It was the pain in his wrist which woke Holmes. He opened his eyes slowly, a little disorientated at first as he pushed himself awkwardly up into a sitting position. Glancing round his room, he took in the familiar sight of the furnishings and clutter.

He stared down at the white cast upon his wrist and the bandages around his index and middle fingers. For a brief moment he stared at them before recollection returned, and with it the memories.

He shuddered and clutched at his stomach, for a moment fearing he was about to be sick. The room suddenly seemed to be too small, too stifling; he couldn't seem to catch his breath. His feet were tangled in his sheets, and he struggled to kick them free, fighting down a rising tide of unreasoning terror before finally managing to fling aside the covers and eiderdown.

The panic started to subside once he managed to set his bare feet upon the floor. He rose, slowly stripping off the bloodstained shirt and dropping it uncaring upon the floor as he reached for his favourite tatty old dressing gown. It had seen better days, much as had its owner, he mused as he pulled it on. It was shabby and comfortable.

Cradling the injured hand against his chest with his uninjured one, Holmes slowly shuffled his way into the sitting room. He paused in the doorway, staring down at Watson who lay sprawled asleep on the couch next to the remains of what looked like breakfast. Holmes padded forward on silent feet and stared down at the sleeping doctor with a wistful, fond look.

Asleep, the lines of care that made Watson seem older than his years were smoothed away; he looked almost boyish. Holmes noted with a small smile that there were traces of jam on the end of Watson's moustache, with a couple more blobs adorning the front of his slightly rumpled shirt. One hand rested on the broad chest which rose and fell steadily with the deep, slow breaths of one fast asleep; the other hand trailed over the edge of the couch, fingers half-curled towards the floor. Watson's bad leg was stretched out stiffly on the couch, the other leg bent slightly with the foot resting on the floor.

Holmes made his way over to his chair and sank down into it, eyes not leaving the relaxed face of the sleeping doctor. He pulled his pipe out of his pocket and began to fill it slowly one-handed, then tucked the stem into his mouth as he lit a taper from the fire then set it to the bowl of his pipe. He sat back, puffing slowly, thoughts drifting with the smoke.

After a while Watson stirred, sighing faintly as his brow furrowed into a faint frown.

"You should still be in bed," he said with a faint tone of irritation, not opening his eyes.

"I could say the same of you," replied Holmes.

"How long have you been sitting there watching me?"

"You've got jam on your shirt," replied Holmes obliquely.

Watson opened his eyes and sat up, reaching for his handkerchief. "Have I? Oh damn," he muttered, dabbing at the errant blobs of red.

"It's on your moustache too," observed Holmes, pointing with the stem of his pipe.

Watson wiped it off with the handkerchief then eyed Holmes sternly. "You didn't answer my question," he prodded.

"No, I didn't," replied Holmes with one of his maddening, boyish smiles.

Watson rolled his eyes and gave up. "We ought to get you back to bed, old boy," he said briskly. "You had a restless night and I'd be happier knowing you were resting. Or -" he gave Holmes a measured stare, "I could threaten to tie you down to your bed and make you stay there."

Holmes went very still, his eyes glittering strangely. "Don't even joke about such things," he said quietly, voice almost a monotone. Watson regarded him steadily, then turned and leaned forward.

"Holmes, what's wrong?" he asked carefully, studying the other man's face. "You're afraid."

"Yes," said Holmes unwillingly.

"Why?"

Holmes' gaze dropped to the floor.

"Holmes."

He glanced up, slowly, almost against his will.

"What would you do if..."

"Oh God, John, don't. Please. Just drop it." He dropped his face into his uninjured hand, shuddering.

Watson got up slowly and limped over to Holmes' side, crouching down so he could look up into Holmes' face. Holmes regarded him a little fearfully.

"It's not like you to be afraid of something without good reason, Holmes," he said gently.

Holmes laughed sharply; a harsh, sardonic sound. "That's just it though, isn't it? I am afraid without reason. I was afraid even before they began..." He held up his broken hand. "Do you know how they tortured me, Watson? How they broke me?"

"Holmes, don't-"

"They tied me up, Watson. That was it. That was all it took to break me." He spat the words out bitterly, his face twisting in self-disgust. "They tied me up, and I begged them – begged them, Watson! I begged them to stop!" He looked away, closing his eyes in remembered pain and humiliation.

"This has never happened before, I take it," replied Watson thoughtfully.

"Never," agreed Holmes, shaking his head.

"Then perhaps you can overcome it, with help," replied Watson, getting up and walking over to Holmes' desk in the corner.

"How?" asked Holmes, glancing up, curious in spite of himself as Watson rummaged around on the desk. "What are you looking for?"

"Aha!" said Watson triumphantly. "These!" He lifted up a pair of handcuffs.

Holmes' face drained of all colour and he pushed himself back into the chair, shaking his head wildly in sudden terror. "No. No, no! NO!"

Watson limped slowly back toward Holmes, who stared fixedly at the handcuffs, whimpering no, no, no, no over and over. He crouched down in front of Holmes and gently laid the cuffs on Holmes' knee. He shrank back as though they were some venomous serpent, his gaze darting from the cuffs to Watson and then back again.

"What are you trying to do to me?" he asked shrilly. "Oh God, get them away from me, please!"

"Holmes, it's all right. They can't hurt you. Just look at them. That's all, just look at them."

Holmes stared at him incredulously. "Just... look at them? Watson, what-"

"Just look at them, Holmes. That's all I ask." He laid his hand over Holmes' uninjured one, and Holmes gave a start, jerking at the touch. Watson stroked the hand gently in reassurance. "Holmes. Do you trust me?"

Holmes' gaze upon John was steady as he nodded slowly. "With my life," he whispered.

"Do you truly believe I would do anything to harm you?"

He shook his head, not tearing his eyes away from Watson's clear blue gaze.

"Then trust me."

Holmes swallowed convulsively, then let his gaze fall to the cuffs. He could not repress a shiver of revulsion as he stared at them. "Do I... do I have to, to touch them?" he stammered.

"Do you think you can?"

Holmes bit his lip, then slowly stretched his fingers out towards them, a cold sweat breaking out upon his brow as he confronted his fears. Closing his eyes, he laid his hand upon the cuffs and shuddered before snatching his hand away. Watson laid his hand on Holmes' shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly.

"How far do you feel you can go?" asked Watson gently. Holmes opened his eyes and turned his anguished gaze upon Watson.

"What do you mean?"

Watson held out his wrists. "Do you think you could cuff me?"

Holmes shrank back. "Why would you ask me to do such a thing?" he hissed.

"To show you that you have nothing to fear," replied Watson gently.

"But... why?"

"Because I trust you."

Holmes steeled himself and picked up the cuffs. Watson held out his wrists again. Holmes slowly fitted one cuff around the left wrist, his hand trembling as he fumbled to close it around the warm brown wrist; the cuffs clinked and he flinched at the sound as the catch clicked shut. Watson kept his eyes on Holmes, smiling reassuringly. "I'm OK, Holmes. You're doing fine. That's it, now the other hand..." He slipped his right hand into the cuff as Holmes held it in trembling fingers, and he kept his blue gaze steady as the second cuff clicked shut.

"Holmes?"

"This is wrong, wrong, I can't do this," murmured Holmes brokenly, rubbing his hand over his face. Watson shifted his weight slightly as the wound in his thigh cramped warningly. He rested his cuffed arms on Holmes' knees.

"Holmes, look at me. See? I'm fine."

Holmes glanced up slowly, unwillingly. Watson smiled back, then reached down awkwardly to pull the key out of his pocket. He dropped it into Holmes' hand. "I told you I trusted you. Now, you have the key. It's up to you how long I stay cuffed. You choose when to release me."

He sat back on his heels, wrists resting on Holmes' knees again, and stared up into the wide, dark eyes. "Take your time," he added, winking at his friend.

Holmes blinked, startled.

Watson grinned, held up his cuffed wrists, and wiggled his fingers at Holmes. Holmes pushed his hands down, then fumbled one-handed with the key until Watson's hands were free again.

"See, I told you I'd be fine," remarked Watson easily. He tossed the cuffs into Holmes' hands again; Holmes caught them with his uninjured hand without thinking then dropped them hurriedly. Watson pretended not to notice as he turned his back on Holmes and knelt again, crossing his wrists behind his back again.

"Watson, no – not like that," said Holmes, his voice uncertain. Watson craned his head back over his shoulder to look at Holmes. He raised an eyebrow and wiggled his fingers at Holmes again. "Watson!" cried Holmes, exasperated.

Watson glanced away, humming quietly to himself. After a moment he heard a quiet clinking as Holmes leaned forward, and then there was the cold touch of metal at his wrists as Holmes cuffed him again with a shaking hand. Watson twisted his wrists experimentally in the cuffs, testing their tightness; instantly Holmes was leaning forwards, his slender hand touching Watson's shoulder then smoothing down the length of his arm as Holmes pressed himself against Watson's back. "Did I hurt you?" he breathed anxiously. Watson shook his head.

"I'm fine," he replied gently. "See? It doesn't hurt. They're not even particularly tight." He tuned his face towards Holmes and found their lips were a mere breath apart.

His heart began to beat faster and he felt his breath hitch in his chest as he stared at Holmes' lips; they were a pale pink, curving sensuously into a thin cupid's-bow, slightly parted. Holmes' breath was warm and sweet upon his face and he breathed it in as Holmes exhaled in relief.

"Watson?" asked Holmes hesitantly. "Your pupils are dilated and I can feel your heart racing. Are you-"

"I'm fine, Holmes," breathed Watson, his skin tingling from Holmes' nearness.

"You appear to be somewhat excited," Holmes observed.

Oh God I want to kiss you so badly. "I'm perfectly all right."

"Do you want me to let you go?"

No. "If you like."

"I'm going to unlock the cuffs now," said Holmes hurriedly as he sat back and began to fumble with the key again.

Watson's groan as he leaned forward and began to rub his leg had nothing to do with the cramp.