A/N As some people have expressed an interest in a continuation of this, here's an epilogue dealing with the aftermath. I hope you enjoy (if that's the right word) and thanks for reading :)

Disclaimer: I still own nothing

The hospital room was a sickeningly clean white that still seemed fake to John after spending months in shadow. Rhythmic beeping from the machines tied down to his body contributed to a monotony he'd hoped he'd escaped and cards from people he hadn't seen or thought about in months littered his bedside table, unopened alongside withering flowers.

John paid no attention to his sterile surroundings; instead he looked out at the grey world beyond his window, following raindrops as they wandered aimlessly along the glass. The overcast skies and lashing rain cast London in a hideous light but John had missed the view of the outside world so much he could lie there and watch it for hours. Back in his cell, all of his days had been black with small streams of light from windows too high to offer much of a view. It had been a long time since he'd had the chance to see rain.

In fact, it had been a long time since he'd seen anything but the four walls of his cell and the relentless fists of men much larger than himself. If he was grateful for one thing it was that his captors had been unimaginative; their torture consisted of familiar beatings but little of the horrific ideas that had crossed John's mind as he watched Sherlock be returned from the same treatment. No knives slicing flesh, no burning or freezing or amputations. Just beatings that he knew would kill him eventually but, on their own, were nothing he hadn't faced before. Their malicious words highlighting what they'd done to Sherlock before they'd set their sights on John (before I killed him) might have hurt more if he hadn't learned to block them out long ago and any attempt to break his mind was pointless as his previous desperation had covered that already.

John would have to recover from that now that he was free. He didn't want his rescuer's late arrival to be entirely pointless, he wanted there to be something worthwhile in his freedom. But it was difficult to grasp reality when he'd spent long months escaping it and had learned to embrace dreams instead of running from them.

Your name is Doctor John Watson, he reminded himself in the moments where he could feel himself slipping away. You worked as an army doctor. You like going to the pub with Greg and embrace danger more than you should. You have a sister called Harry and had a wife called Mary. She's gone now. Your best friend is Sherlock Holmes. He's gone too...

A click from one of the machines alerted him to the fact that his morphine levels were being increased again and he felt the familiar wooziness that he'd grown to despise follow soon after. Pain had haunted him for so long that he minded it a lot less than he did the sensation of losing his senses, but the doctors paid little heed to his protests. He wondered if he should blame Mycroft for that but he'd barely seen the man since his prison had been ransacked and his captors arrested. Even then it had been Lestrade, not Mycroft, who had been the one to save him while John had clutched at his old friend like a pitiful child.

Lestrade had lingered long after the day of the rescue, to John's relief. He'd been hysterical in those early days, unused to the sensation of hands touching him that weren't there to hurt, and Lestrade being a grounding influence had been essential from the moment the door to his cell had opened to reveal him. The man had hidden his horror quickly, given John all of his attention despite his frantic confusion and had whispered comforting nothings as they made their way to that mythical outside world. "You're alright now, we've got you, Mycroft says they'll never hurt anyone again...watch the step, that's it, not far now... it's bright outside if you need to close your eyes..."

John vaguely remembered the man waiting wearily by his bedside during his first days in hospital but he'd been so delirious that any memories of that time blended together messily. He recalled thinking that the Detective Inspector's hair had become somehow greyer and his eyes now sported permanent bags, but morphine claimed him before John could take in any more than that and eventually work had taken Lestrade away from him as well.

He'd been mostly alone since besides the comings and goings of nurses and doctors. He considered that was for the best; he couldn't imagine Mrs Hudson or sweet young Molly seeing him like this and being able to treat him like he wasn't some broken thing. John knew he was much thinner than he'd been, that lingering bruises had discoloured the skin on his arms, chest and face and that he'd probably aged several years in the span of a few months. He didn't need the reminder reflected in wide, sad eyes.

A sharp knock on the door drew his attention away from the rain-spattered window and he reluctantly turned his head to see Mycroft finally waiting for him, looking immaculate as always in a black three-piece suit; umbrella held carelessly in one hand while the other rested lightly on the doorknob. His face held none of the horror or pity that was usually thrown John's way these days but it also gave no indication as to how he felt about what John and Sherlock had been through. In fact, his mouth was set in a pinched line and to an outsider he may have seemed as if he were simply about to attend a dull meeting. John didn't know whether that made him respect the man or hate him.

"You may as well come in," he croaked when it became clear Mycroft was waiting for a reaction. "There's little chance of me stopping you."

Mycroft gave a curt nod and closed the door behind him before settling himself in the chair once occupied by Lestrade. He clasped his hands in front of him and stared at John as if only just taking him in before letting himself speak. "It is done." At John's questioning look he went on. "Four of the six men we captured are now awaiting trial. The evidence against them is very strong indeed and I guarantee they'll be facing a sentence so severe that daylight will cease to exist for them. The two leaders of the group, well..." he tailed off with an expression that may have been grim satisfaction, if Mycroft were careless enough to let such emotions display themselves. "I've claimed them personally for questioning, shall we say. I promise you that they'll wish they had the same punishment as their friends very soon."

John nodded. He couldn't deny that he felt some closure over knowing the fates of the men who had made his life a living hell, and yet there was a slight twinge of disappointment as well. He remembered all the times he'd promised himself that he would be the one to kill the leader with the large face and felt almost mournful at the fact that the man would die behind closed doors. However, he had a far more pressing matter than that. "What about me?"

Mycroft's eyebrow raised in a fashion that John may have laughed at before, when Sherlock was by his side. "You'll receive the best care I can get for you. There are psychologists I can recommend who are highly trained in dealing with trauma such as yours and your friends-"

"You know what I mean," John snapped, and a surge of anger ran through him as he remembered that this was the first time in his two weeks of freedom that Mycroft was bothering to speak to him, and he seemed intent on avoiding the most crucial thing. "You know what I did. The men kept cameras on us, you searched the place, you can't pretend you don't know."

Mycroft had frozen, and while his mask didn't slip, John could see the colour drain from his face. "What you did," he said in a voice that seemed too wooden to come from a man of such power. "You did because you were desperate and had my brother's best interests at heart. You knew he wouldn't survive much longer in his state. The fault lies with the captors; you will not be held responsible."

John deflated slightly but said nothing. He couldn't tell if it was a relief or not that he wouldn't be punished for what he'd done. Part of him would have welcomed the consequences; they'd have at least justified the crushing blame he placed on himself. Finding he'd had enough of Mycroft's presence he turned back to the window only to find to his disappointment that the rain had stopped.

"If that will be all..." John heard Mycroft rise from his seat and make his way to the door using his umbrella as a walking aid. He'd have been glad to hear the footsteps echo down the long corridors and leave him behind to his thoughts but the man seemed to halt at the door and linger.

"John..." Mycroft's voice was smaller than John had ever heard it and seemed to have the faraway quality of one talking to themselves. John turned out of curiosity to see the proud government official look almost lost, his gaze focussed on nothing in particular and the expensive suit appearing out-of-place for the first time in the years that John had known the man. "My brother is dead."

He said it in the tone of a man only just fully contemplating that fact, as if the last two weeks had been spent constantly working in order to run away from it. John didn't know how he could possibly respond, and settled simply for a feeble "I'm sorry," as if that could possibly make things any better.

Mycroft simply acknowledged him with a nod before, finally, walking away and letting the door slide shut behind him. As much as John had craved the silence before, the return to the monotony of the machines' beeping was something he'd now happily replace with Mrs Hudson's coddling or Lestrade's fatherly concern or, best of all, Sherlock acting like a royal git and demanding John get better at once.

John could have laughed until he cried at that but instead he was left staring at the ceiling, feeling empty and finally accepting that things would never get better.