Sherlock struggles and strains at his bonds, watching as John regains consciousness. It is a painful process, clearly: John is obviously concussed, and his ankles are bound to the legs of his chair with taut zip ties. Sherlock can't see how his hands are tied, but he suspects that they are similarly restrained. Moran had tossed a canvas sack over Sherlock's head as they left the flat, and by the time they deigned to remove it, John was already slumped and bound in a solid metal chair. Being chained to the floor in front of John with stubborn chain and a pair of rather resilient handcuffs, Sherlock can't get close enough to see. He tried to slip the cuffs a while ago, but wrenched behind his back as they are he can't get the leverage to break the necessary bones.

While waiting for John to stir, Sherlock had examined the space. They are in a bare concrete room with a shining, white tile floor. Sherlock's chain is soldered to a heavy ring set in the middle of the floor, next to an ominous drain. One entire wall is made up of flawless plate glass windows.

The view treats Sherlock to a panorama of London. From what he can see, he deduces that they are on the South Bank, near London Bridge, high up…

The Shard, he'd realized. Fascinating.

Now that Sherlock knows where he is, and John is waking up, a plan forms. As long as Mycroft holds up his end, Sherlock and John can be done with all these delays and back to the flat (home) within an hour or so.

As John opens his eyes, it hits Sherlock squarely between the lungs how fiercely he missed John. He knew, of course he knew that the fog of depression that had lain over him for the past three years was a result of him pining over John's absence, but now, back in John's presence, he wonders how he lived without John for so long.

"Sh-Sherlock?" John grates out, squinting forward. It sends something slow and warm spreading through Sherlock's chest, hearing John speaking his name. He'd hated his own name for many years, but hearing it on John's lips, in any context, makes him think that there is some potential beauty in the word "Sherlock".

"John, I'm here," Sherlock says in a low voice.

"What happened?"

"A man named Sebastian Moran paid an expected but unwelcome visit to the flat just as we were getting reacquainted. His employee hit you in the back of the head with the butt of his gun." Sherlock's gut writhes with rage at the memory of watching John's eyes roll back in his head and seeing his body crumple to the carpet as Sherlock bellowed his name. "What do you remember?"

"I remember punching you, and yelling at you a bit, but the rest is pretty much gone," John says, scrunching up his face in an effort to remember. Sherlock's heart sinks. John doesn't remember the kiss. It was probably only a spur of the moment, instinctual act anyhow, an attempt at close human contact after so long apart. The kiss may have crumbled Sherlock's defences and left him a flayed open mess of raw nerve endings and enough sheer wanting to split a lesser man asunder, but he doubts that it was the same for John.

"Yes, well." Sherlock breaks John's gaze and peers intently at the grouting between the tiles. "Moran came in quite quickly after that, you aren't missing very much. Nothing of particular importance." Lie. That's a dirty great lie, Sherlock.

He starts to take it back, damn the consequences. "John, actually, I…"

The door bangs open. Sherlock looks up and meets Sebastian Moran's lightning-blue eyes. A measured, malicious smile oozes across his face.

"Hello gentlemen, I hope I'm not interrupting," he drawls. "I just wanted to see if Johnny here was awake, and lucky me…" Moran strides forward, fists a hand in John's short hair and wrenches his head back. John chokes out a pained sound, a grinding of breath in the back of his throat. Seb flicks a knife out of a sheath at his hip and before Sherlock can even inhale to cry out, he's got it poised across John's jugular.

Sherlock can just see the tension in John's muscles ratchet up. He renews his struggles against the unforgiving cuffs, surely tearing livid red rings into the pale, thin skin of his wrists and not caring a whit. He heaves forward on the floor, putting so much tension on his arms that he fears his shoulder may dislocate. It's all transport, after all, and everything is secondary to John. Sherlock murmurs his name as he tries in vain to reach his friend.

"Don't like that, Sherlock? I always wondered if John Watson would bleed pretty…" At that, Seb lets the honed edge of the blade bite into John's skin, just enough to nick, draw a blossom of crimson. The sight of John's blood, however small the amount, puts Sherlock into a strangely calm place in his rage.

"Get your hands off him, now," Sherlock intones in a heavy, deep voice, "and I may let you die quickly."

To Sherlock's surprise, Seb does. He raises his hands in mock surrender, one still holding the knife ruddied by John's blood, and smirks.

"Whatever you like, Holmes. This knife is meant for you, anyway."

John starts to struggle and protest.

"Stop it, John," Sherlock interrupts, gentler than he intends to. "It will be fine."

Moran, meanwhile, has moved to crouch beside Sherlock.

"You really thought we wouldn't find it, Sherlock? We passed you though an x-ray on the way in."

Sherlock freezes. They'd found the GPS chip he'd had implanted into the flesh of his upper left arm a few months prior. Fuck.

"Did you think you could get away with that?" Moran sneers, cutting the buttons from Sherlock's shirt one by one until it falls open. "Stupid." He peels the fabric down, over Sherlock's shoulders to bunch at his elbows. Moran then runs the flat of the knife against the thumbnail-sized scar that denotes the chip's location.

With a wicked, poisonous smile, Moran carves the point of the blade into Sherlock's flesh, and Sherlock screams.