Things were a bit hazy. John knew he was at Seb's, although he couldn't remember falling out on the floor, nor was he entirely sure why his hands were bound behind his back (and his arms stiff from being held in such an awkward position for God knew how long) and his clothes conspicuously spread over the kitchen. He sat up slowly, groggily, and surveyed the room. The table was tipped over, Seb curled- naked as well, with long red scratches standing out against the skin of his back- between the table and the rubbish bin, his face towards the wall. There were a series of bruises on Seb's hips that looked like fingerprints, and John's belt was loosely looped around one of his ankles.

John blinked and licked his lips, not entirely surprised to taste a faint trace of blood there. He felt as bad as Seb looked, as though someone had come in and given them both a good beating. But John knew who they culprits were. They were. They had done this to each other, for some godawful reason.

It wasn't very hard to work his way out of the rope around his wrists, thankfully, and he rubbed them gingerly once they were freed. He needed to find the lav, survey the damage. He was pretty sure, from the feel of it, that Seb had punched him in the jaw at some point, and tonguing the inside of his cheek made him wince horribly. He stumbled a little but finally worked his way up from the floor and eased himself down the hallway, relying on the wall to keep him upright.

Seb's flat was nice, much nicer than John's, but John had assumed it was only one room until he popped open what he thought was the door for the loo and discovered a small spare bedroom. It was lined with shelves (the shelves lined with guns, scopes, and ammo) and in one corner stood a small bureau. John swallowed down the strange feeling in his throat as he examined the various assault rifles, handguns, pistols, and shotguns peppering the room. There were thousands of dollars worth of ammo there, enough to that John gave a low whistle as he ran his fingers over the boxes. Cases, gun socks, cleaning kits. Sebastian had a small arsenal, and he took good care of it.

John opened the bureau carefully, mindful of the fact that he probably shouldn't, and glanced at its contents. Suits, a few pressed shirts. None of it looked like the right size for Seb; his arms were too long and his chest too wide for the shirts, and no way were those trousers going to reach his ankles. Why would Seb have someone else's suits in his spare room? He reached out and ran his index finger down the lapel of the nearest suit jacket, stirring up a smell that was oddly familiar. It was cologne, expensive he imagined, but something about it made him think of chlorine.

"Lost?"

His hand leapt from the jacket and he spun, suddenly aware of the fact that he was completely nude, covered in welts and scratches, and snooping through his best friend's personal belongings in the middle of the night. John felt his face flush horribly as he stammered, "S-sorry, I was looking for the-"

"Loo's down the hall." Seb was smirking, his arms crossed. He gestured with his finger towards John's face. "That's going to be one hell of a bruise, mate."

xXx

Sex became a normal thing, if only in frequency. (John didn't imagine there was anything normal about what they did, which was exceedingly more violent and strange than what he was used to doing by far.) They almost always fucked at Seb's flat, namely because it was nicer but also because it was a little closer to their favorite pub. Everything else about their relationship stayed the same (certainly they weren't dating) and on nights that they had a bit of fun, John always left as soon as it was over (or whenever he regained consciousness, if that were the case).

This was still true in late January, when John found himself limping out of the lift and into the street in front of Seb's building one gray dawn. Seb had just come back to London the night previous after having been out of town for two weeks, and they'd given each other hell for it. His left eye was already swelling over (he told people he was an amateur boxer, and in a sense that was true) and he could feel the burn of several shallow gashes on his shoulders. The limp, he suspected, was from an altogether more personal source.

Sighing, he hobbled down the sidewalk and out towards the main street, hoping to hail a cab. (It was a testament to their friendship that John didn't take offence when Seb slipped him fare in the morning.)

In the state he was in, however, it became clear he was just going to have to take the Tube.

xXx

The second time John saw the ghost of Sherlock Holmes, he had just made his way home from the Tube station and could barely see fit to stand. He unlocked his front door with shaking fingers, pushed his way into the flat, and clicked on the light with an exhausted groan.

Perched on the arm of John's battered, secondhand sofa was Sherlock, his hands folded together in his lap. "John," he said, and then the world went a bit gray at the edges before turning all white.

xXx

The first thing he saw when he woke up were Sherlock's eyes, those nonsense eyes with their unimaginable colors, all dark with worry and focused on him as sharply as lasers. "You fell into a faint," Sherlock said, and John moved his focus to his lips. How could a man's lips be so full and soft looking? He wanted to reach up and brush his thumb across that preposterous bottom lip, to feel the curves of his arched upper lip. Sherlock. Not noticing, or not caring, that John's focused had slipped, Sherlock continued, "It's little wonder, considering how badly you've been beaten." He huffed a little, and the movement made John realize that his head was lying in Sherlock's lap.

"You're dead," he said simply, his voice raspy.

"Clearly I'm not," Sherlock responded. His long, pale fingers ran along the swollen flesh of John's cheek, making him wince. "It's no longer best for your safety for you to believe me dead. Just the opposite, in fact. You're in more danger alone than you are with me."

"I knew." John smiled, even though it hurt. "I knew. I saw you, a few months ago, and I knew it was you."

Sherlock returned the smile, though there was something a little sad in his. "Yes. That's true. And that's why this," he gestured to John's face, his arms, "is my fault. I've pushed him into action. How did you escape?"

John's eyebrows pulled together. "Escape?"

"Yes, from Moran. You must have-" Sherlock's gaze wandered from John's face to his neck and the obvious bite-marks there. "Oh."

"Sherlock-"

"No, no, this makes sense." He stood abruptly, letting John's head slide out of his lap and on to the floor, and began to pace. "Take you on as a lover, and-. Yes. Of course! Very clever."

John struggled to sit up, his head spinning. "What are you talking about? How do you know Seb?"

Sherlock laughed and clapped his hands together, but his eyes were blazing. "Seb. How did I miss that? Curse that bastard, Mycroft. I'm loathe to say he was right, but-"

"Mycroft knows you're alive?"

"Of course." Sherlock looked down at John with that isn't it obvious? expression on his face. "Faking one's death is a rather detailed and expensive little expenditure, and it didn't exactly help that your blog had elevated me to the status of near celebrity-"

"Is this real?" John rubbed carefully at his swollen eyes. "Is this really happening, or have I gone mad?"

Sherlock crouched and looked into John's eyes, lifting the eyelids one after the other. He turned his head this way and that, and then sighed, "Water, then bed. When you're hydrated and rested, I'll explain as much as I can make you understand." Gently, he helped John to his feet and led him to the kitchen, where he stood- with arms crossed, and toes tapping- and watched John drink three glasses of water from the sink. Then he slipped an arm around John's waist and took him to his room.

John watched with almost clinical detachment as Sherlock stripped him down to his pants, those eyes more narrow then ever and taking in every detail of John's roughly-used body. His lips were pursed as he eased John carefully into bed, tucking the blankets in around him.

"Sherlock," John whispered. "Wait."

Sherlock's hand was poised near the lamp, but he paused and regarded John with astonishing patience. "Sleep, John. Then we'll talk."

"You'll still be here?"

A hint of a smile graced Sherlock's lips. "Yes. I won't leave."

John's eyes were starting to drift closed of their own accord. He was exhausted, if he was honest, and still a touch dizzy from drinking Seb's entire wine collection. "If you leave me again…" he began, but sleep overtook him before he could finish the threat.