Obviously, I own nothing but my ideas. Anyway, I hope you like this, my lovelies nwn

Chapter One

He's running. There are trees and bushes, sticks breaking like glass under his feet. The helicopter isn't far off. They aren't far away. He knows he has to be caught but fear is still jolting through him as he sees them hiding, stalking, preparing to pounce. He slows, panting, bites his lip. They close in. Next thing he knows he's chained to the walls and the man has a pole and he knows the whole place is closely guarded but no one will comment on what's happening in that small room. No one ever does. He can't help it, groaning in pain as every inch of him is screaming 'why are you letting this happen?' And he can hear him. Loose comments. Quieter than everything else, but still the loudest thing in the room. Louder than the man's demands, louder than the sound of his beatings, louder than his brother's betrayal as he sits inches away, smirking. 'Smart arse.' Nothing solid. 'No one cares, Sherlock.' Little, insignificant comments. 'Don't come back.'

John Watson is awake. He's lying in bed and the moon is slipping through the gap in the curtains so it shines right on his face. But the bed beside him is cold and she's… not there. He sits up quickly, looking around the room. The bathroom light isn't on. She's most certainly not there. "Mary?" he calls, brow creasing in worry. "Mary?" He scans her side of the bed for some sign, picks up her pillow and… there's a note. A note with her curly handwriting, the J of his name loops under the rest of it, like it usually does. He unfolds the paper. Your last vow.

One of the main bases is in the Czech Republic. It's heavily guarded and pretty much everyone who so much as knows what's inside the old, abandoned looking building on the edge of the city either has a gun or is at the end of one. There's a girl. She looks older than she is. She has messy red curls and green eyes and no home, and Sherlock thinks at least a trace of a homeless network abroad will be infinitely useful. She proves to be. She gets inside the building and Sherlock is standing where he should, watching for her signal. They'll destroy it from the inside, out. He's waiting for her at the time they arranged, a full two days after she went in. It'd take that long. But it's never just Sherlock, even when he's alone. 'You let her go in alone?' He mumbles something, waving the comment away. 'You really don't care, do you?' He almost draws blood, biting his lip so hard. 'Oh, yeah, psychopath - I can see it now.' He's about to yell - anything if he would just shut up but the door at the bottom of the building that leads into a fenced off patch where countless bodies are disposed of opens. And two guards come out, pulling a girl behind them by her messy red curls. Her body is bare and bruised and she's been beaten and molested and tortured but before he can even finish reading what he can see, the fourteen-year-old girl is shot in the head. And Sherlock will never know why she didn't just tell them everything and die painlessly.

Your last vow. Mary's gone, and she's left a note saying 'Your last vow'. What the hell does it mean and why is she gone and, oh God, nothing ever makes sense anymore. Maybe Sherlock will know what to do. He always knows. Yes, there's something wrong in that genius brain of his, but he's still a genius. He always will be. He knows everything. So John vaguely feels for the phone on the bedside table and picks it up, sleep still clinging to his panicked mind as he calls Sherlock. It's three in the morning. There's no answer.

He's sitting in a corner of some dead-end road, eyes closed, flicking through everything he's done, needs to do. There are countless times he nearly died and each has a place in his mind where he did. They keep popping up, wanting to be heard. John keeps reminding him. 'Why did you survive that?' He's ignoring the rain that's getting harder and harder and just tries to remember what he's meant to be doing next. Budapest is relatively void of activity, but, like any spider web, a lot of the supporting strands are invisible until you look at them in the right light. It's evening and there's nothing to do just yet. It's proving difficult to work out what to do at all when his blood is devoid of poison and John keeps telling him things he already knows but doesn't want to hear. 'You can't work out what to do? You're pretty thick, for a genius.' Somehow he doesn't pay attention to the people walking up the road until he's pulled out from where he's sitting. And he's lying on the gravel and there are feet and fists and he can taste blood but he's quite content with slipping into unconsciousness.

John's sitting up properly now. He's calling Sherlock for the fourth time. There's still no answer. He pulls himself out of bed, the note lying on Mary's pillow. The room is dark and cold and he stumbles over nothing as he walks to his wardrobe. Any clothes will do. It's October and the night is cold and it's raining but he needs to get out, needs to find out what it means. If it was meant for the morning, he wouldn't have woken up. It's not logical and he knows that, but he has to know what the hell's going on right now but Sherlock isn't answering. He grabs the note and leaves the house.

It was easy enough to sneak onto the ship. Sherlock doesn't waste brain-power on working out what's being stored in the dark. He just needs to work out what he's going to do when they reach Murmansk. It's going to be a long journey and Sherlock knows he'll need something to occupy his mind until then. 'Sally said - psychopaths get bored.' He doesn't mean to say shut up out loud but he does and someone's coming down the stairs into the hold as he does so and it's only a matter of time before he's found. The ship isn't exactly entirely legal. He's dragged up onto the deck by his hair. The cold sunlight hits him as hard as the sea wind and it's not long before any natural pain is replaced by the crew's idea of fun. He's beaten until his back is raw and the man swinging the cat o' nine tales gets tired. Sherlock doesn't have long to recover until he's dragged into reality again and is being pulled to his feet. He suddenly has a new and scruffy t-shirt and a mop in his hand and a gruff voice is telling him to get to work. 'Why didn't they just throw you overboard? They should have.' He hardly realises he's saying anything before someone tells him to shut up or he'll get beaten again. Sherlock doesn't say anything, but does draw blood from biting his lip.

The car that's usually parked outside their house, which is technically Mary's but John drives anyway, isn't there. John can't get a taxi at three in the morning on Wednesday. Sherlock probably could. Taxis seem to follow Sherlock wherever he goes and there's always one on hand when they need one. There's no point calling one - it'd take too long. So he ignores the wind and the rain and he just runs. There are a few people out and about - mostly drunk, admittedly - when he gets closer to the centre of London but he ignores them. They stare at him a bit. A man in a coat and a jumper and jeans running through London with a bit of paper in his hand at three in the morning. They'll never see him again - he isn't important. But John just has to get to Baker Street.

Sherlock's standing on top of St Bart's hospital. He didn't send any text indicating what could or would happen. 'You shouldn't have come back.' He promises he won't this time. He picks up the phone and talks to John but he doesn't know what either of them are saying. John's looking up at him. No one is moving. Not even the wind whispers as he stands looking at John looking at him. His brain is short circuiting and he's dying in Serbia and the Czech Republic and Hungary and Russia and everywhere in between. Then he throws the phone behind him and he hears it clatter against the cement. He hears John speaking to him. 'You shouldn't have survived at all.' He promises not to this time. In a second, he's falling forward and the ground flies up towards his face and

Sherlock jolts awake. The room is dark and the blankets are tangled around him. It's cold. The flat's always cold. John always used to put the heating on.

'You're really letting yourself go, aren't you?'

"Shut up," Sherlock breathes. He closes his eyes again, just for a moment, but it's too loud and his mind won't slow down. So he struggles to get to his feet and pulls his dressing gown over his pyjamas and stumbles into the kitchen. It's dark in there too. It's always dark and cold and empty.

'Freak - can't get anyone else to stand you.'

Sherlock mumbles something incoherent and grits his teeth. John's always right. But he's trying not to go and get what's under the loose floorboard in his room. John wouldn't like that. But it can make it go away, just for a bit. He stops saying anything and everything stops hurting and he can let his mind go quiet for a while. But he doesn't. He wanders around the kitchen and fills the kettle and gets out two mugs. Then puts one back.

'I'm not here anymore, idiot. Why would I be?'

"Shut up." He's getting louder. Closer. The repulsed smirk is audible. Sherlock's hands are shaking as he tries to pour the water into his mug. There's water on the counter and he stops trying.

'Why can't you do anything right, genius?'

Sherlock's on the floor, his hands pressed against his ears. He's shaking, he's bloody shaking and half-yelling, pleading, just wanting it to stop. He doesn't know when the tears started but they're practically streaming down his face. John is loud and thick in his mind and there are a million words at once and Sherlock just wants it to stop, just stop.

There are hands on his arms, shaking him slightly.

It won't stop, oh God, it won't stop.

His hands are being prised away from his ears. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock looks up into a familiar face.

"Sherlock, it's okay. I'm not saying anything," John says quietly, meeting his panicked gaze.

Sherlock says nothing, just staring at John.

John presses his lips together, reassurance lingering in his eyes in spite of everything. He gives Sherlock a small nod, questioning.

Sherlock nods back.

It's okay.

Sherlock doesn't know when he started gripping John's hand, but John's touch is calming and reassuring and everything it should be. Sherlock's breathing is returning to normal.

"I told you to call me if it got this bad again," John reminded him gently.

Sherlock moistens his lips, looking down.

"Hey, hey - it's okay. Look, it doesn't matter now. But do, okay? Do call me or text me or whatever if this happens again."

"Alright."

"Okay." John offers him a smile Sherlock does not return.

Sherlock picks the note up off the floor and scans it. His brain focuses and he can do what only he can do, John at his side. But he doesn't say everything he's thinking. He's stopped doing that.

"Alright," he says quietly, meeting John's eye again. "Let's go."