Warnings: Mild descriptions of wounds, mentions of drug abuse, sexual innuendo, violence (depictions of torture including knives).


Somehow, miraculously, Mycroft managed to get Sherlock discharged. John didn't ask; he didn't care. Sherlock seemed to be fine, physically, asides from the extensive wounds and their side effects. The colour returned to his face, his eyes lost their sunken in, vacant look, the black eye diminshed, and Sherlock constantly turned his nose up at the doctoring he was recieving. The oxygen line was not needed, the catheter removed, and the IV was used solely for antibiotics and no longer for hydration.

Mentally, though...

Sherlock was still having nightmares, there were moments when his eyes were distant, he flinched at loud noises, and he never once spoke. The most that John got out of him was Sherlock groaning when the (hospital) doctor had mentioned that Sherlock was on morphine.

Of course, John knew this. Mycroft knew this. But Sherlock had a broken leg and broken ribs and a broken nose and other painful injuries, and a terrible tolerance to most lower-strength painkillers. He and Mycroft had begrudgingly allowed a low dose of morphine- the doctors didn't know about Sherlock's drug problems. Apparently, Sherlock had never ended up in hospital for it, or, at least, never in a hospital that Mycroft didn't have influence over. It didn't surprise John... Sherlock was always meticulous, so why shouldn't have he been meticulous when he took drugs, too?

John didn't condone Sherlock's past, or condone the morphine that they had Sherlock on now, but watching Sherlock trying not to writhe in pain had made John's stomach hurt. So, a low dose of morphine. And John promised himself that he wouldn't let Sherlock fall victim to a morphine addiction. No. He would not.

John walked back into Sherlock's room, carrying a cup of tea. He was alarmed to find Sherlock out of bed, standing painfully, struggling with clothes that Mycroft had brought earlier.

"Sherlock- Sherlock, what are you doing?" John asked, quickly stepping forward to grip Sherlock's shoulders. "Sherlock, you need to lay down!"

Sherlock didn't react, only tried and failed to untie his hospital gown.

"Sherlock, just because they said you can leave doesn't mean you need to leave this instant!" John said, concerned because his friend was visibly shaking. "Sherlock, you need to rest, you're working yourself up!"

Sherlock looked down at him then, his eyes pleading. He looked like he was ready to break down in tears.

John backed down.

"Alright... Alright, hang on, I'll help you. Sit down," he murmured, setting down his cup of tea and helping Sherlock to sit. He walked over to the door, locked it lest someone decided to walk in on Sherlock changing, and quietly untied the back of Sherlock's gown. "You don't have to be so pushy," he murmured, easing the gown away from Sherlock carefully. "You don't need to run out of here as soon as they say you can... I know you want to get back to Baker Street, but you've been through the mill, Sherlock. You can't push yourself."

His breath caught as, with a little help from Sherlock, the gown fell to the ground. It wasn't as though John hadn't seen Sherlock's wounds, but he'd been wearing clothes, then, and... this was so much worse.

There were bruises covering nearly every part of Sherlock's body.

Dark blues and blacks and purples were splotched across Sherlock's chest and stomach, a sharp contrast to Sherlock's always pale skin. Yellows were tinging the bruises, now that they were having time to heal, but the left side of his ribcage was still covered in dark marks. There were gashes, some with stitches now, against his sides and hips, scratches down his leg that wasn't covered with the cast. Of course John had already been able to see the bruises on Sherlock's arms, but then there was his back, which was mottled with reminders of what had happened in the past week.

John swallowed, looking up to meet Sherlock's gaze.

Sherlock just shrugged slightly and held out a pair of trousers. John sighed shakily, and, feeling sick, helped Sherlock to get his legs in the correct pants-leg.

"Don't get up yet..." he mumbled, after shimmying Sherlock's trousers on the best he could. He picked up the shirt, carefully helping Sherlock slip his arms into it before clasping the buttons. "You want the jacket?"

Sherlock nodded slightly.

John picked up Sherlock's jacket, helping him with that as well. Of course Sherlock would be worried about keeping up appearances, even though he'd been half tortured to death. John fastened the one button on the jacket and found Sherlock's shoes under the bed.

After Sherlock had his clothes on, more or less, John offered a hand and helped Sherlock to stand and let him pull up his own trousers to his hips.

"Good?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock nodded, again, only slightly.

"'kay." John helped him sit back down. "You have paperwork to sign. Just stay put for a few minutes, alright?"

Sherlock sighed heavily, but John took it as an affirmative.


Getting back to Baker Street had never been so relieving. Sherlock practically tripped up the stairs in his haste to get back home, although John could hardly admonish him. It had been a week since Sherlock had been home. Ever since he had been... detained, getting home had probably been the only thing on Sherlock's mind.

He paused in the doorway, casting his gaze around the flat. John heard him sigh, almost silently, before shuffling back towards his bedroom, his crutches thumping against the hardwood floor.

"Take your coat off if you're going to bed!" John called, shrugging his own coat off.


"What do you think? Isn't he nice?" the woman, Tiffany, asked, as she traced her fingers against Sherlock's stomach.

Sherlock couldn't help how tense he was. His mind was telling his stupid, useless transport to relax, but it was to no avail. He didn't like it when people invaded his personal space, much less when he was stripped nearly naked in front of them. He didn't have problems with his body or showing it off- he had no privacy or modesty issues, as John often said- but this was a bit different.

"Sure. Fine. Whatever," replied the man, Reg, sounding bored.

"Are you sure I can't-"

"If you do, you're going to find yourself tied up next to him," Reg said. "I won't stand for you being a little whore."

"But, Reg," Tiffany whined, walking away from Sherlock and over to Reg.

It was clear that these two were together, romantically, or, at least, sexually, and that Reg was really protective, over-protective... and that was the only reason Sherlock hadn't lost his pants. Yet. He still wasn't confident on the idea if he was going to get out of here with his virginity in tact. Probability undetermined.

Sherlock closed his eyes.

Sherlock's heart was pounding in his ears, thumping frantically in his chest. His wrists burned and his legs cramped. He stretched slightly, reflexively, with a groan.

It was a knife. It was definitely a pen-knife, that was digging into his side, causing blood to ooze down his hips.

He didn't make a sound as the knife slipped and sliced the side of his pants open. Accident. Although Tiffany had no remorse.

Pain welled against his thigh, when the knife had grazed it, and he squirmed instictively before he could stop.

"Come on, Sherlock!" Tiffany said. "I told you not to move!"

There was a sharp stinging and a loud crack. Sherlock's head snapped to the side with the force of the slap, his cheek and chin stinging painfully afterwards.

"Give me a reason why I shouldn't carve those cheekbones right out of your face," she breathed, and Sherlock felt the point of the knife against his cheek.

He barely dared to breathe.

Just wait, Sherlock. John'll be here soon. Maybe. Although three days really wasn't long enough for Mycroft to be worrying. Besides, they had ditched Sherlock's mobile. Sherlock's mobile was the only thing that had a GPS tracking device on it. Mycroft couldn't have found him without some serious trouble, and Mycroft wouldn't worry about only three days.

You'll be free soon. Soon, Sherlock, soon.

Sherlock ducked his head, curling in on himself. His entire body was wracked with aches and pains and Sherlock whimpered slightly, clutching the blanket.

Sherlock lashed out, slamming his feet into Tiffany's back.

Normally, he had very little desire to ever attack a woman... but there were some instances where it designated violence for him. Like being chained up for over twenty-four hours without food or water or bathroom breaks- basically, all the things that he normally neglected that he might have killed for now.

Tiffany hit the floor with a loud thud and a sharp shriek that grazed on Sherlock's eardrums. He struggled against the man holding his arms, managing to break free for a half second. He slammed his fist towards the man's stomach, planning to make a break for it.

But, suddenly, a massive weight tackled him to the ground and he struggled vainly. A week long case left him exhausted on a good day, but not eating and barely drinking or sleeping through a week long case, and being chained up for a whole day, left him weak and tired and his legs and arms numb.

Fingers knitted into his hair and his head was suddenly slammed back against the concrete ground. Pain assailed him, nausea overwhelmed him, and he had the briefest moment of intense satisfaction as he vomited on his attacker.

"Don't you ever touch her again," snarled the voice- Reg.

The fingers in Sherlock's hair tightened and he had a brief second to steel himself as pain assailed him again.

He didn't vomit again, but darkness swam before his eyes. He couldn't struggle; it was too much pain and he was too weak and his strength had been wasted on the half-arsed attack. And he was pretty sure that he had been drugged. Sometime.

"Do you hear me? Or I'll make sure that you don't!"

Something different slammed against the side of Sherlock's head. His hearing became fuzzy and his ears started to ring.

Pain bloomed from his stomach this time. He was left gasping and choking for breath, trying to roll over to vomit again, so he didn't choke, but he couldn't breathe, and the pain was still coming; it was so intense. His eyes were watering and there was vomit on the back of his tongue and still there was pain, pain-


Sherlock doesn't live in a beautiful textbook world. The nightmares are just beginning. (But there's comfort with the hurt. So some good old bonding is in order. :)]

I do not own Sherlock. Thank you!