So. This has got sex in it. Well, rape, technically. Just in case you don't want to read that bit. It's at the end, and it is obvious when it is coming. So you are warned.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

It took a long time for Sherlock to say anything even remotely understandable. And even then, it was mostly random words. John's name; sometimes. Mutters about things being 'false' or 'real.' He still didn't talk much. It was eight months before he looked up at John and said "Home." John blinked at him. "Home," insisted Sherlock. Mycroft appeared behind John.

"He's been saying that," Mycroft said. "Every time he sees me." Sherlock didn't take his eyes off the two men at the door.

"John. Home" said Sherlock. "Now." John glanced at Mycroft.

"Is that…possible? Could we bring him to Baker Street?"

Mycroft sighed. "I don't know. It is telling that he is asking you now, instead of just telling me that he wishes to go 'home.' He won't tell me what home is though. If home is Baker Street or if he wants to gohome. To heaven."

John blinked at him, nonplussed. "Oh. Right. Well…he is telling me now. So, I guess that means Baker Street."

"Home," muttered Sherlock, studying his fingernails. He glanced up again, then stood and strode over to John. He grabbed him by the shoulders, and John managed to see those huge wings beat once, and then there was what felt like a lot of wind and a bit of squeezing, and two seconds later, they were standing outside 221 Baker Street. Sherlock stared calmly at the building, and John stood almost shuddering, clutching at his chest as if it would help calm his heart. People hadn't seemed to notice them seem to just appear out of nowhere. But they did notice the wings. Sherlock didn't seem to notice them.

And then Mycroft was there, looking shaken, and people started just walking by again, paying no attention to the rather odd group. Mycroft opened the door, and all three moved up to B. Sherlock walked slowly up the stairs, as if he was remembering how. John walked into the flat first, then Mycroft. Sherlock stood hesitantly at the door.

"Are we going to discuss…" began John, only to be interrupted by Mycroft.
"Later," he hissed. Sherlock stepped through the doorway, and shivered. He started moving carefully about the flat.

It wasn't exactly as he had left it, and that was…good. It was different enough from the forced hallucinations that he didn't feel panicked or lost or unsure. He touched the skull gingerly. He whirled to face John, held out his hand.

John swallowed. He still hated these….sharing sessions. But the relief in Sherlock's eyes afterward was always so palpable. And John could do nothing else to help him. He stepped forward, felt Sherlock's hands cupping his face and bringing their foreheads together. There was the now familiar sickening swirl of color and sound, and the moment in Sherlock, feeling everything he had felt before he was forced to watch as a spectator.

Sherlock crouched next to the wall, hands chained. One wing hung awkwardly next to him, the other was pinned to the wall, sticking through the bars of the cage. The door banged and Sherlock pressed himself against the wall, hands going to his head. "No, no, no, nonononono…" he began to moan. Whatever had broken him had already happened, John realized. The thought made him sick. He hadn't seen Sherlock broken in these visions before. He'd seen him beaten bloody, tortured with visions, but always fighting back, always with hatred in his eyes. This time…he was just terrified.

"Stop it," snapped Moriarty, and John felt instantly ill. Moriarty looked like him. Mycroft had explained the wraith, that she could essentially make Sherlock see whatever she wanted. John's form was apparently a common visitor to Sherlock's cell.

"Not real," muttered Sherlock. "False, false John. No, please…"

"Get up," said Moriarty as John. Sherlock didn't move. "I said; Get. UP;" He screamed the last word, and Sherlock got slowly to his feet. John could see his legs trembling with the effort.

Moriarty moved fast, forcing the other wing to spread, slamming the knife home. Sherlock screamed. And then Moriarty, still looking like John, was pressed up against Sherlock. He rolled his hips slightly, pressing against Sherlock's cock. Sherlock whimpered slightly. "Hands up," sung Moriarty. Sherlock didn't move. John was not sure where the riding crop came from. He assumed it had been conjured. "Get. Your. Hands. In. The. Air. Now." Each word was accompanied by a terrifyingly loud snap of crop against skin. Sherlock slowly raised his hands in the air. His ribs were already purpling. [i]Broken[/i] thought John. At least two of them.

Moriarty took another blade from out of nowhere, pressed himself tight against Sherlock once more. He touched the blade to nipple, made a small cut. Sherlock moaned. Moriarty laughed. He cut, with the knife at Sherlock's now exposed armpits, digging the blade in nearly to the hilt, seeming to relish the cry. John hissed slightly, watching the knife appear between the bones of the shoulder and collar bone. Moriarty pulled it away, and then placed it, blade side first, against Sherlock's chest. He pressed a kiss at his neck.

John swallowed, feeling like he was going to throw up as Moriarty-as-John edged up Sherlock's neck, his jaw…and pressing his lips against Sherlock's. And Sherlock…just accepted it.

"No!" John yelled. Or he tried. At the moment he didn't precisely have a body, or vocal chords, so yelling was impossible. Moriarty pulled away, smirking into Sherlock's dead eyes. Sherlock lowered his hands, holding them at Moriarty's chest level. The knife was still pressed against Sherlock's chest, John could see the blood dripping from the ever growing wound.

Moriarty's other hand drifted down, finger sliding along the length of Sherlock's cock. Sherlock shivered. "You don't want me," murmured Moriarty. "You want John. But if he's dead…you won't have anyone to hope for." Sherlock froze. He muttered something that sounded like 'promise'. Moriarty leaned in close. "I lied," he whispered. "You think what I've done to you is unpleasant? Watch me to it to him"

Sherlock moved then, smashing his lips against Moriarty's. John felt hopelessly lost. What was happening? Moriarty grinned, and…the best John could describe it was flickered and then pulled away, once more looking like the Jim Moriarty he had met at the pool. "That's more like it," he said. And leaned in for another kiss. John could see his erection growing, pressing against Sherlock's slowly hardening cock. He kept rolling his hips to stimulate friction.

John only saw what happened next because he was far enough away. Sherlock's hands, on Moriarty's chest, moved from the shirt, slowly, then were holding his hands lightly. The other barely noticed, enjoying the kiss, loving the fact that Sherlock's body was reacting. He read the additional movement as further arousal. And then Sherlock moved, faster than John would have thought he could. The knife, though pressed against his chest, was now being only very loosely held by Moriarty.

In one motion, Sherlock, slid his hand from Moriarty's hand to the knife. He wrenched it away and up, jamming it straight into Moriarty's neck. He stumbled back, surprised, clutching at his throat. He wasn't healing. The blade stuck through his head, slick with red. There was a bright white light, which rather hurt John, and Moriarty lay, spread eagled on the floor, ashes of wings stretched out to either side of him, as they had found him.

Sherlock groaned, and sunk to a low crouch. "Why?" he muttered. "Why, he…I don't think he could…and dead now, dead. But tricking…always with tricks, and John and…I can't…" He didn't seem to be able to hold onto a thought, just muttering and sometimes giving out a little scream as he seemed to see something John couldn't. It was the longest vision Sherlock had sent him, though it did start speeding up slightly. Things bled together, and paused as Sherlock let out a scream. A window broke. He wrapped his arms around his legs. And Sherlock waited for the next trick, for the next bout of pain. Because, though he could see Moriarty, dead on the floor, it wasn't real. It was never real. And so he waited. He waited for Moriarty to drag him back to the real world, from where he would never, ever escape.

Moriarty's spells and sigils had lost their power when he'd died. Two boys snuck into the warehouse. Probably to drink and smoke. They saw the dead body, saw the chained and injured Sherlock and took off running. Sherlock screamed after them. The colors shifted, John felt he was spinning, and then he was back in Baker Street, gasping, Mycroft looking concerned, and Sherlock looking frighteningly dead eyed again.

"Sherlock?" he asked, shakily. Sherlock gave a little nod, then pulled away, reacquainting himself with the flat again. He stared at the sofa, then sat, slowly, looking up, as if to ask if he was right to do it. Mycroft sighed.

"I think…I will take my leave. If you need anything at all, just call," he said, vanishing.
_

It a little more than a week before Sherlock panicked again. John didn't know what set him off, but he'd been asleep, and when he woke up, he looked at John and started screaming. He backed away from him, and John saw the wings beat once before he vanished. John stayed stunned for almost a minute before panicking. Sherlock was gone and that…could not be good.

Sherlock sat on an empty table, eyes fixed on the door. The morgue was nice. He had never once been here in the hallucinations. He was a little confused as to how he'd actually gotten here, but he was getting used to flying again. That was nice. Molly came through the door, and gave a startled scream to see him, sitting cross-legged on the table. There was a crash as she dropped her tray of instruments.
"I'm…dreaming, right? This is just a dream. You…you died, they said you died and… you have wings. But that's…that's crazy…" Sherlock was up and moving toward her, picking up the instrument tray and handing it back to her. She almost dropped it again. All the instruments were on it and in place.

Sherlock just stared at her. "True, Molly," he murmured, touching her face lightly, cupping it with one hand. "Real." She froze. Sherlock was acting very oddly. She still was only have sure he was there, and the trick with the tray wasn't helping. But his hand on her face…that was so very real.

"Um…" she said, "Yes. I'm real. And…so are you?" He took the tray, set it on the table, and took her hand, putting it against his own face. As he had with John. She still hardly believed he was there. So she moved her hands over it carefully. She moved her hands carefully, slowly, over the scars on his shoulders and torso and arms, glancing up to his face on occasion, to make sure it was still alright. He didn't move, just watched her, relieved. She was real. She had always been real. There hadn'tbeen any hallucinations of her, apart from that first one, so long ago it was more a dream than anything else. "Real," he murmured again.

Finally he backed away, and started inspecting the morgue. He found the boy she'd been about to autopsy, and inspected it, starting to mutter to himself. "Heart? Mmm. Bad heart. Liver. Allergic…carrots. Garden...planter…" he kept murmuring to himself in this manner, strings of words, some of which made sense to Molly, some of which did not. In some ways, it wasn't as different from when he used to come into the morgue before. In other ways…it was so much worse.

"Um…Sherlock?" she asked, quietly. "Does…does John know you are here? Alive I mean?" Sherlock looked up at his name, blinked at John's. Slowly, he tilted his head to the side. He wasn't sure how to answer that. He didn't move. She tried again. "He knows…you are alive?" He slowly nodded. "He…knows where you are?" Sherlock shook his head. "Can…can we call him?" she asked. He tilted his head to the side again. She could do what she wanted really. He was calm again. Unafraid. "I'm going to call him, alright?" He didn't answer, just turned back to the body again.

"Um…John? It's Molly…Sherlock is in the morgue…he's got…wings."

John got to Saint Barts in record time. He stood, chest heaving next to Molly, having run all the way to the basement. She was standing awkwardly near the door as Sherlock poked around the morgue. She watched him uncertainly. "He's got…wings." John nodded. He did his best to explain. Sherlock was an angel, he'd been tortured by another angel, the man they thought was Moriarty, that he'd basically shattered his mind, and they were trying to pick up the pieces.

"Well…he did just determine everything wrong with the dead man. And a few things that I don't think had anything to do with the fact that he was dead. Like…he was a gardener. So, maybe he isn't totally shattered?" she asked hopefully. John glanced up at Sherlock who was inspecting an electric saw, used for cutting open the chest cavity, and turned it on by accident. He dropped it, leaping backward, a vaguely panicked look on his face. Molly winced as the blade broke when it hit the floor. Sherlock caught the look on her face and immediately his face changed, from fearful, to guilty. He picked up the saw, and set it back on the table. The blade was perfect. He stood away from the table.

"Can we go home now?" John asked him. Sherlock tilted his head to the side, and shuffled his wings. John managed to catch hold of him before the two of them were swept from the morgue and back at Baker Street. John felt a little ill, as he always seemed to after angelic transportation. "You gonna tell me what upset you this morning?" Sherlock hesitated, then slowly brought his forehead to Johns. He was already shaking.

There was the sick sensation of falling, of spinning. Of briefly being in an intense amount of pain as he shared Sherlock's body, before being forcibly ejected. Sherlock was crouched, wearily, wings drooping around him. They didn't look as broken as they had in previous visions, which was good, John supposed. His head snapped up. Two demons came, a third behind them. The first two grabbed at his arms, pulling him over to the side of the cage. He struggled, John was glad to see. Sherlock struggling was always good.

It was of no use, of course, he was weak, that much was obvious. And John didn't like the look of his purple-red ribs. The demons that had forced him to the bars were lashing him there, with some rather painful looking rope. His wrists were already bleeding, and he'd barely pulled against it. The third demon stepped forward, a fire poker in her hand. It was glowing red. She trailed it down Sherlock's back, and he arched it, jerking forward as much as he could. She played the poker down around his hips, over his arse cheeks, skimming the crack between them. John had a sudden, horrid sense of foreboding. John saw Moriarty enter the room, though Sherlock wouldn't have been able to. There were quite a few people with him. Demons, John knew by now.

The woman with the poker slipped it between the arse cheeks, spreading them, burning him slowly. She let the poker drift down, skimming the balls, and then she struck, hard, at the insides of Sherlock's thighs, forcing his legs apart.

John didn't want to see this. He knew he didn't want to see this. Somewhere, far away, Sherlock's fingers tightened on the back of his head.

John watched, as the demon circled Sherlock's hole, then, without warning, jammed the poker up as far as it would go. Sherlock screamed. John almost didn't hear it over his own yell. The demon laughed, removing the poker slowly. Somewhere, he began aware of Morarty standing nearby. Watching. Smiling. John thought he might throw up. There were more demons now. In male and female bodies. Two of them started rubbing up against Sherlock, and a third, a different one, male this time, slipped behind Sherlock, taking the place of the female with the fire poker. He dropped his trousers, pressed his cock against Sherlock's arse. He slowly entered him, started thrusting. Sherlock screamed again. Blood was already trickling down the backs of his legs. "You're tight," whispered the demon in Sherlock's ear. "So very, very tight." His fingers left bruises on Sherlock's hips.

He pulled out, cock red with Sherlock's blood, dripping with cum. "Next!" he yelled with a laugh.

Sherlock's body reacted in ways that Sherlock clearly hated. One demon, was almost gentle, easing into him, slowly. He used a finger first, slicked with spit, sliding it slowly into Sherlock's entrance, crooking his finger. He prepared Sherlock gingerly, though the other demons jeered and told him to go faster. Moriarty said nothing. He watched, licking his lips occasionally. The demon inserted a second finger, other hand drifting around Sherlock's hip and palming his cock. He stroked down, languidly, twice, and Sherlock moaned. He started getting hard. The demon bit at Sherlock's shoulder, then carefully guiding himself in, entering Sherlock almost as slowly as he had with his fingers. He rocked his hips slowly at first, picking up speed. His other hand he left on Sherlock's cock, stroking it in time to his thrusts. Sherlock groaned again, body reacting positively. Moving his hips along with the others, cock weeping pre-cum. Sherlock yelled, and came, and the demon pulled out, looking satisfied. He let Sherlock watch him lick the come off his hand. Sherlock closed his eyes and shivered. There were tear tracks down his cheeks.

John lost track of how many of them took their turn with Sherlock. The females tended to use sharp objects of varying sizes, rustiness, sharpness…the males all used their own cocks, plunging into him over and over again. Moriarty healed him occasionally, the result being he would be forced open anew every third penetration, ensuring that he remained tight, that each object, whether it be flesh or metal was as painful as possible as it entered, tearing him time and time again.

Sherlock's body was a mess of bruises and welts. Finally, finally Moriarty clicked his fingers and Sherlock collapsed to the ground, moaning. The demons disappeared. John blinked, as suddenly the room was empty of all but Sherlock and Moriarty. But when Sherlock looked up, Moriarty looked like John. Like John. John thought he knew what was coming.

"John?" croaked Sherlock, eyes hopeful, tired. And frightened.

"Shh," said Moriarty/John, slowly approaching Sherlock and carefully drawing him to his feet, pulling him into a hug. "It's alright," he whispered. "I'm here now."

"Not…false….so many false John's…."

"No. No, Sherlock, I am real. You are safe."

"….Demons…."

"They're gone." He lifted a hand and cupped Sherlock's face. "I am real, Sherlock. I swear I am real."

The real John felt ill. What…he sounded just like John himself. This was….he shuddered again. He didn't want to watch this. He knew Sherlock wouldn't let him look away. He wanted John tounderstand.

The past Sherlock clutched at the man he thought was his friend. "So…I hurt, John," he rasped out. "Everything….hurts."

"I'm here now. I'll make the pain go away," promised Moriarty. He leaned up on his tip toes, pressed deep kiss to Sherlock's lips. His hand drifted to Sherlock's cock, brushing lightly against it. It twitched slightly. Moriarty grinned against Sherlock's lips. "You want it," he murmured. "It's John and you want it, even after what just happened." He pulled away, and he was himself again, and Sherlock fell back against the wall, eyes wide.

He screamed. And John could see something breakin him then, something in his eyes. John wasn't real. So what could be? He collapsed in on himself, and Moriarty's laughter didn't move him. That dead look in Sherlock's eyes, that hadn't really gone away….John saw it in him in this vision.

Everything tightened, and he was pulled back onto the floor of their sitting room again. He was crying. He couldn't breathe. He felt arms around him, and he clutched at Sherlock. This felt wrong. Backwards. He should be comforting Sherlock. Though after what he had just seen….he doubted he would be very comforting at all. It was amazing Sherlock trusted him at all.

"I am so, so sorry Sherlock," he breathed against his neck. "I am so, so sorry."

Notes: So that's how Sherlock got broken.
I am not great at writing sex, so, sorry for it.