Late

Rating: T for mentions of rape.
Warnings: Well, mentions of rape.

It's rather late.

John's used to it. Well, all right, he personally doesn't think it's something you really get used to, when your flatmate who's also your best friend you'd do anything for stays out risking his life until well past midnight. Maybe one day he'll be able to go to bed and not worry, won't have to wait up for Sherlock to come home just to make sure he's all right. At least he's stopped calling Lestrade at eleven. It's difficult to keep an eye on the surprisingly-stealthy Sherlock Holmes, he knows that. He can't always blame the DI, especially when sometimes the case that's keeping the consulting detective away from home has nothing to do with his police unit.

Right now it's twelve-fifteen and John's flicking between Hustle and old re-runs of Doctor Who and really paying hardly any attention to either of them. He's seen both of them before; this is the episode where Stacey pretends to be an actress and Danny'll get shot after the next ad break, he knows, and he has a feeling those aliens with the tentacles are genetically manipulating Tim McKinnon.

He can't watch this sort of television around Sherlock. The consulting detective will try and sit through it for John's sake, but it irritates him no end that he can't predict who the murderer is in late-night crime shows because the writers don't think about things like the turn-ups of the actors' jeans and all the evidence is pointing the wrong ways. And it irritates John no end that his lanky flatmate will voice this disappointment in rather vocal terms and spoil what suspense there might have been for those willing to relax and not constantly second-guess every plot twist. Sherlock just doesn't understand the joy normal people get from watching crap television.

But he'd rather not have to watch it at this time of night at all; he'd rather be in bed, sleeping, not worrying about what Sherlock Holmes might be doing now. He shouldn't worry, he knows that. Sherlock can look after himself, as long as no-one asks him to do the housework. Well, when Mr Sherlock Holmes finally skips elatedly through that door he's getting an earful. John has work in the morning.

About half an hour later Danny is in hospital and Tim McKinnon has gone tentacle-y and the TARDIS has winked out of existence again and there's nothing else on except an expose on 'the world's stupidest criminals'. John has a feeling he's going to get one of those anyway.

Then, about bloody time, the door opens and John doesn't have to look up to recognise the trench-coated, scarfed figure that comes in, closes it, and leans against it, like he's exhausted, like he sprinted all the way here and is still desperately trying to catch his breath. "I almost hesitate to ask what took you so long," John comments idly. "Do I expect an angry call from Lestrade?"

"John –"

"No, hang on a minute, Sherlock," he interrupts, because he always wants to say this but he always lets the detective defend himself, which he's devilishly good at. "You don't even think about me out there, do you? You don't think that it's me people call when you run off or ignore them. You don't think that I'm sitting here wasting time waiting up for you – and I know you don't ask me to worry about you," he says because he knows that was inches away from spilling out of that cupid's-bow mouth, "but you should know by now that I do anyway and it's inconsiderate that you don't care." He turns off the television and throws down the remote in a perhaps-overdramatic gesture. "Half the time when you stay out late you're not even doing anything that couldn't wait until morning. I care about you, Sherlock, and I worry when you don't come home. And you can switch the light on, now, before you give me a heart attack from sitting here in the dark."

He stops, run down, proudly astonished that he managed that little rant without being interrupted. When the silence stretches on longer he starts to wonder if he's been a little harsh. When it sits so deep he can hear Sherlock's breathing, harsh and struggling a little, he stops dead in his tracks and looks up. "Sherlock? Are you okay?"

After a few moments' fumbling in which there definitely looks to be something wrong with Sherlock's arm, the light flicks on and John sees his face, the way he's holding himself, his legs that are still leaning him up against the doorframe because they're evidently too weak to support that six-foot frame. "Oh, God," he breathes. And in that moment, John Watson hates himself. Because Sherlock is a bloody mess – his face is a mesh of bruises and cuts and there's blood dripping into his eyes, and his arm looks like it might be broken and he's very carefully not moving, with the air of a man whose every terrified, struggling breath is hurting him, and without coming any closer John can tell he has at least one broken rib. He can't have done this to himself.

"I'm so sorry," he whimpers. "I didn't… oh, Sherlock, how did this happen?" he runs to the consulting detective's side and gently pulls off his purple scarf to see tears in his neck made by someone's fingernails as he'd been choked. "Oh, my God." He raises a hand to touch them, but Sherlock hisses and moves slightly away, then lets a tiny squeaking noise out of his mouth when the movement hurts. "Sorry – here, put your arm around me…" he gently manoeuvres his battered flatmate until he can rest most of his weight on John instead of the doorframe. "Put as much weight on me as you can without hurting your arm, and we'll try and make it to your room." They take it step by agonising step and John hurts with every wince from the detective because of the guilt, the immense guilt because he hadn't been there, and when he'd come crawling home to him he'd all but shouted at him. He slowly notices something wrong with the way he's walking, like he's favouring something, not one leg or the other but something else – oh. He stops dead and the detective whimpers with the pain of the jolt. "Sherlock! You've… they…" he can't bring himself to say it, and it's probably just as well, because as he realises that John has realised Sherlock turns white. He doesn't know how he'd expected to get away without him noticing something else was wrong. He knows he probably would have told John – no, he definitely would have wanted John's help – but he still feels ashamed.

They make it to the bedroom after Sherlock has almost passed out in John's arms. The doctor tries his hardest to fold the detective neatly onto the bed without hurting him, but fails somehow and manages to spectacularly twist Sherlock's ribs and his arm at the same time. "Right," he says after they've settled down. "I'm going to get the first-aid kit, and you're going to tell me what happened." He knows he doesn't want to know. He also knows Sherlock wants to tell him. And Sherlock comes first. Sherlock always comes first.

When he comes back the taller man hasn't moved, still lying half-curled into himself on his bed. He sits down beside him and looks at him, and is so overcome by the need to absolutely murder whatever bastard could do this, to so completely tear him into pieces, that he stands up again and backs away a few paces. Sherlock is so brilliant and amazing and how dare someone hurt him? "Sherlock? I need you to roll onto your back – I'm going to undress you, is that okay? Just to see how much of you is hurt."

He worries that this won't be okay, not okay at all, that being naked in front of another man is too much now and he shouldn't even have suggested it. What is he thinking? He really has no idea how to deal with this. Should he call an ambulance? Sherlock wouldn't like that. He marvels at how the man must have managed to look mostly normal to get himself into a cab and up the stairs without the cabbie wondering what was wrong. But the consulting detective slowly, gingerly rolls onto his back and looks up at John with blank grey eyes. "Is that okay?" John repeats softly.

Emotion hits those eyes suddenly and overflows; tears run down the slight beginnings of crow's-feet in the corners of his eyes. "John," he says, and his voice is hoarse and sounds painful. "Just make it better. Please."

John almost panics. He can't make this better, how could he make this better? "I'll do my best, Sherlock, I promise." He slides Sherlock's coat off his shoulders and unbuttons his shirt; too many bruises meet his eyes and he wants to give up, to wake up and have fallen asleep on the sofa, worrying. But he doesn't. "I'm really sorry I snapped at you. You see, I've been right to worry about you."

Sherlock smiles and a cut on his lip splits open and drips blood into his mouth. John gently wipes it with a finger and lifts a glass of water to those barely-recognisable lips. "And I'm sorry I wasn't there."

"It wouldn't have helped," Sherlock replies. John expects him to stiffen, or jump, or show some reaction as he gently tugs down the detective's trousers, but he doesn't react past a noise of discomfort at the pain. "There were five of them. I could have handled two myself, if you were there maybe three or four, but not five. They just would have hurt you, too." John marvels briefly at the level of trust his flatmate must put in him, to have just been… hurt like this and still be completely okay with having his trousers removed.

He looks down at that body, the one that had seemed so invulnerable, that could hit anything and bounce back. Now covered in bruises and cuts and hurt and he thinks he might cry himself. I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry about life. How dare it. How dare it do this to you. "Tell me what happened," he says instead, dabbing antiseptic onto the detective's forehead and wincing as he flinches. For a while the other man says nothing. Then when he does say something his voice sounds so painful John wants to tell him to stop, but his tone is that of a man who wants to get everything off his chest and push it away. John's mother always used to say that if you told someone your nightmares, you'd never have them again.

He wonders if it'll work this way. "Remember that case last week with the dead underage prostitute? Well, apparently the daddy was going to have a get-together with his gang last night, but of course we put him in prison. When the gang found out it was me, they started tailing me. It was stupid I didn't notice. I assumed they were Mycroft's. So I was heading back here and they cornered me and…"

John strokes his hair and picks up his hurt arm. "Go on," he whispers, not because he wants to hear – in fact he's trying not to listen – but because Sherlock needs to. He gently prods the arm, feeling for the broken bone.

"And they all started hitting me at once, I didn't know which one to take out first, and then two of them held me down while the biggest one…" He swallowed and John nodded; he knew exactly what he was going to say and knew with even more clarity that he really, really didn't want to hear it.

"It's okay now," he said softly. "I'm here now. I'm not leaving. I'm going to take care of you." He put the arm down gently. "It's not broken," he said, inclining his head towards it. "Your elbow's probably fractured."

"Text Lestrade," the detective commanded hoarsely. "Don't tell him what happened. Just say he needs to search for known associates of Aggie Wilson's father."

He knows the inspector will need to know why before he can commission an arrest, but he leaves it. Sherlock knows it too. Instead he sends the text silently and continues to sponge blood away from Sherlock's cuts and gently rub salve into the worst of the bruises and just let himself be there. And he sees the smile in the detective's newly-haunted grey eyes that says just stay with me, John.

When he's done as much for the physical hurt he tucks the still-naked body under the covers, drops his jeans for comfort and climbs in, too, and though he only lets his hand touch Sherlock's he's still there, and he feels his flatmate's fingers curl around his palm tight, maybe a little too tight but he doesn't complain. He never complains about Sherlock. And this is why.

A/N: So I'll be making this a two-shot as Sherlock recovers. Then I'll have to do some comic relief just for kicks. I'll probably kick it up to M next chapter too, because recovering from sexual abuse takes more than a smattering of General-Audience TLC. Please review with feedback. I know I'm not perfect and this has been hell to write, so advice that might make part 2 easier would be much appreciated.