NOTE: Dimwit Cynic has John use the nickname "'Lock" for Sherlock in the story "Measured in Feet," which is awesome, by the way. I am rather fond of how the nickname personalizes John and Sherlock's relationship, and I prefer it to "Sher" or "Sherly," so know that I sort of pawned it off from that. I'm sure more people have used the nickname, but I'm sort of using this as shameless advertising for DC as well...I regret nothing.

Apologies for the long wait. Be warned: slightly angsty, throwing up, some more silly fluff, and texts from Mycroft.

Emblazoned

CHAPTER SEVEN

The flight from London to Dublin was only about an hour and a half, and John intended on using every minute of that hour and a half to make up for the recent loss of sleep he'd encountered since the incident. He snoozed comfortably on the plane, the soft rumble of the jet engines and the cozy comfort of the first class seating wooed him to dreamless slumber, and Sherlock watched as he snored lightly, his mouth slightly agape.

Sherlock had watched John sleep on more than one occasion, mostly for experiments or boredom or just simply because he himself could not sleep. Now he watched, however, because at any moment, he felt like John would wake up and want to "talk" again. He needed to be prepared for this.

Sherlock did not want to talk. He never did. But talking about this was a little more than undesirable. He sat back in his chair, legs crossed, hands steepled, his fingertips grazing his lips.

He was raped.

Every time he thought about it, something deep within him stirred, some ancient crevice cracked a little more, some abyssal canyon rumbled in the deep. He was sitting on a plane, going to Ireland in the wake of this immense tragedy. He was utterly, chaotically confused. The tempest brewing within his otherwise composed sense of thought was so unmanageable that he truly feared for his life. He'd tried the cocaine, and not only did it not help, but it caused John to become even more upset.

John.

God, perhaps worse than being the victim was having to watch. He shuddered visibly at the thought. His friend, best friend, only friend in the world had seen him...he couldn't even think about it. He closed his eyes...

...and every time he did, he could see the smiling, sinister faces, the rough hands bruising his skin, the tongues like fire. He could feel the ache in his body, the taste of salty, tender flesh, the heat of the sour, sticky fluid releasing in his mouth, making him choke, shuddering as it filled his insides, dripping, mingling with the blood between his legs, making him cringe, making him...

He stood abruptly and walked with as much composure as possible to the tiny bathroom at the end of the row, and once he finally made it inside, he curled over the toilet and vomited repeatedly.

Shaking, he pressed his forehead against his arm and tried to steady his breathing, sniffling and blinking away his tears. His stomach churned. The world spun rapidly. He groaned and dry heaved, having nothing left in him to upturn. A knock came to the door.

"Everything alright sir?"

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Fine," he said, taking a breath. "Just...air sickness."

"Well if there's anything you need, let us know."

"Thank you."

Sherlock sighed heavily and sat, his back pressed to the wall. He drew his knees up and rested his head against them, his eyes closed tightly.

No one could make this go away, he knew. No one could stop this. All he needed was to know why it happened. Why did they do this? What motive, what reason did they have to be so cruel?

He'd been abused and bullied before in his life, no doubt, but at least he understood as to why they chose to pick at him, whether it was because they were jealous of his intelligence or just thought he was a freak. The point was that there was a reason. But here...here there was nothing.

He was raped.

"God..." he breathed, feeling as though he may be sick again. He rocked slowly back and forth, pushing down the sickness and the confusion, desperately trying to suppress his mental wreckage. His phone buzzed, and he grumbled.

SMS: I know you're on the plane right now, but call me when you get there. -Mycroft Holmes

Sherlock stared for a moment at the tiny screen before typing up his message with trembling fingers.

SMS: Why do you want to know? -S

SMS: Sherlock, you can't use your phone on an aeroplane. -Mycroft Holmes

SMS: Piss off. -S

SMS: Just don't forget to call me. -Mycroft Holmes

Sherlock stood and sighed heavily.

SMS: Okay. -S

SMS: Everything alright so far? -Mycroft Holmes

SMS: Fine. -S

SMS: How are you holding up? -Mycroft Holmes

He groaned, running a hand through his hair.

SMS: Absolutely fine. -S

SMS: Okay...be safe. Don't forget to call. Please. -Mycroft Holmes

He opened the door, shoving the phone back into his pocket, and returned to his seat. John was bleary eyed, smiling when he saw him sit down again.

"Everything alright?" he asked. Sherlock nodded.

"Sleep well?" he asked distractedly. John stretched.

"Yes actually," he said happily. "Very well. You know, I could get used to flying first class. Really nice."

Sherlock shrugged and sighed deeply, running his hands over his face. John cocked his head.

"You sure you're ok? You look a little...yellow."

Sherlock cleared his throat and regarded John with cautious eyes.

"Fine," he said decisively. John grunted and shrugged, checking his watch.

"Should be there pretty soon," he said. "Only about twenty more minu-"

"John."

John looked up inquisitively to see Sherlock gripping his knees, eyes narrowed.

"Yes...?" John answered cautiously. "You ok?"

"I think I'm going to vomit."

"Oh...well...uh...here."

John reached under his seat to find a paper bag, with the air line's logo printed neatly on the white surface, and gave it to his friend, who took it with a shaking hand.

"Didn't know you got air sickness," John said as Sherlock clenched the bag, now pressed against his face, and heaved. Nothing came of it, and it made Sherlock feel dizzy. He really needed to eat more.

"I...don't..." he managed to say between gags. John nodded as Sherlock closed his eyes tightly and doubled over, hugging his knees and gripping the empty bag.

"Something you ate then, maybe?"

"I haven't eaten since the night we went to Angelo's."

"What about the rice and noodles the other night?"

Sherlock shook his head and moaned, dry-heaving again and pressing his forehead to his knees.

"But Angelo's was a few days ago, 'Lock."

Sherlock sighed and groaned.

"Yes. I know. And don't call me that."

John smiled and pat Sherlock's slightly damp curls.

"Just take it easy," he said. "And promise me you'll eat regularly on this trip, alright?" Sherlock waved his hand and muttered a "fine, fine."

The rest of the flight was spent by John cooing to his friend, patting his back and ruffling his hair while the world's only consulting detective quivered and moaned, not having the heart to have that "talk" again, even if this time he really needed to.

They had checked into the castle of a building upon their arrival-one Mount Juliet Hotel, just about an hour outside of Dublin in Kilkenny-and once they settled in, John flopping on the bed and bouncing happily, Sherlock had almost hurriedly walked through the patio doors and stood outside, gripping the wooden handrail.

There was snow, melting away for the time being, but no doubt to return soon. The wind rushed about him, his coat billowing and his scarf loosely lapping at his neck and face. His white, marble hands clung to the rail, gazing down.

John appeared behind him, watching. He stood stark still, his face flushed with wind chill and his lips pressed firmly together. His dark curls almost violently contrasted with the white of his skin, and his eyes were bright, strikingly sharp blue-green marbles, flicking about, dazedly grazing over the snowy landscape. John stood and walked over to him, suddenly having an almost overwhelming urge to wrap his arms around his waist. He did not, merely standing slightly behind him in the doorway.

"It's breathtaking," he said. Sherlock almost started, taking a sharp breath in and seeming to be shaken from his thoughts.

"Yes," he said finally, blinking away some stray flakes of snow that clung to his eyelashes. He turned to John, licking his lips.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, leaning against the wood, his back to the landscape. John cocked his head, hugging his arms against the cold.

"What for?"

"For kissing you, at the flat. It was foolish and uncharacteristic of me, and I apologize."

John was a bit taken aback, arching his eyebrows.

"Well, you're just out with it then..." he said humourously. Sherlock's lips parted slightly, then looked away, downcast. John sighed.

"It's alright, I told you on the plane," he said, smiling. Sherlock looked up at him, piercing John with a starlit gaze. John's smile faded into a look of wonder. Sherlock's eyes nearly hypnotized him; he stood, captivated, held tight by Sherlock's glassy pools of silvery turquoise.

Standing there in the cold, in front of the slightly teetering frame of his flat mate and the marvelous behemoth of a landscape spread behind him, John's heart felt a heavy, sharp tug, not unlike the one he had felt on the couch when Sherlock had kissed him. He was drawn to him, yearned for him, wanted so desperately to make his pain go away that it wracked him with foreign feeling. Before his mind knew, his heart did, and he eventually found himself lost in a spiral of his own emotion. But he knew. Finally, he knew.

"I love you."

John had said it without thinking. The words slipped from his mouth and dribbled down his chin like sweet juice from a plump fruit. As soon as he felt the nectar of those words graze past his lips, he licked them unconsciously, hoping to pull the words back in, but it was too late.

They were already in the air, dancing in front of them like wisps of cloud. And John was horrified.

"Wh..." Sherlock said quietly, eyes wide. "What...?"

John cleared his throat and looked down.

"Sorry, uh..." he began. "Nothing. It's nothing. I um...I was just thinking of something else..."

Sherlock stood there, eyes narrow, calculating, perplexed. John looked sheepishly up at him, preparing himself inwardly for the rejection, the condemnation, the lengthy explanation as to why the idea was so absurd...

...but before he knew it, the detective had pulled him into an embrace, and then subsequently kissed him full on the mouth.

Sherlock's phone buzzed on the dresser.

SMS: Have you arrived yet? I told you to call me you idiot. -M

But how was the elder Holmes to know that his little brother was otherwise occupied?

Hooray for cliff hangers! :)