Trigger Warning: This chapter contains depictions of violence, torture, and injuries. Please keep yourself safe.

Additional Warning: Just read until the end of the chapter before you yell at me, k? I promise, it'll be worth it.

I would like to offer heartfelt thanks to JGHB, andromeda's song, Sherlock'sLisbeth, Agar Loki, litlover92, snapletonius, ENTWolf, YoungCaterpillar, theivydaggers, The Lord Writer, EJ 12212012, Drunken Strawberries, 8of9, Guest, pureangel86, chris, and all those who have favorited and/or followed this story. Your support has been amazing, and you've survived a number of vicious cliffhangers.

I would also like to thank my Beta, Helena Chauby, for all of your help with editing.

And, lastly, I must thank my flat mate, sounding board, and own person Sherlock, Geoff.

I know we're getting near the end now, but we're not done yet! We have another long chapter after this one (it's up to seven thousand words and still not done) then another (probably also long) epilogue.

Now I know I left you all on the edge of your seats last time so, without further ado, onto the story...

Chapter 23: At Any Cost

"SHERLOCK!" John's hysterical cries echoed faintly in the expanse of the warehouse. No. This was not happening... No! Not again... Tears blinded him. Quick, sobbing breaths made him feel dizzy for want of air. John jerked violently in his restraints desperate to peer over the windows edge, just as Frank was doing... To see if Sherlock had survived. A warm trickle of blood slid down John's forearm from where the rope had bit into his wrist.

John felt out of his mind, and maybe he was. He might not have had PTSD when he'd returned from the war, at least not like his therapist thought... But he certainly did after watching Sherlock pitch himself off the roof of St. Barts. Now, watching him tip over the window ledge... it felt like he was watching Sherlock fall from Barts all over again, while John stood by, helpless. Except this time was different. This time, Sherlock had no way of setting up a break fall beforehand. What was Sherlock thinking?! He had to have a plan. He always did.

John willed himself to be quiet, to focus, to ignore the wounded, animal, part of his brain that had been woken when Sherlock had jumped. He couldn't assume... he needed data. Sherlock would not have jumped unless he thought that was the best available option. John had to trust that. He had to trust Sherlock...

John forced himself to lengthen his breathing, to stabilize it. He blinked rapidly, waiting for any information Frank could give him; he knew better than to ask, he would need to deduce. He could see Frank now, as the tears started to clear. He stood rigid, leaning out of the window, staring down with intense concentration.

John kept his gaze riveted to Frank waiting for a sign, an exclamation, something that would give him the information he so desperately needed. For a long moment, there was nothing. Then, a slow roll of Frank's shoulder as his right hand crept towards his hip, towards his gun. Sherlock must have survived the fall, there must have been something to break it, and now Frank was trying to shoot him.

"No! No! He's got a gun! Don't shoot!" John yelled as loudly as he could, trying to give Sherlock warning.

As soon as John's voice rang out Frank snapped into motion, drawing the gun quickly and firing off three rounds in rapid succession.

John kept himself in check, barely, as Frank leaned out the window and studied the ground once more. John held his breath, not daring to move, and waited. Had he been able to give Sherlock enough warning? The gun came out so quickly once John had started to yell, he was sure Frank had begun firing before he was finished. Was Sherlock still alive?

Frank waited a long moment and everything was still. Then Frank lowered his head and murmured, "He's gone."

A raw, primal cry was ripped from John's chest as the control he'd so tenuously held in place disintegrated. Beneath him Frank jerked to face his son, Luke, who was still crouched, frozen on the floor. Frank roared in fury and began beating Luke with sharp, cruel blows about the head and neck, kicking him viciously in the ribs as he collapsed.

John, however, was senseless to it all in his anguish. Sherlock was gone. Gone. He thrashed and screamed in his bonds, unable to cope with this loss for a second time. His shoulders rolled and snapped as he dislocated his 'good' arm, but none of it mattered. God... Sherlock... John's breath wracked in his chest, and a pained keening noise escaped his lips. The sound of Frank's blows, the warehouse, the slight, salty breeze, all of it seemed to be slipping further and further away...

Sherlock braced himself against the rough brick of the wall, shaking. He'd taken one hell of a risk when he'd leapt from the window into the dumpster below. He could have missed, and even if he didn't, he could have impaled himself on some sort of industrial refuse. In the end, his desire to keep John safe, to make sure John survived had won out, as it always would.

Sherlock's brief glance out the window had told him they were being held in a warehouse on a pier, right by the Hudson. There was a seventy eight percent chance of being injured in the fall or the aftermath of it, but, as before when he'd leapt from St. Barts, he'd been lucky. The dumpster had contained mostly boxes and other sorts of packing material, which had cushioned his landing.

Immediately, Sherlock had retreated deeply into his mind palace, burying himself in the part that the thoughts and memories of John occupied. Frank had been very close to him, and very nearly grabbed him, and Sherlock had known he would be watching. Better to appear 'dead' then try to get away just yet. Frank would likely turn his aggressions on his son, and give Sherlock the chance he needed to run.

Dimly, John's warning reached him, and it was only Sherlock's extreme control of his transport that kept him still as a bullet grazed his thigh, the other two thudding uselessly into the boxes on either side of Sherlock's torso. A sickly warm/wet sensation grew over his leg, but Sherlock maintained his control It was still too quiet, Frank would be watching. There was the soft murmur of Frank's voice and then a cry from John so excruciating that it rocked Sherlock to his core. He could spend the rest of his life apologizing for this, and it would never be enough...

The muffled cacophony that emitted from the open window indicated that Frank was distracted, and Sherlock sprung into action. He was damned if he was going to leave John there for a second longer than absolutely necessary. Sherlock secured a zip tie and used it to jury rig a tourniquet around his thigh. Blood loss was only consequential insofar as it could lead to loss of consciousness. That was not going to happen, not as long as John remained captive.

Hurling himself over the side, Sherlock had begun a stumbling sort of run, looking for someone, anyone, he could get a phone from. He wasn't above ripping it from them if he had to. Then again, the way he must look, someone might just save him the trouble and call the local authorities for him...but that would waste precious time. A report of a naked, beaten man would get at most, one officer and an ambulance. That probably wouldn't be enough resources to get to John in time. No, he had to call Mycroft.

Everything felt dangerously numb which, at this point, Sherlock was grateful for. He couldn't tell if he'd broken or dislocated a limb in the fall, but at this point that data would only get in the way of his primary objective. Find a phone. Call Mycroft. Go back for John.

Sherlock scanned the alleyways and the shadows as he made his way, painstakingly slowly, away from the warehouse where he'd been held. This area of the docks appeared to be used mostly for storage, hence, not many people were around. If he was lucky, he might find a homeless person. They were such an underutilized resource. They were everywhere, but so few people actually saw them, or understood the intelligence and worth they could have. Sherlock wrote off a great number of people for being idiots, and a great number were, but at least he based his judgments on facts. More than a few of Sherlock's Baker Street Irregulars had gotten off the street via Sherlock's repeated patronage, and even then they remained fiercely loyal.

Individuals who were, or looked, homeless were often ignored, which made them excellent spies. Also, sleeping rough expunged any amount of squeamishness a person might have had, so you could count on them to get a difficult job done. Also, contrary to what one might think, many had phones, laptops, etc. That's what Sherlock was counting on now. A phone.

Sherlock paused at the corner of a building, just listening. Another important and intriguing fact he'd learned in his work with his homeless network, was that they were skilled at obfuscating their squats to avoid being moved along by the authorities. It was past noon, but dark, roiling clouds that threatened rain hung low, drastically dimming the natural light. His current position, huddled as he was against the wall, was shielded from the breeze off the river.

A discreet shuffling noise, barely louder than the wind, filtered into his left ear causing Sherlock to turn his head in that direction. There was a set of stairs against the wall of yet another abandoned warehouse about twenty yards away. The area under the stairs was particularly dark, because the stairs themselves were in an alleyway between two warehouses, blocking out most of the sun. Squinting, willing his eyes to adjust to the gloom, Sherlock peered into the sheltered area and held his breath. The shuffle came again, this time accompanied by a small movement. Sherlock saw the faint outline of a hand in the shadows and knew he had found someone.

"Hello?" Sherlock called, allowing distress and desperation to leech into his voice. He knew his had to be polite, had to be vulnerable. If he were perceived as a threat they'd likely run...or finish what Frank had started. The situation was risky, true, but Sherlock knew the adrenaline and endorphin high he was on would fade, leaving him even less able to search for help.

"Have you got a phone?" Sherlock asked, hobbling towards the staircase. "Please," he begged, "My friend, they still have him," Sherlock shot a look over his shoulder back the way he had come. "I need to call for help!" Sherlock avoided the word 'husband' in reference to John and the words 'the police' in reference to help so as to avoid any hot button issues that may put this person off.

He'd manipulated others countless times before to meet his needs, yet this felt different. The patterns, the calculations were all the same...but the emotions in his voice were real, and strong. He was letting down masks instead of putting them on. For once, he was not acting.

"Please, can I use your phone?" Sherlock persisted, hovering close enough to see who he was talking to.

It was a gaunt women in her early thirties, who appeared a decade older, clutching a small waif of a child with matching dirty blond hair to her waist. The women studied him with wide gray eyes. He must look a site if she couldn't keep the shock off of her face; showing vulnerable emotions could be deadly for someone sleeping rough in the wrong circumstances.

"They will kill him if I can't get help in time," Sherlock pleaded, leaning against the wall of the building, showing her his profile and making himself look smaller.

The young girl, about seven years old, whispered something in her mother's ear. The women nodded and, without breaking eye contact with Sherlock, slid a simple phone across the ground to him.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, bowing his head slightly as he leaned forward to pick up the phone. As blunt as they were, which Sherlock appreciated, Sherlock had also learned from persons in his homeless network how much showing respect could get you. Another reason he respected those in his homeless network more than some of the riff raff he ran into in 'everyday' life.

Sherlock rapidly punched in Mycroft's number, then held the phone to his ear and waited. His words came out stilted at first because of Mycroft's frequent interruptions. "Mycroft- Yes it's me- Shut up! There isn't much time! I'm injured, badly. John's injured worse than I am. We are being held in a tan warehouse on the docks near the Hudson. It's five stories tall with a window open on the fifth floor and a trail of blood leading away from a dumpster under that same window. Yes, of course I jumped- Mycroft! Stop interrupting! The killer and his son, Luke are there. They have handguns, whips, taser, and staves. Nothing too substantial. Send at least two ambulances." Sherlock took a breath before he added. "Hurry, I'm going back for John."

Without another word Sherlock slid the phone back to the women. "Thank you," he said again as she picked up the phone. "You may give him additional directions if you like; either way he'll see that you're rewarded." The woman looked at him skeptically, and Sherlock could hardly blame her. She's probably heard more lies in her life than he'd told in his. Still, she brought the phone to her ear and started to speak, her voice rough from the years of abuse and drugs her body had been subjected to.

As Sherlock turned to go he could see worry for him in her eyes. She was right to worry; he wasn't in good shape, but he could care less. Right now his focus was on getting John out of there, about keeping him safe.

He lurched back around and made his way as quickly as he could to the warehouse he'd escaped from. As he went he scanned, assessing the entrances he could see. He chose a side entrance both because it was largely shielded from view by another dumpster, and because it would likely be close to the stairs.

It took a bit of rummaging in the dumpster, but once he'd found passable tools, picking the lock was child's play. Sherlock slipped inside and ascended the stairs immediately to his right. He wasn't sure if Frank had picked the lock (most likely) or had acquired a key. Either way his method of access was entirely irrelevant right now. He'd chosen a decent spot. Isolated, while being close to the city. If this was primarily a storage facility it would be mostly or entirely unmanned most of the time. Being an army man, Frank must have done his research.

Sherlock crept up to the fifth floor, taking care to be absolutely silent as he opened the door. As he suspected, the door into this level of the warehouse was shielded from view by numerous crates and boxes piled neatly around it. Sherlock's bare feet whispered over the cement floor as he maneuvered the isles between he boxes towards the sounds of Frank enthusiastically beating someone. Sherlock selfishly hoped that someone, was Frank's son, Luke.

No such luck. As he peered around the edge of a large crate Sherlock could see that Frank had already done that. Luke lay curled on his side facing away from Sherlock, unmoving, a dark red circle seeping out from his head and torso. Sherlock's eyes snapped to his right and he tensed when he saw Frank working John over with one of the bo staffs. There was no thought in his movements, just blind fury, black and purple bruises forming under his blows. John's head lolled in unconsciousness against his chest and for the first time since this case began Sherlock truly felt dread. He couldn't wait for Mycroft, he needed to act now.

Sherlock frantically scanned the area for something, anything, he could use as a weapon. He would go against Frank bare handed if he had to..but he doubted those odds would be in his favor. The other bo staff was propped against the wall close to the window he'd jumped from...no good. Frank could easily see him from his peripheral vision if he ran out from this position. He could sneak around and come in another way, but the length he'd have to run would give Frank too much time to notice him. Sherlock scanned the area around Luke once more, searching...

There!

Sherlock spotted the taser Luke had used on him resting on the edge of a crate. That would be a much more effective weapon than the staff, especially considering Sherlock's current condition. ...He'd still have to go back and creep around the outside of the boxes to diminish the risk of being seen.

Plan in place, Sherlock whirled about and hurried to get into position. The floor was smooth but his legs were shaky, and getting shakier. He nearly stumbled twice, and was saved only by the sturdiness of the boxes he leaned against. Frank likely wouldn't have heard with the way he was carrying on...but better safe than sorry.

Sherlock stretched himself out low across the floor as he neared Luke, reaching his lithe limbs and violinist fingers for the taser. Frank was still beating John and, though Sherlock was unarmed and injured, it took considerable self control not to attack him. Sherlock felt his digits close around the implement triumphantly, and he pulled it close to his chest.

Sherlock crouched as low as he was able and scuttled along the wall, trying to position himself behind Frank and decrease the odds he would be seen before he struck. Sherlock continued his furtive movements as quickly as he dared, closing the gap between himself and Frank. Sherlock's fingers twitched over the switch of the taser impatiently until, less than a foot away, Sherlock lunged. He drove the taser deep into Franks neck and the same moment that he turned it on. Frank, sure of his strategic positioning and planning, never saw it coming. He heaved and convulsed, falling to the floor. Sherlock followed him with the taser, maintaining contact a full minute after Frank's body hit the ground.

Without bothering to check if either Frank or his son were still alive Sherlock dragged Frank towards Luke and lashed them together with the remainders of the rope that had bound him not long ago. Once he was assured that, even should they regain consciousness, neither would pose any threat, Sherlock rushed to the knot securing John's ropes, pulling it free. Sherlock shook with the effort of lowering John to the ground slowly, but he managed it.

The moment his blogger was safely on the ground Sherlock hurried to his side, tugging at the bindings that still secured his wrists. The slow rise and fall of John's chest was reassuring, but only slightly. Once John's wrists were free Sherlock swept his hands over John's form, assessing his heart beat, (elevated within normal limits given the injuries sustained), and cataloged the injuries sustained in his absence (dislocated shoulders, additional bruising, several other wounds, mostly open and bleeding).

"John...John, wake up!" Sherlock called insistently, desperate to see his husbands eyes on his own. Sherlock pressed his knuckles firmly into John's sternum to try to rouse him. Sherlock knew this would cause both more pain and bruising, but only mildly compared to what they had already suffered, and he needed to see John awake, to know that he would be alright... To know that they would be alright.

John groaned, shifting away from Sherlock's knuckles, and his eyes began to flutter.

Sherlock moved his hands to cradle John's face, caressing John's cheeks with his thumbs as he continued to call to him. "John! Wake up! John!"

John's eyes fluttered violently then, slowly, they opened. They were bloodshot from crying and the pressure of strangulation. John winced, then slowly blinked again, seeming to register Sherlock's hands on his face. "Sh'lock?" He slurred, wincing again as if the lights hurt his eyes.

"Yes, John, I'm here. I'm safe." Sherlock swallowed hard, "I'm alive."

"Sherlock!" John cried recognition dawning on his face as he tugged the lanky consulting detective fiercely to him with his non-dislocated arm. "God, Sherlock...idiot," John breathed into Sherlock's ear, followed by, "Bastard. Don't ever do that again... Sherlock, God...so stupid...please." John continued muttering half pleas, Sherlock's name, and insults while clutching onto Sherlock's abused skin as if he couldn't begin to let go.

Sherlock cradled John against his chest, rocking him gently, repeating, "John, it's okay. We're okay. Help is coming...I'm so sorry John." The one thing he didn't say, couldn't say, was a repetition of the promise he'd made John outside All God's Children United Church. He couldn't promise he wouldn't do it again. At the time of his original promise he hadn't foreseen a scenario where he might 'fall' again, so it had been an easy promise to break. Now, he stood corrected. If taking a fall meant saving John's life, he would always, always take it.

Greg cupped his hand in front of his face a breathed against his fingers to warm them. It was nearly July now and, while they'd had some nice weather on and off both in London and in New York during this hellish case, it felt unusually cold today. Maybe it was he breeze blowing in from the Hudson, maybe it was exhaustion, or maybe it was the state of Sherlock and John by the time paramedics and everyone else had arrived.

They would be fine, no life threatening injuries, but there would be scars, both physical and emotional. Both Sherlock and John had been conscious and alert. They had absolutely refused to be separated and, in this particular case, Greg had to agree. They would be more cooperative and heal better emotionally, together.

One EMT had complained that it might be against regulations to let two injured people ride together, but Mycroft had been able to smooth that other. No surprise there.

Frank and Luke were both alive, but in critical condition. Before the ambulance took Sherlock and John away Greg had been able to get just enough of the story to hope that Frank never woke up again. Luke... he was conflicted about Luke. It smacked too much of the many abuse cases he'd worked for Greg to feel pitiless. Perhaps with the right therapy, and a just sentence for the crimes he had committed, there might be hope for Luke... "And perhaps I'm going soft," Greg thought, staring down into the black looking water of the river.

Mycroft and Greg had both remained at the scene for hours to give orders, answer questions, and get the wheels turning. Frank and Luke had been escorted to a hospital under guard. Sherlock and John were at a separate, high end hospital by Mycroft's orders. Evidence collection was hard at work bagging, tagging, photographing, and collecting samples. The scene was secure now, and Greg had stepped to the side to get some air. It had been one hell of a case, and he was glad it was over.

Glancing over his shoulder Greg saw Mycroft speaking with the homeless woman, Jane, who had been more instrumental in saving Sherlock and John's lives through the use of her phone. What he saw made him smile. Mycroft was being polite. Not because of politics or power plays, but because he was grateful, and it was the right things to do. Mycroft Holmes had a heart, and he would never be able to hide it from Greg.

Anthea walked over to Mycroft, Jane, and the young girl, Summer. Anthea appeared to take control of the conversation as Mycroft said his goodbyes. Greg smiled again when he saw Anthea lay her hand gently on Jane's arm; he had no doubt, one way or another, things were about to get a bit easier in her life. Greg hoped they would get better too, but that was largely up her.

Mycroft appeared to be making his way back into the warehouse, and Greg strode forward to intercept him. Mycroft could play God or megalomaniacal overlord all he liked, but he was still human. Greg halted Mycroft's forward motion with a hand at his elbow, turning the elder Holmes to face him.

"Yes, Gregory?" Mycroft asked, arching a curious eyebrow.

"We're leaving," Greg informed him.

Mycroft tilted his head to the side and squinted slightly as if he found that notion ridiculous. "There is still work to be done."

"Yes, and someone else can do it," Greg insisted. "Everything here is running smoothly. Let your team work, Mycroft, we need to go see Sherlock and John."

Mycroft was silent for a moment, shifting his weight slightly from foot to foot, hesitating, torn.

Greg looped his arm through Mycroft's elbow and began firmly leading him towards the car they'd taken to get here. "Not too long ago, for my own good, you ordered me to eat and sleep," Greg explained, "Now I'm ordering you to see your brother."

A small, reluctant smile curled at the edges of Mycroft's mouth as he allowed himself to be lead to the car, and he murmured, "As you wish, Gregory."