Chapter Two

The team all moved out in separate directions, getting into position. John walked with Jenkins, Samuels and Greg through the trees to the closest vantage point to John's entrance.

Bending down behind the shrubs, Jenkins situated himself at a couple of laptops, typing away. He nodded up at John. "Ready."

Samuels put a hand to the earpiece he was wearing. "Report."

One by one, the different teams sounded off on the earpieces.

Samuels nodded at John. "Ready, Captain."

John looked over at the building, taking a steadying breath. "Go."

A few seconds went by before the faint sound of thumps and cracks reached them. A few more seconds passed as John crouched, tense and preparing himself. He pulled his focus down to his pathway to the door. Jenkins would watch everything else; his attention had to simply be on getting there.

"Go," said Jenkins.

John took off, running as silently and low to the ground as he could down the hill. Just as he reached a clump of tall boulders, Jenkins' voice came through his earpiece.

"Down."

John ducked behind the boulders, keeping as still as possible as he controlled his breathing. He listened to the sound of the pellets hitting the roof every few seconds as he waited for the guard to pass out of sight.

"Ten seconds," said Jenkins' voice.

John took a few deep, quiet breaths as he got ready to run again.

"Go."

John bolted up, jumping over the boulder and running across the open space towards the building. As he got within ten feet of the building, he could tell he wouldn't make it in the few seconds he had left before the guard came around the corner. Glancing down at the tall grass, he found a nearby patch that would go up to his knees. He threw himself to the ground just as Jenkins warned him. He pressed himself to the ground, controlling his breathing once again. He listened to the sounds of the pellets, keeping his ears peeled for the sound of footsteps. And before long, he heard boots crunching on the soil.

"He's passing you."

John nearly held his breath, willing his body to not move an inch. As the footsteps neared and then died away, John waited for his cue.

"Go."

John pushed himself from the grass and ran towards the door. As he got within two feet, a twig snapped under his foot, and he changed course.

"Go! Go!" Jenkins warned frantically in his ear.

John reached the corner of the building and hid against the wall, cursing himself for alerting the guard.

"Steady," said Jenkins.

John listened to the guard's footsteps as they got closer, taking a few steps before pausing and starting again.

"Five seconds," warned Jenkins, the anxiety palpable in his voice.

John glanced towards the far corner of the building, behind which the other guard was approaching. And he was in full view.

"He's moving back," Jenkins told him. Two more seconds went by. "Go."

John darted around the corner, grabbed the door handle, yanked it open and closed it behind him.

"Clear," said Jenkins with a sigh of relief.

John retrieved the gun, aimed it in front of himself and moved down the corridor, approaching the hallway at the end that ran perpendicular to his.

"Guard passing."

John ducked into a room, waiting.

"Clear."

John hurried back into the corridor, reaching the end.

"Hold."

John waited at the corner for a moment.

"Turn right."

John turned right down the hall and approached a turn in it.

"Clear."

John moved around the corner without hesitation, hurrying towards a door at the very end. Halfway down, he could hear voices in one of the rooms.

"Hold."

John stopped next to a doorway, listening to a few men talking in the room.

"Go."

John hurried past the door and continued down the hall.

"Third door from the end on your left leads to the basement."

John reached the third door and quietly opened it, heading down the stairs.

"Clear."

John turned the corner and approached one of the thick pillars, taking cover behind it. Letting his gun hang by its strap, he quietly unclipped the goggles and pulled them onto his head, pressing his finger to the switch on the side. With his other hand, he reached into his pocket and pressed the button on the device. He put his hand back on his gun.

"Cut the power," said a voice in his earpiece. "Move in."

A second later, the lights went out, and John flipped his night vision on, bringing his gun up as he emerged from behind the pillar. Several shouts sounded as a guard emerged around a corner. John pulled the trigger, taking the guard down. He moved through the basement, shooting each guard he encountered.

"You're clear, John," said Jenkins. "The rest of the men are upstairs. We've almost got all of them."

John went back to each of the guards, searching for keys to the rooms around him. He finally got them off the third guard he searched and moved down the corridor.

"The prisoner who was shot is in the room on your left."

John approached the door, unlocked it and opened it just as the lights came back on. Wincing, John ripped the goggles off and looked into the room at the body lying there in a pool of its own blood. The man was wearing only a pair of shorts, and it was obvious he had been severely beaten before he was shot. He was lying slumped over, facedown, but his black hair made John's heart stop. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he approached the body and turned it over. He released his breath at the staring brown eyes and large nose. Sherlock was still alive somewhere in the basement.

John stood and moved back into the corridor, activating his earpiece. "It's not Sherlock. He's alive."

The strike team came down into the basement as John unlocked another door. A blonde woman inside shifted noisily, drawing herself into the corner.

"It's okay," John assured her. "They're gone. We're here to help you."

The woman dissolved into tears and many "thank you's" as one of the operatives tended to her. John moved on, opening up two more cells with grateful prisoners and one empty cell.

John opened the fifth door to silence and almost moved on before realizing that the cell wasn't empty. A man sat huddled against the wall, his legs curled up on the floor and his unkempt black hair hanging in his face. From the way he was slumped against the wall and his head was hanging, he was obviously asleep.

Or unconscious, John told himself.

John slowly approached him, not wanting to startle him should he come to, and looked him over. The man was wearing only a pair of filthy, tattered trousers. His back was practically covered with injuries—bruises, lacerations, burns—that there was hardly a patch of clear skin. He was also incredibly thin. John could tell the man's stature was naturally lean, but his bones were beginning to show through his skin; he was starving. The man cradled his right arm over his lap, and John could see a misshapen lump and some bruising there; the arm was broken.

Blinking to keep the water from his eyes and hoping his gut was wrong, John gently reached out to place his hand on the man's shoulder. "Sherlock?"

The instant his hand made contact, the man jolted awake with a gasp. He brought his knees up to his chest, cradled his broken right arm with his left between his chest and legs, pressed himself as far as he could to the wall and pushed his forehead into his knees, breathing fast and shallow. All this had happened in a single second; it was the terrified reaction of a man expecting punishment.

But one thing had happened as the man moved. His hair had moved out of his face long enough for John to catch a glimpse of it. John's heart broke as he took in the injuries once again. There were the more obvious current and healing injuries, but he could also see the pale scars from previous tortures.

Pushing past the emotional pain of seeing his friend in this condition, he tried again. "Sherlock, it's me. It's okay."

Sherlock didn't move; he could only tremble in fear.

John frowned. "Sherlock, it's me, John."

Sherlock's head slowly lifted just enough for him to be able to look at John, and John was shocked by what he saw in that gaze. There was no recognition, only fear and dread.

John tried to slowly reach out, softening his voice. "Sherlock, don't you—"

Sherlock's eyes darted to the hand approaching him, and he scrambled away from John, pushing himself into the corner and making his long form impossibly small.

John's jaw dropped as his heart screamed in his chest. This wasn't just Sherlock traumatized; this was Sherlock completely and utterly broken. Moriarty had finally won.

"I'll burn the heart out of you!"

"John—" Greg began as he appeared in the doorway.

John flung an arm back, silently telling Greg to keep back. The footsteps halted, and there was silence for a moment.

"Oh, God…" breathed Greg, obviously catching sight of Sherlock.

John moved over towards the corner, keeping his distance from Sherlock. He sat down and made himself as small and unintimidating as possible. "Sherlock…you're safe. No one's going to hurt you ever again."

Sherlock only trembled, his breaths coming fast.

Does he even recognize his own name? John wondered.

"My name is John," he told him gently. "John Watson. I'm a doctor." He waited patiently, not making any move whatsoever.

Slowly, Sherlock's head lifted slightly, and he looked over at John.

John gave him a gentle smile. "Hey." He held his hands out to show that he wasn't going to make any sudden moves. He slowly pulled his wallet out of his pocket and opened it to his military ID. Keeping himself close to the floor, he pushed the wallet over. "See? I'm an army doctor. I help people."

Sherlock glanced at the wallet as it was pushed over and then watched John as he retreated back to his spot some five feet away. Sherlock watched him warily for a moment before his left hand reached down and picked up the wallet. His eyes moved over it quickly before looking back up at John.

"I'm here to help you," John told him. He looked down at Sherlock's hidden arm and gestured to it. "May I take a look at your arm?"

Sherlock watched him for a few seconds and then looked back at the ID in his left hand. After a minute or so, Sherlock slowly slid his right arm out from behind his legs and held it over his knees. John slowly moved over in front of Sherlock, those keen, terrified eyes watching him all the way.

"I need to touch it to see how bad it is," John told him. "That may sting a bit, but I promise I won't make it worse. Is that all right?"

Frowning slightly—probably thrown off by the request for his permission—Sherlock stiffly nodded once.

John slowly reached over—as Sherlock's limbs trembled all the more—and placed his fingers on the end of his arm to show that he wouldn't hurt him. Sherlock flinched at the touch, and John waited as he got used to it. John glanced up and made eye contact with Sherlock, who watched him with a confused gaze. John then moved his fingers along the bone, slowly approaching the lump. Sherlock gasped and flinched as John touched the break.

"Sorry," John told him. He moved his hands and looked at him. "This is called a transverse fracture. It means the bone has broken all the way through, and from the shape of it, it looks like it's been displaced. Does your arm sting?"

Sherlock hesitated a few moments before giving a stilted nod.

"Does it feel like big splinters stabbing you?" asked John.

Sherlock nodded once more, quicker this time.

"That's because the broken ends of the bone are misaligned," John told him. "The broken ends are being shoved into your muscles. I can help get rid of that. But it's going to hurt."

Sherlock's breathing started to quicken.

"I don't have to," John quickly told him. "If you don't want to do it, we won't. I admit that it will hurt quite a bit for about a minute or so. But it will make that stabbing feeling start to go away. Do you want me to fix it?"

Sherlock looked down at his arm and appeared to think it over for several moments. He then looked back up at John and nodded.

John nodded back. "I'm going to realign the bone. This means I need to pull on your hand so that the broken bones get back into place. Do you understand?"

Sherlock nodded nervously.

"What I want you to do is grab my shoulder with your left hand," John instructed. "When it hurts, squeeze my shoulder as hard as you can. Can you do that?"

Sherlock stared at him in indecision.

"You can hurt me all you want," John reassured him. "I promise I won't get mad."

Sherlock slowly reached over with his left arm, hesitating a moment before lightly placing his hand on John's right shoulder.

John gave him a playful smile. "Oh, well, there's no way that's going to help. Come on, really squeeze it."

It made John indescribably happy when he saw a hint of a smile appear at the corner of Sherlock's mouth before it disappeared. Sherlock's grip tightened slightly, and John gently grasped his right hand.

"Are you ready?" asked John.

Sherlock's eyes were now darting from John's grip on his arm to his face and back so fast that he looked like he was trying to speed-read or something.

"You yell as loud as you need to," John told him. "And don't forget to squeeze. Okay? I'm right here with you. We'll go as slow as you need to."

Sherlock stared down at his arm for a long few minutes before finally looking up at John and nodding, his grip on John's shoulder tightening.

"Okay," said John, slowly tightening his own grip on the hand. "I'll make it as quick as I can." He took his other hand and firmly grasped Sherlock's elbow. "One…"

Sherlock's fingers tightened on his shoulder, practically digging into it.

"Two…"

Sherlock's eyes slammed closed as his trembling worsened.

"Three."

With a quick movement, John yanked on the two ends of Sherlock's forearm. With a faint grinding noise, the distal end of his radius and ulna snapped back into position. Sherlock let out a strangled cry like a wounded animal, and John winced as Sherlock's fingernails cut into his skin. John immediately released his hold, and Sherlock pulled his arm back, cradling it as he panted and grimaced in pain. John held his hands out, backing away about a foot to show that he wouldn't do anything else. Slowly, Sherlock's breathing evened out, and he looked up at John, seemingly surprised to see him waiting patiently next to him.

"We should probably put a splint on that so it doesn't move," John told him in a quiet voice. "All I'll do is tie something to your arm, that's it."

Sherlock looked down at his arm and nodded.

John took a quick glimpse around the cell but saw nothing he could use. "I'm going to go find a piece of wood or something, okay?"

Sherlock's eyes darted to the doorway where Greg stood, and his eyes widened, his breath starting to come in gasps again. He looked back at John and made an unconscious move as though to grab for John's arm before stopping himself.

"I'll go look, John," Greg said quietly from the door before leaving.

Sherlock watched him go warily before relaxing—well, as relaxed as he was before John mentioned leaving.

"Do you have any other major injuries?" asked John. "Any more breaks or sprains or anything?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Good," said John with a smile. "Can I ask you something?"

Sherlock hesitated and gave a nod.

"Do you remember anything?" asked John. "Where you live? How you got here? Your…friends and family?"

Sherlock stared at him for a moment before shaking his head.

"Do you know who you are?" asked John.

Sherlock made a gesture with his head as though he meant to nod and shake his head at the same time, but he then tilted his head a little and shrugged.

"You know your name but nothing else," John surmised.

Sherlock frowned and nodded, perhaps confused at how this apparent stranger could read him so well.

"It's going to be all right," John told him. "You don't remember, but the two of us are good friends."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, obviously not sure if he could believe this or not.

"I'm sorry it took me this long to get to you," said John, "but I'm not going to let them hurt you ever again."

Sherlock's eyes shifted to the doorway as footsteps were heard, and his eyes widened as he pushed himself against the wall and Greg appeared in the doorway.

"Wait there, Greg," John called, halting the inspector at the door. "I'll come get it."

Sherlock calmed a little, so John slowly stood and walked over to Greg, who had managed to conjure up a blanket as well as the medical splint.

"Thanks," said John. He turned and approached Sherlock, setting the items on the floor. "Are you cold?"

For Sherlock had been gazing at the blanket in naked longing. He looked up at John and nodded. John unfolded the blanket and leaned toward Sherlock with it stretched out. Sherlock leaned just far enough away from the wall for John to drape the blanket around his back. He grabbed hold of the ends with his left hand, wrapping it tight around him.

John grabbed the splint from the ground. "Let's get that arm taken care of, shall we?"

Sherlock slowly removed his right arm from the blanket and turned in the corner so his left side and back were pressed to the wall, giving John the ability to sit next to him and wrap the arm. Smiling at the small sign of trust, John sat on his friend's right and gently pressed the splint to the underside of his forearm. As he wrapped the splint around the arm, he was pleased to see that Sherlock's trembling had subsided to tremors that may have only been shivers from the cold.

"We can put a cast on this when we get you out of here," John told him in an endeavor to distract him. He glanced up at Sherlock's face and saw that indecision there again. "Do you remember what a cast is?"

John had to fight back a laugh when Sherlock took on a faint expression of irritation and the smallest eye roll. He was plainly saying—in his new timid way—that John was being an idiot.

"Good," said John. "I just wanted to make sure you knew that it wouldn't hurt one bit. We'll also get you cleaned up. You could use a shave."

Sherlock gave a shy smile through the whiskers on his face.

John fastened the splint and smiled. "There. Try it out."

Sherlock gingerly moved his right arm back and forth and then brought it back inside his blanket, looking at John and nodding.

"John," said Greg quietly.

John glanced over at him.

"They've gotten all the prisoners out," Greg told him.

John nodded and looked back at Sherlock. "Do you want to get out of here?"

Sherlock nodded eagerly, but he glanced at the doorway with trepidation.

"Hey," said John.

Sherlock looked back at him.

"No one out there is going to hurt you," he told him. "Not while I'm here." He held out his hand. "What do you say?"

Sherlock stared at him, his eyes narrowing, before he slowly reached out and grasped onto John's hand. John got his feet under him and helped Sherlock to stand, but he didn't make it all of two seconds before his legs collapsed under him.

"Whoa!" said John, catching Sherlock and wrapping an arm around him. He glanced once again at his emaciated form. "When was the last time you ate?"

Sherlock looked at him with a frown as his eyes unfocused. A moment later, they cleared, and he gave a shake of his head.

"That's all right," John told him. "I'll carry you. Is that okay?"

Sherlock nodded, and John squatted slightly, scooping his arm behind Sherlock's knees and pulling him up towards his chest. He had braced himself for the weight but was stunned at how light he was. Sherlock pressed himself towards John's chest, hiding his face in the blanket he held tight around him—whether in embarrassment for being carried like a child or for fear of the other people he could hear, John could not tell. Whatever the reason, he was pleased to see that Sherlock found comfort and trust in him. Maybe his friend was still in there after all.