Still panting hard, a giddy Sherlock opened the door of 221B for John in a rare, chivalrous gesture. John looked at him, surprised for only a second before they both burst into adrenaline-fueled giggles. John turned to hang up his coat, still chuckling, and Sherlock snuck a genuine grin at his back, the special one he reserved only for John, when he didn't know Sherlock was looking.

They were both high off the thrill of a chase, a fully satisfactory, honest-to-god chase, complete with guns and jumping across buildings and tripping over cats (John would never let Sherlock live that one down). Sherlock had been itching to get out of the house for days; his annoying little feelings for John had been driving him insane, and he desperately needed a case to distract himself from the John invading his brain, the John he had to constantly remind himself he could never have, not in that way.

He had lit up like a Christmas tree when Lestrade had knocked on their door with a positive cornucopia of cases to be solved. Pleased to see that John looked equally excited to finally have a case, he had grabbed his Belstaff and favorite blue scarf, and brushed past Lestrade with a muttered "Thank you, Geoff." Lestrade had been so surprised that he had actually gotten a 'thank you' out of the detective that he almost didn't mind the butchered name. He and John just exchanged surprised smirks, and then John left the flat right on Sherlock's heels, eager for a good case, hopefully one with a chase.

When they got back much later, having caught the criminal, Sherlock was on FIRE and he felt that nothing could stop him now. As he watched John remove his coat, he was struck by how soft his blond-grey hair looked even when slightly sweaty, and how genuine his laugh sounded, and how much he wanted to be the one to make John laugh and forgot all his worries. He was slightly sickened at how sentimental he sounded, but found he gave not one shit. He felt exhilarated, on top of the world, in love-

He couldn't help it. He really couldn't. John had to know how he felt. And he had to know how John really felt. Before he could think about all the things that could possibly go wrong (there were many), he took a deep breath, and strode over to John, who was slowly turning around at the sound of swift footsteps.

Sherlock did notice John's confused look, and gained some confidence when he saw it turn into one of attraction (widening pupils, hitched, faster breath, trembly knees)- or so he thought. His heart beating at the speed of light, he slowed down as he came within a mere five inches of John's quivering lips. Trying with all his might not to betray his immense excitement, he languidly reached a hand up and placed it on the wall over John's head, bracing himself. He threw on a sexy smile, one he knew worked wonders on the ladies (always good for manipulation, they actually thought he cared) and used his other hand to tilt John's chin up towards him. He relished their height difference, loving the feel of towering over John, of John looking up at him with dancing eyes. He leaned down and before he could think anything else, he kissed John.

John froze.

And stayed frozen. Sherlock was no expert on kissing but he was sure that John was supposed to have kissed him back by now. Maybe he's so happy I'm finally kissing him, his overanalyzing brain happily supplied. Yes, that must be it. He resumed kissing John, hoping against hope for a reaction.

And a reaction he got. But not the one he wanted.

John let out a whimper.

A whimper.

Sherlock had never in his life heard a more scared sound. His eyes snapped open. His heart nearly broke in two to hear strong, fearless John, his John, making such a sound.

Then only did he notice the other details that had escaped him earlier, or that he had selectively left out, in his singular goal of kissing John, and in the brief mental short circuit afterwards. That John was clutching the wall behind him as if wanting to melt into it, as if it was the only thing holding him up. That John was drawing fast, laboured breaths that were definitely not of arousal, and that his eyes were jumping and his legs were shaking, but not of arousal. That John was whimpering.

John was scared.

Sherlock then heard a sound he would never forget, one that made him back up immediately: John sobbed. Sherlock had never seen John cry before- he assumed that he rarely cried, and if he ever did, he certainly never let Sherlock see him. So the fact that John had let a sob rip through his body, was in fact continuing to cry and shake behind his hands, meant either he didn't recognize that Sherlock was there, or he didn't care. Most likely the latter. John fell to the floor in the fetal position, head to his knees, breaths coming fast and hard, like he was hyperventilating.

Before he understood why John was afraid, Sherlock acted on a protective instinct and cautiously approached John, to figure out what had hurt or scared him so. He couldn't bear to see John like this, and vowed to kill whoever was the cause.

But the second his hand touched John's arm, John visibly jumped and receded further into his own skin. The small man became even smaller. What struck Sherlock was how he didn't even try to fight back- John was helpless. He went silent at the touch, with a sharp gasp, and Sherlock momentarily rejoiced in his brain, thinking John had snapped out of it aq- but then John looked up into Sherlock's eyes with the expression of a victim who knows he is going to die, and whispered, "No, please."

Sherlock's breath caught, and he finally realized that John was scared of him.

Sherlock panicked. He didn't know what to make of the situation, didn't know if John really hated Sherlock this much, didn't know how to help John, didn't know, didn't know, didn't KNOW. Sherlock wanted to comfort John again, but he understood that for some reason John didn't want Sherlock to touch him, so he didn't. John was still whispering, pleading.

A still shivering John grabbed at the wall and stood up. He slowly started backing away, like a trapped animal, clutching at the walls, the railing, anything, as he tried to get as far away from Sherlock as possible. He picked up the pace, all the while staring at Sherlock with a trembling, broken face full of raw fear. Sherlock's heart shattered again that night at the sight of that expression, directed at him. John then abruptly turned and fled to his room, stumbling on the seventh step, and slammed the door.

Sherlock heard the frantic click of a lock, followed by a long, gut-wrenching silence, interrupted only by harsh breathing- then, a heavy sliding down the door, and muffled sobs.

Stupid.

Stupid stupid stupid! Sherlock experienced a rare moment of complete disgust at his own slow, horridly misunderstanding brain.

Sherlock had never noticed. He scoffed at himself. How had he missed it, after being his best friend for years? And with his brain?

How could he have never noticed?!

He had made a grave mistake. Of that much, he knew. He had read the signs all wrong; he should have known that John had not been exhibiting the signs of attraction, but rather, fear. He pretended he couldn't hear the muffled whimpers floating out of John's room down into the sitting room, where Sherlock was frantically pacing. He had hurt John, and John would never talk to him again. And Sherlock didn't even know why.

He had screwed up more than when he jumped off the roof to save John, because even though he had 'killed' John by saving him then, he had come back. There was no coming back from this. Whatever little progress he had thought he was making, confessing his true feelings to John, today night's events had just set it back years.

He ran a shaky hand through his curls, grabbing a fistful and pulling hard on his scalp. He needed the pain, to set his mind straight and force him to think, think about how to fix this seemingly un-fixable situation; forget furthering their relationship, he had small hope that he could even salvage it.

He thought about calling Molly or Lestrade- usually John would know what to do in emotional situations like these, but... duh. He grimaced- John was a private man already, and wouldn't want his breakdown today known to anyone in anyway. Even Sherlock felt like he had crossed boundaries, seeing John so broken like that.

He fought the urge to run up to John's room and break down the door and ask for forgiveness and ask what's wrong and just hold him and kiss him and-

Hell, he could use a cigarette right about now.

He vowed to himself to figure it out, though- if not for the sake of his friend, then selfishly for his own need for his friend, and even more selfishly for the blow his ego was taking at not understanding why.

Sherlock had no sense of personal space, for sure, but that was when it came to other people. He resented hugs or any such physical show of affection, and avoided human contact like the plague, unless necessary for exploitation, of course.

So maybe his own tendency to keep to himself had disguised the fact that John wasn't comfortable touching others as well. He had just assumed that all the times John shied away from Sherlock's (or anyone's) touch, it was out of respect for Sherlock's aversion.

Wow, John's right. I really do think the world revolves around me.

He didn't even notice that he had stopped walking around and had instead been standing in front of John's chair with a goofy smile on his face, just reveling in John.

Snap out of it! There are bigger things at stake here! You may never get John back!

He resumed his pacing, as he did when he was on the trail of something, something big.

As Sherlock dug through his mind palace for more evidence, starting from when they had first met years before, he found that John had always actively gone out of his way to avoid any kind of contact with another human. He would make contact with people only when absolutely necessary, and always kept to a personal bubble of at minimum 2 feet. He had avoided hugging even the few people he trusted (Lestrade had tried many times, and Sherlock once, when he was really drunk). Sherlock remembered now that on every such occasion, John's eyes would widen, he would step back, and politely smile, giving some excuse, like "I'm a military man, you know me, I'll probably accidentally decapitate you." Sherlock had noticed how fishy that sounded even then, but had instead wallowed in his perceived rejection (he was drunk he was allowed). No touch from anyone, then romantic or not.

Actually, scratch that. Not just contact with any other human- now that he thought about it, he seemed to only have such a reaction with males. John had gone out and had sex with a number of females since knowing Sherlock (though notably none of them had worked out), so he was obviously fine with women touching him. But he hadn't seen him ever go near, much less make contact with, a single person of the male gender.

But why? What could the male population have done to psychologically traumatize (because that's what had happened today) John so? What had a man done that made strong, fearless, non-emotional, soldier John press back against the wall, knees quivering, face pale, pupils dilated, breathing harsh, and look up at Sherlock with the dark blue eyes of prey that knows it's caught?

Oh.

He gasped. The racing thoughts in his head screeched to a grinding halt.

Oh.

He must have been sexually assaulted by one.

...

Staggered by this discovery, Sherlock stopped his frantic pacing and sank into John's chair.

His heart broke for John yet again, the largest in a series of rips Sherlock wasn't sure his self-proclaimed tiny heart could handle- after all, his heart was John.

John had experienced a traumatic sexual assault, and he couldn't have men to touch him. Sherlock, in his own selfish intentions and having stupidly not noticed, had triggered a flashback, effectively unraveling all the years of care John had taken to hide his secret and protect himself through isolation.

Why keep it secret? Of course. It was with a man. Whether or not John was bisexual, he had always stood so staunchly behind his straightness, and couldn't admit that it was with a guy. He felt ashamed. Ashamed that it was a man. Ashamed that his soldier instincts had failed him when it mattered. Ashamed that he was weak, and tainted, and...

Sherlock groaned in anger and pounded a fist into the arm of John's chair. He seethed. John was a better than a great man, he was a good one, and Sherlock loved him, and he wanted to protect him from whatever this was caused by (even though that was silly, this had happened before they met), and he didn't. deserve. this. Not his John.

Sherlock would kill the man responsible. He knew he was right about this, and he would find him, and kill him.

He could figure this out if he wanted- a few minutes going through John's (pretty scarce) things from before he meet Sherlock (he deduced that the event was recent, but not during their friendship) would allow him to know all of the details of who and how.

But he respected John's privacy, and the intensity of his reaction led him to believe that if there was any way he could be helped, he had to ensure that John divulged on his own terms. He had to prove himself worthy of John's pain, especially after what he had caused today.

Now that he had figured it out, he had a more important task at hand: John. His brain, heart, and blood cried out for John. Screw his selfish emotions, he just wanted John to be happy. He just wanted to hold him and tell him it was OK, that he was here for him. But how could he if John was scared of his touch?

He decided that he needed to confront him, tonight. Tomorrow, John would ignore him as if nothing had happened, and he couldn't live knowing the pain John hid in his heart. He loved John too much for that. No, he would make this better for John, no matter how much it made John hate him, and he would do it in the only way he knew how- talk to him as they had for years, as friends.

...

Sherlock waited until the cries had faded to hiccups, and then to silence.

He knew John was blocking the door, so he waited for what seemed like hours until he heard John inevitably get up and stumble to his bed. He heard a rustling, and then silence- a long silence.

Sherlock drew a quiet, cleansing breath and turned the doorknob. As he entered, he didn't even look at John, in case it would scare him again. He was sure John was awake (he was good at differentiating sleep breathing, and furthermore knew that John didn't sleep when upset).

He waited two counts.

"How did it happen?" he quietly asked, still facing the now closed door.

He heard John's breath hitch behind him. He waited for an answer, or a response, neither of which came.

He asked again, gentler, almost in a whisper, "How did it happen?" He turned around and saw John staring at him, cocooned in all of his blankets, with only his eyes peeking out, on the bed.

John whispered, "How did you know?" Sherlock just smiled at him sadly.

"Of course, right, stupid question," muttered John, rolling his eyes.

Momentarily stunned that John had recovered so quickly, Sherlock blinked in surprise. Then he broke into a grin, and did a happy dance in his head. My John, he's back, he's ok!

But then John receded back into his (literal) shell, with a drawn face and closed eyes.

Sherlock's smile melted off. But he was resolute.

He just stood and waited, relieved that he hadn't been told to "fuck off" yet.

John would tell in his own time.

After half an hour, neither had moved from their positions or said anything and Sherlock was just considering giving up and leaving, leaving the flat and escaping to Jamaica, never to see John again, when he heard a mere breath of words.

"It was Sholto."

Sherlock froze, careful not to make any sudden movements, lest he scare John and lose the small trust he had gained.

More silence.

John spoke again, in a hoarse whisper. "We were in Afghanistan. I had just joined the ranks, and he was my superior. I had no family, and not many friends. My sister had just passed away after two years in an alcoholic coma, so I was feeling that my medical education was of no use if I couldn't have saved her. So I enlisted in the military so I didn't feel so useless."

Sherlock listened with eager anticipation. John had never really told him the details of his time abroad before, saying that it was "a bit not good", so Sherlock had let it be. John had seemed happy to be with Sherlock, but besides the occasional nightmare, he never expected that John's army days could still be haunting him.

John continued, "I quickly rose to the top of my troop. Sholto"- and here John hiccupped- "Sh-Sholto would smile at me often, and encourage me, and try to talk to me. He never did that with the other soldiers, and it made me feel special. I was sure I was straight, but day by day, and sexy smile by sexy smile, I began to doubt that."

"I was beginning to really like the man, as more than my superior. I could almost call it love. One day, he called me into his office. He said he was going to talk to me about a promotion."

John gulped for air.

"I entered the room and closed the door behind me, excited for a promotion, and maybe to see if maybe the feeling of almost-love was mutual. In an odd voice, he told me to lock the door. Even though I was confused as to why that was necessary, I shrugged it off and did so.

The second the lock clicked shut, Sholto stood up, and growled, "Watson, don't make a sound, or I will boot you. And obey me or I'll shoot you." Shocked and more than a little nervous, I looked up and saw that previously kind eyes, which I had almost grown to fucking love, had turned absolutely feral.

He slowly walked around his desk towards me, stopping in front of me. Then he slapped me hard. Across the face.

I couldn't even think to react. He told me to take my shirt off, so I did. He told me to take my pants off, so I did. It was like he had some weird power over me; I had to obey. He watched, sneering, the whole time. He then walked up to me and ripped my boxers off."

John took a deep, shuddering breath here, on the verge of tears again. Sherlock quelled his instinct to reach out to John, knowing he would continue on his time. He was hating this with all his heart, but at the same time desperate for John to continue, to hear about this bastard did to John.

Finally, John continued. "I couldn't move. He took a ruler off his desk and started slapping me hard with it, on the bum. Then he threw the ruler away and shoved me against a wall, really fast. His lips were on mine before I knew what was happening.

He reached in his own pants and pulled out his own dick and ordered me to stroke it as he smashed his tongue into my mouth. He licked my face and humped against me, him fully dressed, me fully naked. He noticed that I was crying and- and- bit my shoulder, hard, and told me to stop. So I stopped."

By now John was crying, reliving the repressed memory.

"He shoved my mouth down onto his cock, and I choked. He grabbed my hair and forced himself into my mouth. He was moaning and I was trying hard not to cry or scream. Then-then-"

Sherlock was taking deep, pained breaths at this point. He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. He couldn't understand how someone could do this to John, to John.

"He ordered me to turn around. He used his belt to tie my hands to his desk. Then with no warning he pushed his dick into my arse, hard. He rammed into me, grunting. He called me a slut, a useless waste of space, a failure of a man, a- a- fuck."

John cried. Sherlock cried.

"It hurt. It hurt so much. Physically, it hurt more than getting shot. I'd never been with a man before, never tried anything like that, and I wasn't prepared. And I didn't want to. I felt so violated. I hated him in that moment, hated that he had control over me, but I hated myself more, for not being able to fight back. I know it was all my fault."

John kept whispering, "All my fault," with a dazed look in his face.

Sherlock gaped at him, mouth closing and opening like a fish. How can he possibly think this is his fault?!

John kept up a steady stream of whispered "All my faults", each of which clenched Sherlock's heart painfully. But he kept quiet.

John also went quiet, after sometime.

"Might as well finish", sighed John, after a while.

"You don't have to," said Sherlock, quietly, and for the first time since John had started his story.

"I- I want to. Sherlock, I want to let this go."

"Ok."

"I trust you, Sherlock. I'm telling you because I lo- trust you." Sherlock thought he had heard something, maybe some subtext to that, but left it for later, touched that John said he trusted Sherlock.

John continued in a whisper. "Sholto forced me to turn around and swallow when he came in my mouth, all of it. I hated the taste, hated knowing that this man had been inside me in every way possible. In my brain, in my mouth, in my arse, everywhere. I just couldn't- I was weak. And I broke down on his carpet. I begged him to stop. But he ignored me and pounded into me again, this time with me on the floor. I was shaking and it just wouldn't stop and I wanted to die.

Finally he got off of me, and untied me so I could put my clothes on before someone could walk into his room to find a naked guy and start suspecting. He zipped up his pants, looked at me with a triumphant grin, and left the room without another word.

I just sat on his carpet, naked, for hours. My skin felt so filthy, and my mouth, and mind, and every place he'd touched. How could I clean my insides? I'd let someone take what little was left of me. I'd already basically given up my useless life to the war, and now I wanted to end it."

Sherlock was surprised at the white-hot rage that burned his insides, threatening to make him explode. He wanted to murder this man, Sholto, make him pay for what he did to John. He would, on his own time. This wasn't something he would delegate to Mycroft- no, he would personally find this man and break him, as he had done to John. John deserved better. He was so consumed in his hatred for the man he had never met that he almost didn't hear John continue, in a quiet, resigned voice.

"I actually tried to end it all. Right then. I put my clothes back on and thought about showering, to die clean, but decided it didn't matter, that I would never be clean again. So I took the belt he had left, and tied a noose from the ceiling fan, right there in his room. It seemed fitting to die in the domain of the person who had conquered me, with his belt."

Sherlock looked up, shocked. He had never expected John to be one to take his life, but then his experience was quite horrific.

"But I stopped myself. It had finally dawned on me that I was a soldier. I would fight. Even if I couldn't find a reason to live for myself, I vowed to make my life useful to someone else."

Sherlock wanted so badly to tell him that he was more than just useful to Sherlock- he was all that was important to Sherlock. Not only that, but he had saved so many lives, so many times, including Sherlock's own. John's impact on the world, despite his humbleness, were much bigger than he could think. He just needed to be reminded of that, maybe.

"Anyway, since then I haven't been able to get close to a man. I couldn't believe that the first guy I almost fell for could hurt me in such a way, so now I freak out at any male romantic touch. I don't know anymore. Even if I want to be with someone that way, I can't."

Sherlock turned his head sharply towards John. He wanted to? With who?

And then, as if John had read his mind, something Sherlock always seemed to do to John instead, John softly laughed and said, "That's you, you idiot."

Sherlock blinked. What?

"Yeah, I mean that I like you. In fact, have been in love with you ever since I met you." There was a note of nervousness in John's tone, but it was mostly flat and emotionless. "I figured I might as well tell you, because you've already seen me at my worst, and you'll probably never want to see me again now that you know how tainted I am."

John attempted a watery, sad, resigned smile, his eyes trained on Sherlock's.

Sherlock's world spun.

John loved him.

John loved him?

Sherlock took a second to get over his shock that John loved him. And then he took another second to wonder how the hell perfect John could love someone as flawed as Sherlock. He then had a second of doubt, that John was joking, but quickly dismissed that, given John's state. No not a situation to joke. And then he was grateful. So grateful. He loved John more than he ever had in that moment- even during the worst moments in life, he had selflessly decided to give his life to others. Even after Sherlock had made him re experience the worst pain of his life, he still cared about Sherlock. Loved him, even.

For someone as observant as himself, he had been quite blind. Quite stupid. Today was an all new record for Sherlock's stupidity.

But he didn't care, because despite his tremendous pain caused by John's pain, he was happier beyond his capability, happier than he had ever been.

With the biggest grin on his face, he exclaimed, "John, you idiot. You absolute idiot. I've always told you that you're too stupid for your own good. I just tried to kiss you today! I've wanted to do that since you killed that cabbie for me! Can't you see, I love you John! I caused all this today because I love you!"

Sherlock wanted so badly to close the five foot gap between himself and the shocked John on the bed. He wanted to go kiss the idiot, his idiot.

But he couldn't. Oh, how frustrating. If he hadn't just heard why John was like this, he thought he would be annoyed. But he couldn't be- John has every right and reason to never want to experience that pain again. But with this new information, he knew he had to help fix John, even though he only thought he was broken. He would help him in any way possible, be there for him.

Sherlock wanted to try an experiment.

He cautiously stepped forward one foot, pausing and watching John's reaction carefully.

"Is this okay, John?"

John was silent for a moment, watching him mutely.

Then he nodded.

Sherlock stepped forward one more foot.

"Is this ok?"

A hesitant nod.

One more step.

"This?"

A nod.

And then another step. And then at last Sherlock was standing right next to John.

He slowly sat down on the bed and scooched over until he was sitting across from a still cocooned John, making sure to maintain eye contact with him the whole time. John tensed slightly, but didn't protest.

They just sat like that for a while, Sherlock enjoying John's permission and quiet companionship.

He decided it was time to try and touch John. He cautiously reached a hand out to hold his hand.

Silence.

Then John froze. And violently pulled back. He shrunk back into himself, removing all possibility of contact with Sherlock.

"I'm useless. He told me so. I know I am. Why do you love me? I'm is a trick. I know it is. This is an experiment. This was a mistake. I knew I shouldn't let you touch me! You're just like them, like him! I'm all alone, and I can't! Sherlock, I can't! I can't, I can't! Help me! No! Don't touch me! Please! Stop! Stop!"

John was screaming and crying, rocking in the fetal position.

"You're not useless, John. I need you. You have saved my life so many times, and in so many ways, I cannot even begin to express how much you mean to me. I love you so much, and so do so many other people! You helped so many people live a better live. You mean the works to me.

And you're not tainted! Yes, that bastard assaulted you- but you are pure. You are still John, and you are the best man I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.

Please let me touch you, John. Of course this is not a trick. I love you. I want to help you. Please let me."

John had quieted down, and had the smallest look of hope in his eyes. Sherlock took a lap of faith and brushed his hand over the only visible part of John's body, his cheek. He gently cupped it in his palm.

John didn't move at all-and then it was like all the tension in his body left him and he let out a sob. He relaxed, leaning into his palm, allowing himself to new touched by a man for the first time in years.

Sherlock could tell John was scared, but he was brave. And he loved Sherlock.

It took just three seconds for John got acclimated to Sherlock's touch- then John clawed at the first of the outer layer of blankets, still sobbing. Sherlock understood, and card him down by grabbing his hands. He rubbed comforting circles into the backs of his hands, in response to which John quieted down and stared up at him, eyes full of equal parts apprehension and love. Sherlock smiled at him, then slowly peeled off each blanket, layer by layer, until just John was left.

Sherlock reached both arms forward. "Is this ok?"

Sobbing. A barely there nod.

Sherlock enveloped John in his arms, gently, softly, allowing him to feel the safety, his protection, his intention to never let anyone harm him again, all of his love for John in that one hug.

Sherlock held John, as John cried. He just held him in his arms, with John's face buried in his chest and his legs in Sherlock's lap, and allowed John to cry away his pain.

Sherlock held him until his cries subsided. Until there was only silence, just their two heartbeats, each taking strength in the other.

"Sherlock."

"Yes, John?"

"Prom-... Promise me something."

"Anything, John."

"Never leave me. Always hold me... Please."

"John. I have always been there. I will always be there. I will always hold you, whether or not you need it. I love you, John, and nothing will ever change that."

"I- I love you. I need you."

"I know. I do too. And I give you my vow that no one else will hurt you. Ok?"

"Ok."

"Sherlock?" A sleepy voice.

"Mmm."

"Why do bad things happen to me?"

"No, John. I happened to you and I'm pretty sure I'm awesome."

"Oh my god, Sherlock." A sleepy, teary, happy smile. An eye roll.

"Sorry." A smile. Things were going to be ok.

"Sherlock."

John was nestled in Sherlock's arms, both lying down now. He was close to sleep.

"I know, John."

"..."

"It is what it is."