Note: This fic is a Work in Progress and while I have the entire thing written out in my head, typing it out will take some time (especially with my rehearsal schedule) so do not hesitate to bother me for updates and such, as it will motivate me to get it done. I have no idea exactly how long it's going to be and while I have an outline of events be sure to comment with some of your own ideas and I might just use them!

Trigger warning for non-graphic rape as well as a billion pounds of angst everywhere you turn.

Chapter One: To the Sky

John couldn't breathe. The weight that had been crushing his chest left abruptly, but his lungs still felt as though they were folding into themselves and it wasn't a pleasant feeling. Though, compared to everything else he was feeling right now, it wasn't too bad. He didn't know where he was. Didn't want to know where he was. All he knew was that he wanted to leave. To get out of there as soon as he could and try with everything inside of him to forget about what had just happened. He didn't want to remember.

He heard a door slam shut and after straining his ears for a few moments, he could identify a shower being turned on. His heart lurched in his chest. Though he knew he was alone, he kept his eyes squeezed shut, a part of him still holding on to the thin hope that this could all be some dream. Some sick, terrifying, alcohol-induced nightmare that he would wake up from soon. There had been a few tears clinging to the edges of his eyes and he felt them finally fall, tracing a path down his cheeks that had already been covered.

He focused on the feeling of the tear sliding down his face as he tried to calm his breathing. It worked, but when he was no longer focused on his lungs, the reality of the rest of his pain had room to kick in and the only thought he had was that everything hurt. His shoulderblades and lower back from being pushed around roughly; his torso from where he'd been used as some sort of ashtray; his hips from sharp nails digging into them hard enough to draw blood. A dull, constant ache in the front of his head reminded him of how his skull had been acquainted with the wall when he'd tried helplessly to fight back.

And his wrists. If John absolutely had to pick out what it was that hurt the most, his wrists would be at the top of that list. He could feel the blood trickling slowly down his arm as he realized that they were still tied above his head onto the headboard. It must have been an old, worn rope that had been used because after all the motion from earlier, it didn't take long for John to wiggle out of the bind.

He finally opened his eyes and slowly, carefully, risked sitting up. The shower was still going somewhere in a room away from him. He couldn't remember when it had started and he certainly had no idea whatsoever when it would end. Waiting for his eyesight to adjust to the dim lighting of the room, he carefully massaged the area around his reddened, raw wrists, trying to take inventory; to catalogue his injuries. Even now, John was still playing Doctor.

Sherlock would laugh at that, he thought. Or at least chuckle.

Thinking of Sherlock made him want to disappear into the rough sheets beneath him and never surface again. God, what was he going to do? What was he supposed to say? But first: How could he get out of here?

He didn't even know where here was. His brain was fogged by the unbearable pain and the alcohol he had earlier consumed, the previous six scotches still having yet to wear off. A part of him supposed he deserved it- what should you expect after sharing a cab with a stranger whom you'd just met? And at a pub, no less. The logical part; the doctor part, tried to fight him on his logic. He had dealt with such cases before. How many times had he told people it wasn't their fault? However his current state screamed back at that part, and he was far too exhausted to argue.

So yes. This was all his fault.

His vision having finally cleared, he spotted his clothes thrown in a heap a few feet away. Only when he spotted them did he realized just how naked he was. He chanced moving again, his head swimming with stars the second he threw his legs over the side of the bed. He doubted his movements could be heard through walls and a running shower, but he wasn't risking anything. Walking slowly, partially to be quiet and partially because of the pain, he approached his clothes and stepped into his jeans, silently thanking whatever God there may be that his phone was still sitting in the bottom of his pocket.

He raised his arms carefully, wincing and sucking in a sharp breath when doing so stretched the still fresh burns that peppered his torso. The feeling was made worse by the light fabric of his shirt smothering them but it was a dull pain he could attempt to ignore. At least for now.

Looking around, he couldn't spot his jacket or shoes anywhere and wasn't very fond of the idea to stay and search. He didn't want to be here any longer than he had to be.

He found the door and opened it, quietly slipping out just as he thought he heard the shower switching off. As soon as the door clicked shut behind him he ran as fast as he could. As fast as the fire searing through his veins would allow him to. And he didn't stop. The adrenaline in his system overrode the alcohol and kept him on his feet as he bolted down three flights of stairs and through the streets. He ran and ran and didn't know where the hell he was going and didn't care, really, just as long as it was far away from there.

He ran until he physically couldn't any longer. Until the adrenaline boost wore off and his head was disagreeing fiercely and he had to stop. Breathing heavily, he leaned against a slick streetlamp, just now noticing that it was raining. Hard. The world around him was dark. Quiet. Calm. No one even acutely aware of what had just happened not too long ago. He stood for a moment or two longer before he knees finally gave out and he slid down, back against the pole.

He was soaked in sweat and rain and his shirt clung to every part of his body, making his burns sting even more than they already were. Some part of his brain was still thinking logically, and it was this part that took over. John didn't even register his hands reaching in his pockets, searching for his phone. He looked at his screen without really seeing, dialing the memorized number on autopilot, silently willing the line not to go dead. Sherlock's voice came on after a few very long seconds, sharp and alert. Hearing it made John want to sob- with relief, guilt or just plain hurt, he didn't know. He managed to get some words out; answer a few necessary questions.

But Sherlock's voice was so soothing and it was dark and cold and he was hurting and he just wanted the pain to stop- at least for a little bit he wanted it all to stop. And his head was screaming and buzzing and his chest was on fire and the blood from his wrists was mixing with the rain and all he wanted to do was sleep. Just curl into himself and sleep so that when he awoke, he would be in his bed and the entire night would prove to have been just another nightmare.

Sherlock wasn't worried: why would he be? Worry was simplistic and mundane and just plain useless. Anyway, he knew where John was so there was no need to be worried. Except that even when they had a particularly bad fight, John was always home by two. He tried to brush it off; John was a full grown man, afterall and therefore allowed to stay out as long as he damn well pleased.

But, just to be safe, Sherlock had called Richie to have him keep an eye on him. When he called, however, he learned that John had left the pub almost an hour before. Sherlock didn't hold back as he chewed Richie out for letting John leave alone(he'd had quite a good amount to drink, according to the bartender). Sherlock hung up and did a quick search in his mind, trying to figure out where John could have gotten in an hour. Where would he want to go so late at night?

He rolled his eyes at himself in annoyance. He was being ridiculous. Possessive. Wasn't that the reason for their earlier fight, anyway? The reason John was gone so late at night, instead of here in the flat with Sherlock? He typed out a quick text anyway, letting the doctor know he could come back home now and that, really, wasn't he being just a bit ridiculous?

Knowing he wouldn't be able to sleep until John was with him, he abandoned the experiment he'd been trying to do and moved to his violin just as rain started falling lightly.

An hour and a half later, Sherlock almost didn't hear his phone going off over the music that was still erupting from the instrument in his hands. He threw it haphazardly into John's chair and lunged for his phone that was still lying on the kitchen countertop. Seeing John's name on the caller ID he answered immediately.

"John." Part of him, though he would never verbally admit it, was relieved. It was almost four am, and John had never been out that long. Sherlock had room to worry. But now that John was calling him, and he knew that he was safe... he was better. He listened closely, waiting for John to reply. The sound of the rain was definite on John's end. So John was outside, then?

"John, are you there?"

"Oh, God, Sherlock, I-" whatever John was going to say was interrupted by a strangled sob escaping his throat. He sounded... Sherlock couldn't even identify it. He sounded not like John and it made his heart pound faster with worry. He listened as John started mumbling incoherent things, trying to pick out useful information but he got nothing. Nothing. A bubble of frustration threatened to burst within him but he had to stay calm. At least until he got to John.

He worked on getting his coat and shoes on and then hailing a cab while trying to calm John down long enough to talk to him. "John, listen to me... John... I need you to tell me where you are... I know, John but I need to know... Okay, then look around- what's there? Street signs, building numbers, anything... Good. Okay. I'm on my way now."

John's words became more mumbled and a bit slurred in a way that didn't sound alcohol induced. A way that genuinely worried him. "John I need you to keep talking to me... No, stay on the phone... I know but you have to stay awake for a bit longer, John... I'm on my way now..." he yelled at the cabbie to go faster- screw the wet roads, he needs to get to John now. He kept talking, repeating himself, trying to keep John awake at least until he wasn't alone anymore. The line went quiet for a moment and Sherlock froze until John mumbled something again. As they pulled onto the assumed street, Sherlock looked around anxiously, trying to spot John through the darkness; the rain had subsided into a light sort of mist, but it didn't make seeing him any easier. He ordered the cabbie to slow down so that he could see better but didn't actually see John until they were about five feet away from him.

Screaming at the now annoyed cabbie to stop, Sherlock hopped out of the car before it had completely halted, rushing over to John's side. John was soaking wet and freezing cold. Sherlock tried to figure out just how long his doctor had been sitting out here but with no luck. As soon as he saw John he stopped, his heart lurching uncomfortably within his chest. The first thing he noticed was the cut peaking out from John's hairline. It was relatively deep, but had stopped bleeding at least half an hour ago. Despite the rain, there was dried blood both in John's hair and speckled about his face. Before Sherlock could check for any other injuries, he saw just how bad John was shaking. Putting a hand tentatively to John's cheek, Sherlock tried to turn his head; get John to look at him.

John flinched violently at the touch and Sherlock had to tell himself not to be hurt by the reaction. "John, it's just me." he said in what he hoped was a soothing voice. John peered at him wearily through the corner of his eye, but still wouldn't look at him. Sherlock needed to get him out of the rain and inside so that he could warm up, but it was going to be impossible if he wasn't allowed to even touch him and, by the looks of him, there was no way he'd be able to stand on his own.

Headlights illuminated the space around them and Sherlock squinted to see who it was that was pulling over to obviously try and talk to them. As the figure came into focus, Sherlock sighed. "Prying again, are we?" his words held none of their usual bite. He was too distracted by John to be annoyed at Mycroft right now. He would make up for it later.

"Hardly. The hospital has been called and they are awaiting Dr. Watson's arrival. I assumed you would like a more... private method of transportation." Mycroft indicated the cab still waiting a little ways down the street from where he was currently crouched.

"Hospital?" Sherlock asked, confused and a bit frustrated. John was hurt, yes, but he didn't want him in the hospital. He wanted him back at Baker Street in their bed wrapped in his arms.

"Look at the state of him, Sherlock. There's no way you can treat him on your own at home. Besides, I suspect the doctors will want to run an exam and collect all the evidence they need." Confused, Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement, too distracted to ask what Mycroft meant by needing evidence.

"John, can you stand?" despite his nod, Sherlock didn't believe he could. He looked so weak, so exhausted, Sherlock was afraid he would pass out right then and there. He let his hand linger just beneath John's elbow as John attempted to stand, leaning slightly on Sherlock as he did so. Once he was straight, his knees almost buckled beneath him again. Sherlock grabbed him before he could fall, his hand on John's upper left arm while the other grabbed his right wrist. John cried out in pain; the sound loud and heart wrenching before it became muffled. John had buried his head into Sherlock's chest, breathing shallowly.

"It's okay, John. It's just a few steps. The car's right here." Again, John nodded. Sherlock loosened his grip only slightly as they made their way slowly to the sleek black car parked three and a half feet away from them. Normally, Sherlock would be able to cover the distance in two and a half easy strides. But John was apparently injured in more places than just his head, resulting in him walking slowly and carefully. The process was made even shorter by the wet ground Sherlock was afraid John would slip on.

Finally, they were to the car. It opened and Sherlock carefully tucked John inside, not missing how John winced and cringed multiple times during the process. It wasnt until they were both within the sanctuary that Sherlock started breathing somewhat normally. He shrugged out of his coat, wrapped it around John's frame and pulled him close to his chest, holding him gently as sobs and chills shook his body.

Sherlock had a million questions. What had happened? Who did it? Where the hell were they now? How long had John been sitting alone in the cold? How bad, exactly were his injuries? But he couldnt ask them right now. Right now, John needed attention that he couldn't give. He wasn't sure if he should let John slip into sleep- weren't you supposed to stay awake after receiving a head wound until you knew just how bad it was?

John curled even farther into Sherlock, as though trying to disappear within the folds of his clothes. Sherlock's first instinct was to cling to John tighter but he restrained, weary of John's injuries. He settled for bringing a hand to the base of his neck, twisting his fingers lightly through the hair there, trying to provide comfort in the little ways he knew how.

Too long of a time had passed before they finally pulled up outside the hospital. Sherlock kept John in his arms as he maneuvered them out of the car. It was complicated, but he managed to do it without jolting John too much. He shifted him slightly in his arms so that he could walk easier, and leaned down to speak directly into John's ear. "We're getting ready to enter the hospital, John, okay? It'll get a bit noisy but you'll be okay." He figured commentating everything that was going on would help John to stay calm. He hoped it would, anyway.

As he started walking toward the front doors, Mycroft's car pulled behind them. As previously stated, there were a few nurses waiting for them when he walked through the doorway. They were prepared with a wheelchair for John to sit in but Sherlock wasn't so sure he wanted to set John down. Honestly, he didn't even want to be here right now. But it was what John needed at the moment, and so reluctantly, carefully, he placed John in the chair.

John was already half asleep, but as soon as he was out of Sherlock's arms, he opened his eyes. They were unfocused and darted back and forth. When one of the nurses tried to reposition the jacket still draped around John's shoulder, the weakened mad flinched at the unfamiliar contact, retracting away from it as much as possible.

John's eyes were still darting back and forth between everyone around him before finally landing on Sherlock's locking with them for a long moment. Sherlock wished he hadn't. John's eyes were dark and empty. Haunted. Frightened. They pleaded with Sherlock and the detective could tell John wanted to be here as much as he did. John was begging him to go home. The look made Sherlock's heart sink. Whatever happened had been more than just a bar fight, like Sherlock had earlier expected.

The nurses were trying to talk to John as they walked down the hall, but John didn't answer any questions. Not even with the suggested nod or shake of the head. His eyes stayed locked on Sherlock and now that Sherlock was looking at John head on with proper lighting... God everything was so much worse than he'd expected. There was the cut at the base of his hairline and his left cheek was swollen and bruised. The white t-shirt he was wearing was useless at hiding any other injuries, the fabric practically transparent now that it was soaked.

He could just make out the beginnings of bruises forming on John's back as well as unusual markings scattered across his chest. A closer look had Sherlock suspecting the were cigarette burns. At the thought, white hot rage rushed through his veins, threatening to take over the facade he'd been keeping up so far. His eyes strayed to the markings on John's wrists and he didn't need to think twice of fully analyze them to know immediately what they were. Rope burns. John had been tied up and fighting but it had been no use. His attacker had won and John had multiple scars to remind him of it.

And now the brokenness made sense. The hollow look in John's eyes. The pain in fear that laced his face. It all made sense, clicking together like a puzzle and Sherlock had to physically fight the feeling that was rushing through him now. He could hear the blood in his ears and now knew what others meant when they said they were seeing red. He was nauseous, but he bit it back, seeing John's expression get even more terrified (was that even possible?) as they neared their destination brought Sherlock out of his stupor temporarily.

He didn't realize John had been clutching his hand until John's gripped tightened even more, his knuckles white and him hands still shaking. "Sherlock-" John choked out his name and the detective knew immediately that John didn't want to go in alone. But Sherlock wasn't sure if he wanted to go in. He didn't want to know the details didn't want to face the reality of the situation they were currently in. But he was going to. He was going to go in there and listen and bear it because thats what John needed.

He looked to one of the nurses for confirmation, even though he wouldn't listen to them if he refused, anyway. The one; a petite, round faced woman with mousy dark hair nodded yes and Sherlock turned back to John. Returning the pressure on his hand lightly, he pressed a small, tentative kiss to John's uninjured temple. "You'll be okay," he whispered against John's cold skin. "It'll all be okay."

He continued on into the room with them as Mycroft retreated to, presumably go talk to one of the doctors. Probably ordering they get the best one in the place. There would also be press to control. If any of this got leaked there would no doubt be a frenzy of media surrounding them. And Sherlock made a mental note to call Lestrade as soon as time would permit. They were going to find the bastard that did this and Sherlock was going to give him hell.

But right now, John needed him. John needed him more than ever and a part of Sherlock marveled at how drastically the roles in their relationship were reversed right now. And so Sherlock entered the room full of white and smelling of rubbing alcohol and he sat with John, preparing himself for what was to come, knowing everything was only going to get worse but still praying that it didn't.