(A/N: Thank you so much for such an awesome response!)

LTW- chapter 2

Sherlock opened his eyes on the way to the hospital. He blinked dazedly up at John and then at the surrounding paramedics who proceeded to tell him to relax and that they would be stopping shortly. They all looked at him pityingly and spoke in low voices as if not wanting to startle him; he did not like it.

"I don't want to go to the hospital!" he yelled, gaze flicking from the EMT to John, "I'm fine, I just want to go home!"

"Sherlock, you're not fine," John insisted quietly, "You're injured and I'm sure they'll want to run some tests…"

"No tests!"

The ambulance pulled to a stop and Sherlock's stretcher was unloaded from the back of it, John following right behind. The detective struggled against the straps across his chest, declaring that he was perfectly capable of walking and so they let him try. He groaned as he hauled himself up, clutching the blanket tightly around him. He noticed immediately the sign over the nurse's station which read: RAPE CENTER.

A sexual assault nurse examiner with blonde hair and a kind smile introduced herself and tried to take him back to a room but Sherlock would have none of it. "No, I'm fine and I'm leaving." He said bluntly and turned to leave but John stopped him, holding his shoulders firmly.

"Sherlock, I know this isn't the easiest thing to do but they really need to do those tests. Don't you want them to be able to catch the sick bastard that did this?"

He shrugged off John's restraining grip, pulling his blanket closer. "There's no point, don't you see? He won't be on any records! This is just wasting time!"

John looked imploringly at the nurse who said, "We will not perform any tests without the victim's express consent."

"There, you see? No tests." Sherlock relaxed somewhat before John said, "But you must let them fix you up."

Sherlock's jaw clenched, a brief wave of panic flickering across his eyes but John was immovable. Slowly, he nodded and allowed the nurse to take his arm, patting the back of his hand reassuringly.

John let out a breath, pressing his temples in a last ditch attempt to ward off a threatening headache. There was a clearing of a throat behind him and he turned to see the man from before, the man with the umbrella, standing there with that look of scrutiny on his face.

"Who are you?" John nearly barked, his nerves frayed.

"Mycroft Holmes. More importantly, who are you?"

"…Holmes…? What are you then, his brother?" A brief smile and a nod, "I'm John Watson." He held out a hand.

"I know your name, history, jam preferences, and all of the other useless facts. What I meant was: who are you to my brother?"

John blinked and took his hand back, feeling too astonished to be angry. "I…well…I don't know exactly. I mean, we just moved in together. Flatmates then, I suppose?"

The other man smiled thoughtfully, twirling his umbrella like one would tap their fingers. "You're interesting."

"Excuse me? I'm interesting?"

"Yes, the fact that you only just met Sherlock and are already playing the role of concerned lover, the way the intermittent tremor in your hand is still, even under such duress, and the way you've not even noticed that you left your cane at the restaurant…it is all quite interesting."

John's mouth moved wordlessly for a moment as he grappled for something to say. "Wait a minute, I'm not…we're not…I suppose it is psychosomatic." He groaned and sat in one of the uncomfortable waiting room chairs, his headache pounding away behind his eyes.

"Moriarty."

"What?"

"Moriarty is the man that did this to my brother."

"…How can you…how can you possibly know that and stand here calmly instead of hunting him down and murdering him?"

Mycroft smiled condescendingly, "Now is not the time to overwhelm oneself with emotions," he said the word like it was particularly offensive, "Don't get me wrong, I do care for my brother but it would not do to run off on a wild goose chase without any logic; without any facts or planning."

"I see the family resemblance," John muttered under his breath.

"Do take care of him, won't you?" Mycroft said suddenly, placing a hand on John's shoulder. "He's always been stubborn but he's not as strong as he thinks he is."

John simply nodded and Mycroft grinned approvingly, "I had a feeling you'd be good for him."

Before he could muster up a reply, the strange man turned and headed for the door, umbrella twirling.

Three stitches, a vaccination, and a bottle of painkillers later, Sherlock was released into John's care. He didn't say a word on the way home, his gaze fixed on the blurring cityscape outside his window. John was quiet, careful not to pressure him and Sherlock was silently grateful for that. Truth be told, the adrenaline had worn off and he was completely exhausted and sore.

The stairs were an obstacle to say the least but he didn't want John's help. He would grit his teeth and bear it because he was a man and fully capable of taking care of himself. He could feel John's concern burning into his back and refused to meet his eyes once they reached the top.

"Do you want anything?" John asked timidly, "Food? Tea?"

"No. I want to go to bed. Goodnight, John," he replied shortly before lugging himself to his room, where he fell face down onto the bed and directly asleep.

John stared after him and he could only imagine the terrible pain he must be in and how hard it must be to hide it. He wished there was something he could do to help; being a doctor, he had never felt so incredibly useless. He shuffled into the kitchen, fixing himself a cuppa, though he didn't truly feel up to it.

Settling into his chair, he flicked on the television and stared blankly at the moving pictures, sipping his tea on autopilot. He was just starting to relax when the screaming started.