Lestrade and I will follow you when the coast is clear."

Anderson scowled, but when Lestrade elbowed him sharply in the side he muttered his agreement. John nodded and looked to the other three men briefly before looking out the window at the passing countryside.

What seemed like ages later, John could see the mansion and its four high guard walls come into view. The tops of the walls, at least so far as John could see from this distance, were empty of guards. Obviously Moriarty wasn't concerned about them turning up. And partly for good reason, John thought, sparing a look for the other three men stuffed into the back of Mycroft's car. They were hardly an elite military force...

"Just here James." Mycroft called. He tapped his umbrella on the floor between his feet and waited for the car to come to a stop. From where they were sitting, the gate looked to be unguarded, just like the walls. John was the first out of the car, of course, checking his gun where he'd tucked it into his waistband. Mycroft and Lestrade were only a little behind him. Anderson brought up the rear, still scowling and brushing himself down as though he expected he'd picked up some dust from the immaculate interior of Mycroft's state-appointed car.

"John." Mycroft touched his elbow briefly, making John start slightly and turn to look at him. The elder Holmes brother held out his little brother's coat, which John had left in the backseat of the car. "Don't forget this." John took the coat with a curt nod before starting for the house. Once inside the gates (which had been carelessly left open, as though they were expected), John set off on his own.

There were few windows on the ground floor, and the few ones that John could find were all either closed or too small to climb through. There were no doors other than the main one, either, so that option was out. At the very rear of the house, he did manage to find a ragged-looking trellis that had once had climbing roses on it, by the look of it. A few sharp tugs showed that it would probably hold John's weight. Checking the gun in the back of his waistband, he threw Sherlock's coat over his shoulder, wiped his suddenly damp palms on the thighs of his jeans, and set about climbing the trellis. Despite a few alarming creaks and one near-fall, he made it up to a second story window without further incidence.

Hauling himself through that window proved to be much more difficult than he would have liked. He had to throw Sherlock's coat in ahead of him, and by the time he was over the sill and on the floor on the other side he was panting and his shoulder was aching sharply. He lay still for a moment, listening to see if anyone had heard him come in. There were no running footsteps or yelling goons, so John had to assume he wasn't heard.

Once he'd picked himself up off the floor, checked that his gun was still in his waistband, and gathered up Sherlock's coat, he trotted off into the depths of the house. Even his steps echoed around the hallways, despite the fact that he was wearing light running shoes and trying to be quiet.

The vast majority of the house seemed dark. Lights occasionally appeared under doors, but each knob John tried was firmly locked. It was frustrating and slow, made more so by the fact that he knew that Sherlock, hisSherlock, was still held captive somewhere in this house.

John went up a floor during his search. There were no doors on this hallway, but there was an arch at the other end with light spilling out onto the pale tiles of the hallway. What lay on the other side couldn't be good, he knew. Not when the rest of the house was empty and dark. Something told John that Sherlock was on the other side of that doorway. And he hoped it was only Sherlock. He didn't know that he'd be able to stop himself from killing Moriarty outright if he saw him.

His fears of seeing the psychopath were confirmed. He had been slowly making his way towards the arch, each step feeling like a mile, and when he finally reached the source of light John paused. Moriarty was sitting at the end of a silk sheet draped bed, twirling a gun around his hands and smiling smugly at John. Behind him, John could make out a lanky shape covered to the hips in a white sheet and bare above it. Sherlock. Not only was Sherlock lying on the bed – he was… Marked… Claimed. He looked absolutely beaten, a broken shell of his formerly proud self. His back was cut deep with lines and bruises, and his neck and shoulders were littered with small red bites. His eyes looked as if they hadn't been let rest for weeks and his lips were chapped. His lanky frame seemed skinnier than usual, and there on the back of his shoulder was the crisp, burned Mthat Moriarty had left on him. The brand, more than anything else, sent a chill of fear and disgust right through John's heart. The other wounds were largely superficial and would heal without a scar. But that...

The doctor stood in stunned silence for an achingly long, eyes flicking between his love; hislife, and Moriarty who was the only thing separating the couple. Sherlock looked to be out cold for the time being. Either that or he was being very, very quiet.

"How nice of you to finally turn up, Rover. I've been expecting your arrival for the past while now." Moriarty sighed dramatically and the gun settled itself in his left hand. John could only stare at him, a mixture of emotions brewing in the pit of his stomach. He had to ball his hand into a fist to keep the tic from causing it to shake and keep himself from leaping at the consulting criminal. But John was a military man; he knew better than to tackle down an armed man. Especially someone as unstable as Jim Moriarty.

When he opened his mouth to speak, Moriarty cut in.

"If you threaten me, John, I will shoot him." His eyes glanced briefly back at Sherlock and then back to John. His left hand gestured as well, just a short movement that brought the barrel of the gun into perfect line with Sherlock's chest. John was far more concerned about Sherlock's life than his own, so to come this far only for things to end up in disaster was too much of a risk.

"…Why are you doing this?" John asked. He tried to keep his voice down; tried to keep his eyes away from the scars on his lover's back and keep calm. It was a hard thing to do. "Why can't I just have him back?"

"Johnny, Johnny, Johnny." Moriarty snickered and shook his head. "Do you have ears or have you lost your memory? I said I would burn the heart out of Sherlock. Seeing you like this just confirms I've won." Moriarty shifted on the bed so he was almost leaning over Sherlock and gestured to his shoulderblade. "Have you seen the proof? Sherlock is mine now. He always will be. Isn't that right, pet…?"

John's hands clenched tighter at his sides. Sherlock had stirred softly at the sound of Moriarty's voice, whimpering as the wounds on his back pulled tight and pained him. The whimper drew Moriarty's attention and John was momentarily forgotten as the psychopath moved to soothe Sherlock. Speaking softly, so softly John couldn't hear, he reached out his finger and tucked a stray curl behind Sherlock's ear, trailing that finger down Sherlock's jawline and over his lips. That was something only John did; something only John was allowed to do. To have this sick psychopath touching his Sherlock… It was really the last straw. John's anger finally bubbled over and he snapped.

"You bastard!" John lunged forward, gun forgotten, and knocked Moriarty away from Sherlock, tackling him to the floor by the bed and pinning him down. Luckily for John, Moriarty's pistol had flown out of his hand, putting John in the lead and leaving the criminal vulnerable. John didn't waste any time and before Moriarty could even begin to properly fight back, he was punched square in the jaw. John knew his combat and he knew how a good hard punch could leave a man out cold. And that is exactly what John managed to do.

There was blood on his knuckles from Moriarty's nose and John wiped it on his jeans. Climbing off the psychopath, John had to give himself a few seconds to catch his breath and calm down. Moriarty was out cold, at least for the moment, sprawled on his own bedroom floor with blood running from his nose and split lip. He moved over to Sherlock and sat down on the edge of the bed, still not believing that he'd actually won. Sherlock was his again and they would all go back to normal. At least, that's how things ended in films.

"Sherlock… Sherlock, wake up." The detective's face screwed up just a little before softening again and slowly opening his eyes. "I'm back. I've come for you."

Sherlock shakily reached out a hand. But not to John. That hand seemed to be intended for the one who had been sitting on the end of the bed not two minutes ago.

"Master-" Sherlock whispered, hand grabbing at air. John caught his thin wrists and tried to rouse his lover to recognise him by calling his name. Nothing... It was like Sherlock had no idea he was even there. After a second, when Sherlock seemed to notice him for the first time his eyes widened. Not in surprise, but in fear. Sherlock was afraid of John and he had to get away.

The sudden twist and struggle startled John, his grip loosening as Sherlock tried to take his wrists back. He had expected a heartfelt reunion, for Sherlock to fall into his arms so he could take him home. But there had been no recognition in Sherlock's silver eyes, only a painful wash of fear and loathing.

Heartbeat rising in panic, Sherlock jerked his body upwards and twisted his wrists out of John's grasp. But he twisted the wrong way, and the fresh brand on his shoulderblade tightened and sent a wave of pain through his body. Letting out a weak, pained cry, the detective fell back down onto the bed and once more slipped into unconsciousness.

Will be updated soon. Please leave a review and let me know what you think. *More virtual high-fives*