At the second ring, Mycroft Holmes picked up the phone.
"John."
"How can I help him?" No time to lose.
"What happened?" Now Mycroft sounded worried.
"He's in pain! Literally dying from unspecified cramps."
"Ah." No surprise in that sound.
"Is that what the morphine was for?"
"Yes. You found that, didn't you?"
"What's going on?"
Mycroft hesitated; then he heaved a sigh: "Sherlock was – violated – earlier this evening. I thought he was doing remarkably well."
"Remarkably well?"
"John," Sherlock whimpered, "-hurts".
The doctor ignored the wailing, "What happened?"
"I told you. He was assaulted by a group of losers."
"How many?"
"Three. That I know of. And before you ask, yes, they all – had a go."
"God."
"I thought that the morphine might be a justified reliever."
John sighed.
"John? Take care of my brother, will you? He needs a doctor."
The doctor gulped and turned to Sherlock who had rolled onto his knees, head resting on the couch, arms wrung tightly around his lower abdomen.
"Urgh."
"I think you should have that morphine."
"Administering drugs now, doctor?" Sherlock's voice was ragged.
"I think you need something stronger than paracetamol."
"Ah," the head looked up, "so he told you – good. I probably deleted it."
"Sherlock."
"What?"
"You can't delete something like this."
"I can. And I have."