Sherlock looked around the flat, frowning. John wasn't there. He wasn't in his bedroom, he wasn't in the loo, he wasn't in the kitchen…he just wasn't there.

Sherlock didn't know what to do. His injuries were hurting rather badly, and he didn't know how much longer he could sustain consciousness. He sucked in a breath, trying to ignore the dull ache in his chest.

For a wild, fleeting moment he thought about calling his brother. Of course, there was no way he could do that. Mycroft had been the first to find out about Victor's abuse, back in Sherlock's uni days, and Sherlock had felt ashamed and lost for so long after his brother took him away from the school. He wasn't going to go through that cycle again; not if he could help it.

Sherlock leaned back against the wall, thinking hard. Victor would be expecting his call in a little under thirty minutes; if he hurried and got together what little he needed to survive, he could be on a train out of London by the time his second call was due. Sherlock stood carefully, swaying slightly, and staggered to his bedroom, knocking over a pile of books about zoology and an overgrown spider plant on his way.

Sherlock entered the bedroom and immediately began searching for his bank card. The night before, Victor had taken his wallet and everything in it, including his ID. However, his debit card had not been in there. The only problem that now remained was for Sherlock to find where he had put it.

After searching for a good twenty minutes, he came up with nothing but an old school picture of him and several dust bunnies. That was when Sherlock finally, finally remembered where it was; in John's wallet. He groaned. John had borrowed it to buy groceries last week and had never given it back. Sherlock had no cash; there was no way for him to leave London now.

The consulting detective staggered out of the room towards the kitchen. He fell halfway across, landing heavily on the carpet. He crawled towards the wall, bracing his lower body against it, and as he swam in and out of a pain-induced haze, tried to remember the first time he had kissed John.

It had been perfect, he remembered. They had just finished a case that had stumped even Mycroft. They took a taxi home, laughing high-spiritedly all the way. When they got there, the two of them had leaned against the wall, enjoying the rush of the adrenaline and the joy of everything that the day had been. And it had just…happened. Sherlock didn't remember how, or who, or why, or even at what point. He just remembered laughing one minute, and the next minute their lips were together and they were kissing, and it was wonderful and good and even better than cocaine…

Sherlock, deep in his mind palace, heard a far away voice calling to him. "Sherlock…"

Suddenly, he was violently yanked from his mind palace as another being shook him. "Sherlock! Sherlock, wake up. I'm here, Sherlock, you're fine, just breathe…"

Sherlock looked up, eyesight hazy. Why was it so dark? Couldn't this person turn on a light somewhere? And who was it, anyways? It was a stocky figure, short, with brownish hair and a very ugly jumper…

"John?" Sherlock whispered. "John, are you…are you here? Is this you?"

John nodded, choking up. "Yes, it's me, Sherlock. God, Sherlock; I'm sorry. I'm so damn sorry. I just…I was blind. I didn't see what was right in front of my face. I'm so sorry!"

The tears were falling freely from both men's faces. Sherlock groaned. "John…do you think you could help…" he broke off in a wheezy cough, "help me up?"

John nodded, trying to control his free-flying emotions. "Sure, Sherlock. Of course I can."

He put his hands under the man's armpits and picked him up carefully. Sherlock got to his feet, wavering slightly. John helped him to his room. "Sherlock, stay right here, okay?" John said loudly in his best victim-sympathy voice. "I'll be right back to take care of you and patch you up."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, I am not a child. You don't need to use the victim voice with me." He rasped, giving John one of his signature glares.

John chuckled as he walked out. Even when he had been abused and injured, Sherlock was still…well, Sherlock-ish. He headed up the stairs to get everything ready, determined to take no longer than five minutes.

…

Sherlock leaned back on his bed and sighed contentedly. He felt happy, much happier than he had less than an hour ago. He had his John back, and Victor would never touch him again. He closed his eyes, focusing on restoring his mind palace, which had somehow gotten very run-down over the past twenty-four hours.

He heard footsteps in the hallway. "Back already, John?" he said, amused. "You're faster than I thought!" he said teasingly.

"Really? I could have sworn I was stepping quietly." Said a smooth, silky voice that was most decidedly not John. Sherlock paled. That voice belonged to one man, and one man only.

He gulped. "Victor. What are you doing here?" his voice squeaked on the last sentence.

Victor sat down on the bed and laid a hand on the side of Sherlock's face. "Sherlock, buddy!" he said cheerily. "I can't just let you go. You're my boyfriend, not John's, and in the future you should remember that more carefully." He slapped the side of Sherlock's face violently, causing Sherlock to wince in pain.

Suddenly, Victor had a gun in his hand, and it was pointed between Sherlock's eyes. "You'll come with me now and be a good little slut of a boyfriend like you're supposed to, or I swear I'll pull this trigger."

Sherlock laughed hollowly. "Death would be preferable at this point."

Victor smiled. "As you like it." He swiveled and pointed the gun at the door, turning his head to look maliciously at Sherlock. "If you don't come with me, I will shoot your lovely army doctor right through his heart." He growled in a low voice.

Sherlock got up off the bed and staggered towards the door. "No." he rasped. "You'll have to shoot me first."

Victor stood up and, pulling the tie from around his neck, looped it around Sherlock's own and pulled tight, forming a kind of leash. He yanked Sherlock forward, causing him to gasp for breath. "You. Come with me. NOW."

Sherlock went limp. Victor smiled, triumphant. "Okay, Sherl. Let's head out; let's go home."

….

"Sherlock? Okay, I got my bag, sorry it took so long, the bloody stethoscope got all tangled up with the antiseptic ointment…"

John trailed off as he entered Sherlock's empty room. He panicked immediately, flipping over pillows and blankets, turning over the messes on the floor. "Sherlock? SHERLOCK!" he screamed. "Oh my god, where did
he go?"

Mrs. Hudson appeared in the door. "Why John, dear, whatever is the matter? I heard you scream all the way downstairs in my flat; and this was different, dearie, heaven knows I hear your regular screams often enough when you and Sherlock…"

John cut her off. "Mrs. Hudson, have you seen Sherlock recently? Like, today?"

Mrs. Hudson appeared to be deep in thought. She tilted her head. "No, I don't remember…wait, wait just a moment…" she closed her eyes. "Just a few minutes ago, I heard two pairs of footsteps going out…thought it might be one of the other lodgers…"

John darted past Mrs. Hudson and out the door, not even bothering to put on a coat.