Another chapter is here!

Now, I am in a bit of a hurry to update right now, so I haven't the time to check who recommended this to me and give them the proper credit (so sorry), so there is no shout-out this time.

To whoever did leave this prompt for me: thank you!

Lestrade's chin bobbed against his chest as he struggled to stay awake, wanting to hold on until he received any updates. But it was pretty damn hard, considering the fact that he had gotten so little sleep over the past month or so. He had mainly been functioning on caffeine and pure willpower thus far. Yet he was hardly thinking about sleep; his mind was focused on John.

Weeks ago, the doctor had been working a late shift at the clinic, as everyone had confirmed, and simply didn't return home. He had just vanished.

Lestrade had really been concerned about how Sherlock would react, given the man's overbearing possessiveness of his flatmate, but was surprised by how nonchalant the detective actually was. Granted, obviously worried, but calm and collected; so Lestrade stayed the same way.

That attitude, however, soon changed, as hours turned into days, and days turned into weeks.

That was when both he and Sherlock really started to worry and began to desperately rack their brains to figure out who had made off with John (as that was clearly what had happened) and why.

Well, Sherlock quickly and easily answered both questions:

Moriarty.

It should have been a dead giveaway to Lestrade, really. But, in the inspector's defence, he wasn't exactly attuned to the level of Moriarty's obsession with Sherlock and John.

The only question left unanswered was where Moriarty had John hidden.

Quite certainly, the thought had crossed Lestrade's mind that John might already be dead, but he knew simply suggesting such an outcome would result in unmentionable harm to his body and/or self-esteem dealt by the doctor's loyal sociopath. So he kept his mouth shut, playing the part of concerned friend and detective inspector.

They had searched tirelessly for five weeks, turning over every stone and still coming up empty-handed; no puzzles, no clues, no witnesses or connections.

There was absolutely nothing; it was apparent that Moriarty was simply relishing in Sherlock's relentless search for John Watson; yet Sherlock still looked, his determination simultaneously awe-inspiring and terrifying in Lestrade's eyes.

Never before had the inspector seen the high-functioning sociopath exhibit such loyalty and love; nor did he expect it. No one did. Even Donovan had commented on it, replacing her typical snide and vicious tone with a softer, more sympathetic one.

As the search dragged onto its sixth week and Sherlock finally collapsed from exhaustion, Lestrade put his foot down and forced the detective into a cab to 221B, convincing the younger man that he was 'no help to John dead'. Reluctantly, Sherlock obliged, but was intent on getting only a few hours' rest before jumping back on the case.

That was yesterday.

Now, Lestrade was slowly dozing off in his office chair, watching his computer screen and phone through lazily drooping lids and bloodshot eyes.

He woke up to the pain of hitting his forehead on his desk.

"What the hell...?" he slurred.

"Greg," a firm, female voice said from the doorway. "Go home; get some rest."

Lestrade shook the fog from his brain and stared at Sally Donovan.

"I can't," he insisted. "I promised Sherlock I'd wait here until I heard something."

"The Freak isn't the boss of you," Sally said. "Go home and sleep; you haven't gotten any in a while."

"I..." Lestrade sighed and rubbed his eyes. "...I am exhausted."

"Exactly." Donovan tossed the inspector the keys to his flat. "You dropped these in the plant by the stairwell."

Lestrade caught the keys with a flustered expression.

"Oh."

"Mhm." Sally spun on her heel and walked out the door. "I'll tell you if I hear anything."

And so, against his clouded judgement, Lestrade left the Yard, homeward bound.

His flat was only a short walk from his office; about fifteen minutes if he cut through a back street. He thought it pointless to spend money on cab fare. So he pushed past pedestrians as he crossed the street, nearly tripping over his own feet a few times, and hurried down the sidewalk. With a few turns, he finally found himself strolling through his shortcut, a rather worn down street, wrinkling his nose at the smell of offending body odour and animal excrement that wafted through the area.

"Spare some change?" a grease-covered man in a loose-fitting hoodie asked him.

Lestrade nodded tiredly and slipped a few coins into the eager hand of the poor man.

"God bless you, mate," he smiled at the inspector who simply kept walking.

A few more minutes now.

He walked a bit further down the street, realising with disgust that he was passing an alleyway full of trash.

He also realised that there was a sizeable group of homeless men and women surrounding the dumpster in that alley; about five or six of them. They were all talking to each other in hushed whispers, some looking scared, others looking like they were planning something.

"What's going on here?" Lestrade inquired, aware of the abnormality of the situation.

"What's it to you?" a particularly starved woman hissed at him.

"Police," Lestrade flaunted his badge. "Now what is going on?"

"There's a body here, officer," another man interjected. "In that bin there. We're worried someone's murdering the lot of us."

"A body?" Lestrade groaned internally. This was the last thing he needed right now. Why had he said a damn word? "Alright, step aside; let me have a look."

The inspector pushed through the few people crowding the dumpster and mounted a pile of rubbish bags to take a look inside.

His face blanched and he felt as if his heart had dropped into his lower intestine.

Beneath a bag of trash was a blonde man who looked to be in his forties, his eyes looking sunken and hollow, his skin clammy and pale, his figure frail, and his cream-coloured jumper torn and oversized.

The inspector could barely hear himself as he spoke:

"John?"

*'Bart's. Now. John.'*

Sherlock read those words over and over again as he screamed at the cabbie to drive faster; no speed would ever be fast enough.

The cab finally screeched to a halt in front of Bart's hospital, and Sherlock threw himself out the door and towards the hospital entrance, ignoring the curses thrown at him by the cab driver for forgetting the fare.

He flew through the front doors, shoved past hospital staff, and knocked over patients as he sprinted to the waiting room.

Lestrade caught him by the arm before he ran too far.

"Slow down there," the inspector told him. "Calm down."

"Where is he?" Sherlock asked, sounding like a frightened child. "Where's John?"

"Being taken care of by the hospital," Lestrade assured him.

Sherlock's knees nearly buckled.

"He's alive," he sighed.

"Yeah..." Lestrade swallowed a hard lump in his throat and gripped Sherlock's arm tightly. "Sherlock, he was barely holding on when I found him."

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, trying to keep himself from falling apart.

"I don't know if he's going to make it..."

Sherlock gritted his teeth and pierced through Lestrade's tired, brown eyes with his own icy heterochromatic ones.

"Don't say that."

"Sherlock-"

The detective gripped Lestrade's lapels and shook him.

"Don't even suggest it." His bottom lip visibly trembled. "He will be alright; he has to be." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "He needs to be."

Lestrade, hardly fazed by the taller man's outburst, patted him on the shoulder.

"Don't attempt to comfort me; you know it won't work," the man snapped.

"It doesn't hurt to try," the inspector said. "Why don't you sit down? Get some sleep; you need it."

Sherlock shook his head adamantly.

"Not until I see John."

"That may be a while."

"I don't care. I'll wait as long as I must."

And so they sat quietly in the hospital's waiting room, Lestrade balling up his jacket to use as a pillow and going to sleep.

They were there for a good five or six hours before a female doctor turned the corner and approached them.

'Malnutrition, indefinite mental and emotional trauma, scarce signs of physical abuse...'

The diagnosis rang clear in Sherlock's head as he stared down at his thin friend who, presently, looked a mere shell of his former self.

'...strong indications of forced substance abuse...'

Sherlock ran his slender fingers up and down John's left forearm, tensing at the feeling of numerous puncture wounds, some fresher than others.

He couldn't bring himself to speak; his throat felt tight and unfit for use.

"How are you doing?" Lestrade asked the detective with an involuntary yawn.

Sherlock visibly bristled at the question.

"What do you want me to say?"

"Nothing; sorry."

Sherlock cocked his head at his flatmate and gripped the man's bony hand tightly. "Where did you find him?"

Lestrade tightened his lips and looked down at the floor.

"Just... I stumbled upon him."

Sherlock craned his neck and stared at the inspector.

"Where?"

"He was..." Lestrade sighed. "Moriarty; or at least one of his men; left him in a dumpster."

Sherlock's eyes clouded over with rage.

"What?" He released his hold on John's hand and stood up slowly. "A dumpster?"

Lestrade nodded.

"The bastard," Sherlock growled. "He just had his fun, finished his job, and dumped John in the trash? Left him to rot?!"

The detective's voice echoed in the small room.

"Sherlock, calm down," Lestrade told him.

"I will not calm down, Greg!" Sherlock looked back at John with sad, apologetic eyes. "This is my fault; all my fault."

"Don't blame yourself for this."

"I will because I am the one to blame. And now I must remedy the situation; I shouldn't have any trouble at all with that." He turned up his coat collar. "There is no power on this earth that will stop me from killing Jim Moriarty now." He sniffed. "None."

Lestrade stepped forward and grabbed Sherlock's arm.

"There's me."

Sherlock glared at the inspector.

"Sherlock, I'm not letting you run out looking for vengeance and get yourself killed," Lestrade said. "I'm not going to lose you now." He ran a hand over his face. "I think that might do me in."

Sherlock was visibly impatient.

"But Moriarty-"

"Is a son of a bitch that will get what's coming to him. But right now, you should stay here with John; I know you're the first person he's going to need to see when he wakes up; someone he really trusts."

Though Sherlock was eager to wrap his hands around the throat of his nemesis, John was of more immediate importance to him.

Reluctantly, he nodded in agreement, his murderous gaze disappearing and quickly subjugated by a broken frown.

"I'll keep you updated, okay?" Lestrade assured him.

"Mycroft is still looking too," Sherlock said.

"We're both running into dead ends, then."

"Find another way around." Sherlock returned to his seat next to John and rested his hand on the bed. "And sleep; your appearance is objectionable."

"You could use some more rest yourself," the inspector responded. "Try to catch a wink, yeah?"

By this time, Sherlock had removed himself from the conversation and was focused once more on John, his own chest rising up and down rapidly.

There was no way in hell the man was going to let Moriarty go.

No one touched John and left unscathed.

No one.

Sherlock had his elbows propped on his knees, fingers locked together, and chin resting on his knuckles. He stared at John's unconscious form intently, unable to avert his gaze; this wasn't John. It couldn't be. John was supposed to be plump and pink and radiant; this man looked ashen. Dead.

But he wasn't dead.

Not his body, anyway. But the John Sherlock knew was.

"No," the detective said to himself, unintentionally out loud.

This was still John Watson; his John Watson. He had to be.

Sherlock put his head in his hands and let out a choked sigh.

"This is all my fault," he said. "I tried to find you, John; I truly did. Tirelessly." He closed his eyes. "Sometimes I do wish that we'd never met; if we hadn't, neither of us would have gotten hurt." He swallowed hard. "I don't like feeling this way; whatever you'd call this." He looked back up at John. "You know; of course you do. You always know."

As expected, the doctor gave no response.

Sherlock scoffed at himself.

"I suppose you'd find this rather hypocritical; me having a one-sided conversation with your unconscious self while having scorned others who've done the same." He tightened his lips. "I suppose I ought to be relieved that you aren't awake to chastise me. But really, I'd welcome that."

Again, all that Sherlock heard in response were the ominous beeps coming from the heart monitor.

"I am so sorry, John," he said, placing his hand on John's disconcertingly thin forearm. "There; I've said it. Now would you kindly stop this nonsense?"

Another beep from the monitor.

"Please, John."

As if he had heard the plea, John began to stir.

Sherlock's heart fluttered and he jumped up from his chair, bending over and looking hopefully at John's pallid face.

"John?" he said, hoping to encourage the doctor to rouse from his medically induced slumber.

The injured man's eyes flew open, and with a panicked cry, he threw a fist at Sherlock, catching the detective in the jaw.

"Let me in there!" Sherlock screamed at the nurse restraining him.

"We will in a few hours; but right now, we need to calm him down," she told the frantic detective. "He's likely hallucinating-"

"Obviously!" Sherlock pushed her aside. "He needs me; open the door."

"Sir-"

"Open the door," a calm voice commanded the young woman.

"Mister Holmes," the nurse nodded in the direction the voice had come from. "I am sorry, but I-"

Mycroft held up his umbrella to silence her.

"I request that you open the door for my younger brother. Doctor Watson is of immeasurable importance to him."

The nurse sighed and obliged the older Holmes brother, opening the door and letting Sherlock inside.

"If anything happens-"

"He will," Mycroft answered.

With a shake of her head, the young nurse walked off.

Mycroft strolled into the hospital room after his little brother, the metal tip of his umbrella clacking rather authoritatively on the floor.

Without question, the doctors checking John's vitals finished their job and left the room, Mycroft shutting the door after them.

Sherlock had quickly resumed his position beside John, making no mention of his brother.

"A 'thank you' might be in order, little brother," Mycroft cleared his throat.

"Go away," Sherlock hissed.

The elder Holmes smiled insincerely.

"You're quite welcome."

Sherlock stared sadly at his companion.

"He was frightened," he suddenly said. "He hit me."

"Well-deserved, I should think," Mycroft remarked.

"I've never seen him so afraid, Mycroft. It's unnerving."

"We can't all be like you; stoic and unfeeling."

"You're worse than I am in that regard."

"Like brother, like brother."

Sherlock brought his feet up onto the chair and rested his head on his knees. "But I feel something," he said. "I feel-"

"Concern, I'm sure."

"Guilt, I believe is the word."

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Only you could make a situation such as this revolve around yourself."

"Shut up," Sherlock growled. "I don't enjoy the sentiment."

"What have I said before, brother dear? Caring is not an advantage."

"You know I never heed your advice."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"This might be a sign that doing so would prove useful on your side."

Sherlock burrowed his head in between his knees.

"Leave."

"I have an appointment, anyway," Mycroft shrugged.

The older brother looked at John, and his expression softened.

"Do tell Doctor Watson that I wish him well."

With no answer from the young detective, Mycroft left, the clacking from his umbrella fading the further he got from the room.

John woke again after three hours, his anticipated outburst hindered by the straps holding down his body.

"John," Sherlock soothed. "John, stop; calm down. It's only me."

The paralysing fear the detective saw in his friend's eyes broke his icy heart.

"John, look at me," he commanded the doctor. "Look."

"Please, just stop!" John sobbed. "I don't want any more; please! No more!"

Sherlock's blood boiled; whatever Moriarty had done to instil this kind of panic in his flatmate was rage inducing. That bastard was going to get his comeuppance.

Bottling up his fury, the detective placed his hands on either of his friend's cheeks, firmly holding on.

"John," he said, "It's Sherlock."

The doctor's lost and helpless eyes looked in Sherlock's direction.

"No, it's not! It isn't!"

"Just look at me, please John," Sherlock begged. "I promise you it's me."

"It isn't!" John shook his head. "Shut up!"

With a deep breath, Sherlock slowly undid the straps around John, starting with the feet and moving to the doctor's wrists. Before his companion could land another punch, Sherlock caught his wrist, and then the other one when it came around.

"You always say I have ridiculously sharp cheekbones; one of a kind." Sherlock pressed John's hands to his own cheeks.

And he could have cried at how in shock his friend was.

"Sh... Sherlock?" John questioned, the name clumsily tumbling from his tongue.

Sherlock nodded and sat down on the bed beside the man, bringing his hands up to his scalp to allow the doctor to feel his thick curls.

"It's me."

Whether John was certain that what he was seeing was real or imaginary didn't seem to matter.

The doctor just began to sob uncontrollably out of pain, fear, and relief.

And as foreign as this type of situation was to him, Sherlock reached out and pulled John into a tight embrace, as if the action were almost instinctual.

"It's alright, John," he whispered, his own emotions quickly catching up to him. "I've got you; I'm here. You're safe."

And he vowed that John would stay that way.

Like a mother would her child, Sherlock rocked his broken friend back and forth, rubbing small circles on the doctor's back while holding on tightly. He was content with the prospect of never letting go.

As the hour ticked by, John eventually cried himself to sleep. Even through the man's worn-down psyche, he still had seemed to express embarrassment at appearing vulnerable and weak; but Sherlock thought nothing of weakness. Just of guilt and repose.

John had made it home alive, but there was an unfathomable amount of healing to be done. Sherlock was ready for the challenge, though; anything for his blogger.

But most preponderant was the issue of Moriarty.

A problem easily solved.

Blood would definitely be shed.

*in Tina Belcher's voice* My heaaaaart.

Whether or not it's any good, this chapter hurt to write. Ow.

(Remember: I love reviews. ;) )