A/N: Oh, good grief, this chapter is like "blah blah blah." So much talking! I hope you don't get sick of it. This is the last chapter, so the torture is almost over, my friends.

Chapter 22: I've got you

Hands grabbing him, pinching him. Small hands with sharp fingernails painted bubble-gum pink. A girl's voice hisses in his ear. "I hate you. I wish you'd never been born." The hands shove him into a small dark space filled with shoes and coats. He hears the click of a lock. DON'T LEAVE ME HERE! He screams but hears only childish laughter in response. Something in the small space is beeping.

John slowly became aware of other sensations. The hiss of an oxygen machine. Antiseptic smell. The firm pressure of a hand holding his. A voice—Sherlock's voice—speaking quietly. John could only make out a few words, but they didn't make sense to his sleep-addled mind. Something about a tooth? Before he could puzzle it out, he slipped into darkness again.

The yellow house. Enormous front door. He reaches up and turns the knob, and this time it opens with a creak. Inside everything is completely tidy, not a speck of dirt. He can hear voices screaming, fighting. A hand grabs his arm and yanks him off his feet. He can't see the face but he knows who it is. A voice hisses at him "You came in here with dirty shoes!" and then a shriek: "Mummy! The little rat got the floor filthy!" He panics and tries to get away but the fingernails dig into his arm and hold him fast.

Beeping again, overlaid with quiet voices. Sherlock, and. . . Molly? talking too quietly for him to understand the words; he could just hear the murmur of their voices, like music. His eyelids felt like they were glued shut, but he managed to open them enough to get an impression of his surroundings. A dark blob, two heads. Molly, sitting on Sherlock's lap? A high-pitched giggle, then a deeper laugh. John decided he was still dreaming.

Drowning. A hand on his head pushing him down. Through the water he sees a glimpse of a blue polka-dotted swim suit and a distorted image of a girl's face, framed by short blond hair. He now has a name to go with that face. Sylvia.

Then the face disappears and he feels strong hands lifting him up, cradling him close. Kind eyes, a gentle voice: "I've got you. You're safe now."

Daddy. . .

This time it was the delicate scent of perfume that hit him first. Pears. Mary? He cracked open his eyes a little and caught a glimpse of her blond ponytail. Her head was bent over a book and she didn't look up. Had she forgiven him? His last thought before he lost consciousness again was that he hoped she wasn't upset about him missing their date.

Men in white coats surround him. Masks over their faces. Doctors. One of the masks has a clown face drawn on it in red marker. He fights them but he is too small. They hold him down. Sudden pain from a needle in his arm. His blood flows into a tube.

The next time he became aware of his surroundings, he heard two voices: Sherlock's and a woman's, vaguely familiar but his brain was too fuzzy to work out who it was. The woman was saying, "He was a lovely boy. We don't know why he left." and then Sherlock responded in a voice that was too quiet for John to make out the words.

John opened his eyes to slits, the most he could manage, and through his sleep-sticky lashes he could see the outline of Sherlock standing next to the bed. John spotted a dark blue triangle of fabric across his chest—a sling? Why would Sherlock have his arm in a sling?

"We had him over to dinner just before he disappeared. Everything was fine," the woman said querulously.

"Just him?"

"Yes, we loved him." The woman—Mrs Paddington?—sounded defensive. "It was like having our boys back. . ."

That was the last John heard before his eyes slid shut and he slipped into unconsciousness again.

Waves wash over him, covering his head and filling his mouth with salt that burns and chokes him. Something falls from his hand, something important. Suddenly strong hands pull him up. Through a haze of salt and sand he sees kind brown eyes and a sad smile. "You're safe, I've got you."

Daddy. . .

He is carried to the beach where a woman with a beautiful dimpled smile wraps him in a green striped blanket. The strong arms pick him up again and carry him away, away from the sister who hurts him, away from the parents who ignore him. He doesn't even mind that they are carrying him away from the thing he dropped, the talisman that kept him safe. He doesn't need it anymore.

Beeping again, slow and insistent. John realized now that it was a heart monitor, so he was in hospital. Yes, that made sense, considering that his last memory was of everything going numb and realizing he had been poisoned. And possibly vomiting. There was a sour taste in his mouth, so yes, he had probably vomited. His head hurt, but otherwise he felt fairly intact. He started wiggling fingers and toes to see if they were working again.

Both sets of toes and the fingers on his right hand moved just fine, but he discovered that he was unable to move his left hand. The beeping from the heart monitor picked up speed a bit as he fought down a wave of panic. He was left-handed; if his left hand didn't work, he would be unable to write, unable to do his job, unable to—he lifted his head enough to look down at his arm, and discovered that is was covered by a blurry dark shape. What was it?

Carefully he disentangled his right hand from the IV tube and reached over to feel the shape. It felt. . . hairy? He blinked until his vision cleared and looked again. This time the shape resolved itself into Sherlock's head, lying across his arm.

"Sherlock?" he tried, but it came out as a raspy whisper. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Sherlock?" Even though his voice was stronger, Sherlock still didn't move. John shoved at Sherlock's head with his right hand. "Wake up!"

Sherlock gave a grunt but stayed draped over John's arm. "Huhn?" he mumbled drowsily.

"Get off my arm, you big oaf."

Sherlock finally lifted his head and blinked sleepily at John. "You're awake."

"Yes, obviously."

Sherlock grinned at him. "You're awake," he repeated happily.

John grinned back. "Yes, thirsty as hell with a killer headache, but I'm awake."

"Oh, thirsty, yes." When Sherlock stood up, John realized that his right arm was indeed in a sling. One handed, Sherlock poured some water from a pink pitcher on the side table and handed John the cup, which he had to take with his right hand because his left was still numb.

After John took a drink, he said, "What happened to your arm?"

"Oh, this?" Sherlock lifted the sling. "Bone saw!" he said proudly.

"B—bone saw?"

"Yes! It took 142 external stitches and 76 internal stitches. Do you want to see?"

"Um, sure."

Sherlock settled on his hip on the side of the bed. Loosening loosened the sling, he pulled down the bandage enough to show John the straight line of stitches that started at the inside of his elbow and extended diagonally down across his lower arm. "It hit the brachial artery. I nearly bled out," he said enthusiastically. "Not deep enough to sever the bone, however." Sherlock sounded almost disappointed at this fact, which made John smirk. "Pity I wasn't awake to watch them stitch it up. Molly said she could see all the layers of muscle and tendon clear down to the bone."

"How did that happen?"

"Oh, um. . ." Sherlock didn't make eye contact while he moved back to the chair and took his time to readjust the bandage and sling. "Well. . ."

"Spill it."

"It was your sister."

"What?"

"Sylvia Paddington. She was going to cut you up to dispose of your body. Molly and I got there just in time."

"Oh my God. . ."

"God had little to do with it. Why did you go there?"

"I needed to know more, about my family. I didn't understand the way I was feeling."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Sherlock demanded.

"I didn't want the complications."

"Complications of telling me? I don't make things more complicated."

"Yes, you do. Although in this case, I suppose you were actually right."

"Yes, I was." Sherlock sat back and tried to fold his arms smugly across his chest, but couldn't quite manage it because of the sling. "Although I didn't actually know either. I didn't do a background check on the sister until after I realized where you had gone."

"Oh? What did you find?"

"She was engaged once, about ten years ago, but her fiancé disappeared a couple of weeks before the wedding. Her parents say everything was fine. They even had him over to dinner the night before he disappeared. They are convinced he ran off for some unknown reason, but I'm positive she killed him. The thing I haven't worked out is why."

"The parents had the fiancé over for dinner?"

"Yes, just him. They say they adored him and it was like having their son back. Then the next day he was gone."

"Oh."

"Oh? What?"

"Sylvia told me. . . she told me she had tried to kill me in Abersoch. She tried to drown me. She was jealous of Adam and me because we took her parents' attention away from her. She thought if we were gone, her parents would pay attention to her. If the parents were getting too close to the fiancé. . ."

"Then she got rid of her rival for the parents' affections, as she saw him. Makes sense."

"In what crazy world does it make sense to murder your fiancé because your parents like him?!"

"Her mind was twisted, obviously. Lestrade found a tooth in a box under her bed. Scrubbed clean, of course, but there was a bit of DNA inside. I'm sure it will be a match to the missing fiancé."

"Where is she now? Prison?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Dead. I shot her. Well, after Molly brained her with a fry pan."

"I can't say I'm sorry about that. I've remembered a few other things she did to me as well. Pinching and hitting me. Locking me in a closet. I think. . ."

"What?" Sherlock prompted.

"I think I did it on purpose. When my dad pulled me out of the water, I saw it as my chance to escape. I wanted a new family."

"You made a wise decision."

"Yeah, I was smarter at age three than at age 43."

"You know, John, those death certificates are buried in a file in arse-end-of-nowhere Abersoch, Wales. They can easily stay buried."

"What about Mrs Paddington? She's not likely to let this go."

"Oh, I think I've got her convinced to leave you alone." The look in Sherlock's eyes was positively feral. "And if she comes after you again, we can sic Mycroft on her." John chuckled, and after a second the corner of Sherlock's lip quirked up as well. "So you can decide. What do you want?"

"I think I'll be a Watson. None of them have ever tried to kill me. Although I'm sure Harry has thought about it from time to time. . ."

Sherlock's half-smile turned into a full grin. "That's good. I wouldn't want to have to remember a different name."

John snorted and shook his head. "That's about what I expected."

"I am what I am."

"And God help me, I love you anyway."

"As it should be."

"Sherlock, I'm truly sorry for being such an arse the past few months. And don't say you deserved it, because you didn't. I shouldn't have treated you that way, no matter what I was going through."

"You didn't mean it. You weren't yourself. Obviously."

"Oh, God, you're right. Can you imagine what I would have been like if I had been raised in that family?"

"So you're fortunate you weren't."

"I'll have to tell my parents that. The Watsons, I mean. Have you called them?"

"Molly did. I was mostly. . . indisposed."

"Indisposed?"

"Unconscious." Sherlock clarified.

"Ah. What did they say? Are they coming to see me?"

"They wanted to, but she told them to wait until you woke up. You can take the next step on that yourself."

"All right, I will."

There was a short silence, during which Sherlock stuck his left hand in his pocket. He looked as if he were having some sort of fight with himself about something. Finally he said, "I have something for you." He pulled something small and red out of his pocket and held it hidden in his hand for a second before carefully setting it on the rolling tray in front of John. A toy fire truck? Oh. . . Not just any fire truck, his fire truck, with a yellow stripe down the side. The thing he had been holding in his hand on the beach. He could see it clearly now. John picked it up and turned it over in his hand, rubbed his thumb over the letters scratched in the paint.

"Where did you. . .?"

"Abersoch police station, in the evidence box. I had Molly go and fetch it for you. It's yours. It only seems right that you should have it."

"I remember this. I loved this little fire truck."

"It's good? I mean, you want it?" There was something lurking in Sherlock's eyes—anxiety, John realized. Sherlock was anxious. "I wasn't—I mean, Molly wasn't sure if we should give it to you."

"Yes. Thank you."

"Good." Sherlock looked relieved. John chewed on his lip and watched Sherlock's face. Whatever had happened to Sherlock while he was dead, it had changed him, and not necessarily for the better. The bravado and arrogance were still there, but now it seemed to be mostly bluster. Some of the rock-solid certainty that had underpinned it had eroded away and he seemed vulnerable. Fragile. Something had happened while he was dead that had stolen his confidence. It hurt John to think of Sherlock being in pain and not sharing it with him.

"Sherlock," John said carefully, "We have to talk, really talk. You have to tell me more about what happened to you while you were away."

"It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does. I need to know. It will help me understand you better if I know what you went through."

Sherlock was suddenly staring at his hands, and John was convinced he would just blow him off again. Finally he said, in a quiet voice, "I missed you so much."

"You did?"

Sherlock nodded without looking up. "Yes, just ask Molly. I talked about you constantly, drove her crazy asking what you were doing, having her keep tabs on you."

"I wondered why she kept calling me. Thought maybe she fancied me. But when I asked her out, she turned me down."

Now Sherlock looked up, eyes wide. "Really? You asked her out?"

"Yes. She didn't tell you?"

"Erm, no."

"Well, she wouldn't go out with me, because she was too busy being infatuated with an oblivious git. How did your date go, by the way? Before it was interrupted, I mean."

"Oh, well. . ."

"And what took you so long to respond to my text for help?"

"You texted me 'he'!"

"I would have thought you could figure that out."

"I was busy," he muttered.

"Doing what?"

Sherlock coughed, then mumbled something John couldn't catch.

"What did you say?"

"Snogging Molly."

"NO!"

"Yes."

"It's about time!"

A/N: Thanks for reading my horribly loooooong story. At least I accomplished my goal of having the whole thing done and posted before New Years! Have a happy 2014, everyone. And for all the UK Sherlock fans, I am totally jealous that you get to watch the season premiere over two weeks before we do here in the states.