Sherlock drove through the city as fast as he could. He ignored traffic laws and weaved in between cars. He was following a road that should lead him to the country side, and then the cottage. Mycroft had been keeping quiet for awhile while he searched for John or Eric's phone.

After an hour, Sherlock reached the country side. He was driving and looking for the correct roads to take. He had memorized the directions to speed the process. As he drove around, it became more and more isolated. His mind was so occupied, he couldn't think of extra factors.

After a couple more hours of driving, the sun started to rise. He had reached the last road that lead to the cottage, and once he arrived, he stopped the motorcycle. He texted Mycroft and then got his gun ready. He ran towards the house.

He didn't bother knocking, and just kicked the door down. 

"John!" He called. No answer. The inside seemed very old and unused. No one had lived there for years. 

He searched around the rooms and saw nothing unusual. He went into the bedroom, and found a picture of Eric at his college graduation. Next to him was a shorter man, with a large scar down his face. Distinctly of a serrated blade cut downwards.

As Sherlock searched around, he realized the man was a doctor at some point. He had many before and after photos of scars he had given patients. He even found some photos of before and after scar removal. There was a lot of information about scars, and it seems that Eric specialized in treating them. 

His phone rang and picked it up.

"We've got them pin pointed. Go east. I'll direct you to them." Mycroft said.

Sherlock walked out of the house and headed east. Every couple of steps Mycroft would adjust his directions. Sherlock walked further and further away from the house and into the fields. There were rolling hills and sheep. 

"You're close. Keep going north." Mycroft told him.

After a little longer, Mycroft stopped him. "You should be directly on top of him." Mycroft said. 

Sherlock looked around and saw nothing. "I'm in the middle of a bloody field with sheep. There's no one here." Sherlock exclaimed into the speaker.

He dropped down to his knees and looked around for a cell phone. Maybe Eric buried it.

He dug up the area and found nothing. 

"I know my system is not flawed. You are on top of them. His phone is there." Mycroft told him.

Sherlock thought for a moment, and had an idea. He pulled out the note and looked through it. He knew the note was written weirdly, so there must have been a clue.

Dear Sherlock, I see you have found
the note, so that means yo
u have a
nother case. Find Joh
n Watson. I'm in anoth
er safe house with John. Hurry up, time is ticking. Sincere
ly, Eric Thomas.

Sherlock broke down the note for any code. He tried binary first, but that didn't work out.

'I am on top of them. So where are they?' Sherlock thought. The realization hit him. He looked back at the note and figured it out.

Dear Sherlock, I see you have found
t    he note, so that means yo
u   have a
n   other case. Find Joh
n   Watson. I'm in anoth
e   r safe house with John. Hurry up, time is ticking. Sincere
l    y, Eric Thomas.

"Tunnels!" Sherlock exclaimed into the speaker phone. "I'm on top of them because they are underground!" 

Mycroft looked for any known construction, but found nothing. "There's no data on construction besides plumbing." Mycroft told him.

"Bullshit. You don't need workers to build tunnels. You can dig them yourself. I'm heading back to the house. There must be a secret entrance. Can you try looking for a trace of his footsteps? It can tell me where the entrance to the tunnel is." Sherlock asked.

"I can certainly try." Mycroft promised.

Sherlock hung up and ran back to the cottage. He searched around the house for anything. He tore up carpets, teared down bookshelves, and moved around furniture. He couldn't find any entrances.

He looked in the fridge, pushed on the backs of cabinet's, and tried to find loose floor boards. But he couldn't find anything. 

He walked around the house and found a cellar. He opened it, but saw nothing inside. It was completely empty. 

He looked around and kicked up leaves and dirt in case there was a hidden hatch. He even checked the trees for authenticity. Nothing.

As he walked around, he noticed that the house was raised off the ground in one area, and there were boards covering something. Sherlock kicked them in and discovered a crawl space underneath. He flashed his phone inside, and saw a drop. It was a hole under the house. He sent a quick text to Mycroft about the hole, and texted Lestrade to bring backup.

Sherlock crawled underneath and dropped down into the hole. He found a small hatch, made of wood. He kicked it down and crawled through. He dropped down in a cement tunnel, and he smelled something foul. Even he nearly gagged. 

He walked down the corridor and looked around. The tunnel was lighted with hanging lightbulbs, and there were vents. Most likely he filled the area with air from an air tank.

As he walked down, the smell got worse, and he started to notice something awful.

All over the walls there were pieces of flesh hung up. They were vacuum packed and filled with formaldehyde. Sherlock looked at one, and realized it was a scar. Most likely from a scalpel since it was such a professional incision. 

Sherlock held his gun up and walked down further. "John! It's me! Where are you!?" Sherlock called. "Eric it's over! I've called reinforcements!" Sherlock exclaimed. His voice only echoed for a moment. He was reaching the end of the tunnel.

The tunnel got dark for a moment, then lit back up. He found himself standing in a room, with the walls covered in preserved scars. He looked forward, and saw John strapped down for a dentist chair. And Eric stood over him with a scalpel. Eric looked over and smiled to Sherlock.

"So nice of you to meet us here. I was wondering when you'd come see the show." Eric said. Sherlock looked around, and noticed a glass wall. There was an entire glass was between them, and a metal door. There were slits in the glass so the two could speak and so Eric and John could breath.

Sherlock raised the gun and shot at the glass. There were cracks, but it wouldn't break. It was bulletproof glass.

"Not too smart are you. It's bulletproof, and the door is made of iron. You won't get pas it." Eric told him. 

Sherlock looked over John. His short was off, exposing his shoulder bullet scar, and his many other smaller, more miniscule, scars. On his calf, was a freshly stitched cut in the shape of a star. 

"Admiring my work, I see. I thought awhile ago that giving people cool new scars would add to my collection. I thought a star was fitting of John. Although I planned to keep him alive till the wound healed, his life may have to be short lived now that you're here." Eric said. 

"Don't you dare hurt him." Sherlock threatened. 

Eric smiled and moved his scalpel close to John's scar. "Or what? You'll shoot me?" Eric laughed.

Sherlock looked around for anything. He tried finding a nail, but the scars were hung up with tape. Sherlock scoured around for something compact and small.

Just as he thought he was hopeless, he found a tiny little stone. It was mostly smooth, but one end was pointed from being broken.

He started to panic when he heard a groan through the glass.

Eric was cutting into John's scar slowly, and John was somewhat conscious enough to feel it.

Sherlock broken down a wooden chair and stuck the stone in between a wood slat.

He backed up, and then rammed at the glass with the stone's point facing it. The glass cracked considerable. Eric stopped and noticed that the glass was failing. 

"Stop that! Don't do it!" Eric yelled. Eric tried cutting in the scar again, but he was being careful with it. He wanted it to be a clean job.

Sherlock rammed the glass more, and it cracked more. Pieces started to fall off making the area of glass thinner.

Sherlock shot at the weak spot multiple times until he had one bullet left. Then he took the butt of the gun and started to hit the weak spot till there was a hole large enough for his arm to fit through.

He stuck his arm in and aimed his gun at Eric's chest. Eric stopped and held his hands up.

"Be careful. You've got one bullet, and I'm at the advantage." Eric grinned. He held the scalpel to John's artery.

Sherlock pulled his arm out and lowered his gun. "What do you want? I've give you anything. You want a bullet wound scar, I'll give it to you." Sherlock said. He pulled up his shirt to show the scar that Mary gave him.

He looked at it and seemed to consider it. But in the end he denied it. "You're scar was done in a professional setting. The reason I like war scars is because they are less professional and imperfect. They were done under different circumstances and the stories are different. John's caused a psychosomatic limp. That's incredible since those usually happen when the person is shot in the opposite leg of the limp. But it was his shoulder that caused it. Having John's scar will add variety to my collection." Eric explained.

Eric repositioned himself and held the scalpel to John's throat. "I like making scars as much as I like removing them. As a doctor, I used to cut off scars and do skin grafts over them. Then with proper treatment the client is left with an almost unnoticeable scar and I'm left with the excess. But recently I've been delving into handmade scars. You know that after the scar is halfway healed, you can kill the person and the scar will continue to heal. It's kind of like how a person's hair and nails continue to grow after death. It doesn't always provide the prettiest scars, but when you're in a rush, it works out."

He dragged the scalpel very lightly over John's skin and made a delicate cut. He was bleeding very minimally and his wind pipe was not injured in anyway. John didn't move, but once the scalpel was away, he groaned. John definitely had some consciousness left, and he was fighting to stay awake. Yet he was being tortured in small ways through the process.

"Do you do skin grafts over your victims?" Sherlock asked. 

Eric laughed. "Why would I? They'd leave then call the cops on me. So I naturally have to kill them. You should have seen my last customer. I held him here for months and made small designer scars. Once they were healed, I started cutting them off. He cried a lot during the procedure. I think he died in the middle of it because he stopped moving. But I didn't check."

Sherlock stood there and watched him. Every time Eric went for another cut, Sherlock stopped to get him to talk more. He was trying to buy time for the reinforcements that he hoped were coming.

"Why do you like scars so much?" Sherlock asked.

Eric pulled over a chair and sat down. "Because they're beautiful. Each scar is unique in it's own way, with it's own story. You never see a scar that is identical to another. Because a stitch can always change and alter the end product." 

Sherlock understood the idea. Although he disagreed that they were attractive. It depends on how you saw them.

"So what, you memorize each scar's story?" Sherlock said.

Eric shook his head. He went to a filing cabinet and opened them. "In each drawer is a serial number of each scar, and the story in great detail. I like to organized. So I code every scar on the back, put them in sections, and write reports. Then I add a photo to verify the scar. I'm professional with this hobby of mine, and I like to keep it neat." Eric told him.

Sherlock listened, and he heard a very faint noise. It seems that Eric had not heard it, or was not worried. The two continued to talk, and Sherlock continued to hear more noises.

"Well enough small talk. I'm going to continue cutting this scar off. Feel free to continue the conversation. I'll be in here working and listening." Eric decided.

He turned back to John's shoulder, and went back in for another cut. He made sure to clean the area of the blood so he had a good view of the scar.

"Stop, please. Please stop!" Sherlock pleaded. But Eric just continued his work. Sherlock was at least glad that Eric was slow in his work.

Sherlock heard a step. It was a mistaken step, because the person knocked over something in the dark. Reinforcements were there and waiting. Sherlock stepped to the side and waved his hand forward for them. 

Suddenly, the team of armed men made their presence know. They shot bullets around the perimeter of the glass. With all the force on the glass, the entire wall collapsed and the barrier was torn down. 

Eric held a scalpel to John's neck. "Lower your weapons or I'll end him." Eric exclaimed.

Sherlock held his gun up to Eric and made sure the bullet was in the barrel ready for fire.

"Let him go, and we won't shoot." Sherlock ordered. 

Eric held the scalpel to John's throat, and his hand didn't waver. Both Sherlock and Eric heard a loud noise come from above. It was long enough to distract Eric, but not Sherlock. 

Sherlock aimed his gun at Eric's head, and took him out.

The team went to secure the body and Sherlock unstrapped John from the chair.

"Hey, hey. John. Wake up, I'm going to get you out of here." Sherlock said, smacking his face lightly. John tried waking up, but the drugs were weighing him down. 

Sherlock looked him over, and was relieved to see that the drugs weren't dangerous. Eric had routinely dosed him with ruffies to keep him weak and tired, meaning John wasn't in any danger besides the cuts on his body.

Mycroft's group helped bring John out carefully and an ambulance was there to take him to the hospital. Sherlock rode in the back while Mycroft took back the motorcycle.

When they got to the hospital, John was sent to a room to be detoxed of the ruffies, and then they restitched his cuts and bandaged the cut on his neck. He was still out of it, so they let him rest in his own hospital room till his system was clear. 

Sherlock pulled up a chair and sat next to the bed. He promised that he would wait for John to wake up, just like John would have if Sherlock was in the same situation.

And so Sherlock waited for John to wake up. And as John slept in the hospital, he got occasional visitors.

After a day and a half of rest, John had finally started to form sentences.

"Where am I?" John asked quietly. His eyes were half closed, squinting from the fluorescent lights.

"You're in the hospital. Eric drugged you up and tried to cut off your scars." Sherlock told him.

"Why?" John asked. 

"He was obsessed with scars. He had a collection hung up on his wall, and he wanted your bullet scar to be added to the list. He also wanted to give you a unique scar, so you're going to have a star scar for a long time. He didn't expect a whole team to come in and save you." Sherlock told him.

John nodded and thought about it. "Well at least it's shaped like a star. Now I've got a story to pair with a cool scar." John joked. Sherlock smiled, knowing that John didn't feel bad about it.

"Sorry I left you. I didn't realize what kind of danger you were in when I left." Sherlock apologized.

"Don't worry about it. All that matters is that you came for me in the end. I don't expect you to know exactly when I'm in danger, 24/7." John said. He lifted his arm up and patted Sherlock's hand for reassurance. "Plus it's not like I went through a major surgery. I just got stitches and a hospital room." 

Sherlock let John fall back asleep since he was fighting the drugs. Sherlock moved his chair closer to John's bed and leaned back in the chair.

Mycroft knocked on the door and walked in. 

"How is the bride-to-be doing?" Mycroft said sarcastically.

Sherlock's brow raised. "John's male and not engaged. But he is doing well, if that's what you meant."

Mycroft shook his head. "You need to update your sarcasm knowledge." Mycroft commented.

"John and I are working on that. So far I can understand one or two types of voices that constitute sarcasm." Sherlock told him. "So what can you tell me about Eric's hobby?"

Mycroft leaned up against the wall and crossed his arms. "Eric killed 5 people. He kept them alive for a substantial amount of time so their scars could heal, then he cut them off. All didn't survive the procedure. Before that, he illegally took the scars that he cut off during his work, and preserved them on display. Even though that is against the law since they would have to sign certain papers to have their flesh preserved and displayed."

"So we caught a serial killer, and I was allowed to shoot him. I now see the positivity in all this." Sherlock said happily. 

Mycroft grinned at Sherlock's enthusiasm. He noticed the big changes that were happening with Sherlock. He expressed emotion more, especially with John. Mycroft pulled a chair up in front of Sherlock.

"How about we have a brotherly chat?" Mycroft suggested. "Am I imagining your sentiment, or are you actually feeling sentiment towards others?" He asked.

Sherlock nodded. "I still think sentiment is weak, but I guess that just makes me weaker. But then again, I think feeling sentiment is helping me. So to me, sentiment isn't a negative idea anymore." 

"What about feelings? I know that sociopaths don't fall in love, but I've noticed many things over the past couple of years that proves otherwise." He said.

"Really? What have you noticed?" Sherlock asked curiously. He did want to know what Mycroft had observed, since he hadn't observed anything like that.

"The first day you and John met, you went around solving murders as if you had been doing it for years. You two always lived together, and only till John found a wife did he move out of the flat. You and John have constantly stuck together no matter what, and you are each other's best friend. Anytime the other is in trouble, the other runs to their rescue. You have sacrificed yourself many times for John, and you still do without knowing it. You sacrifice your happiness subconsciously because you haven't realized it yet. And it seems only Mary and I caught on to just how much you have been suffering over the years. Each day you become more attached, and it's evident." Mycroft explained to Sherlock.

Sherlock thought about it, but he wasn't sure if he was understanding Mycroft correctly. "I'm not sure I quite understand. You seem to know how I feel. So tell me how I feel."

Mycroft shook his head. "I promised Mrs. Hudson and Molly that I would let you realize it yourself. But for now, I've got to go. I've got a meeting with the prime minister." He excused himself, and left the room.

Sherlock thought about it, and subconsciously went to his mind palace looking for answers. He searched thought his memories and tried to sort them in a new file labeled 'Emotions'. He had never had an emotions file, but he thought that maybe he should. He ordered memories into anger, sadness, happiness, excitement, and love. 

At first he wasn't sure what to put in the love folder, but he decided that anything he enjoyed would be put there. 

It took him hours, but he managed to sort everything. And when he looked through his love file, John was almost always in every memory.

Sherlock was thrown out of his mind palace when he heard John wake up.

John was a lot more alert now, and was even able to sit himself up. The doctor checked him, and it seems that John was nearly clean of the drugs. After another day, John was able to move around his left leg perfectly. His right leg was the problem. Mostly his calf. 

Eric had cut deep into John's calf, so it created a little limp while the stitched were recovering.

"I doubt you will be limping for long. Once the wound has healed some more, you should be good to run around. But for now I'd suggest using a cane and abstain from running." The doctor recommended John. 

"Great. After my search to eliminate my limp, I get a physical limp." John sighed.

"You'll be fine. I'll do the running for the mean time. And if now, we can ride around on a motorcycle and chase the bag guy." Sherlock joked, trying to ease the situation.

Sherlock brought John his cane, and he was finally discharged from the hospital. With some different clothes that Mrs. Hudson brought, the three rode back to the flat in a cabby.

John's limp seemed to be standard. It was just like his psychosomatic limp, except he left pain instead of general weakness. 

He slowly walked up the stairs and rested on the couch. Mrs. Hudson made tea for everyone and they caught up. Mrs. Hudson seemed to like the action part of the whole story, even though she still thought it was horrible. 

Mrs. Hudson left and Sherlock and John were left with the clients. John sort of enjoyed the limited mobility. Sherlock did more for him, like making the coffee and tea, and handing him things. He even brought John the takeout.

Since John couldn't walk up a lot of stairs, he remained in the living room and slept on the couch, which forced Sherlock to stay in his room. He didn't want to disturb John any further while he tried to sleep.

"Goodnight John." Sherlock said as he gathered his violin and bow to bring to his room.

"You know, Sherlock, you don't have to play in your room. I know you like playing the violin and looking out of the window. You can play here, it won't bother me." John told him.

"If you say so, then I guess I'll stay here." Sherlock decided.

He went back to the window and looked over some new sheet music.

"Goodnight Sherlock." John said from his place on the couch.

"Goodnight John." Sherlock said back.

Sherlock raised his bow and started to play the violin. While Sherlock thought he was hindering John's ability to sleep, he was actually helping him. Because as soon as Sherlock started playing the violin, John fell asleep.