This was inspired by the opening scene to 'The Man in the Morgue' an episode of Bones. But that's where the similarities end, I'm not gonna write a voodoo story XD

Please tell me your thoughts :)

Images flashed through Sherlock's mind, hazy and confusing. Just as one formed it disappeared before he could make sense of it and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't recall what the flash had been a few seconds later. Not that he had time to, his brain was sluggish and soon another flash of memory would come and go taking his mind off it.

He realized much later than he should of that he was waking from unconsciousness, the flashes of memory dazed him behind closed lids. Desperately he tried to focus on them but his brain wasn't working.

A spear, no a knife? A face, but who did it belong to?

Sounds flitted through now, echoing through his mind, yelling mostly. He couldn't seem to make sense of many of the words.

"Sherlock!"

"No! Don't!"

"Stop it, please!"

"NO!"

The last cry jerked him awake and with that came the blurry image of white tiles that seemed to move and sway sickeningly. He became aware that he was in a significant amount of pain, but his thoughts were so confusing and sluggish he couldn't pin point their origins. The tiles mercifully stopped blurring and became still as he blinked slowly, the white was invaded with red, blood.

Shakily he raised his head, taking in the sight of the bathroom, he was at Baker Street, he knew that at least. But, what had happened, he tried to remember but his mind was fuzzy and his head hurt too much to go to his Mind Palace. The best, solid memory he could dig up was heading out to dinner at Angelo's with John. They had just finished a case and John was adamant he eat. Lestrade had waved them off happily, saying he'd call soon with a new case. However it had been a long case and any food in the fridge was either off or soaked in experiments. They stepped into the street and headed for Angelo's and then...nothing.

Limbs aching and trembling he reached up for the sink that was above his head to try and pull himself up. However the minute he applied pressure to his hand pain flared and he slammed back into the tiles. A small gasp of pain escaped his as he smashed into the ground, clutching his hand lightly. He looked down to see them both completely red with blood, so red in fact he couldn't figure out where the cuts were located, however they must be there, they sure felt like they were.

Once again he grasped the porcelain sink and pulled himself up, this time ready for the pain he knew would occur in his palms. With a lot more effort than should of been necessary he dragged himself weakly to his feet. When he caught sight of himself in the mirror he felt his stomach churn, which was rare for him. He'd seen dozens of gruesome murders far worse than this, but the sight of his own reflection was so shocking and horror filled he couldn't help it.

His dark hair was knotted and dirty with blood and muck, a large gash on the side of his forehead insured many of the dark curls were plastered to the skin. His cheeks were both bruised to varying degrees and a large cut was drawn across the left one from his eye to his lip. These injuries were enough to ensure much of his face was coated with red, what remained was so white it was almost translucent. His shirt was ripped slightly at the seems and it was missing at least two buttons, one held on by a thread. However the purple shirt was now also coated in patches of blood in various stages of drying. He could tell not all of it had come from wounds, therefore was most likely not all his. It was as if somebody with bloody hands had touches his arms, then again if the state of his palms was anything to go by, it could of been his own.

His neck was bleeding also, soaking a good portion of the shirt near his shoulder. the blood was thick and clotted near his ear, indicating that's where the injury was.

He stepped forwards slightly to get a better look was alerted to a stabbing pain in his ankle, he looked down to find a small razor embedded in it. It was in deep, best not to remove it until he was sure it wasn't severing any major veins or arteries.

Stumbling toward the door he became aware of the other bruises that littered his limbs, however he swiftly ignored them. He needed to find a phone or some form of help before he passed out from blood loss, it was a miracle he managed to wake up now as it was. Finally his brain caught up, where was John?

Last he remembered he'd been with John, now where was he? What if he was in the flat as well, in the same state of Sherlock?

"John...!" Sherlock called, the name came out in parts, his throat was too dry.

Worse still there was no reply.

He made it out to his room and then to the hall that lead to the lounge, taking in the smears of blood along the wall and floor. From the size of them he'd have to guess it was his own doing. He'd arrived here injured and made his way to the bathroom before passing out, why couldn't he remember it? The clock on the wall read 10:30am, when did he get here?

When he got to the kitchen he saw his phone on the floor, it was bloodied, he must of been holding it, then dropped it, opting to use the wall for support. Why didn't he call anybody?

He got his answer as he examined it, the screen was cracked and it refused to turn on, however closer inspection revealed it needed charging. It may not actually be broken. Shakily he managed to plug in the cord, bringing his phone to life mercifully. His first instinct was to call John, he needed to know where he was, that he was safe. However he was still dazed and the first thing that popped up were several missed calls from Lestrade. Too confused about his situation to care he hit redial, simply because it took less energy and his hands wouldn't stop shaking.

"Sherlock? Where have you been?" Lestrade's voice answered after a few rings.

"I...I-I'm not sure..." Sherlock shook his head in a vain attempt to clear his thoughts, the only thing he achieved was a headache.

"Sherlock are you ok?" Lestrade's voice became panicked, "I've been trying to get a hold of you for days!"

"Days?" Sherlock questioned, "What...day is it?"

"Thursday, Sherlock," Lestrade said slowly sounding concerned, "Don't you know that?"

"But, I saw you on Monday..." Sherlock reasoned feeling a small amount of panic. How could he of forgotten two whole days?

"Yes Sherlock..." Lestrade yelled something to somebody else before returning to the conversation, "Sherlock don't you remember? Where have you been these last two days?"

"I don't know?" Sherlock admitted, hissing as he leant to hard on his injured side.

"You're hurt" Lestrade noted, "I'm on my way ok just tell me where you are."

"Baker Street," Sherlock replied, "Lestrade I...I can't remember...is John with you?"

"No," Lestrade replied worriedly, Sherlock could hear him closing the door of a car, "I haven't heard from either of you since we said goodbye on Monday night."

"He's not here...at least I don't think so..." Sherlock sighed, he was tired. His legs slipped out from under him and he gave another short cry of pain as they hit the hard flooring.

"Sherlock! What happened?"

"I fell..." He muttered, "Lestrade we've gotta find John..."

"I know." Lestrade replied obviously trying to calm the detective and simultaneously keep him conscious, "Hang on for a bit Sherlock I'm almost there."

How could this of happened on Mycroft's watch? Sherlock was almost positive he at least had the flat bugged if not under video surveillance, surely he would of at least come and helped him if he knew what a state he was in. Sherlock was so confused and hurt he wouldn't of cared if his brother inflicted his presence upon him now, especially if he had answers.

"Mycroft..."

"What's that Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, the detective realized he'd said his brothers name aloud.

"Mycroft, he should've help..." Sherlock explained as best he could with his head pounding, "Why's he not 'ere?"

"Sherlock stay awake ok?"

Sherlock nodded dumbly, why had he done that? He knew Lestrade couldn't see him. Either way he stayed awake, leaning against the leg of the kitchen table. The sound of pounding feet on wooden stairs soon met his ears, as well as a door being thrown open.

"Sherlock?"

"Lestrade?"

"Oh my God! Sherlock!"

He felt Lestrade sit him up, he looked the man blearily in the eye, his face was shifting in and out of focus.

"Yeah, I need an ambulance to 221b Baker Street now!"

Lestrade must of been on the phone. Where was John? He didn't like hospitals, John knew that, he'd take care of him instead.

"John..." Sherlock called weakly

"We'll find him don't worry" Lestrade soothed.

Sherlock closed his eyes and slumped against the table, he'd used all his energy getting here and calling the inspector, he didn't have drop left. He was vaguely aware that Lestrade was calling to him, telling him to do...something. He couldn't make sense of the words. The pain of his injuries dulled and he was pulled into blessed darkness.