Warnings: Burlesque, scantily clad women, drag, reference to depression, reference to drug use, reference to slight non-con, verbal abuse, boys kissing (but not slash, hope I've explained that well), bruises, violence, swearing

Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock

John was not worried when Sherlock didn't come home that evening. The doctor had come home from the clinic to an empty flat, and the detective had left him a note explaining that he had gone out. It was a courtesy that he did not often extend, so John was grateful that he had bothered at all, and it was perfectly normal for Sherlock to stay out for hours at a time, usually performing some kind of experiment at Bart's.

Which was why John had found it odd when he got the phone call.

"Hello?" John asked as he held the phone to his ear. The number that had appeared on the screen was not one that he recognised, which in itself was a slightly worrying prospect.

"Dr John Watson?" The voice on the other end of the phone was male: a calm, friendly voice, but not a voice that John recognised and, whoever this man was, he sounded concerned.

"Speaking," John confirmed.

"I'm calling about your flatmate, Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes?" John sighed, wondering what the detective had done this time.

There was a pause, punctuated by a sharp intake of air. "How soon can you get to The Kitten Club?"

"That depends," John said slowly. "Where is it?"

The man on the phone gave him the address of the club – explaining that those who went by cab preferred to give a numerical address rather than the name, which John didn't understand; after all, not many people would be embarrassed about going to a night club – and urged him to get there as soon as possible. After the half-hour cab ride that took him to The Kitten Club, however, John realised why people might wish to be discreet about where they were going.

The building that he was now standing before had the feeling of once being a pub, but bright strobe lights were visible from beneath the thick red curtains pulled over the inside of the large windows which suggested that it had been converted. Stuck to the windows were stickers of the silhouettes of scantily clad women dancing, and the name of the club was above the door in bright pink neon lights. John realised that The Kitten Club wasn't a nightclub – or a strip club, as would have been his first guest – but a burlesque club.

A poster stuck next to the door had several names on it, much like a concert bill would, but all of the acts had painfully cliché names such as Tequila Sunrise and Glitter. At the bottom of the poster was a final name in large letters, accompanied by trumpet-playing cherubs on either side: BELLA ROSÉ, FOR ONE NIGHT ONLY.

Standing outside the front door to the club was a man, seemingly waiting for him, but it wasn't Sherlock. The man was wearing plain clothes – black trousers, unnamed trainers, and a long-sleeved navy green shirt – his short brown hair was mussed up a little, as though he had been running his hands over in distress. He was rocking nervously on the balls of his feet. When he saw that John was making his way towards him, the look of worry on his face dissipated and he greeted the doctor with a smile.

"Dr Watson?" the man asked as he approached, and John recognised his voice as being that of the man with whom he had spoken on the phone.

"Yes," John confirmed with a swift nod. "Where's Sherlock?"

The man paused, almost imperceptibly. "Would you like to follow me?" he gestured to the front door behind him. John, now feeling like something was wrong, agreed.

"What's going on?" John enquired as the man waved them passed a thickset bouncer who was standing just inside the doorway.

"Um…" the man began slowly, "I'm not really sure. He won't say; just said that he wanted me to call you."

The man led John through a beaded curtain into the main floor of the club. The strobe lights were much more pronounced inside, making John's eyes water slightly, but they were less harsh than those of a nightclub.

There was no dance floor inside the club; rather, sets of tables and chairs had been set up, all facing a large stage. Music was playing from somewhere, and the patrons were currently watching a rather beautiful woman in a long, red dress with slits up the sides which made her stockings and suspenders visible, dancing to the music and using a Chicago-esque chair as a prop. John, determined not to get distracted, looked away as quickly as possible and continued following the man.

As they passed behind the tables and chairs, John noticed that a large space of the floor had been hidden from view behind purple, transparent curtains. The curtains both sealed off the area from the rest of the space, and divided it up into three separate mini-rooms. The curtains were just see-through enough that John could make out that these rooms contained plush furniture, and he guessed that they were used for more private dances.

At this point, John began to wonder why Sherlock was here in the first place. Had he taken on a case without telling him, one that called for investigation in such an establishment? If so, why would need to summon John here by middle-man? Had he accidentally stumbled upon one of the dancers in the process of getting changed and had a panic attack?

He went over theory after theory as they walked, moving past the tables and chairs and walking parallel to the stage before disappearing through a black door with a 'No Entry' sign on it. On the other side of the door was a long corridor that John guessed had been added as an extension to the back of the pub when it had been converted. The corridor seemed to run the entire length of the building, and had doors at regular intervals. Based on the lights that were draped over the doorframes and the star-shaped name labels stuck on the doors, John guessed that they were dressing rooms.

The man led him down the entire length of the corridor until they reached the final door; the star on the door said that the dressing room belonged to Bella Rosé.

The man cleared his throat awkwardly. "Uh, here you go," he gestured to the door. "I have some stuff to take care of in the club, so if you need me… My name's Vince, by the way," he added, offering his hand to John, which the doctor shook. "So, I'll…" Vince backed away and left John alone by the dressing room door.

Slightly apprehensive as to what he might find, John rapped on the door with his knuckles.

"Come in, John," came the monotone voice of Sherlock Holmes from beyond. His voice sounded strange; almost… dejected.

John pushed the door open, and was faced with a typical dressing room; it was not a large room, but it seemed to contain a lot of things.

At the far end of a red-carpeted aisle was a wardrobe that John guessed was probably only big enough to fit two outfits in. On the right side of the aisle was a plush sofa, while the left side was dominated by a make-up counter under which a high, elegant chair was tucked. Above the counter, a large mirror had been attached to the wall, surrounded by lights which matched those on the doorframe outside.

Atop the wooden surface of the counter was an array of make-up bottles, compacts and applicants; discarded next to them was a dirty make-up removal wipe, recently used and stained with the products it had taken off of its owner's skin. In the middle of the counter was a long, black wig which looked as though it had been removed hastily and dumped there, and under the chair was a pair of smooth, red shoes with a small, inch-high heel that appeared to have been kicked off.

And, sitting on the counter and staring down at the floor with his infamous coat wrapped tightly around him, was Sherlock.

He looked just as downcast as he had sounded when he had ordered John inside the room, his hands at the collar of his coat so as to make sure that it was wrapped around him as closely as possible, the long sleeves handing limply at his sides.

"Sherlock-" John began, but was interrupted.

"Close the door, John."

John obeyed without question, now decidedly worried at how despondent his flatmate was. Usually, he was a ball of perpetual energy when the possibility of a new case presented itself; why, then, did he look so depressed?

Deciding to act as though nothing was wrong, John turned back into the dressing room. "What's the case, then?" he asked, rubbing his hands together.

For a moment, Sherlock said nothing. "There is no case, John."

John's arms lowered to his sides. "Sherlock, what's going on?"

He received no answer, and in the silence that followed his question, he noticed something strange about his flatmate's exposed legs.

"Sherlock…" he began slowly, after he had blinked a couple of times to make sure that he was not suffering a hallucination, "are you wearing fishnet stockings?"

He lifted his eyes to Sherlock's face, and saw that the detective was worrying at his lip, still staring at the floor. John looked around the dressing room once more, and realised with a jolt that one very important thing was missing.

"Where's Bella Rosé?" he asked tentatively, turning back to Sherlock.

"There's… something I need to tell you."

Looking around the dressing room, John had a feeling that he knew what it was that Sherlock had to tell him, but he wasn't sure he would believe it until he heard it from his lips.

"Yes?" he asked slowly. Sherlock still wouldn't look at him.

"Don't laugh," he warned.

"Just tell me."

A pause. "I'm Bella Rosé."

He had known it on some level from the moment that he had walked in, but to actually have it confirmed… Well, it was very difficult for a moment to do as his flatmate had asked. He took a deep breath to compose himself.

"Right," he nodded. "Since when?"

"Since before I met you."

John was surprised at this; how had he been doing this all this time without him knowing? Though, he supposed he was never that suspicious about his flatmate's whereabouts.

"How often do you-" he began, but Sherlock was answering him before he had even finished his question.

"Not often. When the boredom gets unbearable, it… helps. Vince doesn't mind. If I only perform erratically, he can use my exclusivity to his advantage; people are more likely to be intrigued by a poster that says 'one night only', and, if I'm good enough, they'll come back to see when I'll be here again."

"Does Mycroft know?"

Sherlock nodded.

"And he doesn't mind?"

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched in a half-smile, but it didn't reach his eyes; they were still blank, cold. "He doesn't mind, as long as it's not drugs."

"Fair enough," John shrugged. He regarded Sherlock carefully. "Why are you telling me this now? You've obviously worked hard to keep it a secret since we met; what's changed that I suddenly need to know about this?"

For a moment, Sherlock said nothing; he began biting his lip again, until a bead of blood appeared, red against the pink. John wasn't sure, but he thought he could see tears in his eyes – but when he spoke, his voice didn't waver at all.

"After I got off-stage this evening, I was terribly thirsty. Normally I bring a drink with me, but as I came straight from Bart's today, I wasn't able to. There are mini-bars in the Baskets, with small bottles of water in them, so I found one that was empty and went in to get some."

"Baskets?" John asked.

"The private dance rooms," Sherlock confirmed.

"Wow, Vince really wants to torture that kitten metaphor, doesn't he?"

There was an awkward pause in which Sherlock did not react, before he began speaking again.

"There are two sets of curtains in the Baskets – a transparent purple set which is always drawn, so people can see when they are empty, and a heavier set that is pulled across when they are in use, to make it more private.

"I've never been in one before, and I wasn't intending to stay, so I left the heavy curtains open." Sherlock's voice wavered on the last word, coming out as a mere breath. He gulped nervously before continuing.

"That's how he knew I was in there."

After an empty moment, John said carefully, "How who knew you were in there?"

"I don't know who he is!"

In a terrifying moment, Sherlock's face crumpled, and John didn't know what to do. He had never seen Sherlock like this: he had always been the most mentally strong person he had ever met. He had seen people break down at horrifying things in Afghanistan, but some of the cases that they went on involved things that were just as harrowing – if not more so – than the things that had happened in that dreadful desert, and Sherlock had never once done so much as bat an eyelid.

Needing to know the cause of this, John asked quietly, "What did he do to you?"

Sherlock squeezed his eyes closed as a tear ran down his cheek. "H-he…" he began, gulping again to steady his voice, "pinned me down on the futon, and… kind of… groped me."

John's heart broke as Sherlock stopped talking, taking a shaky breath and pulling the coat more tightly around himself – if that was even possible. There was a brief moment of silence, before Sherlock resumed his story, apparently able to talk more freely now that he had got that point, what had to be the worst point, out of the way.

"I didn't know what was happening, so I didn't call for help. No one knew we were in there. He said… horrible things…"

"What things?" John demanded, anger now rising within him like lava, but Sherlock shook his head.

"Did you tell Vince?"

Another head shake. "I didn't want him to know. I just asked him to call you." His voice was no longer broken, having returned to its previous monotone, but tears were still falling from his empty eyes.

"What happened after? After he had… finished?" John felt a little guilty about asking him to go back to the memory, but he needed to know, if only so that he could have something that could help him hunt the bastard down and make him pay for what he had done.

"He left," Sherlock explained, his eyes fixed on a point on the floor. "He left the heavy curtains drawn, and left me alone in the dark. I stayed there for a while. I don't know how long."

John nodded absentmindedly, if only for something to do. He could not remember the last time he had felt such as multitude of negative emotions at once. There was a strong sense of sympathy and sadness, as well as a raging fury and an intense desire for revenge. Yet he had met enough victims of similar injustices to know that he ought to be gentle, and so he asked softly,

"What do you want me to do?"

There was a silence during which John wasn't entirely sure that Sherlock had heard him at all; he made no sign of acknowledgement and continued to stare at the floor. When he did speak, his voice was broken and quiet – he sounded completely exhausted.

"Just… say. Please."

"Okay," John nodded, and he sat down on the sofa.

They sat there in silence for a while, until John began to lose track of time. There was no clock on the wall – obviously someone knocked on the dressing room doors to tell performers when it was nearly time for them to go on stage – and he had no desire to check his watch, or his phone. He was too busy being furious.

How dare someone do that? Take advantage of another human being in such a horrible way, for nothing other than their own pleasure? He was almost feeling restless with apprehensive energy. Whoever had done this was probably long gone by now, and almost impossible to track down. Sherlock could find him, obviously, but would he want to? Would he ever want to see that man's face again? John guessed that he probably wouldn't.

So they sat in silence, and John hoped that his mere presence was enough for Sherlock. He had not cried again, but the rims of his eyes were still looking painfully red, irritated by the salt in his tears. It was a while before either of them spoke, and when that happened, Sherlock said three words in the softest voice John had ever heard him use; three words that were were utterly devastating.

"Am I worthless?"

John, who had been transfixed by the closed wardrobe at the far end of the room – admittedly having wandered off mentally trying to figure out what was in there, if anything – turned to Sherlock. He was still staring at the floor, in the same position that he had been in when John had arrived.

John pushed himself to his feet and stood in front of Sherlock.

"Look at me," he said in the softest version of authoritarian that he could muster. When Sherlock didn't respond in any way, he repeated the command; Sherlock lifted his head to meet his gaze.

"You had a horrible thing happen to you," he began, "but it doesn't mean you're worthless." A horrible feeling sank into the pit of his stomach as he remembered one particular part of Sherlock's retelling. "Did he tell you that?" he asked in a low voice, full of deadly fury.

Sherlock shook his head insistently, dropping his gaze once more. He mumbled something unintelligible, and John had to ask him to repeat it.

Sherlock gulped nervously, closing his eyes briefly before opening them again. When he was ready, he mumbled, "He didn't kiss me."

John was almost dumbstruck by this. There were a lot of things that he didn't understand about his flatmate, but this was something that he had though that he had got by now. Everything he knew about Sherlock Holmes pointed to the fact that the man wanted nothing to do with sex – with anyone, in any way, shape or form. He was the most emotionally detached human John had ever known – possibly the most emotionally detached human in the entire world – so why was he so upset that a person who had been so awful to him hadn't kissed him, and why was there even a slight pink hue highlighting his cheekbones at his admission of that fact?

"I'm sorry?" he managed to choke out, wishing that Sherlock would just look at him.

Sherlock sighed, but didn't look up. "Isn't that how people show others that they matter to them? Parents kiss their children, friends kiss, lovers kiss-"

"Friends?" John interrupted. He was beginning to feel more confused than he had ever felt in the company of Sherlock Holmes, which was definitely an accomplishment on his part.

The blush on Sherlock's cheeks darkened. "Yes."

John chuckled slightly in indignation. "But the only people I've seen you kiss are Mrs Hudson and Molly Hooper." There was an awkward moment when the smile slid off of his face. "I mean more to you than them, don't I?"

"Of course!" Sherlock insisted, looking up at him. His eyes were still wet with tears, making the ice blue irises sharper than usual. He cleared his throat nervously. "On the first night that you moved in, the night that you killed the cabbie, we went out for Chinese."

"Yes," John agreed slowly; that first night felt as though it had happened so long ago he found it almost impossible to believe that he had had a life before that. Even so, he had no recollection of being kissed that night – and he thought that that was something he would definitely remember.

"When we got home, you fell asleep in the armchair," Sherlock continued, "and, while you were asleep, I… kissed you on the forehead."

John blinked, momentarily dumbstruck. He had honestly had no idea that that had happened. Why had Sherlock waited until he was asleep, if he truly wanted to show him that he mattered to him? Maybe he was too awkward, maybe he feared that John would think he was weird – a freak.

"Oh," he said slowly. "I-I didn't know."

Sherlock sighed. "You weren't supposed to. It doesn't fit with my character, people find it… odd. They form an initial impression of me and then do not bother to look deeper into what I am truly like. At that moment in time, I wasn't sure if you would bother either."

They lapsed into silence once more, but at least now Sherlock was not staring at his feet, or the floor, or the legs of the chair.

"H-have you kissed anyone else?" John asked quietly.

"Children are more prone to kissing; I kissed Mycroft on the cheek a lot when I was young. And Lestrade… when I was detoxing. He thought that the withdrawal symptoms were making me delirious." He gulped slightly. "No one else really mattered, and I mattered to no one. No one thinks I have worth, and they are right; how could I have worth if he can do this and…"

His voice broke again and tears began to well up again, but he didn't look away this time.

"Just because you're worthless to him, doesn't mean that you're worthless to everyone," John insisted, though it was clear that Sherlock didn't believe him.

"How can I be worth anything when I can so easily be discarded?" he whispered.

"You saved my life. I would be dead by now if I hadn't met you. You're worth something to me."

For the rest of his life, John would never remember the exact moment that he pressed his lips to Sherlock's, only that he had.

A number of emotions went through his mind once he had registered that he was, in fact, kissing his flatmate. Confusion became disbelief, which became astonishment, which became definitely not gay, and yet, for some reason he couldn't end this kiss; he didn't want to.

Even as he pushed his tongue through the barrier of his own lips and then the barrier of Sherlock's, this was not a kiss of passion, or of lust, or of undying love. Even as it became what in any other situation could be described as 'heated', it was nothing more than a reassurance: you mean something to me, you matter, you're not worthless.

Sherlock's lips tasted salty from where his tears had fallen onto them, and there was a metallic tang from the blood that he had drawn with his own teeth, and his cheeks still felt slightly damp against John's skin. His breath hitched when John's tongue touched his, almost as if to ask him if he was sure, if he knew what he was doing, if he could honestly have this much value.

John reached forward to rest his hands on Sherlock's hips, and Sherlock relaxed into the kiss more, his lips twitching against John's – not quite in a smile, but almost.

What happened next was probably the most adorable thing that John had ever experienced.

Sherlock reached up to John's chin, a feather touch, but it was gone in a millisecond. Sherlock kept his hands clasped between them, awkwardly – he was nervous.

John nodded as well as he could while he still had his tongue down Sherlock's throat, and those long, thin fingers returned to his chin, sliding across his jaw until his palms were on his cheeks.

John pulled back a few seconds later, but their hands stayed exactly where they were. Sherlock, still taking advantage of their close proximity, placed another two kisses on his lips, the second longer than the first.

When it was over, John rested his forehead against Sherlock's and closed his eyes.

They sat in silence for a moment longer, tasting themselves on each other's breaths as they exhaled. The silence was beautiful, surrounding and blanketing them like a cocoon. Beyond the door, the voices of other dancers as they travelled to and from the stage were mumbled and muffled, serving only to remind them that there was a world outside of that room, but not that it had anything to do with them, that it should affect them in any way.

"You should get changed," John whispered, his voice weak.

Sherlock licked his lips, and then nodded.

John backed away from Sherlock, heading for the wardrobe on the opposite side of the dressing room. Opening the door, his previous suspicions were revealed as the only thing that was hanging up in there was one of Sherlock's tailored suits. He removed it and closed the door, turning to return it to its owner.

But Sherlock hadn't moved.

He was still sitting in exactly the same position, staring at the ground; even his hands had returned to his collar, pulling his coat around himself so that his body was hidden by the thick material.

John sighed, hanging the suit's coat hangers off of the handle on the wardrobe and turning back to Sherlock.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

Sherlock gulped. When he spoke, his voice had returned to a mumble. "There's something I didn't tell you."

John's brow furrowed, and he took a step closer to him. "What?"

There was a pause, and then Sherlock slowly removed the coat from his shoulders and dropped it on the counter behind him, and then John knew what Sherlock hadn't told him.

In all the time that John had known Sherlock Holmes, the man had never once tanned. He had been out in blazing heat and bright sunlight, but he had never darkened beyond his natural complexion – which was so pale that John was still surprised that he didn't glow in the dark.

In his burlesque costume – which consisted of his fishnet stockings attached to a bright red suspender with a belt that sat above satin, frilly knickers, a purple and black lace corset, and a black ribbon choker with a heart pendant that sat in the hollow of his throat – a lot of his pale, pale skin was on display.

Which was how John could see that he was covered in bruises.

Black, blue and purple were littered across his alabaster skin: splodges that marred his thin arms, his thighs, his collarbone, his throat… John wouldn't have been surprised if the heart pendant on his choker had been pressed into his flesh beneath a strong palm, making its own impression in the soft, milky clay.

The anger that he knew so well resurfaced again. He knew that the psychological damage was so much worse than the physical, but to see such a visible sign of his ordeal… Hadn't this man taken enough without having to leave those behind?

John walked slowly up to Sherlock, still staring at the bruises.

"Did he do this to you?" he asked quietly; he already knew the answer, but he felt compelled to ask.

Sherlock said nothing; he merely nodded.

Knowing that showing his anger would do far more harm than good, John took the last few steps, placing him in front of Sherlock.

"They'll heal," he said, slightly irritated that Sherlock was still staring at the floor and he couldn't meet his eyes.

After a few moments, Sherlock said, "I know."

"Okay," John nodded, and he went back to the wardrobe to retrieve the suit. He held it out to Sherlock. "So let's cover them up."

Sherlock looked at the suit, then at John.

Then he nodded.

He took the suit from John's hand and slid off of the counter.

"I'll give you some privacy." John sidestepped his flatmate and went out into the corridor beyond, leaning against the door of the dressing room once it had been closed.

Thoughts began to buzz through his head. How had he ended up backstage at a burlesque club with his damaged flatmate when just a few hours ago he had been sitting in his chair at Baker Street with a book? He had never even been to a burlesque club at all, let alone backstage – with a man who danced in drag.

The more he thought about it, the more surreal it became.

He didn't particularly like the fact that Sherlock had decided to keep this part of his life a secret from him; what did he think he would do? Leave? Hadn't John accepted enough of the man's idiosyncrasies for Sherlock to trust him with all his hobbies, both the strange and the… not so strange?

A giggle from his left interrupted him, and he turned to see what it was. His cheeks began to burn with a furious blush as his eyes fell on the same dancer who had been performing when Vince had taken him through the club. She was no longer wearing that sultry red dress, but a feathery outfit that John couldn't help but thinking must have been terribly itchy.

She sauntered down the corridor and pressed her hand on a door three doors up from where John was standing, when she saw him. She gave him a wave, the kind where only her fingers moved as she pressed them against her palm one by one before raising them again in the same order. Not wanting to feel rude, John gave her a small, awkward smile, and she disappeared into the dressing room beyond.

His cheeks were still burning.

"John?"

The call from within Bella Rosé's dressing room caught him by surprise. He turned and pushed open the door, and was met with a sight that was possibly stranger than the one that had greeted him when he had entered this room the first time.

Sherlock was only half-changed; he was wearing suit trousers, shoes and socks, but was still clad from the waist up in burlesque gear.

"Sherlock?" John asked, ducking into the room and closing the door behind him.

"I…" Sherlock began, "I can't get the corset undone. Or the choker."

John's brow furrowed. Surely, after all this time freelancing as a burlesque dancer, he was sufficiently adept at removing corsets?

"M-my hands are shaking too much," he admitted in response to John's silence, and John noticed that he was, indeed trembling from his wrists.

"O-okay," John nodded. Before, he reasoned that he would have been embarrassed about doing something like this, but after all that had happened this evening, found that he really didn't mind. He slipped his hands around Sherlock's slender neck to unclasp the choker, placing it delicately on the counter – and trying not to wince as he saw that there was, indeed, a heart-shaped mark branded on his skin – before asking him to turn around so he could work on the corset.

With the garment removed, John turned away so that Sherlock could put on his shirt and jacket. He heard the shuffling of fabric, and then Sherlock said that he could turn back.

Now back to his normal self, John was surprised at the metamorphosis that Sherlock had undertaken. He looked completely different now, as though he was two people.

In a way, John guessed that he was.

But, even so – even in the impressive coat that made him seem even taller than he actually was – there was something different about him, as though he was… deflated.

The burlesque clothes had been discarded on the counter, and Sherlock simply folded them as best they could be folded and left them there.

"Do you usually leave them there?" John asked, watching from the door.

"Vince takes care of the outfits," Sherlock explained.

A jolt when through John at the mention of the club owner; they would have to let Vince know that they had left, but to tell him would mean having to go back through the club, having to pass the Baskets…

Seemingly reading John's mind – something which the doctor often felt Sherlock did – he explained, "I know a back exit that we can leave by. I'll text Vince from the cab."

Wordlessly, John nodded and opened the door, and they left into the corridor beyond. Sherlock turned right instead of left, which was the way that John had come with Vince, leading him to a fire exit door at the very end of the corridor.

The cold air bit against their skin as Sherlock opened the door, which led out into an alleyway that John guessed ran parallel to the dressing room corridor.

The alleyway was quite short compared to other alleys that John had been in – and when you lived with Sherlock Holmes, you ended up in a lot of alleys. There was a dead end to their left – which was totally obscured in shadows – and, to the right, it opened out into the street beyond.

Sherlock pulled the fire exit door closed behind them and turned to leave the alley, but stopped abruptly when a voice sounded from the shadows to their left.

"Hey, sexy!"

John couldn't see to whom the voice belonged, but as soon as it had leaked from the shadows at the end of the valley, Sherlock froze, the colour that had returned to his cheeks over the past hour drained again as his eyes filled with terror.

Out of the shadows, a figure emerged. The man was huge – taller even than Sherlock – and, while not particularly thickset, he had the body of one who went to the gym regularly, his back defined with large muscles that beefed up his upper body and arms: in other words, perfect for pinning another human being down and littering their body with bruises.

His eyes were bright blue, shining out of his face in the darkness as they reflected the street lamp at the other end of the alley, and he had a cruel smile painted on his lips. His hands were large with thick but long fingers, adorned with short nails that appeared to have been manicured to perfection. John vaguely remembered one of his girlfriends telling him once that she never trusted a man who had perfect fingernails – they were, she said, 'jerk nails'.

The man leered as he loomed up to them.

"You sure make some transformation," he grinned, walking up behind Sherlock, who had closed his eyes tight. "Can't even see that beautiful body anymore-"

"Leave him alone," John warned, almost regretting having left his gun at home. He wanted to put a bullet in this man even more than he had wanted to shoot the cabbie.

The man looked from the back of Sherlock's head to John, a look of amusement on his face.

"Oh, I see you've got your boyfriend with you now," he chuckled. "That's a shame. I was kind of hoping to have you all to myself."

Sherlock's breathing quickened, a clear sign of an impending panic attack. The man moved closer to him and leaned over his shoulder, nearly bringing his lips to his ear.

"Get away from him!" John shouted, but he was ignored.

"I loved having you under me; so innocent, so… submissive."

"No…" Sherlock breathed, not daring to move.

"You felt so smooth, so easy to touch, to run my hands over. I was surprised that you didn't cry for help; I thought that you would. Maybe you liked it."

"Sherlock, don't listen to him," John demanded. Sherlock opened his eyes, and they were full of distress. Over the time that they had lived together, they had developed an almost telepathic connection, and they had used it to convey all sorts of messages to one another, but never once had John seen Sherlock's eyes practically screaming at him as they were at that moment: 'Get me out of here, John, please!'

John grabbed Sherlock's sleeve and pulled him away from the man, whose leer melted into a scowl. He was obviously going to let them go, but he clearly wasn't happy about it. John, who wanted to tear the man limb from limb in the most painful way imaginable, knew that he had to stay calm get Sherlock home and away from him as soon as possible.

"Come on, let's go," he told his flatmate, pulling him along by his sleeve. Sherlock seemed to have mentally detached himself from what was going on, letting John guide him without really paying attention to where they were going. They had passed the bins just beyond the fire exit door when the man called to them again.

"I'll be thinking about you later!"

That was the last straw.

An unnamed fury welled up within John, and he couldn't take doing nothing anymore. Leaving Sherlock to stand by himself in the alley, John turned on his heel and drew his fist back, throwing all of his strength behind a punch that landed straight in the man's nose.

"Fuck!" John exclaimed as the man fell backwards like a cartoon, his head smacking on the ground, and his own hand exploded in pain.

He turned back to Sherlock to see that he was now looking round to see what had happened, looking shocked and disbelieving.

John shook his hand to get rid of the worst of the pain, holding it out flat in front of him when he could stand to. Sherlock was staring down at it, wide-eyed.

"You broke your finger," he mumbled, gesturing to John's ring finger which was, indeed, broken.

John turned to the man, who was lying on the disgusting ground of the alley, clutching his nose as it spurted scarlet through his fingers.

"It was worth it."

A.N.: I may write a sequel to this, involving John going to see Bella perform. I'll update this author's note when it's posted, if I write it...

UPDATE 15/04/14: The sequel, Brought to Life, is up now.