Sherlock curled on his bed, screwing his eyes shut, and letting pain flood him. He didn't mind it that much. And it wasn't so bad now that he'd been patched up a little.

The stitches itched already, and the bandages rubbed painfully against some grazes. But he just took it. It had been early morning when he woke up, and crawled into his room, rocking on his bed, clutching his knees to his chin, keeping his eyes closed so he could focus on the pain.

It had been midday before he'd broken down, and eased himself painfully down to John Watson's surgery.

The glance he'd had the day before told him John was a doctor, and compared to the last doctor, he looked nice. But then, he didn't have any good memories associated with the last doctor. But something about John had caught his attention.

It had been the kindness. Something he'd been starved of all his life.

There had been exceptions, naturally. Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson. Molly.

But he only appreciated them now. He'd come to realise that the time before Moriarty had been the happiest of his life, and he hadn't even realised it.

He discovered John's first name when he was sitting on the table.

And Sherlock hadn't found the whole process too bad. It was painful, but John was very careful, talking in a calm, gentle voice. His words didn't actually get through to Sherlock, only his voice. He'd already decided he liked the voice.

Sherlock had also spent his time deducing. An art which had lain buried for a long time. John however, was an interesting subject, and he found himself taking careful note of everything he saw.

He was immensely grateful that John hadn't asked anything. Past the first question, he had made no comment. But it was obvious in the depths of his warm blue eyes that he was troubled.

Sherlock sighed quietly, and slowly let sleep take him. Sleep, something he had once despised, now allowed him to dream of a happier place.

The darkest hour is before the dawn. He told himself for the millionth time. The words had lost their meaning long ago, but he still hoped... Maybe, maybe, one day he would be free again.

That will never happen, said Moriarty's voice.


Sherlock woke early, letting himself sniff in his own scent, his breathing muffled by the pillow.

His back was twinging, but not unbearably.

He carefully eased himself into a sitting position, and glanced at his watch. It was early morning. He wouldn't be going to John until midday. Moriarty probably knew he'd been, but nobody else needed to.

For the first few hours, he lay on his stomach staring out the window. He'd learnt to let the hours fly by. One moment it would be eight, then next ten. It was an advantage he'd gained a long time ago.

He was finally disturbed by a knock on his door. He recognised the knock, so remained still, waiting for Moriarty to enter the room.

"Sherry?"

God, how he hated that nickname. But it was better than his real name coming from Moriarty's lips.

Moriarty plonked himself on the bed, fondly petting Sherlock's head. It took all his pride not to flinch away.

"Feeling any better darling?" Moriarty asked, though there was no trace on concern in his voice.

Any form on endearment coming from Moriarty was almost intolerable.

"Yes." he replied shortly, continuing to stare out the window.

"I saw you went to Doctor Watson."

Sherlock waited for the completion of the sentence, a little nervously. He didn't want any harm coming to John.

"Are you satisfied with his treatment?"

"Yes." he said emotionlessly.

Moriarty ruffled his hair again. All he was to the man was a pet. Sherlock wished that he would grow bored and kill him. But they both got a constant reminder from the situation. Sherlock, of defeat, and Moriarty of victory. Something he liked to be reminded of.

And of course, his pride, which remained strong and intact kept him from submitting to Moriarty. Something which kept interest fixed on him.

"I was thinking maybe you'd like a little trip out, Sherry. After Wednesday's little excursion, it seems you're growing bored, though I can't imagine why. But, any good fiancé would treat his future husband to a little outing, hmm?"

Fiancé. The crowning hateful word. It suggested love. Romance. Attachment. Trust. The term had come to mean the exact opposite of those things to Sherlock.

Moriarty's grip tightened on his hair, and he yanked it slightly.

"Well?"

"Alright." Sherlock replied grudgingly.

There a chance. A slim chance that maybe something in Moriarty's calculations would fail, and Mycroft would come to learn of his imprisonment.

"I'll get it arranged then, Sherry." Moriarty cooed, resuming his petting.

He finally left, leaving Sherlock to his miserable and angry thoughts again.

Time flew, until finally Sherlock left to meet John again. He was almost looking forward to it. A feeling that he thought long since dead.

In his opinion, the only thing that wasn't dead was his body.

He carefully knocked on the door, hearing the shuffling of fabric from inside. The door swung open, and John smiled shyly at him. It was a friendly smile. Another thing Sherlock liked.

"I was just beginning to think you weren't coming." said John ushering him in, and patting the table.

Sherlock twitched his lips in response, and lifted himself onto the table.

"Shirt off, please."

John spent the next fifteen minutes carefully undoing the bandages and examining the whip lashes.

"They're a lot better." he said finally.

Sherlock didn't reply. He hadn't spoken a word once, despite John talking to him. Neither expected an answer to come to Sherlock's lips.

John bandaged up his back again with infinite care, finally handed his shirt back over and giving that shy smile.

"All done."

Sherlock nodded and slipped on the table, easing his shirt on and crossing to the door.

"Sherlock."

He stopped and turned to look at John.

"If you ever... want to, talk about things, just say, yeah?"

Sherlock tried to see if he was just offering to be polite, but he could see no lies in John's warm blue eyes. He could only see the kind of pity he didn't despise. Well, maybe he did once. But now, everything was different.

"Thank you." he said, and he meant it.

"Just remember, I'm happy to listen." John said.

Sherlock nodded jerkily, and left.


I hope that was alright! Hopefully Moriarty's okay (= Next chapter (sometime after the weekend) John will think *nods* I'm so grateful for all the brilliant reviews, so if you could spare a second, that would be amazing!

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