Sherlock stumbled into the dingy motel room, his legs shaking almost uncontrollably. He collapsed on the dirty motel sheets, and stripped off his shirt to examine the wounds on his chest and stomach. The burns shown bright and shiny, eclipsing the rest of the small shallow cuts and the deep scrapes that covered his pale flesh. This bout of torture had been particularly rigorous, but Sherlock had needed the name of Moriarty's second in command. The best way to get information was to present yourself as weak; villains were always willing to give information to a perceived dead man. Of course Sherlock had gotten a name out of it, but he wasn't sure if any of this was worth it anymore.
Sherlock pulled out his duffel bag from underneath the dirty motel bed, grabbed the almost depleted bottle of sterilizing alcohol, and made his way slowly to the bathroom, using the wall for support. The bathroom was small and cramped, and the mirror had a layer of dust on it that seemed to have been accumulating for years. Sherlock wiped some of the dust off the mirror, grimacing in disgust at the grime on his fingers. He stared at his face in the mirror for a moment, noting the changes in his appearance. Sherlock tended to stay away from mirrors in his time on the run; he didn't like the way he had changed. His hair hung dirty and shaggy around his face, reaching past is shoulders. His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked more haggard than ever, the constant running was taking a toll on him. Sherlock slowly turned his back to the mirror, took a deep breath, and squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to think of the damage he was about to see. He sighed, the breath coming out a bit shaky, and opened his eyes to assess the damage. His eyes took a minute to adjust before he saw the deep, blazing, red gashes that ran from the top of his thin shoulders to the curve of his bum. Some of the gashes were still oozing blood, and Sherlock cringed at the thought of cleaning them. He wished John was here more than anything; he needed someone to tell him that it was going to be all right, that he was doing the right thing, and that he wasn't suffering this pain for no reason.
Sherlock began to clean his wounds, his movements slow and meticulous. He winced as the alcohol seeped into his skin, feeling the harsh burn of the disinfectant. He knew he needed to clean them to prevent infection, but that didn't make it hurt less. It never hurt when John tended his wounds, his doctor was gentle and tender, and his surgeon's hands had never harmed Sherlock. After he was done cleaning, he slowly wrapped the wounds with thick, white bandages, taking care to wrap them tightly around the gashes. Sherlock then stepped out of the bathroom; his wounds bandaged and cleaned, and sat gently on the bed, trying not to jostle his abused muscles.
There was a lump in Sherlock's throat that would not go away, no matter how many times he swallowed. He wanted his own bed, his own home, with John to fuss over him and make tea; but there was nothing here. There were only blank walls, and pained breaths, nightmares in the dark that would not go away, no matter how he tried to overcome them. Sherlock was tired. He was tired of running and tired of the constant pain.
Perhaps… Perhaps just one call to John. He knew he couldn't speak to him, but maybe his voice would help Sherlock, perhaps it would soothe the pain and the nightmares, it had always worked when they were together. Sherlock reached for the phone, ignoring the tremors that shook his entire body, just one call, just to hear his voice, he thought. The number was dialed before he had a chance to think, and Sherlock felt his heart beat faster as the phone rang once… twice… three times… On the third ring Sherlock heard a beep, and the familiar voice of John Watson sang in Sherlock's ear.
"Hello? There was a pause when John waited for someone to answer, but Sherlock kept silent, waiting for John to speak again. "Is someone there?" John's voice cracked. "Please stop calling. He's not... He's not here anymore and I'm not taking cases. " John's voice was haggard and strained; he sounded absolutely miserable. Sherlock felt something in the vicinity of his chest snap, and the fragile control he had over his emotions shattered. A small gasping sob broke through the silence of the motel room, and Sherlock brought a shaking hand to his mouth, trying to smother the sound. Sherlock heard the click of the phone as John disconnected, and he spoke softly to the empty room.
"I'll be home soon John. Please don't give up on me. "
Sherlock let the phone drop from his hand, as the tears he had been holding back streaked down his face. Miles away, on the other end of the phone line that had gone dead, John Watson fell to his knees on the floor of 22B, and let the sobs overcome him.