The bed shifted as Sherlock sat upright, his chest heaving. "John, John, wake up-" his high-pitched voice begged, hands roaming the bed for his flatmate, well, boyfriend now. John twitched, then shot up, instinctively pulling Sherlock closer. (oh god where is he fix this) "Hey, it's okay." the doctor fumbled for words, shocked at the way Sherlock was trembling in his arms. Feeling rather silly, he patted the other man's head, then settled for rubbing his back gently. Sherlock jumped slightly at the gentle touch, then relaxed as no pain followed it. Two thin, cold hands softly rested on his chest, and Sherlock's leg twined itself around one of John's. "I know, it's okay," John found himself babbling hopefully calming phrases, feeling Sherlock's tremors subside slowly. At last, the taller man's breathing evened out, although John still felt an occasional tear slide across the beautiful cheekbones.
Sherlock felt his ears burning as he buried himself in John's chest, the initial pain of the dream fading slowly. He clenched his jaw, willing the small drops of saltwater to stop making tracks down his face. He could feel John relaxing around him, the familiar scent that was just so… John, surrounding Sherlock in a sea of calm. It was comforting, more so than the nonsense John was uttering, anyway. "John… I am alright now." he murmured, feeling John tense slightly at the sound of his voice. "Are you positive, Sherlock? I mean, we don't have to move, I promise you're safe now," Sherlock felt John's hesitation to release him. He tightened his arms around his boyfriend (that's nice to say), "I'd rather not move, John." "Of course, Sherlock." Waiting for John's breathing to even out, Sherlock measured time with the soft huffs of air that brushed his crown. John smelled nice, he noted, and set about to memorizing the slightly musky, spicy scent that engulfed him.
John woke up with his face buried in a head of curls. (well this is odd) Sherlock twitched in his arms, blue eyes snapping wide open before they recognized John. Of course. Yesterday had happened. "Mmm… John?" a small voice came from within his arms, snapping him back to the warm bed. "Yeah. Yes, what is it, Sherlock? Is something wrong?" John couldn't keep the tinge of concern out of his voice. Suddenly, he felt the hands pressed against his chest shifting, almost nervously. Sherlock? Nervous? "I, um, I would like to move." "Oh. Right. Sorry." John blushed again, loosening his death grip on Sherlock. The taller man stretched carefully, then curled back up into John's side. Watching the bruised wrists twist and rub each other, John felt sick as he remembered why he hadn't slept well last night. His inner doctor spoke up, naming off things he didn't want to hear. "Do you want to go to the station today?" he asked, knowing Lestrade would call sooner or later. Sherlock sighed and shook his head, and John began looping the inky curls around his fingers. "I'll be right there with you." "I know."
Groaning inwardly, Sherlock knew he would have to face the proverbial lion's den sooner than later. John's soft breath feathered across his forehead, and he found himself leaning into the warmth. Staying here, in this bed with John was what Sherlock really wanted to do. With a small wince, he sat up and finally got a good look at John. The other man looked as though he hadn't slept at all, his grey eyes tired. He probably hadn't, Sherlock knew he talked quite frequently in his sleep. John squirmed under Sherlock's examination, running a hand through his sandy hair. "I don't like this." Sherlock stated, and swung his long legs out of their bed. (their theirs that was nice too) He felt John's gaze on his back and heard the other man's intake of breath. "Sherlock… My God." Feigning indifference, Sherlock glanced back at him, "I haven't looked." John's face spoke of horror and anguish. "What did they… God, I don't even want to know." With a grimace, Sherlock pulled his shirt over his messy hair. "You don't have to come today. I don't want you to… Be uncomfortable." "Sherlock, it's for you. I'm not leaving you alone." The emotion in John's voice was almost enough to break his heart.
Silently, John watched Sherlock finish getting dressed, The scars and deep purple bruises that littered his back stood out in sharp contrast to his alabaster skin. Anger welled up again, leaving a sour taste in John's mouth. God help the bastards who did this if Mycroft found them first. John stopped, considering if Sherlock had told his brother yet. Probably not. The Holmes brothers weren't on good terms. John sighed, reaching for his phone, he would do it while Sherlock got ready to leave. On the second ring, Mycroft Holmes answered, his customary icy demeanor worked even over the phone. "Mycroft… I need to tell you something about Sherlock. Well, he needs to tell you really, but I know he won't." A small pause echoed before the older Holmes cautiously queried, "So you are telling me. Do I need to be on alert?" John blinked, letting out in a rush of words, "Sherlockwasrapedandnowwe'redatingandhewon'ttellyoueither."
Sherlock smirked at the very obvious sound of John trying to be sneaky. Then he heard his brother's name, and the smirk faded. Of course, how very John. Trying to take care of Sherlock and still be his John. Suddenly, John's voice was a jumble of words and Mycroft's rather apparent reply echoed in the bedroom. Moments later, John stumbled out of their bedroom (that's still nice) rubbing his eyes. "I presume my dear brother is now aware." "Sherlock…" Before the detective could reply, Sherlock felt something stab his side, and he gave a ragged breath before collapsing to his knees. "Sherlock!" John's hands were upon his shoulders, sliding down to his wrist, grey eyes focused on his. How curious, the doctor's hands were warm. Suddenly shivering, Sherlock retched, eyes screwed shut. Waves of pain crashed into him repeatedly, and there was a pounding somewhere in his lower back. The sound of a door shattering down was the last thing Sherlock heard, and he smiled slightly as a familiar form stood over the tangled mess of Sherlock and John.
Fear coursing in his veins, John watched as Sherlock slithered to the floor and doubled over, obviously sick. Scooping the thin man up in his arms, the doctor cradled him as he shivered. As Sherlock's eyes fluttered once, twice, the door exploded open, and Mycroft Holmes stood beyond the threshold. "Bring him with you." John complied, little choice in the matter. He tried smoothing Sherlock's hair once they were in the government car outside, unable to form words as Mycroft instructed the driver to the nearest hospital. This wasn't happening. Sherlock had to be okay. The other Holmes whipped around, long fingers catching John's wrist. "Tell me everything you know." Sitting up straight, the soldier in John took control. "He was kidnapped for about 30 hours. They found him in a warehouse, he'd been tortured… And, well. Raped." The older man's face went blank at that, his cold blue eyes unfocused, "And I trust nothing happened last night." Horrified, John caught the implications of that statement, "God, no. He kept me up most the night muttering, but no." Mycroft's features briefly twisted into something similar to a smile. "He always talked in his sleep."
Sherlock twitched, feeling cold sheets surrounding him. His eyes flew open, and John's hand found his immediately. "Sherlock? How do you feel?" Searching the room, Sherlock settled his eyes on his brother and his boyfriend. "My back hurts." John blushed slightly and looked away. Mycroft finally spoke, leaning forward a little, "The doctor said there was… More extensive bruising that they had missed." Nodding slightly, Sherlock closed his eyes. This must be a nightmare. If only the part with John was true... Mycroft spoke again, "It's no nightmare, brother. Lestrade is on his way. I will be leaving now, I have work to do." The expression the older Holmes wore was nothing short of murderous, and John simply rubbed Sherlock's hand in silence. Lestrade's voice entered the room before he did, and Sherlock flinched. "It's just Lestrade. I'm right here, Sherlock." John whispered softly, his eyes on the form of Mycroft and Lestrade apparently talking in the hallway.
John watched carefully as Mycroft strode down the hospital hallway to meet the DI, and slowly he tightened his grip on Sherlock's hand. "John…" "Yes?" John turned his gaze to his boyfriend (boyfriend that sounds good) and Sherlock tugged him a little closer. Placing soft kisses across Sherlock's bruised knuckles, John helplessly watched as Greg Lestrade made his way down the hall, and the inevitable drew nearer. As much as he knew he loved Sherlock, John wasn't sure how much he could hear without joining Mycroft's surely illegal mission. "John, please stay." Sherlock's small voice broke him, and he nodded, his lips brushing Sherlock's hand one last time. Lestrade stood in the doorway, his eyes full of anxiety, clearly wanting to be anywhere but that small room, filled with it's silence and over-sanitized hospital scent. This was it.