A/N: I wanted to post this earlier but was inundated by too many feels from the new Sherlock trailer. Go watch it if you haven't! Thank you all for your lovely reviews! I appreciate them so much!

Warning: This chapter might be a bit violent for some.

Disclaimer: BBC owns Sherlock.

He was soaring, white all around him. He was light, weightless, ethereal. Warmness spread from his chest to the tips of his fingers, and his lips curved into a grin. He felt comfortable, carefree, happy. Nothing mattered right now; all he wanted was for this feeling to remain. This feeling of absolute bliss and relaxation.

The scene changed, and he found himself in the middle of Baker Street. John and Molly were sitting on the sofa, and he attempted to call out their names. Nothing materialised. He tried moving, but was glued to the spot. They stood up, turning to leave. Sherlock tried calling them again. Nothing, just a hideous croak. He looked at his friends in alarm. Why couldn't they see or hear him? Why? He inhaled sharply for another try, but felt a rough shove on his right shoulder.

"Sherlock Holmes, time to wake up."

He opened his eyes blearily, his head heavy and spinning. Nausea was building in the depths of his stomach, and he swallowed hard to prevent anything from rising up. It took him a while before his view came into focus.

Adam Ahern was staring at him intensely with those green eyes, as if he were studying a prey. Sherlock jolted awake and groaned softly. His body was remarkably stiff. It only took him a few seconds to understand why.

He was slumped on the floor beside the study desk, his arms forcibly spread out eagle-like. Each of his hands was cuffed to one of the table legs. His legs were stretched out in front of him, feet bound tightly together with a white rope. If he was in an upright position, he'd look exactly like -

"You've been asleep for three hours," Ahern said, interrupting his thoughts. "Not bad actually. Most people would've been completely passed out for half a day. You must have done drugs before, to have this level of resilience."

Sherlock shook his head in a desperate attempt to clear it. He was awake, but that didn't mean that his mind wasn't still cloudy. He was having trouble thinking straight, his thoughts jumbled and chaotic. In fact, his mind was screaming at him to not think at all.

"Want some water?" Ahern asked, pulling a chair over to sit in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock glared at him, causing him to laugh. "Don't look so bitter. I'll let you go once I've discussed something with you. Now," he said, leaning closer. "You be good, and I won't hurt you."

"Fine claim to be making, seeing how you've positioned me like I'm the next Jesus Christ," he spat.

Ahern chuckled deeply, "Caught that didn't you? You have to forgive me, I do love some theatricality." He paused, leaning back and admiring his handiwork. "You must have some questions. I'll let you ask some, since I'm in a particularly good mood."

"How did you know it was me?"

Ahern grinned, "I'm a scientist, Mr Holmes. My mind may not be as brilliant as yours, but it's not too far behind either. And unfortunately for you, I have an eidetic memory. Details are very easy for me to observe and remember. Your fingers, your lips. Those are things you can't really hide. Most people would miss it, but not me. You did a terrific job though, I almost couldn't recognise you. Almost."

Sherlock's pulse started to race. "Why haven't you told Moran about me yet?"

"That idiot?" he scoffed. "Let me tell you a little secret. I hate that little fucker," his eyes glinted maliciously, and Sherlock leaned back slightly.

"He only managed to take over the network because he was fucking Moriarty." He raised his eyebrows when Sherlock didn't respond. "Didn't get that did you? Moran wasn't just Moriarty's pet. Although I think Jim pretty much used him as a way to gain sexual release. He was a sick bastard. "

"Lucky you're not all that."

Ahern's lips flattened into a thin line. "Yes, lucky isn't it?" he whispered.

The blow to his temple came so quickly that Sherlock was caught off-guard. His head knocked against the table and a sharp pain erupted at the back of his skull. His lips moved, but he silenced his moan in time. He wasn't going to give Ahern the satisfaction.

"I told you to be good," Ahern murmured.

"I'm not a dog that listens to orders," he snapped, eyes still tearing.

"No," he agreed, settling back on his chair. "Let's get back to business, shall we? I want to talk to you about Moran."

"What about him?"

"As I've mentioned, I hate that little fucker. He's thick in the head, not exciting. A military man through and through. He doesn't contribute much to the network at all."

"And you think you can?"

"Careful, Mr Holmes. Wouldn't want another punch now, would you?" He leaned forward. "It's pretty obvious now that you've been tracking down members of the network close to Moran. You have some information that I'll find useful. I propose that you work with me, bring down his little posse from within, and let me have the throne."

Sherlock laughed, "Why would I want to do that?"

"Because unlike Moran, I don't give a fuck about you and your little friends. Moriarty means nothing to me. I have no personal issues with you. All I want is the network. You'd be safe if we succeed."

Sherlock glanced at his cuffs and raised his eyebrows, "Yes, I feel safer already."

Ahern slapped him hard. "Behave."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "You've just told me that you're going to betray Moran, who sees you as a trusted acquaintance. Clearly you're not to be trusted."

"I think you underestimate my desire for the network, Mr Holmes."

"I think you overestimate your worth to me."

Ahern's eyes flashed angrily and he dealt a punch to Sherlock's jaw. A crack sounded, and Sherlock dipped his head to the side, spitting out some blood. He tested his jaw. Not broken.

"You seem to enjoy being beaten, don't you?" Ahern said, looking mildly disappointed. "You're a freak."

Sherlock stayed silent. Every time Ahern hit him, his mind was given more time to regain its usual clarity. He experimentally moved his fingers and toes, which were still clumsy.

Ahern rubbed his eyes, as if tired by their exchange. "I'll go make some tea. Give you some time to think."

Sherlock glowered at his retreating figure. The minute he was in the kitchen, Sherlock turned his head and lowered it to the inside of his coat collar, nudging it until his nose came into contact with the thing he fervently hoped was there. He heaved a sigh of relief.

He twisted his neck painfully, aligning his mouth to the bobby pin sewn into the side of his collar. He secretly thanked Mycroft's foresight (the coat was from him) as he positioned the bobby pin between his teeth, tugging hard.

The pin was released from the thread easily. He heard footsteps and hastily hid it inside his mouth, rearranging his features to one of nonchalance as Ahern settled back on the chair.

"Well?" he prompted. "Have you decided? Shall we cooperate?"

"Of course," he laughed flatly. "I'll cooperate once you stop being a jealous idiot who's clearly trying to conceal the fact that you used to have some feelings for dear Jim. Tell me, when was it that you realised Jim preferred Moran over you? Hated Jim after that, didn't you? How can Jim like a traditional military man instead of you? You, who have a brilliant mind like him, and a talent for inventing weapons. Jim made you feel useless, insignificant. Now you want to get rid of anything that reminds you of him. Usurping Moran is your form of revenge. For god's sake, you are so painfully obvious in your feelings."

"You -" Ahern's fingers tightened around the teacup.

Sherlock made a pitiful face, "What? Didn't think that I could deduce you in my drugged state? You did say that my mind was better than yours, or have you forgotten?"

"SHUT UP!" he roared, flinging the cup at Sherlock. He turned his face, but some of the hot water still scalded his skin. He grimaced and groaned softly. Fuck.

Ahern sprang up and began attacking him. Punches, smacks and slaps to his face, stomach, head, chest. Sherlock bit down on his lower lip, preventing himself from crying out.

Both men were panting heavily when Ahern finally became exhausted. Sherlock's ears were ringing, and he licked his bloody lips. An acute pain shot through his ribs every time he breathed in. He shut his eyes tightly, concentrating on refocusing his mind.

"You're a piece of work, you know that?" Ahern breathed. He looked disdainfully at the blood on his hands. He crouched beside Sherlock, gripping his hair roughly and tilting his head towards him.

"I'm going to go make another cuppa now. And wash my fucking hands. When I'm back, I expect an answer that I like, or I won't hesitate to kill you. Understood?"

Sherlock nodded.

Satisfied, Ahern made his way to the kitchen, flexing his bruised fingers.

Sherlock got to work immediately. He positioned the bobby pin between his teeth, straining his body to the right as he brought it close to the handcuff's lock. He pulled his right hand as close to him as he could, careful to be quiet. The pain was almost unbearable, but he reminded himself that the body was only transport. He could tolerate it.

He slipped the bobby pin into the tiny lock and started to twist and turn it gently. He'd done this many times before. But he was mostly in a comfortable position back in 221B, experimenting for fun. Panic was just beginning to build inside him when he heard the welcomed click of the lock. He freed his right hand and got to work on his left. It only took him about a minute before both of his hands were free.

Sherlock untied the rope restraining his feet, his fingers slipping clumsily a few times. He'd just released them from their confinements when Ahern returned, another steaming cup of tea in his hands. His green eyes widened in pure alarm.

Sherlock didn't give him any time to respond. He scrambled up, launching himself at the man. Ahern grunted, falling backwards as his cup smashed onto the floor. Sherlock pinned him beneath his body before summoning all his strength in a punch to his jaw. The ensuing loud crack made him feel contented. He threw another punch to his temple, effectively knocking him out.

Annie was bored. None of her friends were out on the streets tonight, since it was rather cold. She wrapped herself up tighter in her coat, the dark blue already fading from constant use. Her hand touched the army-knife the mystery man had given her earlier, and she decided that she would find him for company.

She walked over to the café, hoping that he would be there. He usually was at this time, silently studying the building opposite. She frowned when she couldn't find him. Sighing, she decided to wait by the alley – maybe she'd see something that would be important to him.

She crossed the street, and was just about to make her way to the corner when she heard a shout coming from above. She looked up curiously, and to her horror, saw the figure of the mystery man in a flat. There was a larger man in front of him. The mystery man ran towards the larger man before both of them disappeared from view.

Annie stared at the window, willing the mystery man to appear again.

Sherlock stood up shakily, holding onto anything in his path to steady himself out of the flat. He was badly bruised and every step was torture. His mind was still slightly sluggish, and the beatings had only worsened his condition. He'd only taken a few steps down the stairs when it hit him.

He had to kill Adam Ahern.

If Ahern lived, Moran would find out about his faked suicide. His whole plan would be rendered ineffectual, and his friends would be in danger again.

The realisation stunned him. He had never murdered anyone before. He knew that this was necessary, and a need always had to be fulfilled. But the thought of killing someone made him sick. He never knew how people like John and The Woman could kill and go about their lives. He shook his head – now wasn't the time to ponder over this.

Laboriously, Sherlock made his way back into the house. He opened the door hesitantly and peered in. He closed his eyes. Ahern's body was missing.

The cool barrel of a gun was pressed to the back of his skull. He was roughly pushed into the flat.

"Turn around," Ahern rasped, nudging the silencer deeper into his head.

Sherlock obeyed, shifting his body. He was going to die here. He had failed. He wouldn't be able to see John, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly…

"Mister?"

Her sweet voice sent a bolt of terror through Sherlock's heart.

Ahern didn't hesitate. In one swift motion, he spun around and aimed his gun at Annie, pulling the trigger. A red patch appeared at her abdomen, burgeoning rapidly. She sank to her knees, a soft moan escaping her lips.

Sherlock yelled something unintelligible and closed his fingers around Ahern's neck. Rage surged within him, energising his lethargic body. He kicked Ahern to the ground and threw punch after punch at his face. He didn't stop even when his knuckles were raw and bleeding. Ahern's grip on the silencer slackened, and Sherlock grabbed it from him. He aimed it at his head and without a second thought, pulled the trigger.

The blood and bits of brain that splattered onto his face startled him. The smell of blood permeated the room, thick and metallic. He desperately wanted to vomit as he stared down at Ahern's glazed-over eyes. Flashes of Moriarty's dead face entered his mind. Sherlock dropped the gun from his shaking hands and backed away from the body.

A cry of pain caught his attention. He made his way to Annie and lowered himself on his knees, gathering her limp body into his arms. She was still alive, but barely. She stared at him with large eyes, her breath coming in short rasps.

Sherlock held her small hand in his while he gazed back.

"I'm ten years old," she whispered, tears sliding off her pale cheeks.

"I deduced that you were nine," he said softly. Annie gripped onto his hand tightly, her body quivering.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes," he murmured. "That's my real name."

A look of pure wonder crossed her face. "I thought the telly said you died."

"The telly was wrong."

"Maybe if you didn't really die, then I won't too?" she asked.

Sherlock's initial reaction was to inform her that she was wrong. But the hope in her brown eyes muted him. He swallowed to ease the lump in his throat.

"Maybe," he said quietly.

She smiled and closed her eyes, drawing in a final shaky breath.

Sherlock bent his forehead to hers for a moment before laying her body gingerly on the ground. He stood up to close the door before digging his phone from his pockets, dialling his brother's number. Mycroft picked up almost instantly.

"What happened?" he asked briskly.

"I got compromised."

"What?" Mycroft hissed.

"I'm alright now. Two people are dead though. Send someone to clear this mess. They're at the flat I was staking-out."

"Sherlock –"

"Send a doctor to my hotel room. And get me lab access at a hospital by tomorrow."

"Sherlock –"

"Just do it, Mycroft. Please," he added.

Mycroft hesitated before agreeing.

Sherlock closed his eyes in relief, silently grateful. "Mycroft?"

"Hm?"

"Don't tell Molly."

"Of course."

Sherlock hung up and went to clean his face. He buttoned his coat and adjusted his scarf. He was lucky that it was dark now – no one would be able to see his battered face. He slipped the syringe Ahern had used on him in his pocket before leaving the flat.

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