There will always be something to ruin our lives; it all depends on what, or which finds us first. We are always ripe and ready to be taken – Charles Bukowski

"We'll have matching scars, probably," Greg remarked light-heartedly, subconsciously rubbing his afflicted shoulder and wryly smiling up at the doctor.

John struggled to return it. It was the following morning, and Lestrade was doing remarkably well considering. He batted off all of John's attempts at apologising, assuring him that it wasn't the first time he's been shot, which oddly enough didn't set the doctor at ease. Lestrade bright attitude only faltered when he heard about the blood, and his face was drained of all colour, casting his eyes down and clenching his jaw deep in thought. John cleared his throat awkwardly, drawing in a breath that sounded shaky due to an invisible weight upon his chest. The detective inspector cast him a short glance.

"It'll be alright," Lestrade said, partially to himself. It sounded like it was trying to convince himself of that fact rather than the other. "He'll be fine. He can handle himself."

"He really can't," John mumbled before he could stop himself. Realising his statement didn't go unheard, he flushed.

The two considered each other for a moment, neither sure what to say in order to lessen the uncomfortable atmosphere suffocating them or even how to make each other feel better. John excused himself eventually, muttering something along the lines of get better soon, like it was merely a cold the inspector was recovering from rather than a bullet wound. Lestrade raked his brains hastily for something to say, some word of comfort to offer John but by the time words leapt to his tongue, he was left alone.

John fumbled down to the bathroom, his vision somewhat blurred and out of focus, his heart pulsing in his throat and echoing in his skull to bully and prod at his poor brain. Thankfully, the toilets were empty and he was granted a few private minutes. He ran the tap, cupped his hands beneath it to collect some water, and then leaned over to splash his face that felt garishly hot. John hated to admit it, but he was literally sick with worry.

He'd been riddled with nightmares the entire night. All he kept thinking about was Sherlock's eyes—an odd thing to dream about but that was all he could remember. Those pale eyes just boring into him, digging their way coolly to bury beneath his flesh. John also remembered there being a lot of blood. At one point, he started awake thinking he could feel blood all over his hands. He'd frantically rubbed his hands on his shirt and on the duvet in an effort to clean them, and when he checked, he saw there was nothing there. No stains upon his palms, not on the sheets, not on his shirt...there was nothing. John kept bolting into these fits of hysteria throughout the duration of the night, and found he could no longer bear it and just decided to get up.

He was now feeling the brunt of this decision, however, as he stood in the hospital toilet, dabbing his forehead with his sleeve and puffing out his cheeks at his reflection. He really looked rough. He briefly wondered if they would mistake him for a patient...maybe he'd prefer that, to be held back from this mess that he'd landed himself in. Then his only responsibility was to wait for someone to find him, and for someone else to find Sherlock rather than all eyes tilting in his direction, mutely assigning him the one in charge of this entire thing. No one had said it, but John felt like everyone was entrusting him with the job to find Sherlock.

John ran a hand over his face, holding his chin afterwards just studying himself in the mirror. He wished he saw some intelligence and some reliability in his face, that he could look at himself and know instantly that he was going to be the one to get the job done. Yet he didn't know that. In fact, he doubted he was even capable of outsmarting someone like Moriarty. John only ever felt partly intelligent when he was with Sherlock. Odd as that sounded considering the consulting detective just dubbed him as an idiot, John always felt that they were a team and that he was helping Sherlock rather than just being the personification of his shadow. Now he stood alone, with no six foot, dark haired detective at his side...and he never felt so unprepared and afraid in his life. The one time he stood to lose everything, and he was facing it by himself.

Reluctantly, John headed on out, offering jerky nods at some of the doctors and nurses who passed him. Waiting outside for him was Anthea, on her phone as per usual. She opened the car door though she'd scarcely looked up, and John climbed inside, staring fixedly out of the window all the way back to Baker Street, perplexed as to why the world was still plodding along like nothing wrong was happening at all...

[SH]

"You have to take your medicine,"

He felt something being pressed against his lips, and knew immediately what it was. There was a hesitation there inside him that he hardly ever felt when it came to a pill being offered to him. The main thing stopping him wasn't actually the fact that it was bad for him or anything along those lines. No, it was more that he didn't trust the man offering it to him. Sherlock's body was groaning with pain, especially around his lower abdomen. He had trained his mind to cope with physical trauma and injury. That was why he was able to go so long without rest or food. However, he'd never experienced anything like this before. He faintly recalled hearing that gut wounds were the most painful place to get stabbed or shot in, but it would take days for him to actually die...nonetheless, with the amount of blood he was losing he accepted that he probably didn't have long.

This stunned Sherlock...it stunned him beyond repair. He calmly accepted that he would die without a twitch of fear or regret. He wasn't thinking of all the things he never had the chance to say or do, though they were present in his consciousness. He never did get to thank Lestrade or admit to Mycroft that he had in fact lost quite a bit of weight or hug Mrs Hudson one last time or tell Anderson where to shove it or tell Mummy he was sorry or...or say goodbye to John. The last notion yanked harshly at his heart. Still, Sherlock was too tired to even consider doing any of those things. He was tired of recovery, sick of it even. He didn't want to go through all of that again. He'd rather just die now, save himself the pain. He realised this was selfish, but he really didn't care. He was tired of fighting for himself by himself. Everyone just expected him to want to go through all of this by himself, because he was meant to have all the answers. For once, he wanted someone to tell him he was wrong and to take him through it step by step.

"Take your medicine," Jim repeated, his teeth greeting so he practically had to bite out the words.

Sherlock smiled faintly. His mind was wandering. It tended to do that recently. Rather than responding, he simply turned his head ajar, his eyes damp from tears, and one glided down his cheek as he moved.

"Oh my dear," Jim cooed, cradling the consulting detective's head in his arms. "So stubborn. I kind of admire it in a way, but it mostly just angers me. If you don't take this, you won't be fit enough for when the doctor comes."

"What doctor?" Sherlock drawled, his eyelids fluttering as he struggled to maintain consciousness. He had an idea of what Moriarty meant, but prayed with all his might to a God that he didn't believe in that he was incorrect.

"You know very well who I mean, Sherlock," Jim said, smoothing one hand through the other's tangled curls. "Now please," he added firmly. "Take your medicine."

Sherlock didn't reply. His chest was constricted and he thought about John. John would be seeing him like this...he could already imagine the expression on his face. The one where his feelings ripped themselves clearly through his eyes, peering blatantly out at those who knew to look for them and Sherlock did...as well did Jim. Sherlock couldn't bear for Moriarty to see that, to witness and mock it.

"It's very rude to ignore me," Moriarty pressed, hand sliding down from the detective's hair down the side of his throat, down his chest and then reaching its destination just on the border of his wound. "Answer he properly."

Sherlock loathed being touched. There were a few exceptions, but most of the time it felt like they were trying to creep under his flesh. He would just flinch away from it if he hadn't permitted the display of affection. He hadn't when John had touched him. Jim's touch was as if it was freezing him internally. It was as if it was staining him, like filthy hands over a clean sheet of glass. It felt as though wherever this consulting criminal touched him, a grimy mark would be left there and all Sherlock would see when he looked at himself was where Moriarty had ran his hands, where those fingertips had left their dirty print. He dared to meet the criminal's gaze.

"Stop it," Sherlock breathed. "Don't."

"If you want it to stop, take your medicine," Jim returned placidly.

Sherlock tightened his jaw and Jim twisted his head as if he had a kink. Sherlock saw the wrinkle of hardly suppressed anger crease the other man's face, and actually felt a quiver of fear rattle up his spine. Sherlock turned his head away, closing his eyes. Jim could not take away his thoughts, that was one thing he still owned, an inch of himself that was still entirely his own. His mind ran to John like a child would dive under the covers if they thought they saw something lurking in the darkness. Sherlock hid himself under the thoughts of the doctor, a mental sanctuary that should protect him for at least an instant. He had never relied on anyone before to make him feel safe, and he surprisingly felt stronger now knowing he could just switch off his brain to dip back into the past, a time and place where he felt—safe. The ghost of John's kiss whispered across his lips, telling him to just shut himself down, shut everything out and think of him, think of being brave for him, of getting through this for him...

Jim, aware that he was being ignored, lowered his hand. The touch was light at first so it did not stir the detective at all, but then Jim pressed down the heel of his palm...hard.

An inhuman sound rippled from Sherlock's mouth, which hung open in a suffocated scream, and his eyes, like two doors, swung abruptly open. Moriarty, face taut with the amount of pressure he was applying on the wound, gazed down at the other's face. Blood tiptoed through the web of his fingers down the back of his hand, staining the cuff of his shirt though he didn't seem to notice let alone care.

Without reducing the force of his hand, Moriarty quirked an eyebrow upwards so his brow crinkled. "Do you want to take your medicine now, my dear?"

Sherlock, all his guard tossed down and discarded, openly admitted his current vulnerability and nodded feverishly, not fighting when the pill was pushed gently against his mouth, which he swallowed gratefully. Only when he gulped it down, did Jim remove his hand and moved it to brush the damp curls from Sherlock's forehead, smearing some of the detective's own blood across his skin.

"I know you love fighting me, Sherlock," Moriarty said softly as a mother would when explaining to a child as to why she lost her temper. "To be honest, it wouldn't be as fun if you didn't. But there's a time and a place for games. So next time, when I give you medicine, you do it without resistance." He kissed him dotingly on the cheek, still stroking the curls from his face and then settled him back down on the floor, rising to his feet and moving out of sight.

Sherlock only allowed his chin to tremble once he heard a door close, lifting his head as best as he could only to have it drop back down again with a dull thud. He hadn't even been able to turn over on his side or even look around, and the musty smell was the only thing accompanying him in this cold place. He wasn't even capable of trying to figure out where he was because whenever his head did become momentarily clear, this was when Moriarty appeared and gave him some more medicine, which would join the pain in a collaboration to fog up his mind.

Gradually, his eyes rolled back and he drifted into a dreamless, consuming sleep that felt like it was gnawing at his very being, just withering him away so every time he did regain consciousness, he was becoming less and less like himself in every possible way...

[SH]

When John got back to Baker Street, the first thing he heard once starting to climb the stairs, was someone hollering at the top of their lungs. He glimpsed over at Anthea who trailed behind him; when she noticed him looking at her, she forced a smile that just gave the implication that she had no idea why he was so alarmed. John, shaking his head once she refocused on her phone screen, practically jogged up the stairs to see what all the yelling was about.

He was set beside himself in shock when he realised, upon opening the door and stepping into the living room, that it was Mycroft. The elder Holmes sibling was red faced, a temple pulsing in his brow, stabbing his fingers like weapons at the men around him who had recoiled into themselves at his tone of voice. John never questioned Mycroft's power, but all the same it was—it was strange to see him lose his composure like this. He'd always seemed so relaxed regardless of the situation, though John supposed that even a man like Mycroft Holmes couldn't keep his cool when it came to his own brother.

"What do you mean VANISHED into THIN AIR?" Mycroft demanded, slamming both of his hands down on the table where John had sat opposite Sherlock what felt like years ago. "No, no I won't have that! You better get me some answers soon or all of you will have an answer from me regarding your future working with me, and trust me, it won't be a positive one you'll get."

His waved his hand at them in a signal of dismissal, standing there with his chest heaving as the men working for him scurried around, each keeping a safe distance away from him as they worked around the flat. John was reluctant to approach Mycroft, and didn't until he'd buried his face in his hands, shoulders sagging.

John stood next to him for a good few minutes, just with his hands behind his back with his lips pursed, waiting to be spoken to, nudging down his fizzing curiosity and impatience. Mycroft lowered his hands ever so slightly just to reveal his eyes, which he cast over at John, and then he removed them from his face completely to swing limply at his sides.

"I'm sorry you had to see that, John," Mycroft said thickly. "I know you don't want to hear that after—" he looked the doctor briefly up and down. "—approximately two hours sleep last night."

John, rather than inquiring as to how the older man knew that, merely half smiled and nodded. "Don't worry about it," he assured him. "I feel like a good yell too right now."

"Yeah well, feel free to help yourself to a good yell at one of these idiots," Mycroft muttered darkly, glowering at the backs of his men. "You know what they told me?" John had a good idea from what he heard during the other's tirade but said nothing. "That Sherlock had simply vanished into thin air. No one vanishes, especially not Sherlock. He's like a firework. Has to go off with a big bloody bang."

John filed away that description of Sherlock because it was absolutely spotless. The consulting detective, no matter what it was, always wanted to be noticed. Even the smallest of his doings had to be at least recognised by someone, though a majority of the time people grew tired of being startled every now and again and just accepted it without much acknowledgement. Maybe that's why Sherlock had looked at him that way when he'd complimented his talents; that look of pleasant surprise that someone was willing to praise him every time he deduced something. John made note also to make more comments...not all the time, no, he didn't want Sherlock's head to swell up too much but he wanted to make Sherlock feel that good more often than did before. Especially after all this was over.

"You need to get some rest, John," Mycroft said, grasping the doctor's shoulder, jolting him out of his thoughts. "We'll clear out in around half an hour."

John nodded numbly, not quite certain what had been said to him other than it had been delivered in a rather un-Mycroft manner. He sat down on the sofa; sitting appeared to be something he did commonly as of late. It was the only thing he could do whilst the rest of those, more capable than he, buzzed around him. He watched as they whispered in each other's ears, as they raised Sherlock's belongings to the light, some of which they dumped in plastic baggies to take away. John could only watch, barely containing himself. All he wanted to do was shout: "Don't touch that! He gets very weird about people moving his stuff!" but he knew he had no choice in the matter, telling himself that whatever it took to get Sherlock back, he would allow them to do what they deemed fit.

"Sir!" he heard someone cry from Sherlock's room.

Despite knowing he wasn't invited, by Mycroft or otherwise, John got up and followed after the older Holmes brother, ideas skimming through his minds like stones over still water, disturbing the tranquillity. The man looked questioningly at John when he came into the room, and glimpsed over at Mycroft who must've nodded for he just turned around and then back to face them with something sitting in his hands. John caught his breath.

He'd never done it before, and in all honesty it was the first time he'd seen something like this in person, but even he was able to deter what it was that was being extended out to Mycroft. Two baggies of cocaine, and the guy stepped aside to reveal six or seven more, some holding pills, other heroin. Mycroft inhaled a sharp breath like a balloon having being struck by a direct pin, and he took the man aside, whispering urgently in his ear.

John was only able to catch "You are not to breathe a word of this to anyone, you understand?"

The man agreed and left the room. John stiffly stepped forth, looking down on the bags of drugs lying like tiny see-through presents upon Sherlock's bed, slumped as if they were ashamed. Mycroft bit the inside of his cheek and, seemingly realising John was present, narrowed his eyes. John understood that he too was sworn to secrecy, and he offered a slight nod in agreement. Mycroft left, calling downstairs that his brother's room was officially off-limits.

[SH]

John's stomach growled angrily and he checked outside again to see if Mrs Hudson had returned yet—assuming she'd gone anywhere at all. John had leapt to that conclusion as he hadn't seen or heard from her since he'd come back to Baker Street. He realised with a twist of surprise that that was only yesterday and he ran a hand over his face, clearing his throat just so he could make a sound. The silence was absolutely suffocating.

Mycroft and his 'band of merry men' as John liked to call them on account of their hopeless faces, had dispersed around four hours ago, though two still lingered outside in a car sidled up to the path to keep an eye on Baker Street. John felt the need to keep checking they were there because he really didn't want to be alone. Even the smallest of creaks set him on edge, and even when he was just sitting down in the armchair he kept looking up as if expecting Moriarty to be standing there. John was prepared for this, Sherlock's gun in hand. He couldn't express of explain why he felt such an urgency to shoot at the wall so someone would come running up so he could be accompanied by another human being for a while. Even better if it was Mrs Hudson, because then she may offer to make him something to eat. The fridge in 221b was, of course, barren and he was given explicit orders not to leave Baker Street once it got dark. All John could do, was sit there in torturous quiet, listening to his disgruntled stomach and waiting for sleep to steal him away.

His eyes were sore and burned whenever he blinked, yet he still couldn't bring himself to nod off. He felt like if he did, he would be stolen by something else entirely...or someone rather.

It wasn't until a quarter to midnight, did his eyelids begin to descend...

[SH]

Jim Moriarty sat in the corner of the room on the damp, carpeted floor, watching as Sherlock slept. The window that he'd boarded up, only allowed a skeletal ray of lamplight from outside to sneak in to lie across the detective's face like a beautiful scar. It didn't bother him that it was almost pitch black, just as long as he could see Sherlock's face. Jim absentmindedly rubbed his hands, which crusted with the other's dried blood, against one another slowly and in deliberate motions, breathing in deeply so he could feel the cold stale air slither down his throat and chill his chest.

He checked his watch. Exactly twelve minutes to midnight. It would be time soon. Any moment now. He had timed it perfectly. Right now, the doctor should be just about to sleep. No matter where it was he was sleeping, he would be able to hear this. The streets were dismally quiet, only the odd grumble of a car in the distance to prick the silence.

His heart pulsed in his chest, heavy with anticipation. A sneer tickled the corners of his mouth so he had no option other than to allow the laugh that was prodding him to foam out of him, quieting it by putting a hand to his lips in an almost coy manner. If there hadn't been for his ghastly intentions or the man lying bleeding to death a foot or so away from him, he would have looked the most charming and endearing gentleman in the world. But the facts remained.

Jim checked his watch again. Three minutes.

He climbed leisurely to his feet as if he was casually just getting up to stretch, and dusted down his clothes, evening the sleeves and righting his black tie. Jim indifferently walked towards the unconscious detective, crouching down beside him with his head cocked to one side in an inquisitive way, brushing the back of his hand against the other man's cheekbone. Jim admired the way Sherlock's eyebrows creased at the touch and how he turned his heavy head away from it. Moriarty found this alluring. It wasn't because of the innocence of it, not in the least. It was because Sherlock was still denying affection, and a part of him was relieved that his other half hadn't been distorted entirely. All the same, Sherlock was damaged now in his eyes and this instance of relief, was briskly assassinated.

Jim reached inside his pocket...

[SH]

There was a gunshot.

John would recognise that sound anywhere.

There was a second immediately after.

He bolted upright in his chair and sprinted over to the window, his knees sagging in protest to the abrupt movement. John squinted out of the windows that were misted with condensation. He wiped it away with his hand, feeling the chill of outside radiate through to his palm. He squinted out of the window, and saw instantly something was very wrong. One of the doors of the car where the two men were sitting, was left hanging open and there was no sight of either of the men who had been sitting in it the last time John checked around twenty minutes ago. He looked at the time to see it was one minute to midnight. Barely twenty minutes ago since he'd last checked on the guys outside.

John bolted downstairs, a trillion thoughts rattling in his skull as he ran. Well, there was only one word zipping through his mind like a comet over and over again. Sherlock...Sherlock..Sherlock...

TBC

Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. I had to take a break from writing due to my exam on Wednesday, which took up a lot of my free time...so much so I practically became a recluse so I could study. The exam went well (I had to talk about theatre spaces for one hour, and Oscar Wilde in the second) and then after that I've been very sick with flu, which is still causing me some grief. I was inspired to finish this chapter today due to the new Sherlock clips released (if you haven't seen them already, go on YouTube; a user named romangirl88 has uploaded the two scenes. Quickly before they get removed!)

This chapter took me so long to write and I have to leave in a moment so I will only be briefly glancing it over for any major and embarrassing grammatical errors and so forth so I apologise if you are frankly disturbed by some of the errors in this chapter. I just wanted to upload it all as soon as possible as I've kept you lovely people waiting.

Thanks to everyone for the reviews, again, especially Momo9357 whose review, along with IcedTeaa's, made my day. I love reviews such as those, long and detailed. And in reply to your statement about me never stopping writing, I don't intend to. It is my ambition to be a published writer. It is something I am very keen on doing, and I've wanted to do it since I was a little girl and my great-grandparents used to urge me to write a story for them whenever I visited for them to read before I left. is a place for me to practice my writing, gain feedback, and just simply have fun toying with my favourite characters and stories.

I swear in the next chapter you will find out where Sherlock is. I know a lot of people have been inquiring about that and you will find out I promise. I hope it's a shock rather than an "Oh God this is bollocks" type deal. Either I should upload the following chapter sometime before Christmas (like, the 23rd) or Boxing Day when I will be depressed that Christmas is over.

I hope you all have a lovely Christmas or, if you don't celebrate Christmas, a lovely holiday and I will see you on the other side of 2012 when the new Sherlock season starts and completely erases the possibility of this fanfiction ever happening 8D enjoy.

M. Shane