Disclaimer: I still don't own Sherlock :( This fact makes me sad.
"Sherlock." John whispered.
Sherlock drooped his head, his curls falling into his face as John's knees turned to jelly.
"What? Sherlock, why didn't you tell me?" John breathed.
"You would've made me go to the hospital." Sherlock replied, hoarsely.
"Yes I would've because you clearly medical attention." John confirmed.
"Mycroft already had someone look me over." Sherlock tried to reason.
"Mycroft knew about this? How did you get these...marks?" John questioned.
"During the time I was dead." Sherlock answered, still not looking up.
"I-I thought that you were dismantling Moriarty's web." John stuttered.
"I was. This happened because of that." Sherlock said, holding no emotion in voice.
"Can I treat them?" John asked.
Sherlock nodded, his curls bouncing. John grabbed his doctor's bag and sat Sherlock down on the sofa and began to clean the cuts. Sherlock hissed as the liquid connected with his skin.
"Sorry, it's going to sting." John apologised.
John's guilt burn furiously in his chest as he examined every cut, bruise, burn, whiplash and chain mark. How could Sherlock let him pin him to the ground and almost strangulate him when he was in this state. He wished he'd reacted differently. Sherlock could feel John's stare and it made him want the floor to eat him. He'd never had that feeling before and he hated it. He'd tried to stop the men from doing it but he couldn't. He'd failed. Sherlock Holmes had failed. Was John angry at him?
"I'm sorry." Sherlock said.
"What are you apologising for? You didn't ask for it. You did it to keep me, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade safe." John replied.
So John wasn't angry at him. Human emotions were hard to figure out. Emotions were pointless. In the end you'd always end up sad. Once John had finished he pulled his shirt back on and turned away from him. John sighed and got up into the kitchen and made two cup of tea's, slipping a sleeping pill into Sherlock's.
"Drink it." John demanded.
"What did you put in it?" Sherlock questioned.
"Nothing." John lied.
Sherlock was too wired to check so he drank the tea. John was glad that five minutes later the battered detective was in a deep sleep on their sofa.
oooOooo
He was chained from the walls. The whip connected with his skin for what felt like the hundredth time. Begging would be useless. They fed on his pleas. Each of the men had a twisted pleasure for injuring the restrained man. The handcuffs were bound in barbed wire which scratched and pierced his ivory skin. Moriarty's web was extensive, built up over the years and trained to hate him. Trained to torture him in any way possible. Trained to break him. Cigars were pressed against his skin and they chuckled with glee as he whimpered. Attempts to escape from his restrains were feeble and resulted in a beating with metal capped boots. He was losing all feeling in his fingers and the pain that shot through his body was blinding. That day he saw Mycroft sat on that chair, watching him, he thought it was over. It wasn't. Mycroft sat there for almost four hours before freeing him. Everything after that was a blur.
oooOooo
John was checking his blog when he heard Sherlock cry out in his sleep.
"Stop them!" Sherlock begged, quietly.
"Sherlock, wake up." John demanded in a firm doctor voice.
"Myc, stop them." Sherlock pleaded.
Mike? Who was Mike? Did he mean Mike Stamford because what was he going to do.
"Mycroft, please." Sherlock begged.
Oh. This went far deeper than John had thought. Mycroft had been there and John needed answers.
A/N Thank you for reading and thank you Suealpacamama for reviewing the last chapter. Cool name. Until the next chapter...
