Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or I would be rich and living in London like I've always dreamed.
Sherlock Holmes was confused, his head fuzzy and eyes not used to the light yet from being knocked out for so long. He looks around, noticing he's in a rather small room with no windows and only one door which was most likely locked. The detective was laying on his stomach, hands tied to a hook on the wall. His mouth was also gagged so he couldn't speak either. The door opens and he looks over his shoulder, not surprised much. It was the devil himself: James Moriarty.
He looks at Sherlock, observing him with those cold, black eyes. In those eyes was hungry evil and Sherlock already knew something bad was going to happen to him very soon. The experience wasn't going to be very nice either. Moriarty strokes Sherlock's curls, twirling some between his pale fingers. Sherlock hates how cold the consulting criminal's fingers were, which makes him shiver involuntary.
"Oh are you cold, pet?" Moriarty purrs in an almost teasing tone. "Let me warm you up, my dear." Sherlock feels Moriarty climb onto him and hears a zipper sliding down. Sherlock's eyes widen as he realizes what's about to happen. He begins to kick, bucking his head back, and screams through his gag. Moriarty calls for assistance and two large men come in. One holds down Sherlock's head while the other ties his legs to the bed, making sure they are far enough apart.
Moriarty begins the torture and Sherlock grabs the edge of the mattress with white knuckles. His body goes back and forth as Moriarty rapes him, and he groans loudly. Morality constantly lets out of groans of satisfaction, while Sherlock's are those of pure pain. After ten minutes or so, Sherlock begins to cry and beg. He tries to stop the pain and torture. His attempts are fruitless because of the gag.
"I'm sorry, I cannot understand you, pet." Moriarty coos in Sherlock's ear, making him shiver again. This goes on forever and eventually Sherlock begins to yell for John, Molly, Lestrade, Mycroft, anybody! Again, his attempts were useless. The detective becomes numb eventually, the pain is not as bad. The door opens and Sherlock assumes someone else is coming to rape him because Moriarty was tired or something like pain stops completely and the weight falls off of him. Sherlock begins to drift off, but sees John's face before he is engulfed in darkness.
The sun blinds Sherlock, making it impossible to see anything. He groans, yelling at John to close the curtains so he can sleep. He opens up his eyes, them finally adjusting to the bright light. He looks around, realizing he's not at 221B. Instead he was in St. Bart 's hospital, laying on his stomach in a bed. The images of the previous hours burn into his brain, making him upset and uncomfortable. A hand touches his arm and he looks, seeing John's comforting face.
"Hey, Sher, how are you feeling?" Sherlock shrugs, not really wanting to admit how hurt and scared he really was. "We got Moriarty, he was executed this morning by lethal injection. Mycroft and I confirmed he was dead, then we burned his body so you don't have to worry about him, okay?" Sherlock nods, still not wanting to speak. "Well you needed stitches from where he had,well... you know. But besides that you should be fine, physically at least. For you're mental health Mycroft and me have gotten you a therapist who you may like."
"Dull." Sherlock mutters in a bored time.
"I know, but you need it whether you think so or not." John says, looking at his friend. "Get some sleep and you can go home in two days, according to the doctor." Sherlock closes his eyes, trying to not think about his traumatic experience. That doesn't go very well.
Two days later and Sherlock does get to go home, only a bit sore. John does everything he can to help his friend relax and sleep. The doctor doesn't allow anyone to visit, knowing that Sherlock needs time to rest and calm down before he can see anyone. After a week or so Sherlock seems fine to John, but God was he wrong. The older man decides to go food shopping, knowing they have nothing to eat for dinner
Sherlock lays on the couch remembering and reliving what had happened. He gets up, walking into the kitchen. He searches the drawers until he finds what he was looking for: a knife. He holds it in his hands, taking deep breaths. He swallows, knowing this was the only way to stop it all. To stop the pain, the memories, the fear. Yes, the fear. Sherlock Holmes was scared.
"I'm sorry, John." He whispers, getting ready to slice his writs. Just then the door opens and John walks in, bags in hand. He sees Sherlock and drops the bags, them making clatter as they do so. Sherlock drops the knife and it making a small clatter as it hits the wooden floor. At this moment you could hear a pin drop.
"Sherlock, what the hell?" John breathes, staring at the younger man in disbelief. They stare at each other for a moment, then Sherlock falls to the ground sobbing. John runs at his friend, holding him in his arms as he cries.
"Ssh, Sherlock. It's okay, let it out." He says gently, rubbing Sherlock's hair as a way to comfort him. After five minutes or so, Sherlock stops sobbing and can manage to speak again.
"I'm sorry, John. I didn't-"
"No, don't be sorry." John states firmly, giving his friend a comforting smile. "You've been through a lot and crying once in a while is fine, Sherlock. No matter what you'll always be the world's first and only consulting detective. Same deal with being my best friend and the fact that I will always be there for you." Sherlock smiles through his tears, hugging John tightly.
"Thank you, John. You will always be my best friend also." John pulls his friend up, wiping away the tears.
"Stop crying now and let's go make some tea and watch telly." Sherlock nods, liking the idea if relaxing with John. He knew John would always be there for him and Sherlock would do the same for John. That Sherlock was sure of.
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