John's POV

The days passed quietly, Sherlock played his violin, probably making a profile of Asha's capturer. While Asha slept most of the day on the couch. Occasionally, she would twist and turn, moaning a bit. But each time I went up to try to help her, Sherlock shot me down, dismissing the events and saying that she needed to get through it herself. When she woke, she would eat a bit of food, stretch and go back to sleep. Except for her out bursts and the thank you's she gave me, she remained quiet.

By the fourth day, I decided it was about time to properly look at her wounds again. I had checked them the first day, quickly mending them and preventing any further damage. But up keep was mandatory, just to ward off infection and to keep an eye on them. When she woke up, and she had finished eating what was a normal person's lunch, I sat her back down on the couch but I didn't let her lay down.

"You need to let me look at your wounds. I'm sure I don't know the extent of them, but if you want to stay out of the hospital, we are going to have to check a couple of things." I spoke calmly, keeping my voice steady and trying to sound soothing. She studied me with cautious eyes, her face closely guarded from any and all emotions.

"What kinds of things?" She asked me finally, giving me a small smile. This eased my tension for a moment and I smiled back, trying to encourage her to be open with me. She needed to trust me, we had to be comfortable, or this would be ever so much harder.

"Well first, we need to check the frostbite and make sure it's healing well. We also need to check for any other abrasions and keep a record of them, as well as do a couple of blood tests." She froze when I mentioned the last part, but only for a second. We spoke for a few minutes, discussing when and where this would all be happening, and we decided that it would be best to do the lab tests at Bart's, while checking everything else would be best done at Baker Street. I shot a text to Molly, informing her that we would be in later today to use the lab. She didn't need to know about Asha, not yet.

"How would you check for any other abrasions?" She asked me, confusion etched in her voice. I gave a simple shrug, now pre-occupied with trying to set up a medical file for her with what I had around me. I got up to pick up a few papers off of my desk.

"You'd have to take off your shirt and pants and we would record what we saw." I didn't realize how quiet it was until after I said those words. Sherlock had stopped playing and was watching the two of us intently. But as Asha stared at the wall, battling her own inner thoughts and demons, I saw Sherlock glance toward her, with what almost seemed like—was it concern? But as soon as it was there, the emotion was gone.

"Oh, Jesus, I'm sorry…. Um…" I tried to think of another way we could do this. We could try to call Molly over and explain Asha's situation then instead of at the lab. It was painfully obvious that she wouldn't be comfortable with me doing it. Sherlock's voice broke the silence.

"I will record her injuries." He said simply, setting down his violin and adjusting his button up. We both quickly looked at him. When she didn't move, he sighed exasperatedly and motioned to his bedroom. "You are obviously uncomfortable with john seeing you in such a state, so the logical choice would be for me to do the examination and tell him what I observed. Now, if you would please, follow me to my room." We were both silent, but after a few moments, Asha stood and walked softly towards his bedroom, following the consulting detective.

Sherlock's POV

I flipped the lights on as I stepped through the door to my bedroom, Asha's soft footsteps treaded behind me. Her gait was the same as when she had first walked through our flat; a strong stance, but still no power to it. After she was standing in the middle of the room, I shut the door. She was silent, her breathing barely audible as I quietly made my way back to her. She stood stock still, her eyes never leaving the wall in front of her, she was detaching herself from the situation. Fear? Apprehension? Did he do this to her; make her strip for him before he abused her into submission? He would soon find out, but there was a slight disturbance in his mind. A small feeling, that maybe he didn't want to know what happened to her because it almost felt like it would anger him. He quickly pushed it away, to the farthest reaches of his mind. He couldn't afford to care, emotional connections just resulted in illogical behavior and pain.

She was still in the clothes of mine that John had given her, a button up shirt and old pair of pajama pants. Clearing my throat, I spoke as softly as I could.

"Please remove your shirt." I asked her, pulling out the papers John had given me to mark abrasions and other disfigurements and identifying marks. Her fingers shook as she began to unbutton the shirt, making it hard for her to do it efficiently. I sighed, "Just pull it over your head." I told her, as she looked almost shocked. Nodding, she crossed her arms in front of her and lifted the shirt over and off. Her shoulders weren't broad, but they weren't small. The blades were easily visible from the surface, as was her spine and ribs. Her waist was small, with hips that matched the width of her shoulders. Her hip bones were peaking threw just above my pants. Her bra was much too large for her, further proving how much weight she had lost; he guessed nearly 80 pounds. He started with her back. There were purple and green marks all around her waist, along with multiple raised scars following the pattern bruising. A restraint, marks from a leather belt that had been wrapped around her waist and held her to what? A wall, a bed, a post? Wherever and whatever had kept her there cut into her, causing the scaring that would stick her with forever. Travelling upward, there was slight bruising on both sides of her rib cage, caused by what looked like a whip. Around her neck were marks similar to those on her hips, hidden nicely by her long bleached hair. The scars were smaller, as wide as my smallest finger instead of the width of my thumb. When I lifted her hair off of her neck I felt her shiver, she whimpered when I touched one of them that trailed down over her collar bone.

"I won't hurt you, I promise."

The words left my lips before I could catch them. Her eyes caught mine again, brown red trained on my own blue green. For a few moments, we stared at each other; she was seeing if I meant what I had said, I was seeing if I did as well. I wasn't to most comforting of persons, that was John's strong suit. She gave a silent nod,

"Thank you," She said quietly as I continued to study her. There was bruising on her hips, formed in the shape of pudgy fingers, new bruises on top of old ones. After I had finished observing and recording the markings, I stepped back.

"You can put your shirt back on," I told her, grabbing another sheet of paper. "But I need you to take off the pants." Nodding mutely, she replaced her shirt and slowly removed her pants. When she had done so, she wouldn't meet my gaze. She looked at the completely opposite wall, refusing to look where I did. The tops of her thighs were covered in splotchy purple bruises, while the insides of her thighs were completely green and blue. Not an inch of skin near her pelvis was unblemished; the area where her underwear just stopped was blue and purple. The rest of her legs were relatively unharmed. The frost bite was healed and the skin was tender on her feet and hands. When she pulled up her pants, she still wouldn't look at me. But I saw the trail of tears that led down her cheeks. I turned to leave her to herself, opening the door and nearly out before I turned back, looking at her shaking figure,

"It's not your fault, you didn't deserve this." I told her quietly, before closing the door and joining John in the living room to discuss the blood work.