Author's Note: Yes! I'm back! And I am so, so, so, so sorry I was gone for more than two weeks. My employers decided they wanted to kidnap me for another week, completely unexpectedly and out of the blue. So I was held hostage in southern Cali for seven more days, missing two more updates in the meantime. I did, however, get a nice bit of swimming in. And Disneyland is not half bad! However, I am back now, and terribly regretful for missing two updates. So how about three today? The two we missed, plus our regular Monday one, just to get us back on schedule? Here's the first, and as always, enjoy!

Running. Pain. Running. Pain. Running. And more pain.

Sherlock fell to his hands and knees for a moment, struggling to catch his breath back. The prompts were coming at regular intervals now, with only two or three minutes in between.

"Let him in."

"No."

"Let him in."

"Of course not."

"Let him in."

"Never."

"Let him in."

"Oh, shut up and lay off, won't you?"

Eventually Sherlock stopped replying; it only wasted breath, concentration, and time. And he needed all of those. But still the shocks followed his every refusal. And they seemed to be getting stronger every time he didn't comply. Now he forced himself to his feet. He was almost there. He was almost to John's part of the palace.

Mycroft's room had been dishearteningly bare. Almost nothing in there he could use against the door. What he could use had been mostly from childhood, memories he'd forgotten he had. He never looked in there anymore.

Lestrade, Mycroft, Molly, Mrs. Hudson…all the heavy memories he could find on any of them were already heaped against the door. Sherlock flew into the first room devoted to John. He had several…he grinned with relief. The room was packed. He snatched up the thing closest to hand; a pair of handcuffs.

"Joining me?"

"Yeah. Apparently chinning the chief superintendent is not entirely legal."

"Take my hand!"

"Sherlock, we're going to need to coordinate."

John's were the heaviest yet. Sherlock had suspected they'd be. That was why he'd saved them for last. Well. Part of the reason. He was racing down the stairs to the Door, when another impulse shook the palace.

"LET HIM IN."

Dust fell as the foundations shook, Sherlock was knocked off balance. He felt the memory slip out of his hand…

No. Nopenopenopenopenope. This isn't happening. Sherlock stared in horror at the shattered remains of…what was it? A memory…he knew that. It had been a good one, too. But he couldn't think what it had been.

"Most, if not all, of your memories will be destroyed in the process." Sherlock remembered those words too well. And with a rising sense of panic, he realized the even Sherlock Holmes was not invincible. He was weakened already, distracted and confused by exhaustion and the continual racket blaring through his head. The pain of shock after shock, time after time, was also wearing on him, though he'd sworn it wouldn't. The awful thought struck him that maybe he wasn't strong enough.

"LET HIM IN, LET HIM IN, LET HIM IN!"

Sherlock was startled back into action, gritting his teeth as he turned his back on the shards of memory and returned to get another. His one thought now was, "John Watson, you'd better get here soon."

Sherlock's eyes flew open. He uttered a terrific, shuddering gasp, as if he was just surfacing from being submerged forever. His head was a world different than the last time they woke him. Before it had just been a dull, throbbing ache; now it felt as if acid had been poured into his brain, and even the dim lights knifed cruelly in, making things worse. He squeezed his eyes closed. His stomach churned.

But he kept noticing. He had to keep noticing. When he couldn't see, he listened. Several machines or monitors bleeped annoyingly. Probably some kind of alarm. Someone moved to stand beside him, and cool, slender fingers adjusted the monitors on his hand and neck. Chi-Sung. The incessant beeping stopped.

"That was a bit close. He stopped breathing for a moment before we woke him." She was apparently addressing Dr. Manson.

"We're putting tremendous strain on his system. The mind can only handle so much, and when it is destroyed often the body goes, too. I think we have time though; one more go, and we'll get what we want. Better check on him. Can't have anything go wrong before the job's done."

Sherlock again wondered briefly how Manson managed to make such a speech without sounding malicious or cold. He spoke with the ease and neutrality Sherlock might have when talking about a fruit fly in an experiment. Just as Sherlock had no ill feelings for the fruit fly, Manson held no malice toward Sherlock. He was just a subject, and item of interest from which Manson could get something. And that alone made Fred Manson one of the most chilling opponents Sherlock had faced.

The click of heels again sounded on the floor, coming to a stop on the other side of Sherlock. She leaned over him, obscuring the dim spots of light that tormented him through closed lids. It was a blessed relief for a moment, until she gently but firmly forced open one eye and shone a penlight into it.

Oh, fireworks. Fireworks of white hot agony. Sherlock reacted rather violently, or would have, if he wasn't secured. The penlight switched off and Chi-Sung removed her hand. Over his own gasping Sherlock could hear the scratch of a pen as she made a note on the clipboard.

"No color visible. The eyes have dilated to their extremity. The patient has a strong sensitivity and aversion to light, but the pupils did not respond," she reported. Oh. That was bad.

"How do you feel, Mr. Holmes?" she asked, softly, leaning over him again.

"Fabulous. Marvelous. Wonderful. Don't I just look it?"

Well, that's what he meant to say. All that came out was a sickening moan through clenched teeth. Stupid transport.

"Go ahead and take him out," Manson was saying, "he'll probably be feeling poorly again in a few minutes. We'll all take a short break before the next session."

Sherlock allowed himself to be dragged back down the hall, where, true to Manson's word, he was sick. There was nothing left to come up, though, so dry heaves seemed to be the order of the day. It was worse the before; lasting longer and wearing him the rest of the way out.

The light hurt his head. Oh. It hurt. But he forced himself to open his eyes and allow himself the opportunity to get used to it. His eyes had to work in order to use his phone, and right now that looked like it might be his only chance.

To distract himself until his vision cleared somewhat, he pulled himself up onto his knees so he could see into the mirror hanging above the low sink.

His face was white. Not just pale, but positively white. Like paper. The dark, bluish-black marks under his eyes made him look like a character on the cover of the vampire books Donovan was always reading. His hair hung in lank, wet curls plastered to his forehead with sweat; his shirt, normally snug, now clung to his skin, completely drenched with perspiration. He was freezing, though. It felt like he was soaked in ice water, and his reflection was shivering violently.

As Sherlock looked at his own eyes, though, he thought with a little thrill of loathing that maybe there was more than one reason for his shaking. None of the keen, light steely-grey color remained. Empty black pupils stared emotionlessly back at him. His eyes looked…dead. Vacant, like the eyes of some creature in the depths of the sea, used to staring through oblivion.

Sherlock suddenly felt a wave of dizziness and weakness blur his thoughts. He closed his eyes and slid down onto the floor again, pulling out his phone. What was happening to him? He pulled up Mycroft's page, not admitting to himself how much he hoped Mycroft had noticed. Apparently he hadn't, however; no reply. Sherlock typed slowly though his head screamed and he felt pretty disoriented, careful not to misspell any words. His texts to John must have been appalling.

A knock on the door made Sherlock jump.

"Sounds like you're doing a bit better, sir. I think it's time we went back."

Sherlock hid the phone.

The guy escorted him back to the dreaded dim room, saw that he was properly secured, and then left the room. Apparently the break for the others wasn't yet over and the guard wanted to snatch a few minutes, too. The only other occupant of the room was Chi-Sung. She reattached the sensor-strip to his head, and picked up the IV needle from the trolley. She brushed by his hand as she turned to re-insert it, and he caught her arm before she could. Her startled almond shaped eyes met his.

"Don't." He said. She could plainly see that he meant it. She tried to adopt a calming air, lightly squeezing his hand for a moment with her free hand, and smiling a little.

"You'll be alright, Mr. Holmes. I promise. It will all be okay, soon." Her voice was soft, but he could easily detect the tremor in it, even with his thought processes in shambles.

"You don't really believe that," he said. Buy time.

Her eyes filled with tears and she looked away.

"Why are you doing this? How is he making you do this? I can see you don't want to."

She was quiet for a moment.

"My little brother. He's…he was retarded since birth. He's the only family member I have left. I'm doing this for him. Dr. Manson will be able to help him. I have to. Please let go."

Sherlock didn't.

"Wait. A little longer." Buy time.

Chi-Sung gently pulled out of his grasp and inserted the first IV, and the second.

"You'll be just fine. I promise." And that was the end of the conversation.

Sherlock had been on his own most of his life. It didn't bother him. It was just a fact; that was how he worked. It was his lot. The concept of loneliness was foreign to him.

But as he felt the hateful drug again entering his bloodstream, clouding his mind, dragging at his eyelids, as he heard Dr. Manson and the other assistants reentering the room…he had never felt so alone.

Author's Note: Ta-da! Yes, it looks like our favorite detective is in over his head. :( Is he really going to loose his talents, but even more important, his memories of John? Two more updates coming up as fast as I can post them; let me know what you guys think!

P.S. I have to ask. Are there any fans of the '80s show "The A-Team" out there? On my California trip I have become thoroughly obsessed. Expect fanfictions in the future centering on those darling soldiers of fortune!