A/N: This is only my second Sherlock fan fic. I really hope you enjoy it and all reviews, tips and suggestions are greatly appreciated.

I would love to hear your thoughts =)

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, I'm just visiting around with them.

Special thanks to

~Tia-Pixie~ ADayInOurLife~chestry007~

For all your encouragement, help and support.

This is the sequel to "When Evening Falls So Hard"

It started out as a simple plan: to take a small case that Mycroft had offered them that involved a gang of counterfeiters that were believed to be hiding out in a part of the county near Sussex.

In total, it would only take a few hours for the case to be finished, closed, and all it would take would be finding the house, and within said house, the papers that Mycroft was particularly interested in.

And Sherlock, trying to take away John's unsure questions about the simplicity of the plan told him that the case "would be finished in no time and that they would be back in London by evening."

And as the ever loyal friend that he was, John went with him. Even though Sherlock could tell he still was hesitant about the case; for Johns worries were that this would be one of their first cases since Sherlock's return, that neither of them were really to the point of handling a case as of yet and it was too soon for them. But Sherlock, being Sherlock, his rather bored mind wanting to be taken out for a walk, snatched up the opportunity. Thinking also that if they took the case it might help them to ease back into the way they used to be... before Moriarty.

They knew that something had changed, that they had changed.

Since Sherlock's return it seemed like their lives and their friendship was a puzzle that had been broken and scattered in a million pieces. They had tried to find those pieces, to began again where they had left off, and to continue the life that had been shattered before them.

But, it seemed like something was missing, which was something their friendship once had but was now no longer there, and it left them at a loss for words, which was something they had never had trouble with before. The piece that they both desperately needed, the conduit of the bond that they shared had been lost. They both knew it, but because of the missing piece, neither of them could find a way to tell the other.

They were also mentally and emotionally exhausted, as if they still carried that invisible burden that Moriarty had left imprinted on them, and being unable to find the way they once knew so well, unable to reach out to each other, they were helpless to remove the burden from each other's backs.

So they just continued on. Pretending that they were fine. Staying close to one another and trying to push aside the feeling that even though they could see that the other was alive and well, a part of them felt dead, as if they still hadn't found each other really after all.

That is one of the reasons why the case had been so eagerly accepted by one and so reluctantly accepted by the other.

It's always amazing how something so seemingly simple can go downhill so quickly and turn into something so positively dreadful. Sherlock didn't see it coming until it was too late and the simple plan had turned into a horrible plan in a blink of an eye.

"Do you want to know the secret of bringing something mighty down to its knees?"

Sherlock could still hear those words swirling around in his mind along with the hot flashes of pain running over his chest, through his arm and cracked ribs, the cold from the stone cellar floor seeping into his body.

He was lying there trying to clear his mind of the fog of unconsciousness and pain that was trying to drag him down again; John was lying beside him, covered in red and Sherlock remembered those echoing words of the man who had sliced his friend with the knife.

"You strike its heart. You find the source that makes him what he is, what empowers him."

He saw the knife just before it went into John's side.

Again and again it flashed, and then it stopped only when John did.

He remembered trying to fight the men, trying to get to John, to the knife that wouldn't stop hurting his best friend; struggling against the handcuffs that held him to his own chair placed across from John.

The pain was terrible; the only thing he could see was John sitting across from him there in his chair they had handcuffed him to, his head hanging down on his chest, not moving.

He tried shouting John's name but no words would come; he stopped fighting. The man who held the knife bent down in front of him and whispered in his ear, running his knife deeply across Sherlock's arm and then his chest – over his heart in a long line – as he did so. Sherlock gasped as the new sensation of running blood and pain started to overcome him, the man's harsh whisper filling his ears.

"Without a heart he is nothing, just an empty lifeless shell. No more light, no more life. A dead man casting shadows."

The last thing he remembered was looking over at John's still body and the man drawing back the butt of his gun and bringing it down upon him. He welcomed the peaceful blackness. The last thought in his head was that at least John would not have to wait for him very long.

He could say it was one of the worst disappointments of his life when the pain of his screaming head and beaten body brought him out of the shadows and into consciousness again.

He dragged himself over to where John lay – just a few feet away from him – dread filling his heart that his friend had left him. He was rewarded with a faint pulse beating under his fingertips. He gasped a sigh of relief and started to assess his friend's injuries, talking to him as he did so.

Sherlock was never one to be scared or squeamish of blood, heaven only knew he had seen himself get into enough injuries and John had always been there to take care of him.

The horrible mind gripping feeling of cold fear he had always hated had him now, not because of his blood, even though his mind was screaming at him that he had lost too much and it was still slowly seeping from the cuts on his chest and arm.

It was the blood from John that terrified him the most. John should never bleed; he had known the color red far too much in his life before Sherlock and it should never touch him again.

He half fell, half knelt beside his friend, trying to stop the bleeding as best he could with what he could find in what looked like a small cellar of the farmhouse that they had been locked in. He could only find his blue scarf, the one that John had given him for Christmas, the last Christmas before Sherlock 'died'. He tried to shake the fog out of his mind, trying to keep the emotions and nag of panic that he was so unfamiliar with back where they should be.

"Come on, John, wake up! I need you to open your eyes."

He didn't think he had ever wanted anything as badly as he wanted to see those blue eyes look back at him in that moment.

He shut his own eyes, fighting against the wave of weakness and panic that was starting to wash over him. When he opened them, he found John's eyes half open and searching for him.

Finding his friend at least half alive gave Sherlock new strength and hope that maybe they could indeed make it out.

"We are going to be alright, John," he panted, trying to ignore his own screaming wounds as he slowly drew the smaller man in closer to him. He wiped away the sweat from his friend's forehead and pressed the scarf into his side. "We are going to get out of here.

"Mycroft knows where we are. I texted him this morning that we were coming over to check over that lead on the case he sent us on. He should suspect that something's wrong by now; I was supposed to call him with any information I had on the case at 8 o'clock and by the time on your watch, it's well past ten.

"We shall be back at the flat, enjoying a cup of tea and watching crap television in no time at all."

John was struggling to keep his eyes open as he leaned against Sherlock's shoulder, trying to stay awake, trying to focus on his friends words. It was hard to breathe. He could feel rattling in his lungs. More than a bit not good.

It was so cold and the pain was crushing him.

Red was everywhere; he could feel his blood pouring from his side, and he could feel himself slipping. He tried to fight it. He tried to fight towards the hands that were holding him, focus on that familiar voice. The voice he was expecting never to hear again.

"I don't think I am, Sherlock." His tone was so weak, so unlike the strong and confident one Sherlock was so familiar with hearing.

"Lost too much blood…internal damage as well, I think." He said, gasping with the effort, his eyes closing again against the pain.

"No, John," Sherlock replied sharply. "You have to stay awake, stay awake with me. I promise we are going to make it. I won't leave you behind...not again."

He couldn't let John end like this; not like this, not his faithful friend who had done so much for him over the few short years they had known each other. The friend who always believed in him, who would do anything for him. He would not lose him again, not after fighting so hard to return to him after the events with Moriarty.

It had only been a couple of months since Sherlock's return from the dead.

Sherlock had always suspected that he would end in a way like this. He wasn't surprised, really. He knew it would come one day. He saw it coming on the roof, but he had managed to escape that time. He knew it would always be waiting to happen again. He might be on the side of the angels, but he would not have the death of one.

John didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve to die like this.

It was his fault that John was here. He should have seen it coming.

"I'm so sorry, John."

Blue eyes met his again, searching his face with a sad look, as if he could tell something was coming and he didn't want to disappoint Sherlock.

He eyes traveled over Sherlock's body, catching sight of his injuries.

"You're hurt," he said, trying to put all the fake strength that he could muster into his voice and, reaching out a hand, clasping it around Sherlock's arm trying to slow the blood that was continuing to flow.

"I'm fine," Sherlock said trying to push back the most inconveniently timed desire to weep over his friend who was trying to help him even as he half lay on the floor, hardly conscious himself, ever the faithful friend and doctor.

"Don't worry about me. We are going home soon, just you wait and see, they will be here."

John nodded slowly, his hand still on Sherlock's arm, his breathing getting slower.

"Where are we?" John asked, trying to raise his head and looking around the small, empty and dimly lit room they were in. The only source of light being a lone light fixture hanging high above them; the dim bulb flickering softly.

"A cellar it looks like." Sherlock replied, "They put us here thinking we were dead or that we soon would be. They've already cleared out and gone by now, thinking no one would find any evidence of them being here until they were miles away.

"Do you think if I propped you up against the wall you will be alright for a moment while I check the door and see if there is a way out?" Sherlock asked, moving John's hand to his side and letting him take over the task of staunching the blood pouring beneath the torn jumper. John nodded, sweat beading his pale face.

Sherlock pulled himself onto his feet, white-hot pain flashing through him, blurring his vision for a moment and making him horribly dizzy. He clutched the wall, and steadied himself. One hand using the wall for balance and the other hand on his chest; he could feel the blood running down his arm as he slowly made his way to the rusted metal door. Sherlock tried it. It was bolted tightly from the outside. No way out.

They had taken his small lock pick case when they had taken his coat and the room was bare, offering him nothing to improvise as tools to help their cause. He rested his flushed forehead on the cool metal door, closing his eyes, fighting against the nausea in his stomach and the irritating feeling of dread that was growing in his chest.

"It's alright, Sherlock," John called weakly over to him from his spot on the floor, having observed his friend's actions and the defeated slump of his head and shoulders. "It's no use wasting whatever strength you have left on that door."

Sherlock dragged himself back to John's corner, sliding down the wall, one hand across his injured chest as he did so – the jarring movement of hitting the floor sending a searing stab of pain through his entire being.

John couldn't keep his head up anymore; he was starting to slump badly. Sherlock shifted his friend into his arms, ignoring the pain and gritting his teeth against the painful wounds in his chest and arm and the other injuries he didn't even want to go over.

He positioned John so that he was lying in his lap, his head on Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock's arms wrapped around his upper body, his hands pressing against the wound on John's side. It wouldn't stop bleeding; the scarf was almost soaked through now.

"Without a heart he is nothing, just an empty lifeless shell. No more light, no more life. A dead man casting shadows."

Those dreadful, cold words echoed in Sherlock's head again, refusing to be stilled. He was pulled from his thoughts as he realized John was speaking to him.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." John was staring up at him with a look Sherlock had never seen before, yet something was familiar about it all the same. It was the look he himself must have worn on the roof of St Bart's whilst talking to John, right before he had jumped.

The thought flashed across Sherlock's mind, sending a chill down him that had nothing to do with the coldness of the room. "You have nothing to be sorry for. It's my fault we're here." Sherlock replied, trying to ignore the feeling that their situation was not what John was apologizing for.

"Will you tell Mrs. Hudson and Harry for me, tell them I…" John's voice trailed off, his eyes closing again.

The horrible realization that Sherlock had tried to ignore struck him full force now. He buried his face in his friend's blonde hair, which was now streaked with bits of red.

"Please, John. You can't make me go home without you." This time, he didn't even try to push the fear out of his voice, holding onto his friend, suddenly terrified he would slip away before he could tell him what he desperately wanted to. Things that had built in him all those months ago.

"You can't make me go back home alone, go back and face Mrs. Hudson, to tell her you didn't make it home, that you aren't coming back. I can't do it, John; I'm not like you." The sentiment he had always despised and John always had such a heart for overcame him and he found that he didn't care.

His voice was now starting to shake around the edges. "I…I can't do what you did after what happened at Bart's. You are stronger than I will ever be, I always wondered how you did it... And I know now that I will never be able to do it. I can't bear the thought of having to face that, and I'm sorry for ever making you have to.

"I don't want to be by myself again. I never want you to be by yourself again. There is so much we haven't done yet, too many adventures we haven't lived. Too many things that I owe you, all the time that was taken from you."

The tears were threatening to come worse than ever now, blurring his vision and the image of his friend, lying there in his lap, his life's blood running like rivers of crimson from the knife wound in his side.

The color red was everywhere. Oh, how he hated that color, red.

A tear slid down John's cheek as he lifted his eyes to meet Sherlock's.

"I'm so tired…Sherlock…So tired, I'm sorry, I don't think I can do it. I don't...I don't have any more strength; I can feel myself fading. I can't save and help myself again, not this time."

Sherlock shook his head as he implored to his friend, his voice full of un-shed tears.

"No, John, you can. You can do it – you have to – you have to keep breathing. Please, John, I changed my mind. I promise that breathing is not boring, you have to keep breathing; let me help you, I'm here with you. You're not alone anymore, focus on me. Keep your eyes fixed on me, John. In…and out, in…and out…."

TBC...