Recovery

Rating: M. DEFINITELY M.
Warnings: Many. This ends up being M/M SLASH so please, if you don't like, don't read. I changed the rating originally but I don't think it's fair on the other chapters, most of which are only K+s.
A/N: This chapter follows on directly from the last one, but I promise the next one will have nothing to do with it, so the - I'll say it again in case you missed it - SLASH in this chapter will not be followed up.

John recognises that there are such things as boundaries. They do exist. There are things that in every friendship, every relationship at all, one just will not do.

Elementary.

If he even has boundaries in his friendship with Sherlock, right now he'd happily break every single one of them if it might make him better. Which is lucky, because no-one, not even our anti-social consulting detective, can recover from what he's been through on his own. And it's going to take every inch of resolve he's got to help him get through this. But John Watson – BAMF ex-military John Watson – he has plenty of resolve. He's needed it since his sister started kick-boxing.

On the third day Sherlock wakes up first. John's hardly slept since it happened, so Sherlock doesn't want to wake him. He sits up by himself. It hurts – God, all his muscles scream at him like he's tearing each one apart individually and his two broken ribs throw in their penny-worth of protest as well – but he manages it, and after a few deep breaths he manages to stand right up and hobble slowly into the bathroom. Good, he thinks disconnectedly to himself. Progress.

John, still conked out on the bed in his old trackies and a Rolling Stones t-shirt Harry gave him years ago, wakes up to find Sherlock gone and panics. "Sherlock!" he shouts. He hasn't the foggiest idea how the detective managed to get out of bed, but last time he checked he was in no condition to do it by himself.

But there's a gentle "mm?" from the other side of the room and when he looks up his flatmate is standing in front of his wardrobe in black pants with a periwinkle shirt hanging over his bruised shoulders. He looks so vulnerable, so hurt, it makes John's heart thump painfully. How could someone do this to him? he thinks again.

But the consulting detective is smiling. Smiling weakly and hesitantly, but smiling nonetheless. "You're feeling better," John observes as calmly as he can manage.

"A little bit," Sherlock replies. "Enough to get up."

John smiles back at him. They abolished 'lying to make the other person feel better' long ago. "Good," he says softly. "That's good."

They sit on the sofa and eat toast and watch John's full set of the Star Wars films. Sherlock tuts impatiently at the Separatist leader's first appearance and lets out an "it's obviously –" before glancing at John and closing his mouth.

"Palpatine, I know, Sherlock," John says, chuckling. "I've seen them before."

"Obvious," the detective replies disdainfully. John chuckles again because this sort of lofty sarcasm is refreshing. He hasn't been insulted by the curly-haired man in three days and it's not that he misses it exactly, it's just… unnatural. "I don't know how you can like this high-budget exhibitionism, John."

A sigh from the doctor this time. "Well, we could have the Bond marathon you've been promising me for ages…"

Sherlock tuts again. "This is okay."

"Oh, of course." Well, John's no amateur at deduction either, and he recognises the slightly hasty note in the deep baritone that said, no, don't turn it off, I'm enjoying it. So he sits back and revels in the quiet camaraderie he hardly ever gets to enjoy with Sherlock.

On the fourth day Mrs Hudson gets back from holiday. Sherlock whimpers and bolts for the bedroom as fast as his battered limbs and broken ribs will take him. "Don't tell her, John," he calls out pleadingly as her bouncy footsteps sound on the stairs. "Just tell her I'm sick. Please?"

"But you never get sick, Sherlock," he says plaintively, following the detective. John isn't good at lying. He always gets muddled. Sherlock, though, has crawled back into bed like a dog with a broken leg, looking – if possible – even more vulnerable than ever, as though the effort of the last few days is completely undone.

"Everyone gets sick sometimes," he persists. "Please, John, just tell her something."

So he goes out and pretends to read the paper for the barely-five seconds before the door clicks open and Mrs Hudson bounces through. "Mrs Hudson!" he greets warmly, putting the paper down. "How was Cornwall?"

"Oh, it was lovely, thank you dear," she bubbles happily. "How have things been here? No holes in my walls?"

He smiles. "Not this time. Sherlock's got the flu, actually." The smoothness of the lie surprises him.

A look of abject pity overtakes her sweet face. "Oh, the poor dear! Is he all right? He never gets sick, it must have hit him extra-hard." She takes a few steps towards the bedroom door. John panics inwardly and stands up.

"I think he's asleep at the moment actually, Mrs H. Just managed to pop off, you know how he is. Best not wake him."

She stops and looks understandingly back at him. He basks briefly in the sheer warmth of her gaze – how does she manage to be so motherly all the time without getting annoyed? "We're doing all right, thanks, Mrs Hudson. He's over the worst of it, now."

Her gaze softens and she makes her way back to the stairs. "All right, dear," she says gently. "I'll bring up some dinner for the two of you later."

He smiles again and watches her leave. Why did he let her go? She could do more for Sherlock than he ever could.

On the fifth day John is in the kitchen making toast – that's all Sherlock usually eats – when he notices the detective watching him from the doorway. He turns around and sees the look in his eyes; reluctant, embarrassed, but needing something. "What is it, Sherlock?"

The consulting detective, bruises spreading yellow rays under his eyes and across his cheeks, lowers his eyes. "Nothing. It doesn't matter."

"Hey." John puts down the knife and goes to stand in front of his best friend and meet his eyes. "Sherlock, it's not nothing, I can tell. Whatever you need –" Sherlock goes to protest, but John cuts him off. "Whatever you need, I'm here for you, okay?"

Those beautiful slate-grey eyes search John's own for a few more seconds, looking for a sign of hesitation John refuses to show, a boundary that doesn't exist. Then he slowly, silently sinks to his knees in front of his flatmate and tugs open his fly. John supresses his gasp as he realises what the other man wants.

Sherlock takes John in his mouth and he grabs the kitchen table behind him, trying desperately to think about something else. Who is he kidding? John's attracted to Sherlock. Not enough to do anything about it – even if Sherlock wanted to it would change their relationship the way it was and nothing was worth that, but enough that the feel of the detective's tongue swirling around his cock makes him respond. And that can't happen. John isn't worried about Sherlock knowing anything, he probably knows already. But the reason his flatmate is on his knees before him right now is because some bastard five days ago forced him onto his knees and shoved himself into the detective's throat so hard his voice is still husky, and so Sherlock needs to feel clean again, needs to have someone in his mouth completely flaccid and unresponsive.

So he thinks about the rotten finger he finally found behind the bathtub this morning; how it got there he's not sure, but Sherlock must have been doing some sort of experiment with it and dropped it there, been unable to get it back and so left it there. He would have meant to say something, of course he would, but he gets distracted so easily and John had noticed two days ago that something in the bathroom really didn't smell right. Well, this morning he found it. Gross.

This seems to work, so he keeps going with this line of thought until the detective finally releases him and sits back on his heels. John takes a deep breath and looks down at him, a blank and distant look on his face as he absently wipes his mouth. He's seen that look before: Sherlock is deleting the memories, replacing them with these ones, memories of someone he trusts completely. He looks up finally and opens his mouth, but John really doesn't want to hear his thank-you, so he shakes his head softly. "Whatever you need," he whispers.

Sherlock gently tucks him back into his pants and does up his trousers as if nothing happened, and then stands up and makes his own toast. John smiles after him. This is recovery, this is progress. But he knows it's not over yet.

On the sixth day they stay in bed. It's colder than it has been for the past few days and John more than Sherlock just wants to stay under Sherlock's duvet where it's warm and homely. He finds his laptop and updates his blog – carefully not mentioning anything except London winters – and gives his phone to the consulting detective to play Scrabble on.

It barely takes ten minutes for him to get bored, so John finished his rant and sets up some quirky romantic comedy about a bunch of people with stupid weddings for them both to watch. Sherlock huffs when he reads the blurb on the internet but watches it without complaint and even makes comments that say he's paying attention. Like the fact that the man in the top hat really is the spit of John. He has to agree the actor does look a bit like him, but if you ever caught that look on his face or those tap-shoes on his feet, please shoot him because he's obviously lost his mind. Sherlock chuckles.

After it's over he gets up – John smiles as he sees how much more agile Sherlock is now – and goes to the bathroom. He's gone a while but John doesn't worry. He deletes a few emails from his sister and one from an 'anonymous' source that's obviously from Mycroft. Sherlock's brother has, of course, been displaying more than the usual concern in light of recent events, but the detective is adamant he's not to say anything, and John agrees most of the time. He sends a nightly message reassuring the government official that Sherlock's still okay, but ignores all other correspondence.

Sherlock comes back and sits hesitantly on the edge of the bed. John closes his laptop, knowing it's serious, and looks at him. The consulting detective presses a tube of salve into John's hands.

There's only one part of Sherlock that John hasn't rubbed salve into over and over again. He looks up and meets his grey eyes steadily. "Are you sure?" he asks gently.

Sherlock nods. "I'm sorry –" he starts, but John shakes his head.

"Don't be," he replies. His flatmate nods again and strips his pyjamas off without another word. John bites his lip. He's known this was coming, of course, but it doesn't make it easier. It's going to hurt, and he hates making Sherlock hurt.

Sherlock is on his hands and knees on the bed now, his head resting on his fists on the pillow, his bruised and molested bottom in the air. John swallows. He coats his fingers in the salve, takes a deep breath in, and shuffles closer. The detective turns grey eyes his way and he smiles gently and places a reassuring hand on his back. "Hold me, John," he whispers and so John does, he sits down behind him and wraps his legs around Sherlock's long, pale ones to keep contact with him. Sherlock's breathing gets heavier, so John lets out a gentle humming noise. "Now," the detective breathes.

So John slips a finger inside him, as gently as he can, but it's not gentle enough; his flatmate cries out in pain and it's awful, the sharp feel of his inside as his finger grazes over dried blood. He bites his lip again, harder, because he can't cope with this not hurting him when it's hurting the vulnerable, damaged man in front of him so much.

It has to get worse, of course. He fits another finger in and Sherlock whimpers again; he feels something shift under his fingers and then suddenly there's warm blood around them and he feels nauseous, he has to fight with himself not to throw up for a moment as Sherlock's breaths grow more ragged. "John," the consulting detective snarls, his teeth bared tightly against the pain, "just do it. Please."

He's not sure he can. "It's going to hurt –"

"I know!" Sherlock snaps. So John pulls back, grimacing at the blood over his fingers as they slide free. He grabs a tissue and wipes them clean. "Believe me, John, if there was another way I'd choose that one." He sounds so apologetic, like it's his fault. John shushes him gently.

"I know, Sherlock. I'm sorry." He stands up and drops his pyjama bottoms. He looks at Sherlock – he has to get hard for this. Thinking about yesterday in the kitchen with the detective's always-active mouth on him, it isn't difficult. He squeezes salve onto his cock and shuts his eyes briefly, rubbing himself to spread it, feeling sick again.

He kneels back on the bed and this time puts both hands on Sherlock's back gently, wondering how he's supposed to do this without seeming possessive, what he's supposed to do with his hands so that they don't grip the detective's back or hips but still maintain the vital contact. He takes a deep breath – mirrored by his flatmate – and slowly, hesitantly, ready to pull out at any second if the other man wants him to, he pushes himself inside him. He feels muscle rip and old wounds tear open and it's hard to believe this will help, that this will actually somehow make it heal better and hurt less, but the doctor that always manages to climb back into the forefront of his mind tells him that these scars have to reopen so they can close the way John wants them to.

Sherlock lets out a guttural snarl of pain that rises in pitch until it's almost a scream and grabs the pillow with his fists so that his knuckles are white and John stops, but he shakes his head and indicates he should keep going. He holds his breath until he's completely inside his flatmate, the tip of his cock just touching the other man's prostate. The detective lets out a gentle groan and John can see tears streaming down his face. This is the hardest thing he's ever done, he knows, and he's never been able to imagine anything worse, but he pulls out slightly and pushes back in, as gently as he can. Sherlock takes a sharp breath in as he touches his prostate again and John is amazed that he can still react to that when he's in this much pain, so he does it again, just slight movements, but the detective grips the pillow harder and grates a noise of encouragement out of his throat.

Knowing that this is actually making Sherlock aroused is an odd feeling. He's not sure it's a good one either – does the detective feel as sickened by his own pleasure as John does? Surely he would have told him to stop by now. Maybe after this he'll be able to trust other people in this capacity again. He pulls out a little further before pushing back in this time, and Sherlock moves under him, moaning again, his fists curling around the pillow, head lifting slightly off his hands. And watching the detective come alive underneath him, growling with almost animal need, makes John harder. Suddenly he has to think about something else again, because this is about Sherlock, not him.

His name slips from between his best friend's white lips and he grits his teeth. "Harder." It's so soft he almost doesn't hear it, and he considers pretending he didn't, but he doesn't want to make him say it again so he complies, trying to make it so that only the hits to the detective's prostate are harder, and Sherlock's moans get louder and John rattles off the stages of decomposition in his head but forgets the fifth stage as he hears his own name again, and then his flatmate's whole body shudders around him as Sherlock comes and he bites the inside of his cheek until it bleeds. He's not going to come. Did Mrs Hudson bring teabags when she did their grocery shopping for them yesterday? He can't remember.

He waits for a moment, until Sherlock's hips stop rocking and his breathing slows again and his hands release the pillow. Then he slowly pulls out again. Sherlock collapses so that he's lying on his side with his eyes closed. John lies down next to him; is he okay? Or did the involuntary movement of his hips push him too far?

"Thank you, John," he whispers finally, opening his eyes. "That must have been awful for you."

John just takes Sherlock into his arms and holds him there for the longest time, until their breathing is synchronised and their hearts beat in one slow rhythm. John listens to their breaths and their heartbeat and he can feel the slow deleting of memories in the detective's big scary brain, overwritten until there is only John. It's almost peaceful.

After a few more minutes he helps Sherlock into the shower and climbs in after him; they watch the blood swirl down the plughole as all evidence that anything was wrong washes away.

A/N: Please don't make me do that again. Why did I start this? It's awful. I apologise.

Right. Well, next chapter we move right away from rape and nasty things and move into a bit of much-needed comic relief. That's right; next chapter will, I promise, involve a fully-healed Sherlock, Harry Watson, and cows. Yes, you heard me right: cows.

Thanks for sticking with that. I love you all. Review and I'll update faster… XD

-for you!