"Sherlock? Oh my god, it's really you. Sherlock, can you hear me? How are you hurt?"

Sherlock looked up towards John's face, his eyes dim. "Who…" then his eyes widened and he sat up, wincing through the pain. "John! You can't be here!" he gasped. "He'll kill you!"

John pulled Sherlock into his arms. "I'll kill the bastard first."

Sherlock coughed into John's jumper. "No, John, please, I can't lose you, I can't bear it, it hurts, oh god, it hurts, John, please help me…"

John frowned. What was he saying? "Sherlock, can you hear me? What's wrong? What is it that hurts?"

Sherlock groaned. "E-everything…"

John leaned over the consulting detective, now drifting in and out of consciousness. "Sherlock, I'm going to take off your shirt so that I can see the damage, okay?" his fingers worked the buttons even as he spoke.

As John got to the bottom button Sherlock bucked up. "No, John! No, don't take it off, you won't like it, you won't like what's there…" The detective tried to push the doctor away, but his weak arms dropped back to the tiled floor. John added malnutrition to the list of injuries in his head.

John pulled the shirt away from Sherlock's torso and gasped at what he saw. Sherlock's ribs and chest were a variable canvas of brilliantly colored bruises, yellows and purples and blacks and even some ugly red cuts. His face had been bruised, that John had noticed when he walked in, but he had assumed it was from the other day. Now he could see that there were new bruises overlying the old ones, creating a spectacular black eye and a very puffy lip and cheek.

He sighed. "Oh, Sherlock." He whispered. "Never could keep out of trouble, could you?"

John reached down to unbuckle the detective's trousers to make sure he wasn't damaged anywhere else. However, as he lay his hand on Sherlock's belt buckle, the man flailed wildly and threw a weak punch at John's face, just barely nicking his chin. He tried pathetically to defend himself, scooting backwards a few inches. "No, Victor! Not again…please, not again! Not tonight! I can't…please, don't…I'm not ready, no, please…"

John felt hot anger rising in his chest. What had the bastard done to Sherlock? Struggling to keep his anger cool, he reached out and gently placed a hand on Sherlock's own. "Shh, Sherlock. It's okay, it's me, John, I'm not going to hurt you, shh, it's okay, I won't take off the trousers if you're not ready…"

Sherlock slowly calmed down. "Okay. Okay." He muttered under his breath. All at once, he seemed to come back to the real world. "John? John…did I do that?" he asked quietly, pointing to a small cut on John's chin. "Oh, god, John, I'm so sorry, please don't hurt me, I didn't mean it, I thought…"

John nodded, keeping a firm hold on Sherlock's hand. "I know, you thought it was Trevor. I would have done the same, Sherlock, it's just fine."

Sherlock looked up at him, eyes slightly unfocused. "Victor…John, he's here. He came…with me, brought me here to torture me…I'm going to die, John, why do I feel so cold? He'll kill me…and I'll never get to see John again…"

John was now very worried. Sherlock seemed to have forgotten he was here. And the consulting detective being cold was worrying.

Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes got huge, and he raised a trembling hand to point over John's shoulder. "John…John, he's here, John, watch out…"

John shook his head, trying to calm the man. "No, Sherlock, he's not, he's not here, he's not going to get you…"

An unfamiliar voice rang out. "Are you sure about that?"

John felt something hard hit the back of his head and he sprawled sideways across the tiled floor. Trying not to lose consciousness, he felt his head carefully, and his fingers came away wet with blood. He judged the cut on the back of his head to be small, but worth stitches. He sat up carefully, his head spinning, and cleared the blood and dust from his eyes in time to feel someone grab his hands and tie them effectively to his sides. He cursed himself. He was no use to Sherlock now.

The person hauled him up to sit on the toilet and tied him around the bowl so that he couldn't move. He blinked, trying to bring his eyes back into focus. By the time he could see straight again, he had been blindfolded and gagged, all senses cut off except smell and hearing.

The voice began to speak again, directing it's words at Sherlock, who John supposed was still huddled in a small ball on the floor. "Sherlock. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock…didn't I tell you to go to the bathroom and be back in five minutes? And I come in here to check on you when the time is up, and I find you playing around with another man?"

John heard a small, ragged moan. "No, no, no, Victor, it isn't what it looked like, he's a doctor, just an acquaintance, he was helping me…" a dull thud echoed in the room and Sherlock let out a pained whimper. "Please, Victor, it wasn't my fault…"

So this mystery man was Victor Trevor. John would have loved to rip the man's throat out right then and there, had it not been for his slight restriction. He heard footsteps and felt a hand caressing his cheek. "So this is John Watson. So nice to meet you, Doctor, though I believe we already met once before…when I was shagging Sherlock behind your back…"

John struggled against his bonds, growling at the man. "Bl'dy B'st'rd!" he screamed around the gag.

Victor abruptly pulled away his hand. "Now, now," he said in a patronizing voice, "Be nice, Doctor Watson. After all, your best friend Sherlock is my boyfriend."

John heard the footsteps going away, towards Sherlock. "And I believe it's time that I exercised my privileges as such," Victor said in his silky voice, "Sherlock, sit up, you great sniveling mess."

John heard a sniff and the sound of Sherlock struggling to pull himself upright. He heard Sherlock's gasps of pain as his bruised ribs and chest were stretched.

He heard a belt buckle being undone and felt sick. No, Trevor wasn't going to do this here, in the men's washroom, in front of John, was he? John shook his head at his own words, scolding himself for how it sounded. The man shouldn't be doing it anywhere. He heard Sherlock moan, and then heard a small scuffle and a slap.

"Sherlock! How dare you!" he heard Victor's voice, pretending to sound outraged. From what he could tell, Sherlock had resisted, and Victor hadn't been happy about it, though was obviously ecstatic about having a reason to hit the detective. "Now you'll have to be punished."

John heard silence for a moment, and then a sharp intake of breath and a sickening crack. He could tell, just from the noises, that one of Sherlock's fingers was definitely broken. To the detective's credit, Sherlock hadn't cried out. John heard the sound of expensive fabric ripping, and knew that he didn't have much time left to come up with a plan.

That was when John Watson realized that Victor Trevor had forgotten something relatively simple.

He had forgotten to search John for his phone.

Said phone resided in John's left trouser pocket. He thought for a moment as he heard someone unbuttoning a shirt (Trevor, most likely). He was not predominately left-handed, and he definitely did not want to end up dropping their only line to rescue in the bog. So, very, very carefully, he wiggled his hand into his pocket and clasped shaky fingers around the phone.

Managing to extract his phone from the pocket, John wondered about how to dial. He couldn't see, and the only two people he would trust to come rescue them were in the exact same restaurant…and, of course, he had no idea what their numbers were. Stupid, stupid John, he thought; when they got out of this, he swore to himself he would memorize all the important numbers in his phone, even Mycroft's.

John heard a second belt being unbuckled, which he surmised was Sherlock's, because of the soft sob that followed it. A zipper was heard next and he knew he didn't have much time.

Think, John, think! He told himself. And then it came to him. If he could just get to his favorites menu, Lestrade, Greg was the first name on there. But what was the path? Thinking hard, John pressed the top right, arrowed down one, clicked it, and, hoping to god and any other high deity that might exist that he was right, he pressed Call.

The phone rang, and rang, and rang, as John held it behind him carefully, trying to muffle the sound and not drop it in the toilet. He heard fabric ruffling, and could tell it was Sherlock's trousers. C'mon, Greg, he thought, pick up your damn phone!

And the dial tone stopped, to a familiar voice saying, "Hello?"

He heard Victor say, "What? What are you doing, Watson?"

"Greg! Greg, quick, the washroom, I found him…"

John felt something hit him across the head and he felt no more.