A/N: Ok so now we get to the comfort, but it's not going to be easy...*VWEG* thank you so much for everyone who is reading, the bunny eats...well at the moment. :) FYI I'm off overseas on Wed for a 3 week break but I will be taking the laptop and I will be updating...in between vodka shots...happy holidays to all!
"Ah, there you are John." The doctor looked at Mycroft as John handed his scarf to the butler and scowled.
"Phone." Watson indicated with his hand. "I do have a phone, you know, you could just ring like a normal person. You could have called me, on the phone."
Mycroft inclined his head. "Yes I know, and I'm sorry to take advantage of your good graces so often. You might like to know however, that Sherlock is on his way here, and from all accounts he will need you."
John stumbled against the wall, all the fear and adrenaline now leeched from his body until the portent of the words sunk into his tired brain. "How," the stammer was back and Mycroft watched the intense expression of the younger man. "How badly is he hurt?" Those liquid amber eyes looked up at the elder Holmes with such a wealth of expression Mycroft was forced to look away.
"I don't know."Mycroft answered sadly. "ETA is twelve minutes." He looked down at his watch and helped the Doctor to stand.
Watson set off down the long hallway at a dead run and skidded around a corner into the emergency room.
~~~)))(((~~~
The truck with its airbrushed "Carmines Fine Charcutterie" on the side sped around the corner, heedless of its payload; the only thing that mattered now was to make the delivery on time. Carmine swore loudly at the GPS, as it recalibrated his route again.
Finally the imposing white structure loomed before him and he raced through to the gates, which opened as if by magic and headed down the white gravel driveway until he reached the servants entrance. He slammed on the brake and was out the door and pulled the back open just as the household security came to assist.
As light streamed in through the back of the van, Carmine fell away when he heard the cry. Deep, wounded and terrified. He looked as his hands as Doctor John winced and steeled himself as he entered into the gloom.
~~~)))(((~~~
White coat, Farm security, the only things that filtered into his brain and Sherlock screamed, he couldn't go back, wouldn't go back as he fought the hands that attempted to hold him down. The voices terrified him; they were so loud and angry. Tears stained his face as he pulled away and backed himself into the corner, stark naked as he clutched at the thin cotton blanket and cowered.
And that's how John found him, knees drawn to his chest, large pale eyes that stared and cried and the wounded sob that echoed in the dark van cut into his heart like a laser.
It was hard to tell how badly hurt he was, dirty for certain, and blood caked his feet, his shins, and leaked down his arms. His hair was dank and limp and all traces of the self controlled manic genius were gone as the cry went up again as Angelo and Joe tried in vain to get him out of the van. All of this happened in a split second and John drew himself up to his full height.
"Let him go." He ordered and Angelo and Joe fell back. "Uniforms, he doesn't see you, just, just the uniforms." Sherlock crouched further back the cold metal against bare flesh as he looked up at the new voice.
Mycroft breezed past John and knelt at his brother's side, Sherlock's eyes were large, the pupils blown as he shied away from the outstretched hand.
"Midge?" the voice was soft and gentle; John was stunned he would never have believed that Mycroft was capable of such love.
Sherlock stilled and watched as the hand reached forward again to lie against his face. "Midge?" Mycroft called softer this time as the tears leaked from under bruised lids as Sherlock slid his eyes shut.
"Safe?" the word was croaked from the parched throat as he nuzzled his face against the warm palm.
"Safe now Midge. Safe." Mycroft crooned softly.
"John." Sherlock sounded lost and confused. "Want John." He opened his eyes and bit his lip. "Please, brother mine, want John." Mycroft turned his head towards John who had finally managed to move his feet and crouched down next to his beleaguered friend.
"Shhhh, Sherlock, I'm here." John ran his hand through the matted hair and smiled gently.
Sherlock looked between the two men and bit his lip again, as he held out his arms. "Please, it hurts." He begged again and John's eyes became unreadable as he saw the damage to the pale limbs. The wrists bruised and cut from cuffs that had held him captive, the canula's though capped were swollen and leaked dark blood down his arms, his fingers were shredded from trying to escape and John wept. He wrapped a cotton blanket around the shivering form and pulled him close to his chest as he spoke softly.
"He can't walk Mycroft, look at his feet." And horror dawned on the aristocratic features as he looked on the bloodied limbs.
Angelo, forgotten by the men pushed the wheelchair towards them and stepped away, aware his presence in the white orderly's uniform spooked the man they had come so far to rescue.
"Can you lift him?" Mycroft asked softly, his hand still against the pale face as Sherlock heaved a deep sigh.
"Yes." John's voice was flat, emotionless as by sheer force of will he stood and lifted Sherlock into the wheelchair, tucked a blanket around his friend and scooted down in front of him again. Warm palms turned his face to look directly into the worried eyes.
"Sherlock?" The detective tilted his head to one side as he fidgeted in the seat. "Sherlock, look at me." The voice was soft but compelled the man to look at his friend; his fingers began to tug on the offending needles in his arms as John wrapped his hand around the long fingers and stilled the movements. Finally Sherlock sighed dramatically as he returned the gaze. "Trust me?"
Sherlock nodded once.
"Good, Sherlock I'm going to take care of you ok?" Sherlock nodded again but the sobs were far from over as he slumped.
"It hurts." Sherlock said again in that voice that cut into John's heart. Watson's eyes betrayed him as he looked up at Mycroft who was stood ready to push the chair down the ramp. In that moment both men knew that the pieces had finally clicked together. John Watson late of Afghanistan loved the difficult man, and not heaven and certainly not hell would keep him from his charge. Tears streaked his face as he kissed the high forehead and stook up, Sherlock's fingers found his own and he looked up. All the faith and love in that gaze was almost his undoing when he saw the blood blossom against the white cotton blanket on Sherlock's lap and he snapped out of the moment.
He was away from the stink of truck and shouted orders to the nurses. Sherlock heard snatched conversations, crash cart, antiseptic, gauze, and pillows, saline. He closed his eyes as they lifted him onto the warmed bed and covered him again with another blanket as John set to work, he went straight to the source of the blood on Sherlock's lap and removed the canula from his groin that had come away, the skin tender and bruised as he applied pressure and saw the weeping infection that was left on the dressing. He pressed harder and Sherlock grunted, but his eyes had become calmer as he watched his friend work.
The next ones in his arms were removed and each one was bagged into a zip lock bag and labelled by the nurse that stood at the Doctors left. Blood pressure cuff attached, oxygen clip on his finger, a cold stethoscope was pressed against his frigid flesh and John frowned again. Each tiny movement that caused him pain or despair was soothed with gentle words from the Doctor, a continued litany that kept them both grounded and Sherlock could no longer stop the tears that coursed down his face as John began to clean his feet. He hissed in pain as the antiseptic touched the raw wounds and John again spoke to reassure his friend.
It took over an hour to anoint each wound, to bag the information and to draw blood for the tox screen, to shine the torch into his eyes, to question constantly about where he was, did he know what happened, what was his name, his favourite music, and for once he wasn't annoyed by the constant chatter. He watched as John inserted the thin needle with aesthetic into his arm and felt a small sting.
"I know, I'm sorry, Sherlock, I need to put an IV line into you." Sherlock whimpered and John fought his own control. "You said you trusted me."
Sherlock nodded again. "I do."
"Good because I need to dilute whatever muck they put into you and you've got infections Sherlock. You need IV antibiotics."
"Ok." Sherlock closed his eyes and began to tremble. John spoke to the large figure that loomed over his shoulder.
"Mycroft, hold his hand he's scared." John ordered and Lestrade who had joined the group silently again marvelled that the arrogant statesman would do as he was told without hesitation.
Long fingers wrapped around bruised ones and Mycroft perched on the edge of the bed. "You had me worried Midge." Mycroft drew his brother's attention away from the needle John inserted, he struck the vein first time and positioned the adhesive over the plastic, the nurse hooked up the IV bag of saline and he checked the tray with the antibiotics before he administered them himself along with a small dose of valium. Almost at once Sherlock sagged in the bed and John sighed.
After a moment the long hand reached out to John's face and wiped at the tears that still flowed freely. "Are these for me?" Sherlock asked softly.
"Probably."
"Why?" Sherlock looked puzzled before a small smile crept onto his face as he looked at John again.
John shrugged. "Stress, adrenaline, worry." John shrugged again. "It's even made Mycroft human you know? There's valium in the IV feed along with antibiotics. I'm sorry I can't give you anything stronger until I know what they used on you."
"LSD." Sherlock murmured, warm and secure one hand wrapped around his brothers, the other tangled in the wool of John's jumper.
"Great, anything else?" John stroked the high forehead.
"Cold."
"Mmm yes I know, the IV line is going through a warm water bath, it will help."
"Don't," and the shy hesitancy was back in Sherlock's voice and Lestrade fought the urge to kill the bitch that had harmed this brilliant man.
"Don't what love?" John caught himself on the endearment and realised he didn't care.
"Just don't leave." And with that Sherlock was out for the count, as John put the oxygen mask over his face.
Watson sighed heavily, as another blanket was added to the first and he took the opportunity to turn Sherlock onto his side and push pillows between the pale back and the cold railing that had been clicked into place.
He frowned again when he saw bruises festooning the pale flesh, pressure sores, he thought but then there were the other ones, finger shaped over his hips and Watson's voice shook as he looked up at the nurse.
"Get me a rape kit." He said softly.