Alright, hopefully none of you hate me for that last chapter!

I can't believe how many followers I'm getting- you guys are awesome =D

At some point, John and Molly passed out from pure exhaustion, wrapped in each others arms. John had rather fitful nightmares involving the army, Harry, and Molly. He didn't blame Molly for the death of his sister, of course; he couldn't begrudge her the gift of life. John knew who was to blame.

When he woke the next morning, Molly was gone, sending John into quite the panic. He got up from the corner he'd been sleeping in and tried desperately to see through the window in front of him, then tried to check through the mirror he now suspected was another two-way mirror. Sherlock waltzed in, smiling in an obviously satisfied manner. John had never felt like punching someone more.

"Not to worry John, she's returned home safely. She never saw anyone's face, and the amount of drugs she was given to and from here means there's no risk of her remembering much about being here. Her memories might even be so vague she isn't sure she was ever really here at all, but rather dreamed it all," Sherlock explained. "She was absolutely no threat to me."

"I should strangle you, right now. I really should," his voice was low, but hard, like the beginnings of a much larger growl from a threatened dog.

"Sentiment, John, is a very fickle thing. Molly deserved to live, she'd done nothing wrong. Why, then, choose to save your alcoholic sister? A woman who time and time again has proven she'll do you nothing but harm?" Sherlock asked. From anyone else, the statement would have sounded accusatory, but John had a feeling Sherlock was genuinely confused. That knowledge, however, wasn't enough for him not to explode at the man.

"She was my SISTER Sherlock, my fucking SISTER. I loved her. Molly's wonderful, but she's not family, and family comes first. You protect the people you care about despite the times they hurt you because no matter what, no one will love you like they do," John said. "I'd do anything to have my sister back. I guess you'll never understand that though, because no one could ever love you."

Sherlock tensed unexpectedly, and John almost felt sorry he'd said that. Sherlock did nothing for a moment, didn't even breathe, then swiftly turned and was halfway through the door before he stopped. "I'm not a monster, you know, I understand attachment at least, if not sentiment. I also understand the value of a human life, and that it means more than any experiment conducted purely for curiosity's sake."

At first, John was confused as to what Sherlock had meant. An hour later, Harry was carted through the door by a man in a black ski mask.

Harry was soon gone just as Molly had been, and John wasn't sure what to make of the fact Sherlock had made him think she was dead in the first place. He supposed, in his own way, Sherlock was trying to make the point that Molly was the one he should have saved. Perhaps also alluding to the fact he should have been able to save those countless faces he'd plastered on the wall.

Sherlock left the bread and jam early that morning and went into London for supplies. He spent much of the day removing the windows from the warehouse and replacing them with hardier, bullet proof ones. He reinforced the doors to the stairwells that could take one to a stairwell and therefore, out of the building, adding strong locks to them. When he was done, the entire floor was absolutely escape proof. Sherlock unlocked the door to John's room and entered.

"I've decided, if I'm not going to kill you anytime soon, you might as well be allowed a certain amount of freedom. You can wander around the floor as much as you'd like. I'll get you a mattress perhaps, I haven't decided. But I did bring you a blanket and a pillow. I left them in the hall for you." After he finished his piece, Sherlock turned and left for the rooftop, being certain to bolt the lock behind him.

John was very nervous- he wasn't sure this wasn't some trick to get him to believe he was safe, and then kill him anyways. Still, he supposed it didn't matter much either way. If he were going to die now or later, what was the difference? And having not slept with anything but a shackled chair for so long, a pillow and blanket sounded like heaven right now.

The "hall" as Sherlock had referred to it, was a large, open room that he presumed extended the length of the entire building. Sherlock had never replaced the broken window in his room and John wondered what made him so certain he wouldn't pull a similar stunt and just jump. On the floor against the wall closest to him was the promised blanket and pillow. He grabbed them, turned to take them into the room, and realized that, as he'd suspected, the mirror on the wall next to him was actually a window through which Sherlock might have been watching him the entire time. Not sure how he felt about that, he arranged the blanket on the floor.

Things continued on much as they had before, but with almost the feel of two old friends instead of hostage and captor. John found he actively looked forward to the often brief encounters he had with Sherlock, and learned a lot about him. Sherlock readily admitted he was not the hardened criminal many of his acquaintances were, but nor was he a "good man." He robbed houses for fun rather than profit, choosing rich homes simply because they were often more of a challenge. Like Moriarty, he was often bored with everyday life and was constantly searching for ways to keep himself occupied, which John expected might have been at least part of the motivation behind his kidnapping. John soon came to the same conclusion Sherlock himself had- in another life, Sherlock and Moriarty's roles might have been reversed, with Sherlock solving impossible crimes and Moriarty commiting crimes for the fun of it.

At some point, John wasn't sure when, he fell in love with Sherlock. He recalled learning in Bart's about the so called "Stockholm Syndrome", a condition in which hostages and kidnap victims start to feel affection towards their kidnapper. Perhaps that was what this was. Sherlock was, after all, the only person he'd seen now for well over a month (with the exception of the Harry and Molly incident, which he still hadn't quite forgiven). There had been no more talk of killing John, and eventually Sherlock unlocked all the but the exit doors, leaving John free to roam the rather large building as he pleased. Sherlock rarely left the building, John realized, but instead hid away on the rooftop when he needed to be alone, which was often.

Slowly, Sherlock started turning the warehouse into a sort of home. John moved into another room on a different floor that didn't have a chair bolted to the middle of it, and which didn't have a two way mirror. Sherlock, he found, didn't mind. One day, he woke up to find Sherlock had bought him a fridge and a microwave with a note that said 'Cook your own meals -SH' Much later, he would have a dresser filled with clothes John would later, disturbingly, realize were his own, taken from his flat back on Baker street. Later, he woke up to find there was a stove where there hadn't been the day before.

One day, he found Sherlock had forgotten or perhaps simply decided against locking the door to the roof behind him, giving John access to Sherlock's hideaway. John thought about going up, but out of a strange respect for the man who'd drugged his coffee and handcuffed him in a room full of his nightmares, John didn't. He'd been informed before every other door had been unlocked, so he was certain this was just an oversight, or maybe a test. Either way, he turned and walked back towards his room.

"You didn't come up to the roof." Sherlock said later, when the sun had already set and John had started to settle for bed. John looked up to see him standing there, the blank stare he wore so often when he was trying to observe without giving anything away himself. John shrugged.

"I didn't realize I could," he said.

"The door was unlocked."

"How would I know that?"

"Because you tried the door." It was pointless to lie- somehow, Sherlock always knew.

"You never told me I was allowed to go up. So I didn't," he practically mumbled, shrugging. The admission sounded so... subservient when said aloud. But Sherlock didn't comment or mocked him, he merely nodded as though he'd known this answer all along.

The next day, the lock on all the doors was gone- including, John was shocked to realize, the front door. John could leave, he was free. For a second his heart leaped and he put his hand on the door.

Something stopped him. When asked, John would later swear he thought Sherlock was setting a trap up for him, some sort of impossible test like what happened with Molly and Harry. To be honest though, John sort of enjoyed being with Sherlock. Call it love, Stockholm Syndrome, his "adrenaline kick" or maybe a combination of all three, but John had come to appreciate the way Sherlock kept him on his toes. He never did anything expected and yet never seemed out of character, just revealing another layer of the vast network that was Sherlock's mind. He enjoyed watching Sherlock think long and hard about the 240 types of tobacco (243, John) and the differences between sentiment and attachment.

He called himself a criminal mastermind, but he truly believed Sherlock wasn't a bad person. He was a far better person than Moriarty was, at least. He had morals, and on occasion, he even thought about other people. When he could remember to, that was. And he had never been able to kill anyone personally, John reminded himself.

It was a while before John noticed the cocaine habit. Sherlock had never done cocaine in front of him, but he left his bag lying around the warehouse and once it had been open, and the cocaine easily visible. John was saddened by this, but he understood why Sherlock was attracted to the drugs. With a mind like his, the ability to get out of his own head must be one he appreciates highly.

So, John subtly tried to discourage the habit. He tagged around Sherlock more often, since he realized Sherlock for some reason wouldn't do drugs in front of him, and he often moved the bag so that Sherlock had trouble finding it. To someone with a mind unlike Sherlocks, they might not have noticed, but Sherlock did, and knew just why John was acting this way.

"I won't give up cocaine for you," Sherlock finally told him one day. knowing what he was thinking about. It was a strange phrase, the first time either had admitted they'd do anything for the other. But Sherlock had, for all intents and purposes, given up the life of crime he'd enjoyed, stopped living as a transient, and settled down in the warehouse with John. In return, John had put his trust into Sherlock, however foolish it may have seemed, and done nothing to betray his trust. Though John understood now the doors were unlocked so that John could leave if he wanted, John gave up his "freedom" to be with Sherlock. Still, neither had admitted previously that they'd done anything out of the ordinary. John still played the victim, Sherlock the criminal.

"I won't leave my life behind for you," John shot back.

"I'll never be a 'good man'." Oh, how he wished he knew how to be one though, if only to deserve John.

"I'll never accept your lifestyle," John admitted truthfully.

"I'll never really love you." Sociopathy prevented such strong emotions. This was probably as attached to anyone as he'd ever really become.

"I'm not actually gay," John shot at him.

"Yes you are."

"Yes, I am," John conceded sheepishly. Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Shut up and kiss me."

So that's what John did.