The Only Thing Worth Fighting For

Chapter 4

Sherlock completed Rosie's night feed whilst pacing back and forth through John's bedroom; he couldn't keep still, if he kept still then his mind would begin tearing itself apart with unwelcome thoughts and feelings for his grieving best friend. Sherlock soothed the baby in his arms and bounced slightly on his toes to rock her to sleep as he thought desperately of anything except the sentimental emotions which flooded his body.

When Sherlock had been away, his first and last thought was for John Watson's safety. He'd forced himself to continue on with his suicide mission to ensure that John and his friends were safe and protected from Moriarty and his criminal network. He had endured torture, surviving only on the memory of John's smile and the crinkle of his eyes whenever Sherlock said anything particularly witty or scathing. Retreating into his mind palace had been his only escape from the pounding beating of his attacker; he imagined he was walking around Regents Park with John, the pair of them enjoying the rare sunshine which warmed their skin and caused John's nose and cheeks to become flushed with pink. Sherlock had smiled and John had returned the grin before they had continued around the duck lake with the detective naming each species.

The memories only lasted so long; when the real torture had begun, and the whips started thrashing against his skin, Sherlock had been pulled from his mind map and returned to the dingy chamber where angry men ordered him to speak. Sherlock had momentarily wished that John was with him, the doctor would've rushed at the men and protected him but he was met with only silence.

The next time he was beaten; there was a new man in the chair. Sherlock looked at the profile of the man and allowed his heartbeat to quicken, his breathing becoming ragged as he recognised the familiar face. Getting rid of the torturer had been simple with a few easy deductions, leaving Sherlock alone with his big brother for the first time in two years.

When Mycroft's men had surrounded the place and evacuated a bleeding and pitiful Sherlock into the helicopter, Sherlock could only collapse listless into the seat. His vanity had always been remarked upon in London but here, he allowed himself the freedom to crawl on his hands and knees to the seat opposite Mycroft who had changed into his usual suit and now sat looking through reports whilst typing on a Blackberry.

Sherlock hadn't spoken; not during the rescue, or the questions from physicians sent to treat him and not even to Mycroft. The pair had engaged in fairly silent conversation, communicating with their eyes and becoming increasing tense as the helicopter took off to return to London via a stop off in Milan to treat Sherlock's more worrisome wounds.

"Myc," Sherlock croaked, his voice hoarse from the hours of torture.

Mycroft lowered his papers and phone and glanced at his brother, his long curls matted with dried blood and other less pleasant substances. "He's fine, Sherlock. John Watson is safe."

Sherlock repeated Mycroft's words, feeling each syllable calm his anxiety ridden mind before he passed out cold at his brother's feet. He didn't wake until three days later.

"Sh'lockkkk?" John spluttered; his mouth was dry and he could feel the pounding of a fairly major headache against his forehead. He opened one sleep crusted eye and realised his surroundings as the living room. Attempting to stand from the sofa, he grumbled and fell back down with a curse.

"You're awake then?" Sherlock asked as he carried the baby into the living room to place in her bouncer whilst he made tea.

"I- What happened?" John replied, rubbing his eyes hard and groaning at the pain in his head.

"You got drunk," Sherlock shrugged.

"Yeah I get that," John sighed, grasping the glass of water which had somehow miraculously appeared on the table in front of him during the night. He downed it in three large gulps and gasped as the liquid entered his stomach."You just left me here to sleep?"