Bit more of Sherlock whump in the beginning. Some sexual themes. Not super-explicit, but, explicit enough. Some language. Sherlock's recovery, some more. A walk in the park that takes an interesting turn.

Notes: It has been...a long time since I've updated. Sorry about that. I've had this chapter...or versions of it, in my mind for a while. There are a few things that might come back next chapter. I am thinking, only one or two more, and then this story will be finished. It isn't very long.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Sherlock still had dreams. And sometimes, if John was unlucky enough to be touching Sherlock when they happened, John had dreams too.

…It hadn't been the first time that they had fucked Sherlock. It wasn't even they first time more than one of them had done it. But, it had been the most brutal. The most in succession. And the first time Moriarty had used John's face to do it. He had taken the last sacred thing Sherlock possessed, his one lingering…fantasy, and destroyed it. He had ripped up Sherlock's hope and smashed them beneath his feet.

Sherlock cowered in the corner of the cage. What was the point in fighting? He was tired of hurting, tired of making things worse for himself. It was better…to simply let things happen. Except…it didn't work like that either. Because he was also terrified. All the time, terrified. He didn't know what was real. Unless it hurt. If there was pain, he knew it was real. It was impossible to fabricate pain. At least, pain like this. And he wanted to feel, and he was terrified of what new horrors would come for him when that cage door opened, and so he screamed when it did. He pleaded. Begged. Nothing worked, of course….

….He was chained, arms stretched above his head, feet not touching the floor. His shoulders ached. There was something hard and unforgiving up his arse. At least it wasn't moving. Sometimes they moved. Moriarty was pacing in circles around him, saying something. Probably something threatening, but Sherlock didn't hear any of it. His eyes were on the whip. Though of course, it was when he couldn't see it that it was used. He screamed….

…Moriarty didn't fuck him anymore. He left it up to others. To the demons mostly. It was never quite as bad as it had been. Though two at once, was a bit…much. They usually chained him to the side of the cage, or to the roof of it. Once, they cut him down early, and his kneecaps smashed into the floor. The demon in front of him lowered it's pants. "Suck" it said. "An' if you bite, I'll do the same to John while you watch. Then I'll kill 'im." And so Sherlock had taken the man's cock in his mouth and sucked until his jaw was screaming and his throat burning. And then, hot liquid spurting in his mouth. He choked, and a hand covered his mouth. "You swallow. You swallow or it's the same as if you bit." Sherlock had done as instructed, though he was dimly aware of a part of his mind screaming. But he couldn't really reach that part anymore. Easier to do what he was told….

…It wasn't real. It wasn't real. He pressed his hands to his ears, moaning. There had been feet, two pairs, and the smell of alcohol, and then screaming, something smashing and running. Just a trick. A trick. He'd screamed. And now…so many feet. His vision swam. But it wasn't real. Just another trick. Another trick of the wraith, to have Moriarty dead at his feet, to have the Yard surrounding him, Lestrade begging him to calm down, that they were there to rescue him. Time passed slowly and then quickly, and John was there, and it was horrible, because no one had pretended to be John in a long time. He screamed, he wanted everyone to leave, he wanted the hallucinations to just stop. And then…Mycroft was there. And finally, something real, because you can't replicate angels, their bodies, sure, but their grace…and Sherlock could see Mycroft's real face under the semi-fleshy politician, and he was relieved. And then, he remembered where he was and he tried to back away, he didn't want Mycroft to see him like this. And then…for a long time, he remembered nothing.

Learning what was real took….a long time. He had to be sure, he had to feel things for himself. And even then, he needed Mycroft to prove it. To tell him it was alright. That it was John. Or Lestrade. He didn't really remember much English. It was easier to speak in Enochian. Or in one of the other languages of the angels. Mycroft wanted him to speak in English though. As did John, so he tried. In the end, it was exhausting, so mostly, he didn't speak at all, not for a long time.

Re-learning it wasn't too difficult. Re-learning to speak it wasn't hard either. He simply couldn't be bothered a lot of the time. And John seemed to understand him well enough without it anyway.

He was glad of Molly. Molly, who had never been used against him, whose image was never false. She was a little frightened of him, at first, and then, he could tell she also pitied him, and neither was pleasant, but it was better to be sure of himself. And sometimes John didn't seem quite real. At least he could fly again.

Sherlock knew he was getting better. Though he was still too scared all of the time. He was still lost. He hated John's pity. But he needed John there. And the pity was getting less and less. It was…something else, something he couldn't quite name, that kept John here now. And he tried for John. He wanted to get better, for John. His life as a detective seemed almost like a dream. He remembered everything, but felt very little attachment to it. Still, he remembered that he liked Lestrade, when he came around. Which wasn't often.

He finally managed to hide his wings. He supposed that meant they were healthy again, than he could slip them away, out of reach of human perception. That was good. They still worked then. And he didn't have to worry about hurting them again. John was pleased too, he could tell. Because it meant that maybe things could be normal again. Even if he still wasn't talking much. And Sherlock didn't want to disillusion him. Maybe because he too wanted to think that things could be normal again. He'd almost forgotten what hope felt like.

It was a day out. They hadn't had one of those….in a long time. John hadn't had once since even before Sherlock was found, and certainly not after. But Sherlock had wanted to go out for some time, and Mycroft had deemed him well enough, and they found themselves in the nearby park. Sherlock had almost immediately relieved himself of shoes and socks and started wandering about the grass. It was a little concerning to John, that someone might recognize him. But he didn't really look the same. He was subdued, in a way he'd never been before. He didn't have the coat anymore, and certainly not the hat. John watched him carefully, as he wandered around the park.

Sherlock stared at the little pond in the center. It was…a sad pond, he thought. The green waters weren't at all healthy. He crouched, and stuck a finger in the water. It came out discolored. "I don't think yer s'pposed ta touch it," said a voice behind him. He turned. There was a boy holding a ball…Sherlock stared at it, trying to place whatkind of ball it was, round and covered with tiny black and white hexagons.

"No?" he asked, not taking his eyes off the ball. He stuck the finger into his mouth. The boy looked horrified.

"You'll turn into a mutant if you touch that stuff!" he said, appalled.

"Doubtful." How else was he supposed to figure out just what was in the water? The boy scowled at him.

"D'ya ever talk, 'cept in one word?" he demanded. Sherlock didn't know what to say to that, so he said nothing, just tilted his head and started at the boy, before turning his attention back to the ball again. He knew this. Something to do with a body part. "S'gross ya know," said the boy, and Sherlock assumed he was back on the topic of the water. Humans jumped tracks so quickly. "My mum says that even the fish in this pond die." Sherlock frowned. That didn't sound good at all. And he knew from his taste of the water that it was definitely bad. He heard John stand, start walking over. He had about a minute before he arrived. So he had to work fast. He turned and crouched. John was running now. Sherlock placed his whole hand in the pond, and just as John yelled for him to stop, the pond cleared, no sign of green gunk anywhere. There were even a few fish. Sherlock had transported them from a nearby pet store, which was probably bad, but the fish preferred not to be in glass boxes anyway.

"Blimey," whispered the boy.

"Shit," was John's comment. He'd realized Sherlock was going to do something stupid quite quickly after he noticed him standing by the pond. He seemed to be talking with a young boy who had chased a football over to where Sherlock was, and that was odd in and of itself. Sherlock had been mostly confining himself to one word answers, though occasionally, he said more. He never spoke to strangers. Maybe the fact that it was a child…John watched, stunned into stillness when Sherlock put his finger into his mouth, tasting the water. And when he turned around, John had a horrible feeling that he knew what Sherlock was going to do. He stood and started walking. Sherlock seemed to know, and he started moving faster. "No!" he called. Too late. The pond was perfect and clean. Probably not a trace of pollution in it at all. And there were fish. "Shit." He ignored the boy.

"What the hell was that?" he demanded.
Sherlock simply shrugged, and dipped his hand back into the pond. "You do realize that if there is no pollutants in that thing, as soon as it rains those fish will die." Sherlock gave him a dirty look. The one that said I am not an idiot. Of course not. Still, it wasn't something he thought Sherlock would think of. He sighed. Then looked at the boy, who was still looking at Sherlock like he was magic. Which, John supposed he was. "Don't tell anyone," he said, tiredly. The boy looked up at John.

"Wha'?" he asked. "Why not? He's brilliant! He's magic, he fixed the pond n'everyhin'."

John nodded. "Yeah. But…you know. Can't have knowledge like that getting out. It's…it's a bit secret, alright? Secret powers and all that, like the comics." The boy considered that, then nodded seriously.

"Right," he said. "I understand. But…" he swallowed. "If he can fix ponds, can he fix people?" John looked hopelessly at Sherlock. Sherlock looked at the boy, and said nothing. The boy continued anyway. "I...my sister," he said hesitantly, ignoring his friends calling for him to get his arse over to them with the bloody ball. "She's…dad says she's sick. And she prob'ly'll die." Sherlock thought for a long moment. Then he reached into his pocket, and pulled out an old vial. A test tube, that must have been in this old coat for ages. He filled it up with the water, and handed it to the boy.

"Careful," he said. "Make her drink." The water would heal the girl. "Quickly," he added, gesturing for the boy to go, now. He dropped the football where he stood and started running.

John watched hopelessly. "What was that?" he asked. Sherlock shrugged.

"Brain tumor." John froze.

"The little sister?" Sherlock nodded. "And the water will…heal her?" Sherlock nodded again. "Could you…could you have done it from here?" Another nod. That made him a little mad. "Well? Why didn't you?" he demanded.

"I did," said Sherlock calmly, shaking water off his hands and feet as he walked away from the pond. "The water is…physical. For the boy." It was the most Sherlock had said in a long time. John found himself a little floored. He hoped it meant that Sherlock would start speaking again. It had been more than a year since he'd been back, and recovery seemed to be going slowly. So he nodded slowly, though he wasn't sure he understood. Sherlock seemed to know this, because he sighed in exasperation. He didn't explain himself further, just started walking back to their shoes. It had been enough of a walk for one day.

John followed him a little weakly, trying to puzzle through Sherlock's words. Sherlock was not inclined to explain himself, and he was glad that John didn't ask. He was tired. He wasn't fully healed yet. Hopefully, it would be soon. He almost smiled. It was interesting, hoping.