Greg looked down at his phone, the dial tone sounding loudly, like a death march. He looked up at Mycroft, who was staring at him questionably. "The washroom," was all he managed to get out before he darted from the table towards the exact place the call had come from. Mycroft stood, picking up his umbrella, and followed, picking his way carefully through the diners' tables.

Greg burst into the washroom quite flamboyantly, practically falling through the doorway. Mycroft came in right behind him, almost tripping over the inspector. As Greg looked up and Mycroft struggled to regain his balance, the sight that met their eyes made both men choke.

In the very last stall in the small restaurant washroom was Victor Trevor, standing over a practically naked, shivering, whimpering Sherlock Holmes. John Watson was tied to a toilet nearby with large amounts of rope, blindfolded and out cold. There was a bruise and a small cut on his forehead, but other than that he looked to be relatively unharmed. What most concerned the two men was that Victor, who had frozen at the sight of the two men bursting into the room, had been in the act of unzipping his fly. One didn't have to be a consulting detective to know what would have come next had they not interrupted.

Victor quickly picked the quivering detective up and, facing the men, held a sharp, wickedly gleaming knife to his throat. "You move, he dies." Victor stated coldy, pressing the cold metal against Sherlock's pale skin, causing a thin red line to stand out.

Mycroft raised his hands in surrender, gesturing with his umbrella for Greg to do the same. "Mr. Trevor," he greeted the man smoothly. "Would you please step away from my brother?"

Victor sneered. "You think a please is going to win me over, Mr. Holmes? You're even stupider than the freak." Greg saw Sherlock wince at the two insults he was given.

Mycroft stepped forward, and Victor pressed the knife more closely against that alabaster neck, causing a few drops of scarlet blood to fall. "I'll do it, Mr. Holmes." He grinned maniacally. "I'll kill him."

Mycroft smiled gently and shook his head. "No, you won't."

He raised his umbrella, and a gunshot sounded throughout the entire restaurant. Victor Trevor's body was blown backwards by the force of the bullet, falling to the side, away from the twitching form of Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft stood straighter and dusted off the front lapels of his suit jacket. He stepped forward, and very gently helped his brother to his feet. Greg tugged off his own jacket and wrapped it tenderly around Sherlock, as the man was wearing only a pair of thin silk boxers and would undoubtedly be cold. Mycroft nodded his thanks. "Will you check on John, please, Gregory?"

Greg nodded, and went over immediately. After studying John for a few minutes, Greg did the only thing he really knew how to do to revive a patient; he filled a glass of water at the sink and splashed the whole thing in John's face.

John came back to the world, coughing, rivulets of water spilling down his face. Greg went to work on his bindings while John gradually returned to the state of the fully conscious.

When his hands were free, John immediately yanked the blindfold away from his eyes. "Where's Sherlock? Is he okay? Oh, God, Greg, Victor Trevor, he was going to…he was gonna…"

Greg grabbed John's face, focusing his eyes on the consulting detective, leaning on Mycroft heavily and wrapped in Greg's jacket.

"He's fine, John. He's going to be just fine."

Greg knew that it wasn't quite true. Knowing Sherlock, the man would be physically recovered in a matter of weeks, with the right diet and care. But mentally? As a police officer, Greg knew that victims often never recovered from their traumatic experiences.

However, as he watched John (who had practically ripped the consulting detective away from Mycroft) hugging Sherlock for all he was worth, he had to admit that he had never known a man more likely to fully recover from all that he had been through. Sherlock was…well, he was Sherlock! He was everything that was unique and different. Besides, he had John. And though Greg had shamelessly contributed to the Scotland Yard betting pool on whether the two men would ever 'get it on', he had to admit that as long as Sherlock had John, he had a very good chance at recovery.

Sherlock Holmes was going to be all right.

The End

A/N; So I wasn't actually planning to leave it here like this…but I couldn't resist a happy ending :D. However, I am thinking along the lines of a possible sequel (even though I have God knows how many sequel stories already)…thoughts? And, of course, thank you thank you thank you to everyone who favorited, followed, reviewed, and even just read this fic…it means so much to me! I really hope you enjoyed it, and…well, I'll just shut up now. Thank you, and keep believing in Sherlock Holmes!

Ta,

Anonymoustache