A/N: This work is a vignette which depicts what happens to John and Sherlock after their ordeal in my fic "Walking the Line". YOU NEED TO READ IT FIRST TO UNDERSTAND. Also, this fic deals with the aftermath of a sexual trauma. Be warned. If this is offensive to you, or is a possible trigger, stop now.

It was quiet in the flat, save for the sound of their breathing and the occasional hiss from Sherlock as the needle slipped through his skin. John was silent and methodical as he worked, mending the numerous slices on Sherlock's body with a detached tenderness. A testament to his medical training, really, this ability to push everything else aside for the moment and focus solely on his craft.

John's first order of business as he limped into the flat (yes, that was back again and even more pronounced) was to quickly and professionally disrobe Sherlock and get him into the shower, careful to get him clean of blood and dirt, while not disturbing any of his injuries. He fussed at first, brushing off John's insistent hands with a huffed quip of "Physician, heal thyself" but he was struck mute by the darkness in John's glared response that brooked no protest. Little wonder he was a captain with a look like that. So, he allowed John to bathe him and partially re-dress him before attending to the web of cuts and bruises upon his body downstairs.

This was nothing like any other A&E experience he'd had before. He was used to the cool, disdained efficiency of the nurses and doctors he had encountered over the years due to his own faults. Then again, the staff tended to not overly concern themselves with the mouthy arrogant bastard who almost died (again) because of his stupidity with drugs or being on the wrong end of murderer's weapon. He was just another body to be patched up and sent on its way.

This was different. John's focus was quiet and clear as he worked and Sherlock could almost see the wheels turning in John's brain. Calculating, developing a course of action, implementing procedure. He was surprised to find seeing all of that in John's face very calming. Because he knew what that felt like. Driving away all other thoughts and distractions to zoom in on the matter at hand and attack it without fear, without reservation. Confident in the knowledge of your skills, knowing you have the answers to put everything right.

John's head was bent in concentration as he put the finishing touches on the last set of stitches to Sherlock's side. He took the moment to observe John closely. The doctor was filthy, except for his hands, which had been scrubbed clean and then double gloved before he got started. Dried blood matted in crusty chunks in his hair, the short, sandy locks now a sickly shade of rust and even black in places. There was a patch of it missing above his right ear, a dark bloody mess in its place. Ripped out at the root. Sherlock paled.

John had shrugged on a clean t-shirt over the mess of his chest and back, but Sherlock knew he was hiding his own set of bruises and slashes underneath. John's face was dirty, covered with blood, grime, and sweat. There were tell-tale streaks beneath his eyes where tears had obviously flowed, and something deep within Sherlock clenched violently at the knowledge. His nose was swollen and purple, florid with bruising, as well as his right eye. There were cuts to the left side of his face, shallow ones, meant to sting and burn like fire as the salt of sweat and tears reached them. Hideous, yes, but no irreparable damage. Moran knew what he was doing.

And then there was John's mouth. Aside from a cut lip and some swelling, it seemed perfectly normal. Only it wasn't. Even though he didn't actually see what happened, he knew. It was like a swift kick to the gut. The horrible gagging noises and evil breathy grunts reared back and roared in Sherlock's head as if he'd switched on the hi-fi at full volume. The sound of violation screeched in his ears and he stared at John's lips, those seemingly unmarred lips, unable to tear his eyes away, the memory of what had been done to them as piercing as one of Moran's knives. His stomach rolled and he dashed for the kitchen, retching into the sink in great, gulping heaves.

He let the feeling pass and washed out the sink and his mouth and returned to John, who said nothing, in the living room. Sherlock sat down and let John finish taping bandages over the wounds. When he was done, John lifted his head to look at him and for the first time, he was unable to deduce John's expression. John simply stared back, as if he knew Sherlock was looking for something he wasn't going to find.

"John." The word passed his lips on a whisper as he reached out a hand to touch John's face. Why he needed to touch John, he didn't know.

The gesture came unbidden and his fingers were almost at John's cheek when John's eyes narrowed and he jerked back. "Don't, Sherlock."

Sherlock let his hand fall.

John's eyes drifted back to the bandages on Sherlock's torso. "You'll be fine. I'll keep them clean if you'll keep them dry."

Sherlock nodded silently, speech escaping him.

"Good. I'll have a shower, then," John said, repacking the first aid kit and moving to rise.

Sherlock grabbed for him. "Here, let me—"

"I SAID DON'T, SHERLOCK!" John snarled, pulling away, nearly falling onto the sofa.

Sherlock shrank back, dumbstruck. "I-I'm…I'm sorry, John."

John closed his eyes and huffed out a loud breath, the mask of focus and control returning to his face. "It's okay." He straightened upright, meeting Sherlock's startled eyes. "I'm sorry for yelling. Please. Just don't, Sherlock."

There was a horrid pull at the center of his chest and he felt his eyes begin to pool with wetness. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but to say what, he had no idea. He wanted to nod, to say okay, to acknowledge John, but he couldn't. Frozen in place by this alien sensation, this dirge of liquid in his eyes, it was all so overwhelming, so incomprehensible. So terrifying.

John turned and awkwardly, painfully, limped up the stairs, back straight as arrows, leaving Sherlock to gape after him. Once Sherlock heard the click of the bathroom door, he collapsed onto the sofa, unable to ward off the tears and the terror anymore.

OOOOOO

With tired, aching fingers, John stripped naked and turned the tap on the shower, letting the steam fill the small room. He got in and began to scrub furiously, not caring about adding more pain to the mix with the sting of the water and the soap on his open cuts, the need to become clean again overshadowing any desire to be careful with himself. He sighed heavily as the water ran rust with the dried blood, sluicing off him in hazy rivers until the water ran clear and he could scrub no more. It would have to do.

He hastily dried himself with a towel and went to stand in front of the sink, staring at the vision reflected back at him. It was not as bad as he imagined, his physical state. It was what boiled away inside him that was much worse.

He braced his hands on the rim of the porcelain and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. He couldn't shake the fog in his head, the roll of thunderous remembered sound, the ache and pain of fists to the body. He was littered with them, vivid purple and yellow contusions, marring his chest and back like splashes of color on a Pollack canvas. And the cuts. Shallow, stinging cuts like viper bites that seemed to ooze poison with their pain. He felt poisoned, sick on the inside, like there was something left in him to fester and rot. An injection of death administered by the stab of Moran's cock to the back of his throat, coating his soul in a thick wash of pain.

He clutched at the sink for purchase as his knees buckled, unable to support his frame along with the added weight of his suffering. He snorted, wanting to clear his mind, but he couldn't break past the sound of his own muffled screams.

He shook his head. It wasn't the act, he had to remind himself. God knows that wasn't it, he was in army, after all. All those bodies in close quarters, coming face to face with death on a minute to minute basis. It was only natural to seek out comfort and consolation in the warmth of another human being. Another human being to whom you were forced to place your trust, because all your lives depended on it. Death could come at any moment, it surrounded them, filtering through the air like sand through their tents at night, and it was the easiest thing in the world to give over for even a second of happiness. It was natural to need to feel alive, because death hovered, and death came, and it could be any one of them that death chose.

But those stolen moments had carried meaning, derived from a shared camaraderie; sex a basic need to soothe a shared terror. This was not about sex. This was violence, pure and evil at its heart, designed to debase and deconstruct. This was meant to break.

Silent tremors began quaking up from the base of John's spine, skittering away underneath his skin, spreading out over his battered flesh like ice. It curled upward into the heart of him, clawing at him until he couldn't breathe under its weight. He swallowed hard and still tasted Moran, bitter and strange, the heat of him lingering on his tongue, on the roof of his mouth, down in the recesses of his throat. The sides of his mouth twitched, remembering the burning stretch, the pain as his lip split, feeling the blood pool to lubricate the forced passage.

John's body bucked convulsively and he dove for the toilet, vomiting. He gagged and coughed, spitting up until he wracked with dry heaves, desperate to purge the poison from his system. He opened his mouth to scream, but he only managed a croaked shout, sinking to the floor in a huddled ball.

He lay there for a moment when Sherlock's voice drifted in from the other side of the door. "John? Are you alright? I'm coming in."

The door handle turned a fraction before he shouted, "No! Don't come in!" He sniffed and pulled himself up. "I'm fine. Just…just go make some tea, Sherlock. I'll be down in a minute."

He waited to hear the shuffle of Sherlock's feet and the creak of the stairs before grabbing the towel to his face and screaming his heart out.

OOOOOO

He heard John's footfalls on the stairs and arranged the cups on the table, fussing over their precise placement, not knowing what else to do with his hands. Sherlock looked up as John breached the threshold of the living room and his heart gave a violent lurch as he took in the sight of his friend. What crossed over to the sofa was not his John. Not the John whose sure and steady hands had stitched him closed, not the John who had performed with such composure. This John was broken.

It was in the set of his slumped shoulders, the ever-present limp of pain, and the lines on his battered, tear-stained face. Something in Sherlock crumpled and again the unfamiliar feelings began working their way through his blood. He blinked furiously and looked away, sliding the cup down the table to John.

John accepted the cup in silence, taking a small sip and wincing slightly before taking another long draw. He set the cup down and curled back into the sofa, averting his gaze from Sherlock. Sherlock retreated to his corner, tucking his feet underneath him and wrapping his dressing gown even more tightly around himself, as if to ward off a chill. He took a sudden interest in the worn cushions, looking for patterns of wear, wondering if it was connected to the ancient stitching of the fabric. An easy way to lose several minutes.

But the feelings burrowing their way through him were nothing, if not persistent, and soon he was helpless against them. "John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Are you alright?"

"Yes. You've asked me that."

"I know, but I don't think I believe you."

"Why would I lie?"

"I'm concerned, John."

"Don't be. I'm fine."

Sherlock unfurled his legs and leaned forward, biting the bullet to look directly at John. "Why did you come?"

John snorted. "Same reason you did, I suppose."

"I didn't want you to come." The admission felt strange on his tongue.

"I didn't really want to." John rubbed a hand over his face, gingerly skirting over the lumps, to pinch at the bridge of his nose. "Do we really have to do this, Sherlock?"

Sherlock scooted closer, unsure as to why proximity was now suddenly a priority. "I just want to understand why—"

"Look, if you haven't noticed, we've been in the clutches of not one, but two madmen this evening, so I can really do without the ramblings of a third."

Sherlock jerked back as if struck. "It's not your fault, John," he offered.

John's neck whipped around so fast Sherlock thought he would get whiplash. "I. KNOW. THAT." John's face began to flush and twist as he went on. "I didn't ask to be strapped into a parka full of Semtex. I didn't ask to be a target to a firing squad. And I sure as hell didn't ask to be beaten to a fucking pulp and orally raped!" His breathing came faster and he closed his eyes, taking in deep gulps of air. When John opened his eyes and looked at him again, Sherlock could see hurt and pain glimmering in their depths. "But I can deal with this. In my own time. In my own way."

Sherlock did start rambling now, the words falling out of his mouth without thought, the intense rush of emotion spurring them on. "It's my fault, John. All my fault. If it weren't for me, Moriarty wouldn't have wanted you. Or Moran. If you weren't my flatmate, they wouldn't have bothered. It shouldn't matter, that, but it does. All of your instincts should have told you not come, but you did, and it's my fault. Because if I hadn't goaded you into this mess, this wouldn't have happened. You shouldn't have come, John. You shouldn't have come. Why? Why did you come?"

"Shut up!" John yelled. "I came you idiot, because I…because you're my friend," he finished. "Because I knew you needed me. And you did." There was a softening to his face. "Had you trussed up like a chicken, didn't he? You weren't going to talk your way out of that."

"He wasn't going to kill us, you know." Sherlock picked at the edge of the dressing gown in his fingers. "He wanted to break us. Part of the game."

"I know that, too," John said softly.

"It was terrible," Sherlock whispered, a shiver passing over him as he remembered. "Seeing you in that parka, thinking that the game had suddenly gone all wrong. And I didn't want to play anymore." He swallowed, and chewed on his bottom lip and moved closer, until they were facing each other, almost touching. "And then when Moran…" he couldn't bring himself to say it, "had you, I-I wanted to spare you that. I wanted to trade places with you. I wanted it to be me. Just so long as it wasn't you."

"Oh, Sherlock," John breathed. "It couldn't have been you. You wouldn't have been able to withstand it. Men like Moran know that. You're not built for that. I am."

"I can withstand torture," Sherlock sniffed defiantly.

"Not like that," John shook his head. "That kind of violence is a language you don't speak."

"You're not immune," Sherlock challenged. "I can see it."

"No, I'm not," he agreed. "But I will recover. I don't think you would have fared half as well."

"I couldn't stand to see you like that," Sherlock murmured. His shoulders began to shake and he leaned in, and thankfully, John's arms folded around him. He sagged against him, mindful of their injuries, and just listened to the sound of John's heart beating out a quiet rhythm. "I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry." The tears were flowing now without cease, and everything drifted away, all the pain, the confusion, the desperation. The only thing he knew was the soothing sound of John's heart and the warmth of his arms.

This was new and frightening and comforting and somehow, right. This depth of feeling for another person. In his heart Sherlock knew it was these feelings, these emotions, which made John a target. Because this was where he was vulnerable. Because John was in his heart. And what that meant, he didn't know. For once, not knowing didn't bother him. He would figure it out in due course; he always did. There was likely a considerable amount of data to be gathered on the subject, and possibly an experiment or two. There were lots of things to discover.

OOOOOO

There was one thing, though, burning at the back of his mind, now becoming more important than anything.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was hesitant.

"What?"

"I-I want…I feel like I need to kiss you. Would that be alright?" The uncertainty in Sherlock's eyes was tangible; it wavered in the moment like a touch, lingering in the air on all that was unspoken between them.

"Yes."

John kept still, afraid that a sudden movement would spook him like a frightened animal, and that what's Sherlock was, a frightened animal, desperate to belong, to be cared for. He relaxed as Sherlock leaned forward and pressed cool lips to his. It was feather light and whispery soft, a brush of skin against skin. He tilted his face up, letting Sherlock set the pace as he became bolder. The softness slowly vanished and Sherlock increased the pressure of his mouth and everything suddenly became clear. Kissing Sherlock was like coming home at Christmas, all warmth and comforting heat, the feeling of belonging so inherent it was like his life had never existed before this, and everything he ever could have wanted or imagined was right here, buried deep in the taste of Sherlock.

As kisses go, it was demure in its innocence, and any and all others in his lifetime would never compare to the singular, shining perfection it contained.

Sherlock pulled away, a myriad of emotions swirling in the depths of his face, only some of his confusion gone. He snuffled and John pulled him close, hugging him tightly to his chest, pressing soft kisses at the crown of his head. John closed his eyes and breathed out a long sigh of acceptance. There would be more questions, more confusion. But right now all that mattered was the long, lean body of the man in his arms and the need to keep him quiet and safe.

There would be more risk involved, risk and the heart had been inexorably linked since the beginning of time. But with great risk comes great reward. And hadn't he already taken at least part of that risk when he moved in to the flat in the first place? There would be more danger, definitely, as danger and Sherlock were as intertwined as the blood and breath in his body. But something in him knew that as risky and dangerous as it was, the reward would be worth it.

But what if the risk was too great? What if they became lost to one another? What then? Losing Sherlock would destroy him, he just discovered, and he tucked that inside, far away, to dwell on another time. Right now, here in this moment, the danger was confirmed, the risk justified. This moment was a reward of its own, and for now, it was enough.

END.