Why was Sherlock's phone here, cracked and left behind, Sherlock never left anything behind? John looked up from the phone and noticed another object lying on the ground, a few feet ahead in front of a door. Sherlock's wallet? John picked up the clue and stuffed it in his pocket. Then he froze, realization hitting him like a brick.
The jerks, they said they'd get him. But why was Sherlock here in John's alleyway? Perhaps visiting? Then the jerks probably covered his mouth and dragged him, desperate for someone to find him Sherlock must've dropped anything he could get from his pockets indiscreetly. Thus the important articles left on the ground for anyone to find. Through the door, they dragged him through the door. It led to an abandoned warehouse. Oh God.
John took off, slamming the door open and grabbing a crowbar that was left at the side of the entrance. Instantly John felt the change in atmosphere, it went from cool and fresh to stuffy and cold, ice cold. John had trouble breathing in the rusty air, but continued on, adrenaline pumping. John heard voices to his far left, in one of the aisles filled with rusty lawn mowers and gasoline and other junk. Instantly he recognized the cold voice that had taunted him for months.
As John slowly approached the voices, they got clearer. "No one to protect you now, no one to see. This is what you get for thinking you can punch me and get away with it!" The mean voice growled. He grunted and John could almost feel the hard plastic of a boot connecting with Sherlock's ribcage. Sherlock whimpered, ever so slightly and it felt like a stab to John's chest. It's all his fault, the guilt was eating him alive, so he didn't realize when he knocked a bucket off the shelf until the loud clang of it hitting the floor echoed loudly in the vast space. Silence at first, then their leader whispered to the rest of the group a string of curse words and a "Let's get out of here." Footsteps retreating and the slam of a door far off. Silence.
John turned the corner into the last aisle and saw a heap of skin and sweat and blood. "Oh God" John managed before running to Sherlock's side, kneeling over him. Sherlock was shaking, likely from the cold and cuts. His shirt was in a heap of shredded cloth in a corner and multiple bleeding cuts ran along his abdomen and back. Hair was plastered to his neck and face and already ugly purple bruises started to form on his torso and back. John was trained in basic first aid, but it was obvious Sherlock was breathing. John slipped his own shirt off and pressed it against the wounds that were bleeding the most, applying pressure and praying for the blood to stop flowing.
The bite of the cold air against his chest stung but John didn't particularly care at the moment. Sherlock attempted to speak but it came out a hoarse cough instead. "Shh, shh, it's okay, don't speak. I'm gonna get you out of here, can you sit up?" John calmly spoke to Sherlock, who nodded and hitched a breath while raising his upper body, clutching John's arm for support. John whispered encouraging words to his friend as he helped him to stand up and walk out into the slightly warmer day. "Stay here." John ordered as he quickly went and grabbed a jumper from his space. He didn't want to walk around shirtless, plus it's more fabric to soak up blood if needed.
Hailing a cab, John helped Sherlock into the back seat and then climbed in with him, ordering Sherlock's address to the driver. Sherlock was breathing heavily and clutching at his stomach. John placed a comforting hand over Sherlock's steadying his breathing a little. Seeing the situation, the cab driver drove a little faster. When they arrived, John pulled some bills out of Sherlock's wallet (He'd repay him later) and rushed to pull Sherlock out and support him up the driveway. Still holding up most of Sherlock's weight, he rang the doorbell and Mrs. Holmes answered.
"Oh my" She gasped, shocked for a moment before snapping out of it and into parent-nurse mode. "Help me get him in." She ordered, John nodded and helped Sherlock up the small step into the house. He brought him over to the kitchen and put him on a chair, all the while Sherlock's mum was gathering various medical supplies. John felt undeserving of being there, so he muttered something about having to work and Mrs. Holmes stopped applying antiseptic. "But John, Sherlock needs you here, for support. You can stay the night again, stay, come."
John was sure she was just being nice because of his situation with not having a home and all but still, it felt nice. John walked back over to Sherlock and knelt beside him. Sherlock was gripping the side of the chair with white knuckles, one of these hands grabbed Johns as soon as he was in reaching distance. His grip was like iron, but John knew he deserved it, and anyway was happy Sherlock wasn't repulsed by him. She continued to wrap up Sherlock, apply cream and give him pills to swallow. Soon enough she was done and Sherlock's grip lessened. He had been quiet the whole time, not one word spoken.
John helped him up the stairs and into his bed, it was still early but Sherlock's body needed rest. John went back down the stairs once he saw that Sherlock was peacefully sleeping, planning to leave but before he could he was stopped. "John, if you don't mind, could you explain what happened, please?" Her tone was calm, and there was no anger present, but John broke down anyway, burying his face in his hands. "Oh, John," the woman sighed, heartbroken before walking up to John and embracing him in a tight hug. John felt undeserving, but relished at the feeling of the warm embrace of a mothers touch.
John was shaking with sobs, and the woman rubbed his shoulders until he calmed down enough. He told her what happened.
