Author's Note: This story is a one-off or a tag to an existing episode that I couldn't get out of my mind. This is not SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like.

**A tag to the scene in "The Lying Detective", what if John went too far in his anger? And the injury to Sherlock was more than just the damage of the drugs? How would the doctor deal with learning what Sherlock had done to 'save him' and what he had to Sherlock? I was struck by John's reactions as he watched Mary explain her final request to Sherlock.**

PLEASE REVIEW: This will only be a couple of chapters, but it deals with the aftermath of the morgue beating. I think it was glossed over and I wonder what would have happened if John had gone too far and risked losing Sherlock as a result of his own actions. Cheers!

Disclaimer:Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

Chapter 18

The Room

Unable to see clearly as the swung the door inward, Sherlock squinted into the vast darkness; it didn't help. Nothing helped.

Bloody hell, this is quite possibly the most ridiculous thing I've ever done. Blind, injured and searching this bleak darkness for John. If he believed in a God, which he didn't, Sherlock would think the damn deity hated anyone with the last name Holmes; or anyone they associated with.

While he knew that this was the dumbest thing he'd ever done, Sherlock also understood that he couldn't abandon his friend to an ignominious end in some damp warehouse in central London. John deserved better than that. With a small sigh he returned his attention to the task at hand. The door felt solid and cold against his palm, which meant there wasn't heat inside that room. And if John had been in there for long, he was likely suffering from hypothermia…or worse.

Get yourself together Sherlock. You can't lose it now. You can't lose John now.

The smell of damp earth had a distinctly musty smell that alerted him to the moisture levels inside the room. While his brain was contemplating the general humidity levels, his heart was hammering inside his chest. Increasing the humidity meant that not only could John have hypothermia, he could also have pneumonia.

But Sherlock still couldn't use his best sense…his eyes. He hated that he felt so damn helpless. Knowing what he knew about the human body, the consulting detective knew his pupils were no doubt blown wide as they tried to adjust to the lack of light and yet that fact cleared nothing up. But his weakness couldn't be helped at the moment, so instead of focusing on that he shoved the unwanted feelings inside a tiny little broom closet in his mind palace.

Generally, he kept that closet empty for those times when Mycroft really irritated him. But desperate times and all…

"John?" He heard the shaky quality of his own voice and it sent waves of serious irritation flooding through him. His transport was, once again, failing him.

He tapped his toes along the wall until he felt his foot slip through empty space. Hesitantly, Sherlock stepped over the threshold of the room. His hands were shaking so badly he nearly dropped the small torch he'd found earlier. Blurry eyesight didn't mean he was completely blind, at least he could sort of see the edges of shapes and he could recognize light from dark. His eyes dropped and he tightened his grip on the cold metal handle of the torch.

His eyes adjusted enough to make out dark shapes and just a few steps from him was the distinct outline of a body. And it wasn't moving. His mind provided a general assessment of the relative length of his dark blob and the compact nature of that blob. There was little doubt that this blob was indeed John Watson.

With hitched breathing Sherlock dropped to his knees next to John, the torch clattered onto the cold floor. His body complained as old injuries were jostled in his uncoordinated drop.

"John?" he called softly. Sherlock's breathing was ragged, and he could feel the icy cold seeping through the knees of his trousers.

Reaching out he laid one trembling hand on the "top" of the body. His heart was screaming that he had to do something. And yet his massive intellect was completely failing him at this moment. Sherlock Holmes had absolutely no idea what to do. He wished he truly had the ability to close out his emotions in lieu of logical thinking. But the cognitive process was completely absent during a time when he needed it.

Swallowing the same fear that had frozen him in place after Mary had been shot, Sherlock threaded his long fingers into the soaked cotton of John's undershirt. Freezing moisture pulled what little warmth he had left in his fingers from his body and he shifted uncomfortably.

No jumper? That makes no sense. John would never be out in this type of weather without one. The memory of his friend's thick puffy coat reminded him that John wouldn't likely he out without a coat either. So, someone had taken his cold weather clothing from him, leaving John at the mercy of the elements.

Anger stalled his thought process when he realized that Smith must have had John's warm clothing removed before tossing him into this pitiful excuse for a room. Rarely had Sherlock felt the blinding haze of rage, but he damn sure felt it now. His friend had been through far too much of late. While he hated to admit it, even inside his own mind, far too often John's woes had been caused by Sherlock's own actions.

That realization tore at him more than any knife could. More than the baron's whip had peeled at his flesh, his remorse for his actions after Moriarty's death returned ten-fold.

Deep inside the barren catacombs of his shriveled heart, Sherlock knew that he probably deserved to lose his friend for his actions. But while he may have earned a lifetime of regret and emotional pain, John Watson had not. Mustering his courage, the consulting detective slipped his thin arms beneath the unmoving body and pulled it toward his chest. A single tear leaked from the corner of his damage eyes causing a burn that hurt more than just his pupils.

Once John's head was resting against his shoulder, Sherlock reached up and opened the buttons on his Belstaff and pulled it from his own thin shoulders. Biting at his lower lip, he carefully placed the large woolen coat around John's cold body. A breathy moan of gratitude surprised him as John shifted slightly pressing into the warmth unconsciously.

"John?"His question was barely a whisper, but it carried so much hope that he almost didn't recognize it as his own.

The doctor didn't answer. John didn't so much as move another muscle, but to Sherlock's immense relief, the smaller man's chest expanded ever so slightly as he breathed. But there was deep rattle that meant his friend wasn't far from a very ignominious end.

I take it all back. 'Breathing' is anything but 'boring'. A tiny smile pulled at his chapped lips. A low mumble of voices echoed along the hallway and Sherlock's smile slid away as he took stock of their current situation.

I am currently 'useless'. Or so Mycroft believes. Tosser. John is in no condition to be moved. And it appears as though we have company that we do not want. Glancing at blurry light of the torch, he quickly depressed the power button killing it.

We are in the dark. I can't see, so I guess that the darkness isn't really a consideration… However, I don't have a weapon because my rubbish big brother didn't leave me one after he locked me in the back seat of Lestrade's car. Not that I could use it at this point anyways, but still a gun would be quite nice at this particular moment. Especially since not everyone knew he couldn't see a sodding thing.

Ignoring the pain in his torso, Sherlock slowing started slipping backward. He kept his arms wrapped around John's unmoving body, careful not to jostle the doctor any more than necessary.

"Mr. Culverton said to just end the poor sod's suffering. He don't think that 'Holmes' character gives a toss 'bout this guy." Another voice mumbled something in response that Sherlock couldn't hear.

But the mere thought that Smith believed Sherlock didn't care about John set his blood boiling. The shuffling feet just outside the door stopped.

"Didn't we close this?"

A snort, "Right! Like I'd remember that."

The distinct 'click' of a hammer being drawn back alerted Sherlock to the handgun they had armed. He pressed his back against the cold stone of the wall and tried to bury both himself and John beneath the dark material of his Belstaf.

Sherlock held his breath as their booted feet slowly moved over the threshold. He heard the change from the concrete hall to the dirt-covered floor of John's cell. The men smelled like rotten cabbage and Sherlock had to force himself not to sniff derisively at their stench.

A loud crash from just outside their room stopped both men in their tracks. And they were suddenly moving away from the two men hiding in the dark. Sherlock had no idea what happened, but he heard a scuffle and then two shots rang out. His mouth went dry at the number. That could mean both Lestrade and Mycroft…were…oh God.

TBC…

Author's Note: Apologies for my absence. And I know it's short, but I wanted to put something up. I don't have a wonderful excuse beyond…life. However, I will update this again tomorrow, so you won't have to wait long.

Please take a moment and let me know if you're still out there…?

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