Summary: When medical student John Watson finds a very broken Sherlock Holmes, he takes the young man under his wing. Little does he know what he's getting himself into.
Warnings: references to non-con/rape, self harm, attempted suicide and eventual slash. Johnlock :P don't like don't read.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock… Sadly…
A mass of dark brown curls slam against the cold, hard bricks. A resounding crack resonated through the alleyway. The man groans as he slides down to the ground. His breathing was shallow; each breath was measured and far too infrequent. It was almost as if he forgot to do it and had to remind himself every so often.
His head flopped forward, hair ghosting over his face. The rest of his body followed suit and he soon found himself crumpled against the damp cobbles. He flexed his long spider-like fingers, cursing. It hurts, he thought, everything hurts. Why does this always happen? The man reached into the pocket of his trench coat feeling around for something… Something…
Oh fuck it, he groaned, rolling over onto his back, they took it. Always, they always take it. It's terribly inconvenient. He never got the urge to do it anymore. Well, hardly ever. It's a great way to relieve stress and pent up frustration, he had told his brother as much. Therapy had been his brother's suggestion, he used the term suggestion lightly, it was more like being kidnapped and forced into submission. Therapy? Really Mycroft? What could an ill-educated 'therapist' possibly tell him about his life? If anything he had spent the forty-five minute session recounting her life story, not his. She had a long-term boyfriend (gay), who was shagging her brother (it was the underwear that gave it away), and she thought he had overstepped the boundaries by telling her. Well, was he just supposed to let her marry him? And anyway, she had overstepped the boundaries when she suggested he talk about his childhood. Delete.
Sherlock now found himself on his back in an alleyway with the tail of his trench coat swimming in a puddle. A trickle of deep red blood trickled down his forehead and pooled in his left eye. He had other cuts all over his body but he was unconcerned about those, those cuts were not annoying. Ughh he hated head wounds, they insisted on bleeding continuously and were so inconvenient.
Footsteps. One, pause, two. Male, probably twenty years of age. Fairly fit. One, two, stop. "Hey, hey, are you ok?" The stranger asked. Hmm tenor, choir boy. More footsteps. One, two, one, two, one, two. A hand on his shoulder. Distance between thumb and forefinger: approximately ten inches. Interesting, will gather more data. Shaking, "Hey man, are you alright?" More shaking, incessant shaking, "What happened to you?" A finger above his eyebrow turning his head to the side. "Hey, can you hear me? I think you may have a concussion. Do. Not. Move.
Though his ears had started ringing, Sherlock could vaguely hear the beeping of a number being dialled. Nine. Nine. Nine. Sherlock did not want to go to hospital. It was highly inconvenient. However, it did have its upsides, Morphine for instance. Definitely an upside. "Now don't you worry, I've called an ambulance, it'll be here soon." Eight minutes to be exact. And why did this man insist on telling him things he already knew? He knew he had a concussion, that much was obvious. And any moron could tell from the dial tone that he had called nine nine nine, it was predictable. You find someone collapsed in an alley; you call the emergency services. It was just common sense.
Eight minutes later the whirring of sirens filled the small space and Sherlock was hauled onto a collapsible bed and an oxygen mask was pulled over his head.
"What happened?" One of the paramedics asked. Five foot nine, expecting a child, shotgun wedding.
"I… I don't know, I found him sprawled out like that. He has a concussion, if that helps."
"Well, I think those of us qualified will make that appraisal." The second paramedic said with a hint of contempt. Six foot one, virgin, needs glasses.
"Oh, I didn't mention, I'm a medical student. Just about to write my thesis on the effects of different drugs on concuss patients. So I believe I am more that qualified." Ha. Point to mysterious stranger.
"Has he said anything since you found him?"
"Not a word. He's a tight lipped bugger this one." Said the man, placing a hand on his forearm.
The ambulance came to an abrupt stop. The doors swung open and he was pushed out into the cold night air. The end of the bed nudged the A and E door open. Sherlock could smell the Morphine already.
Hope you liked it this is my first fanfiction Reviews are love xx