Here it is, chapter 14. You can breathe a sigh of relief my dearies.
Warning: Angst and slash.
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC. I only own this plot.
It was obvious that some guards had been killed, seeing as both Mycroft and Lestrade were dishevelled and Mycroft's normally perfect suit had been knocked askew. Despite that, Mycroft's umbrella-blade was almost spotless and Lestrade had only a couple bits of burnt powder on his hands. And, being a Holmes, he had perfect timing as always. The two of them came charging up the stairs just as Sherlock blacked out again, just in time to see a stricken-looking John stooping over the unconscious detective.
"John!" Mycroft dropped his weapon and ran to the bed, almost reaching out to touch Sherlock until John practically growledat him. "It's alright. I won't hurt him, John. He's my little brother."
After a moment John un-tensed a little and nodded, picking up Sherlock's coat from where it laid on the floor. He pulled the white sheet back and let it drift to the floor. It took a bit of rearranging, but John managed to wrap up the insensible detective in his long coat and gather him up into his arms. Sherlock moaned and squirmed as his back was touched, but he didn't wake. If John thought rearranging the detective to wrap him into his coat was difficult, it was nothing compared to getting him down the stairs and out of the house. Sherlock was very tall, and while he was not particularly heavy it was remarkably difficult to manoeuvre him down the stairs.
Seeing his little brother's broken state and John's level of distress made Mycroft more determined than ever to get them out of there. Lestrade helped John by gently taking Sherlock's feet so they wouldn't hit the ground as they made their way to the car. John merely glanced at the dead guards around them; in all honesty he didn't give two shits about them. He only cared for having his lover back in his arms. Looking down at Sherlock's face, which held an uncomfortable expression, made John's heart twist. How dare Moriarty do this to his Sherlock.
"I have half a mind to go back there and shoot that bastard." John growled as he slid into the car and laid Sherlock across his lap, taking up a full two seats (though his knees were bent to fit the width of the car.) Mycroft sat in across from them followed by Lestrade, who gave James an order to drive back to the hotel.
"So do I, John. But Sherlock's safety comes first." Mycroft sighed and looked over at his unconscious brother. He looked so small and weak in the doctor's arms.
"You did knock him a good one, though." Lestrade chipped in with a half smile. Mycroft's hand, which was hidden from John's view, slid silently over to Lestrade's and gave it a quick squeeze in a silent thank you, before retreating back again.
"But he'll be up again soon." John tucked some of Sherlock's hair back from his face and stroked his cheek. "I don't think I'll be able to stop myself if he ever tries this again."
"I can assure you, John, for the foreseeable future you will both be safe. Trust me." Mycroft gave John a re-assuring smile and looked out the window. Sherlock stirred once in John's arms, causing all of them to look over. But that's all it was; a stir, a brief twitching before stillness settled through the detective again. John just held him closer, almost possessively until they reached the hotel.
Once there, they parked around the back to where there was another entrance. "We can't be seen bringing him in the front. It's too risky especially in his current state." Mycroft opened the door and helped John to take Sherlock out. The detective's eyes opened just a fraction when John had him back in his arms bridal style. He mumbled something incoherent and his hand weakly grabbed the front of John's shirt for a second before falling limp again.
"Sherlock…" John held him closer until he was in the door and up the first flight of stairs. That little stirring seemed to be a good since, since Sherlock had actually grabbed onto him instead of panicking.
"It looks like he's coming back around. Take him to bed and maybe clean up a few of those wounds." Mycroft looked at Lestrade and gestured for the DI to follow. "Greg and I are going to retire for the night."
"What if I hurt him by mistake?" John licked his now dry lips nervously, having little faith in himself.
"You could never hurt him, John. And we're right down the hall if you need us." Mycroft put a hand on John's shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. "You're his doctor after-all." With that, both he and Lestrade continued up the stairs. Somehow John managed to get the door of his hotel room open enough to get them both inside, and he laid Sherlock down gently on one of the queen-sized beds before closing it behind him. Even wrapped up in his coat, the detective still looked so fragile, and John was almost afraid to touch him.
He finally summoned up the courage to go over and gently unwrap the coat and lay it aside. The little go-bag he'd packed had a change of clothes for Sherlock, but with his lover in such a state he didn't want to imagine how much pain just dressing Sherlock would cause. Instead, he went over his lover's wounds as gently as he could, silently cataloguing each one away in the back of his mind.
The brand on his shoulder was obviously the worst. John tried not to touch it, but he had to run a finger along the swollen edge of it anyway. It wasn't infected, thankfully, but the fact that it was a burn meant that the skin around the blackened letter was puffy and hot to the touch. It was obviously very painful as well, since Sherlock whimpered and stirred lightly under John's hand. Almost automatically, his other hand smoothed down Sherlock's tousled curls and the detective quieted again. He left the burn alone for now and moved on, following the lines that the whip had left when it bit into his lover's pale flesh. Those were mostly shallow and already scabbed over, except where they had broken open when they moved Sherlock back to the hotel. They'd heal over with no difficulties, John thought, along with the bruises where the whip hadn't broken the skin and the red bites littering Sherlock's neck and collarbone.
John straightened up to leave the bed for a moment and get a washcloth when a pale hand closed on his wrist. John started violently, nearly pulling his wrist away on instinct. Sherlock's eyes were open and there was no fear there. He didn't speak, but the tip of his tongue darted out to wet his lips. John could have burst into tears, he was so relieved. "It's alright, Sherlock," he breathed out, gently stroking a hand over his lover's tousled curls. "I'm going to go get a washcloth to clean your back and a glass of water for you to drink."
After a long moment, Sherlock nodded and let go of John's wrist. In seconds the former army doctor had fetched a warm damp washcloth and a glass of water. The last went into the detective's outstretched and silently pleading hand. "Drink that, love. You'll feel better, alright?"
Sherlock stayed lying on his stomach, sipping slowly from the glass of water, as John gently dabbed at the lashes on his back and the small specks of blood adorning his inner thighs. The detective was pliant and calm under John's hands and he didn't make a sound when the washcloth was laid over the brand to cool the hot and swollen skin. In fact, he hadn't made a sound while he'd been tended to. And that, John knew, couldn't be a good sign.
"Sherlock..." He knelt down on the floor beside the bed, gently taking the now-empty glass from his lover's fingers and setting it on the nightstand. "Sherlock, talk to me. I'm speaking from experience when I say that bottling all this up isn't good for you. It's not healthy." Slowly, to keep from startling the younger man, he brushed a stray curl off his forehead. "Say something, Sherlock, please."
Sherlock wet his lips again, glanced down at his hands, and slowly reached out to twine his fingers with John's. "Don't leave me again," he whispered, barely able to make the words come. "Don't let him take me away again, John, please..."
"Oh, Sherlock... It's alright, love, I'm here. You're safe now." The detective bowed his head and rested his cheek against their joined fingers. A tremor ran down through him and he made a soft, strangled noise that wrenched at John's heart. "You're okay, Sherlock..." He carded a hand through his lover's tousled curls, trying to soothe him as he shivered. "It's okay, I'm here Sherlock."
Slowly, the detective's shivering eased a bit and he lifted his head, silently pleading with John. Wincing a bit, since he'd been sitting in the same position on the floor for quite a while, he levered himself off the floor and sat on the bed with his back against the headboard. Sherlock shifted over and laid his cheek against John's thigh, one long-fingered hand clutching at his lover's pant leg. His eyes closed again and he seemed to relax, soothed by John's nearness and the warmth of him.
The former army doctor, on the other hand, could only sit there tense and worried. Sherlock was broken, clearly. The doctor had never seen anyone in this state before, let alone someone with a great mind like Sherlock's. And John... He frankly didn't know if he could fix him.
Cute and angsty, no?
Review and whatnot.