There was no time wasted before Sherlock set off. But he wasn't just going to fly to Afghanistan empty handed. Even though he was certain that he could crush a man's skull with his bare hands, John would never allow him to hear the end of it if he went without at least bringing a gun.

Everything was going to be fine in the end, he had to remind himself of that. He was going to go, he was going to rescue John, and they would return home. They would go back to working on cases, just like always. Granted, John would, without a doubt, question Sherlock's changed appearance. But he would explain everything. And it wouldn't be as if he would be able to deny the fact when he saw him.

But he didn't make it to the flat.

A photograph grabbed his attention. The front of a newspaper, with a familiar face. Sherlock snatched up the paper, eyes quickly scanning over it. That headline. He must have read it wrong. He had to have. But he read it again over and over, and still it said the same thing.

Memorial for Fallen Soldier

Those four words. The four words above the photograph of the man he'd been so intent on saving. No, it couldn't be him. It had to be someone who looked similar. John couldn't be... He couldn't even think the word. It was impossible. But the article was clear. It said his name. It said how he'd been tending to a wounded companion when there was an unexpected attack. It said how he left behind a sister. It did not say that he also left behind a man who needed him.

But there was one thing which struck him more than anything.

Dr Watson was killed in an unanticipated firefight two weeks ago.

Two weeks ago. Before Sherlock had been approached. Before the offer. John hadn't been held captive at all. It had all been a lie. Every word of it.

Breaking, Sherlock tossed the paper, watched as the pages fell to the pavement. And, though he was unaware of the fact at the time, it would only reveal more tragedy. For that was when bad turned to worse.

Four more faces. All of which he recognised. Scrambling over, he held onto the paper as if his life depended on it. A second article, this one equally as horrible as the last.

Investigation Continues on Quadruple Homicide

Authorities at Scotland Yard are continuing to look into the details regarding the murders of Molly Hooper (34), Gregory Lestrade (50), Marie Hudson (76), and Mycroft Holmes (44). The victims were all found in the disused fire station outside of London. Each had been shot once in the heart. It is unclear if their deaths are related to their connections to the detective Sherlock Holmes, who has not been seen since the day before the incident.

Dead. All of them. Every single person he held most dear. Killed the day after he left. It all made sense now. Or at least in part. Sherlock, in an act which would be described only as pure, heartbroken sentiment, clutched the page to his chest, fought back tears. This couldn't be happening. It was impossible. They couldn't be gone. The only five people he cared about, the only people who cared about him.

He'd been lied to. They had taken him, toyed with his emotions. But why? What had been the purpose? To pull him away, turn him into this... this science experiment, only to kill the few people he had. What had the bastard wished to accomplish?

It was pointless, but he began racing down the street. He had to prove himself wrong. He had to prove the papers wrong. Because they couldn't be dead. They couldn't be, it was impossible. Baker Street was the first stop. He picked the lock to Mrs Hudson's flat. Empty, no one there for days. 221B next. Everything exactly as he'd left it. No calls on the answerphone. Nothing from John to tell him he was okay. Scotland Yard. Lestrade's name taken off the door of his office. The Diogenes Club. No sign of his brother. Bart's morgue. The paperwork Molly had been going on about relocated.

No sign of any of them.

Sherlock thought back to the day he'd been strapped to that table. Of how he'd yearned for death to relieve the pain. This was even worse. He would gladly suffer through an entire lifetime in that lab if it meant bringing them back.

But he wasn't going to be able to do that. Nor would he be able to put an end to his life. That had clicked into place, as well. Suicide attempts would prove unsuccessful. And he didn't even sleep anymore. Even then, he couldn't escape.

The sun ended up setting, and Sherlock had been lingering in an alleyway for hours. He could only keep repeating the words in his head: They're gone. They're all gone.

He was alone. He'd been alone growing up, most of his life, really. But even then, he'd had his brother. Even if they didn't get on very well, they'd cared for each other. And now he didn't even have that. Because Mycroft was dead. Mycroft, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Molly, and John. All of them, every one. This had to be a dream. Some terrible nightmare. And he would wake up any minute now in his bed, and John would be in the kitchen making tea. After all, genetic engineering? Superhuman abilities? It was ridiculous. But he knew it was real. Dreams couldn't hurt this much.

And Dr Soong. This was his doing, it had to be. Why else would he lie, tell him that John was alive, when he wasn't? But the reasoning behind it all was still obscure. But as he lifted his head from his hands, Sherlock thought back to a certain case. To something which had turned out to be something other than what was originally thought. A single, German word.

Rache.

Shout out to Nausicaa of the Spirits for figuring it out before Sherlock did~

Also, minor update to this chapter, since we've discovered Mrs Hudson's first name.