Sorry for not updating sooner! I (obsessed) have been planning a trip to Atlanta and this past weekend I attended Walker Stalker Con. For any Dead heads out there, it was a huge convention dedicated to Walking Dead. It was a success, to say the least. Now, as they say, on with the show!

Disclaimer: Not ours!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Chapter Four: Burn His Heart

A half-hour later, Greg Lestrade barged into the waiting room. His eyes immediately settled on Sherlock. "Is it true?" he demanded. "Is John...?"

Sherlock looked up. "He's alive, if that's what you want to know."

Unable to stand, Lestrade dropped into the chair beside Sherlock and ran his hands through his hair. "A year... He was alive this entire time."

Sherlock didn't say anything. He couldn't bring himself to talk out loud about what had happened to John.

Lestrade started to laugh. He slapped his hands against his legs and leaned forward, blowing out a relieved breath. "Thank God." He had watched Sherlock slowly unravel this past year, to the point of feeling fear every time he was called to a scene because he wondered if this would be the scene Sherlock himself had brought about.

Sherlock still remained silent, unable to understand how or why anyone would want to do such horrible things to John.

Unable to understand why Sherlock wasn't even smiling, Lestrade turned fully to face Sherlock. "He's alive, Sherlock. And you found him, against all odds. It's going to be okay."

"No. No, it's not." Sherlock stood up and took several steps down the hallway John had been taken down.

Hesitating for only a moment, Lestrade launched himself to his feet and went after Sherlock. "What do you mean, it's not? He's alive." A sickening realization hit him suddenly. "How badly was he injured? Was he conscious?"

Sherlock paused. "They really hurt him. He can't see and..." He cut himself off, unsure as to whether or not John would want him to continue.

Lestrade leaned against the closest wall, rubbing his temple slowly. "He'll be okay, Sherlock. He's strong. He'll fight."

"I hope so."

Sherlock leaned his back against the wall opposite Lestrade and let his knees give out. He slunk down the wall until he was sitting on the floor.

Unable to find the right words, Lestrade sat down beside Sherlock, awkwardly patting the younger man's arm.

They sat in silence for a long time, until a doctor in blue scrubs came down the hall. His expression was dark and there was a clipboard in his hand. "Are either of you Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock stood up. "That's me. Skip the dull introductions and tell me how he is."

If the doctor was perturbed by Sherlock's bluntness, he didn't show it. "I'm afraid Mr. Watson's condition is very grave. Both his right leg and arm were broken in numerous places, several of his ribs were broken, and he is severely dehydrated and malnourished. He has countless lacerations and superficial wounds, along with poorly healed breaks."

Lestrade got to his feet and stood behind Sherlock, mouth slightly agape as he listened.

"He also has a severe case of pneumonia brought on by a long period in a cold, damp environment. He has a vitamin deficiency, and as well as I can tell he has not been subjected to sunlight for at least eight months."

The doctor looked at the clipboard in his hand. "Then there's the matter of his eyes. There's severe scarring around the eyes themselves, suggesting an attack with some sort of chemical agent. As a result, his vision has been severely impaired. I cannot say with any certainty if he will ever recover his vision."

Sherlock wanted to shout. He wanted to swear. But the logical side of his mind told him that losing his temper wouldn't do anything to help John.

"Finally, we documented severe trauma around his genital area. We performed a rape kit as well as tests for any STDs he may have contracted."

"And?" Sherlock pressed.

"We're awaiting the results of the tests, but he was sexually assaulted numerous times over the last nine months."

Sherlock felt nauseous. He opened his mouth but found it difficult to form words.

"He's currently in the Intensive Care Unit, under heavy sedation." For a moment, the doctor's eyes turned sympathetic. "I suggest you both go home. There's nothing more you can do for him."

Sherlock didn't move. "I'm not going anywhere."

"You won't be able to see him until tomorrow, at the earliest."

"Don't care."

Lestrade stepped in front of Sherlock. "The man in your care is Dr. John Watson. He has been missing, presumed dead, for a year, and this man was able to find him when no one else could. He's Dr. Watson's closest friend and only family, so don't expect him to leave this hospital until he's been allowed to see Dr. Watson."

"I understand that, but my patient comes first. He'll be allowed to have one visitor tomorrow evening if his condition allows it, and no earlier."

"I'm staying here," Sherlock said firmly.

"Very well. A nurse will be out with an update in a couple of hours."

Sherlock, though only slightly satisfied, sat down in a vacant chair. A few hours was far too long to wait, but he had established that he would be staying.

Lestrade followed Sherlock but didn't sit. "I should start making calls. Is there anyone you would like me to contact first?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. "I have a call to make on my own."

"Very well. I'm going to step outside and make those calls." He turned around and left Sherlock alone in the waiting lounge.

It wasn't much later when Mycroft arrived at the hospital. He found his younger brother in the waiting room. "I arranged it. They'll move him into the best room they have."

"Good." Sherlock turned around to face him. Mycroft had watched as Sherlock slowly tore himself to pieces throughout the year that had passed. He kept Sherlock under his close but discreet watch almost constantly. Now Sherlock looked on the verge of a total breakdown. "I have a feeling there's something I'm unaware of. Otherwise you wouldn't have called me to show up in person."

It took Sherlock a few tries to find his voice, and when he did it was hoarse. "They blinded him with chemicals. The doctor thinks it's permanent." He paused for a moment, trying to control the trembling of his voice. "They raped him," he whispered. His knees stopped working and he fell into a chair and buried his face into his hands.

Mycroft sat next to him. "I told you that caring is not an advantage. But I was wrong. All you can do now is care for John."

"But I could be doing something else instead of expressing feelings," Sherlock argued. "I could be finding the bastards and killing them in cold blood!"

"I'll see to it that they're found."

"Promise me," Sherlock demanded, trying to keep tears of anger at bay.

"I promise." Mycroft stood to leave. Before he could walk away, Sherlock stood and grabbed his arm. "Yes?"

"When they are found, make sure they're killed. Brutally. I'll do it myself if no one else will. When John's awake, I'll walk out this door and tear them all apart."

Mycroft didn't doubt the threat in the slightest. He had never seen his little brother in such a mess of anger and sadness at the same time. "I'll make sure they have it hard."

Sherlock sighed in relief and managed a nod. "Good." He started to walk down the hall. He stopped and hesitated before calling over his shoulder, "Thank you, Mycroft."

It wasn't until Sherlock had disappeared around the corner that Mycroft finally responded.

"You're welcome, brother."

To Be Continued...