A/n: More delays, sorry *facedesk*. Life...and stuff. That and I've mostly been a bit concerned continuing this story. It's actually rather close to its conclusion, and now that I've completely planned everything, I've decided I will try and solely focus on this fic until I've concluded it (so rejoice?). There are only three more chapters after this (I intend - two if you don't want the romance) *happy dance though gecko knows it will rip a rift in her heart* Anyhow, feeling the end near, I would like to thank my wonderful reviewers and subscribers for continuing to support me. Without you guys, I don't know how much more I would have written. So thank you Empathetic Psychopath, Kitiara88, Not A Psychopath, Nicely Nails, cher bear (am I totally wrong, or are you a fan of Homestuck?), and Alyss-8D for brightening my days. :D Without (much) further ado~

Disclaimer: Definitely not mine. If you didn't catch that from last chapter (in which I forgot to include words after the word disclaimer).

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

My Absence, Hardly Worth Noting

Chapter 14

After Lestrade escorted him to the interrogation room that he had left not an hour earlier, Sherlock sat down and watched as the detective inspector left the room, leaving him with a portly man with graying whiskers and round glasses that rested upon his dirty, porous, bulbous nose. The man's vest buttons strained to traverse the spherical field that was his gut, vertical stripes hardly aiding in "slimming" his frame. Examining the man's hands, Sherlock's eyes rested on the man's simple, gold wedding ring and smiled. The ring had hardly ever been removed and his fingernails (in the least) were trimmed and cleaned (though his finger beds had a classic smoker's yellow tinge), his clothes carefully ironed. At least he seemed faithful, loved. Mycroft always had a good choice in staff.

Rolling his free wrist, Sherlock stared at the man until he sat down across from him. "My name is Joshua Clement, hired by your brother, of course. I've been told to have you wait until the DNA results come back, at which point you are to be freed. It's all they have on you. Until that time, I am here to ensure that you do not say a word regarding the matter in any formal interviews," the lawyer explained, voice a soothing deep tone.

Sherlock nodded dumbly; he hadn't said much of anything regardless, and he wasn't planning to do so. There was nothing more to say. He just felt numb, unsure of what to do next. Unlike the last three years, Sherlock had someone to care for him, someone to help him, someone to save him. It was so drastically different, and now there was no purpose to dedicate his time, a part (though an unpleasant one) of his life was complete. "Good," Joshua began, arousing Sherlock from his daze. "You're already practicing."

Cracking a smile, Sherlock perked up to the sound of the door opening and the expression was immediately wiped from his face. As Lestrade made his way around the table, Mr. Clement moved and sat in the chair next to his client. The scent of smoke from his lawyer's clothing filled Sherlock's nose and he crinkled it in disgust, a wave of nausea overcoming him. It was one of the same brands he was more than familiar with.

Scars lining his back and chest burned with a renewed fervor, reminding their keeper of their presence. Shaking slightly, Sherlock looked up, trying to focus on the wrinkles on Lestrade's face, counting them in an attempt to identify new or worsening ones. Oh no, concern, Sherlock noted.

"Are you alright?" the detective inspector inquired, brows furrowing as he thought he saw Sherlock's color shift a shade lighter.

Sherlock nodded yes as he turned a glare at his lawyer. Why that brand? There were other brands, and he had to smoke that particular one. Someone whom he would have to sit next to civilly for hours to come.

Though unconvinced, Lestrade continued on with his questioning. For ten minutes, the detective inspector was unable to get so much as a peep out of the man he once considered something of a comrade. Sighing, he persisted, "What about Dr. Watson then, what does he have to do with this?"

Eyes widening, Sherlock snapped, "John's got nothing to do with any of this!" The heat from his scars spread to the rest of his body and his heart rate increased. John was totally innocent of everything; it was him they wanted.

"So you admit you were involved in the murder of James Doyle?" the detective pressed. He had to follow the lead, no matter how unpleasant it seemed.

Sherlock's eyes downcast to the bleak tile, cataloging the scuff marks. He couldn't honestly deny it. Though in self-defense, or at least in the favor of his best friend, he had, in fact, killed James Doyle. A wave of dizziness overcame him, and Joshua was quick to reach for the younger man's forehead, to which he received a flinch.

The scent wafting to his nose once more, Sherlock paled faster than before, now visibly ill. "My client is running a fever," Mr. Clement announced. "You can hardly consider him competent at this moment in time."

At the smell of the man's breath, so close to his face, Sherlock fell from his chair and pushed himself against the wall from his place on the floor. He had to escape it, that putrid odor. Eyes widening like a wild animal, the detective slid against the wall towards Lestrade, who was now up on his feet, unsure of how to react.

Mumbling something along the lines of "get away from me", Sherlock finally bumped into Lestrade's leg and he jumped forward, swinging to meet the detective inspector's gaze. Gulping, Greg realised that nothing but fear shook in the younger man's eyes. The thought was unnerving, something inexplicable frightening the wits out of a man he had considered so static.

"Sherlock," he crooned, crouching to the floor beside him. If this man was indeed involved in killing James Doyle, he clearly wasn't in his correct mental faculties. When Lestrade reached for the the younger man's forehead, Sherlock smacked his hand away and backed away further into the corner of the room.

Words barely now coherent, Sherlock watched in horror as the detective inspector drew nearer to him. It was happening again. "Sherlock, snap out of it!" With an outstretched hand, Greg reached for Sherlock's forehead, trying to gauge the man's temperature. Recoiling, Sherlock curled into a ball and whimpered before Lestrade could accomplish his goal.

"Please, no more," his voice cracked.

"No more what, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked deaf ears. When no reply came, the detective inspector leaned in on his knees and placed the back of his hand on Sherlock's exposed neck. He was burning up. Shrinking down even further into himself, Sherlock shuddered and whined.

"Please," he croaked.

Greg sighed, this was not going to be easy. "Sherlock, I need to get you over to the medical ward. Give me your hands or I'll have someone come in and sedate you..."

Neither seeming like a good option, Sherlock shook his head. Why couldn't he just sit here in the corner until he calmed down or passed out? Either would be better. Concerned by the heat radiating from the younger man, the bizarre flush that was creeping along his pale skin, Lestrade grabbed his shoulder in an attempt to sling him up to his feet. He looked like he was about to pass out any moment now.

Eyes widening at the sensation, Sherlock swung up with his cast left arm and caught the inspector along the side of his face, ramming hard into his right cheekbone. Dazed, the man churned his jaw, trying to work through the ache that was sent radiating throughout his face. Without further hesitation, Greg pulled himself up to his feet and yanked the rogue detective up by the collar of his shirt, completely agitated. Hitting him was just too far. Flailing, Sherlock gave a few more weak swats before Lestrade had him pinned against the wall with a harsh thud. Within a few seconds, the detective inspector had the man in cuffs and felt as he fell in dead weight, practically melting into the tile below him.

Before Sherlock could fall entirely, Lestrade pulled him up to his feet by his armpits and dropped him into the chair that Mr. Clement had pulled in a hurry, too shocked to properly react sooner. As he took a breather, Greg examined Sherlock, whose frightened eyes were darting around the room, his muscles spasming to wrench himself from his restraints, a crimson seeping through his bandaged neck. "Shit," he swore as he yoinked the bleeding man up to his feet and out of the interrogation room, dragging him along by the crook of his elbow.

Stumbling along, Sherlock could feel the eyes on him as black spots danced in his vision. When he felt his knees give out, he was returned with a harsh pull, and quickly regained his footing in turn. He would be dragged if he didn't manage to make it the entirety of the way. Swallowing, Sherlock felt in the pit of his stomach that this wasn't going to end well. If he was going to fight, now would be the time. Don't let them get you where they want you, he recalled.

As the younger man squirmed, Lestrade tightened his grip and continued pulling. The sooner he got him to the medical wing, the better, despite this probably being the most indelicate approach he could possibly manage.

Once they reached the medical ward, Lestrade relaxed his grip on Sherlock, who took the opportunity to wrench himself away and dart back into the hall. Two doctors and another officer, who was lining the wall of the hallway, caught him and forced him into a bed inside the ward itself, ignoring Sherlock's babbling pleas to not. After removing his cuffs, the three managed to strap Sherlock into leather straps along the bed frame and the detective writhed, eyes widening, trying to take in the sight of his captors.

When one caught his upper arm in a tourniquet, Sherlock flinched when he saw the needle. They would drug him, what was next was always a mystery until he awoke. While Sherlock struggled with the lasts of his strength, the doctor missed his vein while administering the sedative, nicking it. After a quick splurt and a tapped sterile pad, the doctor managed to successfully apply it in the man's hand instead. In a matter of seconds, a large dark bruise would leave its mark.

Too tired to fight it now, as the drug coursed through his veins, Sherlock fell into an unwanted slumber.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

After the bruise on his cheek darkened from its initial red state, Lestrade gently prodded it with his fingers, cringing at the twinge. Plaster always was a wonderful weapon. Chuckling, the detective remembered his days in the school yard. The only reason to not land a hit on the kid with the broken someinsuch was not because he was injured and some sort of moral code your mother thought she had smacked into you, but because he could land you a good wallop with a swinging cast or a swiping crutch.

Plopping down into his comfortably-worn desk chair, Lestrade leaned back and took a deep breath. It had been one hell of a day. He had already confirmed with Sherlock's lawyer that he wasn't bothering to press charges. How could he after seeing that terrified face, hearing those pitiful whines and whimpers? He felt like a monster for worsening the situation. If only he hadn't so much as touched him, just let him calm down. Maybe then he could have avoided the whole ordeal. Sherlock wasn't in his right mind, he was deluded, injured, afraid, and he had just made it worse.

Now, he realised, that when the young man awoke, he might come to frightened, tied to that bed in a drug-induced haze. And it was all his fault.

Though Lestrade knew that he had an initial cause to arrest Sherlock, to pluck him from the safety of his recovery, he couldn't help but feel guilty. There was enough circumstantial evidence paired with the partial certainty from DNA to conclude that Sherlock Holmes had killed James Doyle. Sherlock Holmes was a killer. A fragile, emotionally-unstable killer.

But what had happened? What caused the younger man to snap? Even after seeing Sherlock on a cocktail of narcotics, he had never been witness to behaviors such as these (though, he often found the young man during his crash). Sherlock had always been able to handle himself, retain this inexplicable composure, even when bothered. Now, he was broken. Completely broken. Was he even sane? Greg asked himself, leaning back carelessly in his chair.

Glancing at the clock, Lestrade realised he should have headed out hours ago and grumbled at his own inattentiveness. He could have been cursing his own conscience for existing in the comfort of his own flat. His own dark, dirty, lifeless flat, no one home to greet him. Nevermind that, he brushed aside, spinning in his chair to prop his feet on the desk. Here was always better.

Nodding off in the comfort of his chair, Lestrade slept until dawn as the rest of the station buzzed with activity around him. As he was starting to wake up, absorbing the noises reverberating throughout the station, he heard footsteps stop before his desk. For a moment, he tried to ignore it, but the presence remained. Lestrade opened his eyes and sat upright in his chair, yawning. Upon focusing his eyes, he saw Molly standing before him, clutching a file in her arms. "I knew you'd still be here," she started.

Brow furrowing, Lestrade asked, "What could be so important that you came all the way down here?"

"Sherlock," Molly returned, dropping the file on top of his desk. "The DNA we swabbed today didn't match the blood we found on the street. It's my fault, sir." As he flipped through the file, Lestrade sighed. What were the chances of this?

"So you're meaning to tell me that we find Sherlock Holmes...by mere chance? An error," the detective began, not believing the words he was speaking. This was more than a coincidence.

Nodding, she reclaimed the folder. "Do you have anything else to hold him?" Molly inquired.

Lestrade shook his head no, mumbling under his breath. This took the cake. Not only had he found someone he thought to be dead for years, but he also managed to muck everything up in the meanwhile. Though he wasn't entirely convinced, Greg swallowed back his guilt. Sherlock had surrendered himself to arrest, but by the looks of it, he was simply scared. Didn't want to get John involved with whatever it was he was being arrested for...What if he was protecting John? No, that wouldn't make sense. The blood wasn't Sherlock's. Or John's...Certainly no one they even had on file. Shaking the thought, Lestrade thanked Molly and sent her off. Now he was going to have to do something about the shaken consulting detective, who was still strapped to the bed in the medical bay.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Regaining consciousness, Sherlock moaned, his voice echoing throughout the room, returning until it eventually died out. Arms suspended above him, the detective realised he was wearing nothing but his boxers, goosebumps pricking up on his skin. After prying his eyes open, the young man stared into nothing but blackness. Not again, he breathed. Squirming, he could feel the stale air shift around him, arms protesting their numbness. He couldn't have been here long, but it was likely he would be. Long past the three day excursion, it seemed. Unless they came to retrieve him from his unplanned destination, he would be here a while.

Anxiety overcoming him, Sherlock fought against the metal cuffs, try to loosen their bolts to the ceiling in the least. He had to free himself. He had to get out. What if he died here? Would they go after John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade? Mycroft? He had to protect them from his employers, and he couldn't do that confined here. Had he even completed his assignment? He couldn't remember. Either way, he couldn't take that chance, unable to complete the new assignment.

Without budging the chains, the detective conceded defeat, his body heavy with ache at the sudden movement. What was it they had done to him? Drugged him? He didn't feel injured. Stomach twisting knots, he felt bile rise to his throat and swallowed it down. Drugs, he concluded.

Sherlock heard footsteps coming from an adjacent room and immediately stilled his face. He couldn't say anything. Not about his employer, his true identity, nothing. No matter what they did, he couldn't give in, couldn't cry out in pain. He would not let them win over him.

Light flooded into the room, straight into the detective's eyes, temporarily blinding him. The man before him was no more than a blackened silhouette, thick in frame. Before Sherlock's eyes could adjust to the light, the door slammed behind the man, and he was submerged in darkness once more. He could see slightly lighter spots floating in his line of vision as a match strike brought a dim, glowing light to the room once more. Lighting a candle on the wall, the man threw the match to the other end of the room, where it met its extinguishing on the cold stone floor.

Eyes focusing, Sherlock caught a sight of the man. Likely Caucasian (though difficult to tell from the dull orange glow encasing the room), hair and eye color completely indistinguishable, long nose, narrow eyes, long beard covering the majority of his face, hair unkempt, clothes a plain cotton with a simple pair of jeans. Turning his attention to the man's hands, the detective's eyes widened. A whip was coiled in his right hand. This was not going to be good.

Unwinding the whip, the man cracked it once in Sherlock's direction and demanded, "Tell me exactly who you are working for and how I can get a hold of them."

Though tempted by the idea that this man would take out his employer, Sherlock knew he couldn't. No one could. The organisation was so large, so untouchable, that this man and whoever stood with him would never win. Yet, despite their immense power, he was commanded to never utter their names to a captor; lest they spread the information before they could come in and dispose of the problem.

This was unplanned, this was different. They would have to find him if they wanted him back. No matter how they abused him, they just wouldn't allow the poor detective to meet his end. They just wouldn't allow it. But these people? They just might kill him, which would be a relief, provided he could assume that the organisation wouldn't kill his friends and family out of sheer spite (which was an assertion he was unwilling to make).

"Tell me!" the man screamed, snapping the whip against Sherlock's bare chest.

The rawhide slashed through his skin, causing a line of blood to ooze down his chest. With the wound searing, he stifled a gasp for air, the shock to his organs more than he had braced himself for.

"I see...Loyal, dog, aren't you? We'll see how you handle another!" the man announced with a maniacal laugh. Cracking the whip once more with intensified strength, he smiled as a second crack reverberated throughout the room. He had broken his victim's collarbone.

Gasping, Sherlock's face contorted in pain as more blood flooded down his chest, dampening the brim of his boxers. No matter how he tried to detach himself from the situation, he couldn't concentrate his focus elsewhere. Both gashes burning, he devised a half-truth. He had to try something.

Testing his voice, the detective started, "I-I don't know."

Snapping the whip to his side, the man exclaimed, "What do you mean you don't know?!"

When he placed an expression of sheer terror on his face, Sherlock was upset that it likely presented how he was feeling at this very moment in time. Though hitting things a little too close to reality, he explained through his agony, "I-I don't know...I don't know who...They k-killed. They killed a friend...A friend of mine. Said that..." Choking back a half-intended sob, Sherlock continued, "That I'd have to...that I'd have to w-work for them...Or they'd...they'd kill everyone else."

"USELESS!" the man roared. "What do you work by? Notes that arrive via carrier pigeon?! A text?! Tell me if I guess it!" Running off a litany of other options, the man growled when Sherlock shook his head no, tears sliding down his face. He was stuck, his mind clouding from the desanguination, and his sympathy ploy hadn't worked. "Turn around!" the man barked, readying his whip.

Whimpering slightly, Sherlock shifted around, tangling his chains in the process. Before he could fathom the blow's arrival, his back was ripped open by an unmerciful lunge of the whip. Each new addition rang a new number, one more than the last. "Three, four, five, six." Sherlock counted along with his captor internally, numbing himself to the trauma that he was being forced to endure. With each new blow, he felt the tears fly from his eyes, the jolt enough to fling them to the floor. "Seven, eight, nine, ten." The detective groaned, his body sagging underneath him, shoulders objecting to the weight they were holding. "Eleven, twelve, thirteen." No one was saving him anymore. Not John, not Mycroft, not even his employer. "Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen." Praying that his employer lied, that John, and Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, would live upon his death, Sherlock drooped further to the ground, right shoulder slipping out of place. He couldn't tell if he had screamed. "Eighteen, nineteen, twenty." His mind was foggy, counting was a difficult task to complete.

Unsure if anymore blows came, Sherlock fell into unconsciousness.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

When Lestrade walked into the medical bay, he found Sherlock surrounded by several doctors and nurses, whines erupting from the younger man's throat. Pushing his way through to his bedside, Lestrade watched as Sherlock thrashed in his restraints, face contorting in pain. Greg grabbed Sherlock's shoulders and shook him awake, calling his name the entire time, despite the insistent dissent of the medical staff surrounding him.

Sherlock's eyes shot open, darting back and forth to establish his location. As his eyes fell on Lestrade, the younger man calmed down, no longer fighting against his bonds. Expression softening, Sherlock stared up at the detective inspector, almost glad to see his face.

In a few swift motions, Greg released the consulting detective from his restraints, and Sherlock slowly sat up in his bed, rubbing his sore right wrist. "Is he clear to go home?" Lestrade asked.

Taken aback by the question, queried by the man who was now sporting a bruise thanks to his patient, the doctor returned, "His temperature has gone down, and we've stopped the bleeding...But we'd rather keep him a bit longer. See how he fares after breakfast in the least."

Smiling at Sherlock, Lestrade probed, "What if he was sent back with another doctor?" The consulting detective lit up. He would be going home, with John?

"We still don't recommend it..." the doctor answered, slightly saddened by Sherlock's expression fading into a neutral stare. "Quite yet," he amended. "Give it a few hours, and we will be willing to release him."

As the detective gleamed at the submission, all but Lestrade and a single nurse left his bedside for other work. Lestrade watched as both the nurse and Sherlock went through the motions. All seeming to check out, she asked him if he preferred porridge or a bran muffin, to which he replied the former.

Once the nurse was out of earshot, Sherlock muttered, "I'm sorry."

Unsure if he had heard the words properly, Lestrade stared at the man before him. "For what?"

"For that," Sherlock returned, pointing to the darkening bruise marking the man's cheekbone.

Laughing, Greg denied, "No...this is nothing...I shouldn't have pushed you...when you were like that."

Sherlock shook his head, not accepting that for a proper answer. The detective inspector had made the correct decision in incapacitating him, no matter the memories it brought. He was clearly posing a threat to those around him, and likely himself. Lucky Lestrade didn't even bother to press charges on him.

"Look, Sherlock, I don't know what the hell happened these last three years...It just doesn't seem all that good. I still don't completely believe that you had nothing to do with Doyle's death, but all we really had on you slid right past us. Just like it always used to. Just, get better, alright? Even if you did kill Doyle, it'd feel like sheer abuse to lock you up," Lestrade explained.

Sherlock nodded lamely and stared at the older man, holding his tongue. Mycroft seemed to have cleared his name, and he wouldn't be putting that to waste. Now would be a poor opportunity to confess to the entirety of his crimes. After all, he couldn't get Mycroft in any sort of trouble.

"One thing I never got though," Greg began. "Why did you say John had nothing to do with anything?"

Sighing, the younger man replied, "John's been taking care of me...I couldn't possibly get him involved with anything."

"What do you mean by anything?" Lestrade asked, glad that the detective was more willing to talk.

Gesturing to his neck and his cast arm, Sherlock returned sharply, "Anything that caused any of this."

Greg sighed and he scruffled Sherlock's locks. "I'll call Watson, and I'm sure he'll be here soon. We'll send him on up and you'll be on your way."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"Shit," John muttered as he finally managed to stumble into the lobby of the police station. Reporters were storming the exterior of the building, calling his name, demanding that he give information regarding the return of Sherlock Holmes. He barely knew anything to tell, provided he even wanted to tell them in the first place. At least he would be able to return with Sherlock (though he shouldn't have been out of his care to begin with).

When the door closed behind him, the cacophony of voices simmered down to a dull roar, and John inhaled deeply as all eyes in the room were on him. Wordlessly, a young female officer escorted him to Lestrade's office and opened the door, ushering him inside before closing it. As John stepped in the room, Sherlock turned around in his chair and beamed at the older man.

Plopping down in the chair next to his friend, the doctor briefly smiled at him and turned his attention to Lestrade. No matter how crass he wanted to be with him, he knew the detective inspector was just doing his job; it was Mycroft who had dropped the ball, not him. He would have to settle with being nice. "How did you get that shiner?" John asked as he caught sight of the massive bruise formed along Lestrade's cheekbone.

After shooting Sherlock a telling glance, Greg returned, "Bit of an altercation..." Though he did not want to disclose the exact details of Sherlock's fit and his own overly-aggressive recoil, John could figure something had happened between the two, Sherlock's head bowing in guilt solidifying his suspicion. "Never mind it. Sherlock's already been signed out, you just have to escort him home and that will be that," Lestrade explained.

Looking at Sherlock, John recalled what had landed them there in the first place. Where there any more stray gunmen, aiming for the young man's life? "But what if there are more-"

"There are not, John," Sherlock interrupted with a serious glower. Here was not the place to ask such questions.

Confused, Lestrade interjected, "More what?"

"Nothing," Sherlock snapped abruptly. "Let's just go."

"Are you sure...what if they-"

"They won't. Let's go." Standing, the impatient detective grabbed his friend's arm and weakly pulled until the man decided to get up at his urging.

Farewells brief, the two shot for the door. Completely unsure if releasing Sherlock from custody was the correct approach, Lestrade stared after the two as the detective yanked John along by the sleeve. Greg leaned back in his chair and sighed. Those two clearly didn't have it easy, even now, and with the media maelstrom brewing, catching a break would be hard.

When the duo met the glass door at the front, Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, eyes widening. He hadn't pictured that many people to be there, waiting for him. As the camera flashes burst, John grabbed hold of Sherlock's good hand and led him through the door into the chaos. Their indelicate debut to the world.

End of Chapter 14

A/n: Though I am relatively familiar with the intricacies of the American criminal justice system, I am extraordinarily unfamiliar with the English system (save a few things I googled lol). So...sorry if I'm terribly, horribly wrong? Anyhow, hope you enjoyed. Now that you've read, please review! 'Till next time!