Well, here we are: Chapter 16.

Warnings: Contains slash.

Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC. I only own this plot.

John had been soothing Sherlock for a good while after settling down. His fingers massaged themselves through the detective's dark curls and he could feel Sherlock's grip on his trouser leg loosen slightly as time wore on. John was almost certain Sherlock had cried; there had been the feeling of damp warmth on his lap where Sherlock's head had been. But by the time the doctor wanted to switch his position the damp spot had dried up. He was getting tired in his sitting position and, thinking Sherlock was asleep, shimmied down slowly so he was lying next to his lover. Taking Sherlock's pale hand in his own, the doctor fell asleep.

Sherlock wasn't really asleep. Every time he felt himself drifting off, the sounds of a whip cracking or the feel of hot breath on his ear would jolt him awake. Those things were just John coughing or sighing, louder as he fell asleep. But Sherlock's scarred and sleep addled brain twisted them into the image of Moriarty and he instinctively tightened his hold on John's hand, afraid that if he let go his lover might disappear. I need this, Sherlock though, I need John.

Dawn was breaking by the time Sherlock had managed to sleep. Instead of finally being able to sleep in peace, Sherlock was twisting and turning the wrong way, so his back was being rubbed off by the sheets. With every painful movement came painful memories; the feeling of being choked, of being violated and used. It was all making him whimper in his sleep, calling out for John. His arm flung in the direction of said man's chest. John woke up the second Sherlock hit his chest. At first, he thought something had happened, that Moriarty came back or that everything he had worked to get back was being taken away again.

"Sherlock…" John sat up and caught Sherlock's wrist gently. "Sherlock love, wake up." The detective's face was twisted in pain; eyes clenched shut and mouth open to moan in fear. John reached out his free hand and placed it gently on Sherlock's cheek. He immediately calmed down and when his eyes opened, they were looking up at John.

"There you are. Nightmare?" John stroked his thumb along Sherlock's cheekbone slowly, feeling the detective relax under his hand. Sherlock nodded slowly and brushed the sheets off his back. Some of the lashes across his back had broken open as he tossed and turned and a few spots of red marked the white hotel sheets.

"I... I need to get the feeling of him off me, John." He still spoke barely above a whisper, his head lowered again to press his cheek against John's shirt. One hand was still clutching gently at his lover's trouser leg, pale fingers tightening as he spoke. "I need a bath, I think."

John smiled somewhat lopsidedly down at the detective and slipped a hand back into his hair. "Alright, love... Why don't you stay here while I run it? Try and keep warm." Gently easing himself off the bed, he pulled the blankets back up over Sherlock a bit, carefully avoiding the brand on his shoulder. The detective obediently laid his head back down and watched as John darted into the bathroom to fill the tub. He sat on the edge of it as he ran the water, occasionally swirling a hand in it to check the temperature. He didn't want one that was too hot and would make Sherlock's injuries swell, but in the detective's ragged state a bath that was too cold might send him into shock. When he was finally satisfied with the water's temperature, he turned off the faucet and went back to fetch Sherlock. He hadn't moved from his spot on the bed, his cheek pressed into the cool sheets. "Sherlock?"

The detective's head came up rather sharply, his eyes wide with fear for a split second. After a moment, he exhaled raggedly and inched toward the edge of the bed. Shaking his head a bit, John padded over and helped his lover up to his feet. Sherlock was still very wobbly on his legs, but with John's help he made it to the bathroom and into the bath without falling. Both he and John did nearly fall into the tub, however, which resulted in some weak and somewhat shaky laughter.

The detective seemed very grateful for the cool bath and settled back into it as much as he could, even letting John wash his hair for him. "Once you get out I'll do something about that shoulder, love. I can get some gauze and tape out of the first aid kit, and I'll see if there's anything like burn cream. I brought you a fresh change of clothes and your coat, too, and if you're hungry I'll send down for some breakfast." He spoke quietly, evenly, the sort of voice he used with particularly fractious or cranky children that came to the clinic for flu shots or yearly checkups. Sherlock made a small noise that John took for agreement and closed his eyes, letting his arms drape loosely over the sides of the tub. "Maybe just some toast and tea, I know your stomach won't be up to much after the past couple days, and I don't want you getting sick on me after all this..."

"John, dostop treating me like I'm going to shatter." It was still soft, and Sherlock's voice still sounded like it might give out at any moment, but some of his old spark was there. Not a lot of it, of course. It was still very soon after what had happened with Moriarty, but the fact that there was a bit of spark there made John smile a little.

"Of course, love. Of course." The doctor seemed to take both his job and his love for Sherlock very seriously. There was no hiding the fact that John wasn't going to leave Sherlock's side, and a little niggling in his chest made it clear he did feel like Sherlock was going to shatter. But that was John all over; the overprotective, caring lover and the doctor who was going to fix everything and make Sherlock better. John made it his will. "I suppose we better get you out now. That water is running cooler than it should."

John gave Sherlock's arm a pat and stood up to take the nearest available towel. Hotel towels weren't credited for being very big, so when John held it out he knew it would just barely cover the detective's skinny frame. Draping it over his shoulders, John slowly, gently helped Sherlock to stand and step out of the bath. He seemed to be in a bit of a better mood. It was very slight though, seeing as he still winced when standing up, but it was there.

"Okay, hold onto my shoulders." John directed. Despite his comments about John treating him like he was going to shatter, Sherlock did as he was told. His nails were longer than usual so they dug in quite a bit into John's shoulders. But John didn't mind, and when he had two free hands he wrapped the towel around Sherlock, careful of the branding and deeper gashes adorning his back. "There we go, love."

Sherlock's hair was still dripping wet, so John had brought a second, smaller towel out. Standing in front of Sherlock who was perched on the edge of the bed, John began to towel off the main wet curls and wipe off any excess droplets from around Sherlock's neck and jaw. "Are you cold? I can always turn on the heaters if you are."

"I'm fine, John. Honestly." If Sherlock wasn't in the state he was in now, John wouldn't have believed him. He got down on his hunkers and continued to dry Sherlock, all the way down his front and around his back. "Do you want me to lie down?"

"It would help with the dressing, yes." said John softly, guiding Sherlock gently to lie on his stomach. Sherlock tried to relax by lying his cheek into the soft pillow and closing his eyes. After some rooting around on John's account in the first aid box, the doctor managed to find an appropriate supply of what was necessary. "I've found some burn cream, gauze dressing and some tape." He sat himself on the edge of the bed and gently placed a few cooling fingers on the detective's back. Sherlock inhaled softly but he got quickly used to the feel of John's clever fingers as they traced the reddened gashes on his back.

Taking the burn cream, John put a pea-sized amount onto his index finger. Gently holding Sherlock's good shoulder down with the palm of his other hand, and murmuring an apology in advance for how much this was going to hurt, he spread the cream over the first stroke of the M. Sherlock bit down hard on the pillow, his entire back tensing under John's hand as he bit back a sharp moan of pain. Each stroke of the branded Mgot another dollop of cream, and when John finally finished and wiped his fingers on the smaller of Sherlock's towels the detective went limp with a grateful sort of sound. He hardly stirred as John tore off a square of gauze and taped it down over his shoulder.

"Do you feel up to getting dressed? I'm going to order breakfast and I don't want one of the hotel's staff walking in on you naked." He brushed Sherlock's hair off his forehead, smoothing the damp curls.

"I might be able to, with a bit of help." Slowly, still trembling a little, Sherlock sat up and looked around for John's overnight bag. The former army doctor dug it out from under the bed and set it at Sherlock's feet before sitting near the head of the bed, near the phone. He watched closely, judging how sore Sherlock still was by the way he gingerly shrugged into the white button-up shirt that John had brought. He buttoned it up slowly before digging his underwear and trousers out of the bag. Looking down at them a bit helplessly, he glanced over at John.

Managing a small smile and a quiet chuckle to himself, John left the head of the bed and helped the detective wriggle into his briefs and pants.

Sherlock felt marginally better dressed, and he even got his own socks on as John ordered what sounded like enough food for three people. Far too much food, he thought, until his stomach growled like a hungry dog. Sherlock shot a look down at his stomach in something like surprise. Now that was a sound that he hadn't heard almost since John moved in.

John's such a sweetheart, no?