A/N - Okay, it has been a while. A long while. And I am sorry it's taken so long, honestly I am, and I will try not to do it again, but I have exams and I am just SO SORRY! DD: But thank you to all of those who have waited patiently for this chapter and have given me such wonderful reviews! 3 Thank you and I am sorry (By the way , oh my god, the new series is so amazing!) I hope you all enjoy! I'm sorry it's so short, but I had to get it to you!
Disclaimers - I obviously don't own Sherlock.
Warnings - WILL contain violence, abuse and rape. I'll tell you when it gets nasty in which chapters so you can look away if you need to. If you're a bit twisted like me, don't worry. There'll be some scary shit happening in later chapters.
Positives - A new chapter?
John knew he looked a mess. No amount of water in his face could hide his red eyes, or wash away the cracked tear tracks on his cheeks. And besides, even if he didn't look so terrible. there would be no doubt that Sherlock would be able to pick up on it anyway. Maybe some of his tears splashed onto his shoes, or the way he was so tense would give it away. Even after all this time, he still marvelled at the way his friend's mind worked.
John waited outside of Sherlock's room, trying not to listen in on the quiet, but heartfelt goodbye the two Holmes brothers were sharing. After a few minutes he saw Mycroft walk out of his room and walk down the corridor, his shoulders tense. He didn't look back. John took it as his cue to walk in and he did, sliding the door behind him.
Sherlock was rubbing at his cheeks with his palms, red eyes staring out at the view of London town out of his window, "I missed it, John," he whispered, "I missed London. I... It's stupid," he shook his head and turned away from the city
"What?" John asked gently, sitting down at the edge of the bed, "What is it, Sherlock?"
Sherlock looked at his hands, before glancing up at John, "I thought it would have changed with me gone," he shook his head, new tears springing into his eyes, "But it hasn't. Nothing's changed. And I don't know whether that makes things worse or better."
John didn't know what to say. He took Sherlock's slim hand and held them between his own. He looked down at the scarred pale skin, thinking of how it used to be covered in dirt and chemical burns from his experiments and adventures. But other marks painted it now, reds and blues of bruises replaced the yellows and greens of acid, the marks more sinister than any cut from one of his escapades.
"Maybe," John murmured, still looking down at Sherlock's hand, a thumb gently caressing the frayed skin, "The city was just waiting for you. Leaving everything as it was before you left so that when you came back... It would be like you had never left," John paused for a moment, before smiling and shaking his head, "Now that is stupid."
"No, it isn't," Sherlock whispered. He stared at John, before sniffing and apologizing, followed by a gentle reminder to not be sorry, for he had nothing to be sorry for. After a few minutes, Sherlock stated, "Mycroft left."
John nodded. He had clearly done some good to his brother. He seemed more... Coherent. More stable, as though he was still coming out of the awful cellar, bit by bit. But his brother had helped him out enormously, in a way that John might not possibly understand. "Yes, his work is very important... But, he does think very highly of you, you know?"
The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched, "Don't be so silly, John. Nobody thinks highly of me." Sir's deprecating words bounced around in Sherlock's skull and he shook his head, "Not any more."
It was as though John could hear Sir's voice (deep and menacing was how he imagined it) through his friend's mouth. He still couldn't believe it, that his friend had turned into Sir's puppet, the man who could never be fooled by anyone.
"He will find me again, John," Sherlock whispered, "He'll find me and he'll take me away from you."
"No," John shook his head, squeezing his hand, "No, I won't let that happen."
"You can't stop him. No one can. I couldn't," with his free hand, he brushed away a few stray tears that had found themselves on his pale cheeks.
"You were alone," John said softly, "You're not now. And you won't ever be again, Sherlock, I promise you. He'll have to get through me, Mycroft, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson before he can get to you, and believe me we're a force not to be reckoned with." Sherlock looked up at John, tears shining in his eyes. But they were full of gratitude, as was the smile gracing his face. "We are Sherlock's army," John said, brushing another curl from Sherlock's face, "And we all swear that we will let nothing will happen to you."
...
It took a long time for Sherlock's body to heal. The two fingers of his left hand had to be reset, which John was grateful for, thankful that he no longer had to look at the crooked and deformed shape of his fingers deformed into claws. It was his weight that was of the main causes for concern. It was disturbing just how much he had lost and it took him a long time to get back on to solids, first being fed through a tube, and then on to baby-food like substances. Sleep was another issue, not only because he was so used to it being controlled by Sir, but because of the welts and scars on his backs. For the first few days, Sherlock was always either too scared or in too much pain to sleep. And he outright refused any painkillers. That was the one act of defiance he never apologized for.
But he and John soon worked out a system of how could sleep. John would sleep beside Sherlock, the upper half of his friends body propped against his own and both friends would sleep quite happily like this. It took Sherlock a lot of convincing to get him to actually nod off, but John managed to get the job done and soon he was physically making rapid improvements. Though his ankles was something yet to be seen. It was difficult for the consulting detective to do anything apart and both feet itched and ached like mad.
John would help pass the time by asking Sherlock to read the people who went past their room. It was possible that John loved these moments more than Sherlock did. It was as though seeing a glimpse of the old Sherlock, like a ray of sun flashing by before hidden by clouds again.
Sherlock had not yet spoken about the past two years. Most of John's time was spent trying to distract him form the terrible fear of Sir. Because if John wasn't there and talking to him or holding his hand or doing something, it sometimes felt to Sherlock that he was losing his mind with fear. But even without Sherlock's input on the matter, it wasn't difficult to guess as to what had happened.
So Doctor Tennant suggested that they start up a routine for him. Nothing big, but just have a daily routine, repeating small activities every day, to bring a little normality back into his life. And so, every morning, Lestrade would come in with rolls of newspapers under his arms and read with Sherlock. Sometimes, Lestrade could only stay for a minute or two, other times whole mornings were spent with newspapers strew around his room. But he always came, as promised, and they would read for a time in comfortable silence whilst John snoozed gently next to Sherlock, catching up on lost sleep.
Mrs Hudson would soon join after, fussing over Sherlock, plumping his pillows, straightening his sheets and checking whether the staff were good to him and so on. She would stay as late as she was allowed, until Sherlock and John insisted that she went home. She couldn't possibly sleep in the hospital, not with that hip of hers. So she would leave at around six in the evening.
Sherlock's last visitor was Mycroft. The one time that John could be relieved of his Sherlock duties and he usually left them by themselves, though many times John had been asked to stay if Sherlock was in a particularly bad state. Mycroft had changed greatly since Sherlock's disappearance. He had lost a lot of weight and he had buried himself into his work, making rather difficult for him to crawl his way out of it again. But as the days passed, he managed to get more hours off and soon, the nights were spent in Sherlock's room.
Though, many years ago, John had once told Sherlock that the world didn't revolve around him, for the next few days and even weeks, the entire world did so. And everyone was more than happy to do so.
