John stood in the kitchen, making a cup of tea for himself. Sherlock had moved out about four months ago and moved in with his boyfriend, Victor. John continued living in 221B Baker Street on his own. They still kept in touch, though the gaps between their phone calls and visits had grown longer over the past few weeks. John didn't think much of it.
Victor was nice. At least, that was the impression John got from him. They'd only spoken a few times, when he came by the flat with Sherlock. He was blond, slightly taller than Sherlock, and more muscular. Though it didn't take much for someone to be bigger than the scrawny consulting detective.
There was a knock on the door to the flat. Normally Mrs Hudson would get it, but John remembered she wasn't home. He set down his cup of tea, walked down the stairs and opened the front door. A pale, thin figure with wild dark curls stood in the doorway, blood trickling from his nose and bruises on his face. His eyes were puffy and red from crying.
"Oh my god..." said John. "Sherlock! What happened?" Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but appeared unable to form words. "Here, come inside..come upstairs and sit down," said John, leading Sherlock into the flat. He brought the detective upstairs and sat him down in his armchair.
"What happened, Sherlock?"
Sherlock bit his lip; his whole body trembled. John held each of Sherlock's hands in his own and looked at him with deep concern.
"Were you robbed? Did you get in a fight?"
Sherlock shook his head.
"Why won't you tell me what happened, Sher?"
Sherlock looked down at the floor while John watched him.
"Where's Victor?" asked John. Sherlock winced slightly at Victor's name.
John looked at him inquisitively. He started to remember all the little things he hadn't taken any notice of before about the consulting detective and his boyfriend. The strange bruises Sherlock would sometimes have on his wrists like someone had grabbed him..the way whenever Victor and Sherlock both came to visit, Sherlock was seemed to look at Victor as if he was asking permission before he spoke..or the many times he'd suddenly cancelled plans with John without any explanation..Lestrade had said something the other day about how Sherlock had stopped taking cases about two months ago which seemed odd…
"Sherlock," said John softly. "Did Victor do this to you?"
Sherlock's body became tense and his grip on John's hands tightened slightly.
"Sherlock…its alright; you can tell me."
Sherlock nodded, tears forming in his eyes again. John looked at him sadly, brushing a piece of dark brown hair out of his eyes.
"Okay," John said softly. "I'll be right back, just gonna get you cleaned up, okay?" He stood and walked out of the room to the bathroom to get the first aid kit.
Stupid, stupid, stupid! he thought. I should've known! All the signs were there, I knew something was off about that scathy Victor bloke!
He forced himself to stop criticising his lack of attention to things and focus on taking care of the man sitting in his living room who needed him now. He grabbed the first aid kit out of the cabinet and brought it back with him to the living room, where he saw Sherlock staring at the door anxiously, as if he thought Victor would burst in at any moment.
"Do you want me to lock it?" asked John. Sherlock nodded and John latched the door. "You're safe here, Sherlock, I promise," he said, holding the detective's hand.
He gently cleaned the blood from Sherlock's face first, he frowned; his nose looked badly broken. John never understood how people could do this. How could anyone hurt the person who loved them, the person who trusted them more than anyone else? John had had a close friend in high school whose parents abused her. It made John sick to his stomach to think of what sort of horrible person does that to their own children. After John had cleaned the blood off Sherlock's face, he stood.
"I'll make you a cuppa tea, alright?" he asked comfortingly. Sherlock nodded, a faint smile forming on his lips, though it wasn't enough to hide the trauma beneath. John went into the kitchen to turn the kettle back on.
A few moments later, the pale, thin detective was standing in the doorway, watching John silently as he made a cup of tea. John didn't notice him for several minutes.
"You can come in here if you want," John said softly. Sherlock hesitantly walked into the kitchen and stood shyly beside the table.
"Here, hold this on your nose," said John, pulling out a chair for Sherlock to sit in and handing him an ice pack. Sherlock sat and pressed the ice pack to his face, wincing slightly. John set the cup of tea down on the table, and sat in the chair nearest him. "Do you wanna talk about it?" asked the doctor. Sherlock shook his head. John watched him for a moment. "We can talk about something else if you want," he said. The detective didn't respond. John looked at him sympathetically.
Sherlock set the ice pack on the table and picked up his cup, raising it to his lips; his hands trembled so violently that he spilled it onto himself.
"Oh!" said John, standing up. As he reached for the cup to set it on the table, Sherlock ducked as though he thought for a moment that John was going to hit him. John stood Sherlock up and looked at his shirt which was stained with hot tea.
"Here, come with me, I'll get something for you to change into," he said, leading Sherlock to his bedroom. He rummaged through some of his drawers looking for something that might fit his friend. The way Sherlock had ducked was still replaying in John's mind over and over. It had been the man's first reflex, like it was a habit. John shook the thought from his mind and dug out an oversized, beige jumper for Sherlock. "Here, put this on," he said, handing Sherlock the jumper. Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt and put it in the laundry basket, revealing dark bruises all down his arms, especially concentrated around his wrists. Sherlock pulled the jumper over his head and smiled weakly at John.
"Do you need anything?" asked John. "I could get you something to eat, if you're hungry." Sherlock shook his head. John looked at his damaged friend sadly. "You're not going back there," he said, slight firmness in his voice. "You'll move back in here. We'll get you new clothes and I'll buy you another violin. You don't ever have to go back there, okay?" Sherlock nodded, standing shyly near the corner of the room. His dark brown hair fell over his eyes and he looked down at the floor.
John looked at him and realised the extent of the damage done by Victor was much more than skin deep. He took a step toward his flatmate and reached out a hand, intertwining his fingers with Sherlock's. They'd get through this together.