Upstairs, Sherlock had not changed position. He stared blankly ahead and seemed lost in thought. When John walked into the room, however, he turned to him, "He didn't come up".
"No, went straight to the scene," John said. Sherlock raised an eyebrow but said nothing for a while. Then he added, "It hurts, John".
John clicked back into doctor's mode and approached his patient again.
"My belly," John found the other one sounded like a lost child.
"Let me see," the doctor bent over and lowered the waistband. This time, Sherlock did not slap his hand away. The skin was bruised and sore. John inspected the hip bones, too, and stopped when he noticed a strange small mark on the milky flesh, a deep red circle framing some letters. Was that a tattoo? Sherlock would not sport tattoos, would he? He decided it was indecent to take a closer look, so he finished his nursing job and started putting his instruments back into their bag.
"You may actually. Have a closer look," Sherlock said and John frowned.
"You're interested. Go on. I can see you want to know."
John slowly shook his head. Pushed like this he did not want to inquire further. But Sherlock sat up quickly, ignoring the pain this must have caused his stomach, and he exposed the aforementioned area again, "Look."
"I have. Looked. It's a tattoo."
"No," Sherlock's voice almost proud to contradict, "It's a branding."
Good Lord, John thought. His flat mate was completely mad. A branding. What next?
"What for?"
"Ah. You do want to know." Triumphant. "Deduce, or, more like you, guess."
John's turn to shrug. He glanced at the shape again. Could be numbers. Words. Characters anyhow. "I'd say it's a ritual of some sort. Secret society, that sort of thing."
"Ah."
"Is it?"
"No."
"A sign of initiation."
"Into?"
"Dunno… some. Profession."
"Boring."
"A name. Initials."
"Ah!"
"So they are. Initials?"
"Yes," smug now. Almost proud, "Of who?"
"Sherlock," John sighed. This was getting far too personal.
"I honestly have no idea."
"Try!"
John heaved another sigh, "Must be an important person. One you would want to remember."
"Because?"
"Because something's linked to her. Him. Someone-"
"Good. And what person would that be?"
"An ex."
"Really. You think I'd have brandings to remember my ex's?"
"Not exactly, no." Because there weren't any. But could he be sure of that?
"You're right enough though. This is about carnality."
"Someone special then. Something special. Your-" John stopped, embarrassed. Yes. Just like Sherlock to do something as mad - unlikely and unusual - as this.
Sherlock's scrutinizing eyes rested on him as if eager to find out what John was thinking.
"First? Yes." The detective's words almost hurt John, not because they were said but because of the way in which they were. Cold. Distant. Cruel.
"You had a branding. To remember your first time," John resumed and was rewarded with an evil stare until Sherlock deigned correct him: "I was branded. To never forget."
The words took more than a moment to sink in, but then John's thoughts went wild. Was branded? But why? Why not forget? He remembered Lestrade's words. Mr. Moran.
"You consented." Just to make sure.
"No."
"But the act was-" Final attempt.
"No."
"Who-"
"Dead."
"How?"
"You don't want to know." Mycroft came to John's mind. Sherlock smiled weakly, reading his thoughts.
"Good God, Sherlock," John said and Sherlock sat up straight.
"What? You're surprised to learn I did engage in intercourse?"
"Engage in- no, wait, you were forced. That's not the same-"
"Does it matter?"
"Does it- ? Sherlock, are you serious?"
"Why should it matter?"
"Because it's not right! Because you were. Abused. Hurt. Marked to never forget the humiliation … You can get rid of that, you know. There are ways."
"No."
"There are-"
"I want to keep it," Sherlock ran a finger over the red spot. He had to keep it. The actual branding had been painful. Moran had used his seal ring, heated it over a candle. Sherlock pouted at the vague specks of charcoal in the mark. He had run an infection. Back then. It didn't hurt now. It was part of him.
"Why?"
"To remember," Sherlock simply stated, "I need to. I deleted it all. It's gone. It doesn't matter. To me. It really doesn't. But you should. Remember. I should remember. Something like this. Shouldn't I?"
John just stared. Unable to understand. Unable to imagine.
"Wouldn't you agree?" Sherlock insisted and John nodded slowly. Nobody would be able to just delete their own rape. Nobody but-
The mad detective got up and stiffly walked through the kitchen. He stopped outside his bedroom and half-turned back. If John had looked just then he would have seen the young man's torment. Would have realized that the blood had completely drained from his face. Would have seen his hands tremble as they fumbled the worn gown. Would have noticed his lips quiver when he quietly said, "And it was more, John. First and last actually," before closing the door behind himself.
John cursed his brain for processing information so damn slowly. First and last actually. God. He realized what that meant. Had to mean.
The doctor put his medical kit down and walked towards Sherlock's bedroom door. What now? Knock? Enter? And then what? He rested his head against the cold wood and tried to imagine what the confession must have been like for the other man. Sherlock had actually admitted defeat. In a way. It just had not broken him. He had not allowed it to. Them to. John felt a fierce anger rise in his chest. A blind rage against him who had done this to Sherlock.
He knew he should probably let it pass. Go to bed. Face things in the morning.
But something inside him stopped John from turning his back right now. He quietly opened the door and stepped into the detective's bedroom.
He had never been to Sherlock's room. He'd caught an idea of the mess inside on the rare occasions when the other man left the door ajar. He knew there were lots of books and objects. And there were considerable piles of washing cluttering the floor. The room smelled- nice actually. John found this revelation strange as he had imagined the room to be stuffy and distinctly oozing cold sweat. Like a public school dormitory. Actually it was well-aired and there was a faint hint of an expensive perfume. A fashionable lamp added a dim light to the small space and John felt reminded of a smuggler's cave.
On his bed, Sherlock had rolled into a ball and was facing the window. John was not sure if he was staring out into the dark or just staring. Or pretending to be asleep.
"May I come in?"
"Belated question as you're already standing over me."
John sat down on the bed, but Sherlock did not stir. He did not look up either.
"You have questions," he sighed almost inaudibly.
John sank into a comfortable position and lowered his head, choosing a voice matching Sherlock's: "Who else knows?"
"Everyone. Has an idea. No one will ever know the full story." Declared with authority.
"What-?"
"Next."
"When-?"
A gulp. "Nineteen years ago." John tried to calculate. Double-check with Lestrade's account.
"And you never told anyone?"
"Why should I?"
"To get over it. You can't just bottle it up."
"Who do you think I should have told?" Bitter.
"Someone you trust."
"I'm telling you."
John bit his lip.
"Sherlock, I don't think I am-" the right person.
"You're a doctor," Sherlock pointed out, "You said you were my friend."
"Yes, but-" because I am…
"But what? You don't want to hear. Is that it? You're disgusted. Scared I might hold you responsible for whatever crazy idea might get into my head. Well, I wouldn't. You can't stand the idea of it, right? It appalls you. It makes you sick. So why don't you just go and leave me alone?"
"Because you're wrong," John replied and Sherlock looked up through tearstained eyes, "I'm not disgusted. And I know you wouldn't kill yourself. Not now."
Sherlock huffed and held out his left arm. John noticed the deadly pallor of his friend's skin which shocked him all the more when he noticed the dark marks on Sherlock's forearm. It was covered in bleeding cuts and scars. John had never seen Sherlock's arms before. The other man always kept them hidden from view. The doctor in him was screaming out just when Sherlock turned his eyes on him.
"What?" he snapped, and John grabbed the arm and twisted it in Sherlock's direction, "You cut yourself."
"Excellent deduction," Sherlock sneered and pulled away.
"Why?" John whispered and Sherlock gave an angry start, "Because I want to. I need to. And I can't stop," he looked defeated, and John shook his head, "What!"
"It's just that – you! It's not fair!"
"What's so special about me?"
John sighed and secretly cursed himself. How could he phrase this without sounding like he was coming on to Sherlock?
"You're - innocent. In your own particular way. Unspoilt. Uncorrupted. You can be. Infuriatingly honest. You're selfish and arrogant. Brilliant mostly, amazingly ignorant about some things. Sex for example."
"And that's the reason-"
"I'm not sure. It's also. You're. Beautiful," John chuckled and shook his head, "This is ridiculous. What am I doing here?"
"You think I'm beautiful?"
"You are! Just look at yourself!"
"I'm. Pale. Prominently. Too tall, too skinny. My fingers are too long, my face's too bony, my mouth's too big. My hair's a mess! I can't even grow a beard. Then there's the moles…"
"What moles?"
"These ones," Sherlock held out an exposed arm, some liver spots standing out against the white skin, "I'm covered in them. I get freckles!"
"No, you don't."
"I do. I would if I went under the sun." John shook his head and gestured Sherlock to stop.
"Okay. Fine. What about your eyes?"
"Cruel eyes. Grey in colour. I've been told to scare people just by staring at them."
"They're intelligent eyes."
"Eyes can't be intelligent."
"If the person behind them is, they can."
"So what's your point then?" Sherlock suddenly cut the banter. John was lost for a moment.
"My point is that you're not only annoyingly smart, and you know it, but that you're equally enviably attractive and maddeningly unaware of the fact."
"You realize that you're over-using adverbs there."
"Just making a point."
Sherlock almost smiled. They looked at each other for a long while, then the younger man turned away, "You said. Abused. Earlier."
"I did."
"Is that what it was?"
John wanted to scream in disbelief, "Did it hurt? Sherlock, did. They. He. Hurt you?"
"Yes," quite small, "-they. Did." More than one. John squeezed his eyes shut.
"How?" he croaked and for a while he thought that Sherlock would just ignore him again.
"They. Did. Things. Made me. Do them. Stripped me … I thought it'd never end, the pain'd never end," John realized how hard the usually articulate man was trying to find the right words as he remembered, John had no doubt about that, every single action, "And then they just did. Stop. Left me. Bleeding and naked. Lestrade-" I don't want to hear this. I don't want to know.
"Did you see a doctor?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Mycroft said it wouldn't be. Appropriate."
"Appropriate! You were raped!"
"Stop saying that!"
"You were. And I won't."
"Please!"
"You were raped. And branded."
"John!"
"That's a crime."
"They paid for it."
"How can you be so collected about it?"
"Why does it make you so angry?"
"Because you're my friend! And I wasn't there for you."
"You didn't know me then."
"No, but - apparently you were all alone! You were in pain. You had no one to talk to. Not even your brother! I - this is just too much, sorry."
John got up and walked to the door.
"John," Sherlock mewled, rolling onto his other side and watching his flat mate leave, "No one has ever called me beautiful. Or innocent." John could hear the unspoken thanks and nodded. He knew he should have thrown his arms around the other man. But he was not sure if Sherlock wanted to be hugged. He wasn't even sure if he had ever been hugged. Shaking his head sadly, he walked up the stairs to his own bedroom.