Disclaimer: Alas, I own nothing, and make no gains from this work

Warnings: Rated T with references to torture (not explicit)

He stumbled through the darkened alleys, every muscle in his body screaming at him to stop and rest while his mind desperately forced his body to keep on moving through the early morning silence. Sometimes he would falter and sway as his vision tunnelled and sparks danced in front of his eyes, and he'd forget what he was doing and how to get one bloodied foot in front of the other. But then he would grit his teeth and, despite the pain, because of the pain, keep going. He had to keep going. His one thought was to get to Baker Street, to safety.

As he concentrated on progressing he catalogued his injuries, finding a small comfort in the dispassionate way his brain was able to work through them, albeit more sluggishly than usual. The men who had interrogated him had been thorough... broken wrist, at least three ribs, possibly a fractured cheekbone...Internal bleeding from the kicks to his kidneys and the other unpleasant things they had jabbed him with... the burns across his torso... those were all the worst. Then there were the minor aches and woes... the dehydration that kept him weak, the lack of sleep to disorientate, the countless bruises and cuts from the constant beatings.

He didn't know how long they had kept him for, or what they had intended to do next. The tortures had been getting progressively worse over time as they grew frustrated with his inability to answer their questions. At first he had stalled and given his usual clever responses but that had faded over time. Not that he told them what they wanted to know, but the longer it went on the less he understood what they were even asking for, and his confusion frustrated them and caused them to hurt him even more.

The last attempt had been the waterboarding, a truly unpleasant experience. He hadn't begged. A Holmes never begs, had flitted through his mind, remembering the lectures in his father's study all those years ago, but it had been close. Too close. One more session and he would have been on his knees telling them anything they wanted to hear so long as it stopped. That was when he knew he had to get out if he was to keep the last shred of sanity he had left. He had long stopped expecting (or even hoping) to be rescued.

Looking up he saw a sign for the underground - Marylebone Station - not far now. Just a couple of streets to go. Under his breath he started chanting a mantra while he focused on his feet and the pavement in front of him, anything now to keep himself moving and get to safety. Get to the flat. Get to the flat. Get to the flat. He had dreamt of Baker Street when being held, thinking longingly of familiar surroundings, of tea and companionship, of being back with people he trusted. Family, of one sort or another.

He still wasn't entirely sure how he had escaped actually. The events had been serendipitous to say the least. They had left him curled up on the floor of their interrogation room broken and gasping for breath after the simulated drowning, locking the door behind them. He was trying to pull himself up to a sitting position when he caught a glimpse of something metallic glinting in the corner of the room. By some miracle he had not only managed to drag himself over to it - a paper clip! - but also hide it and get back to the chair before anyone came to collect him and take him back to his usual cell.

By then it was all he could do to keep his wits about him as they threw him inside so they would go away. The paper clip and the lock picking skills he had picked up a lifetime ago were all he needed to get out of the room. He was horribly aware that the rest of the building was a mystery to him, along with his location, so he had no idea how far he would get. He was pretty sure he was still in London but that was all. He still had trousers and a shirt, although both were filthy, bloody and torn. No shoes. He could manage without. He had worked on the lock as quickly as he was able, given his weakened state. And then, by what he could only class as pure luck he had managed to escape.

And now he was here, Baker Street. He had calculated that if he was lucky, and he did seem to be having a streak of it today, torture excepted, he'd had maybe an hour's head start before they noticed he was gone. Not long enough, he had thought as he had tried to run from the building and get as far away from his captors as possible. That hour had passed long before night had turned into dawn as he navigated the familiar London streets, hiding in the shadows and alleys, away from those who might see him in the early hours in his broken state. He could only pray to a god he didn't believe in that he would make it as far as 221b without them finding him and taking him back. Surely they knew by now he was gone? He knew it was risky to come here - so obvious - but he couldn't think of anywhere else.

Just two doors away he blacked out and to his horror fell. Lying on the cold pavement he almost wept, unable to think of any way he would be able to get up and take those last few steps to the familiar black door. Then behind him was the sound of screeching brakes and his mind instantly connected it to them. They found me and they will take me back and this time I won't get away and - oh god! The stab of terror piercing his gut gave him a final burst of adrenalin and got him to draw up his last vestiges of strength to stand upright and make it to the front door.

He leant on the door, unable to open it. Keys were long gone, lost who knows where, days (weeks?) ago. He tried to knock but he was so weak he could hardly hear it himself, let alone have it carry to the upstairs flat. The emotions he'd kept inside all this time, through it all, were close to the surface now and threatening to break as he gazed at the impenetrable barrier of the wooden door.

And then, another miracle. Oh, how he needed a final one this day. He heard footsteps, someone coming down the stairs. He tapped again with the knocker, hoping this time it would be heard.

Muffled voices, Mrs Hudson, John. A crunch of metal as the yale lock was undone, and the door opened, and he fell into the arms of the doctor. Never had he been more grateful to see him.

"John" he managed, his voice cracked and faint.

"Jesus!" cried the doctor, hastily taking hold of him and easing him into the hallway and down onto the floor. "What have they done to you?"

Another set of footsteps thundering down the stairs, and then a shout of horror as the new arrival saw his condition.

Finally safe, finally with those he could trust to protect him, he felt himself slip into unconsciousness, but not before hearing the anguished cry from his brother,

"Mycroft!"

A/N -

thought it was time someone other than J or S got kidnapped!

Hope you like so far. Reviews, comments and con crit always appreciated.

Next chapter will be up in a couple of days x