He will not fight back.
He will take the beating, displaying the necessary amount of defense without the motivation and effort behind it.
He feels he deserves it. He had broken, bruised and battered so much in his life; he thought it only fair he should receive such treatment in equal.
It won't be equal though, he realizes, because these wounds would heal and the pain would fade and he would live on. The world is not always so lucky, in his wake.
But when the first blow hits him, he almost forgets. A wave of anger floods him and he rages against his attacker.
A second punch to the gut knocks his intentions back into place, and his body goes lax.
He flails and shuffles, making it look like he's fighting back. His aggressor finally tires of the game, and delivers the final hit, a hard right against his jaw.
He collapses to the ground, feeling the rain-soaked asphalt through his clothes.
"Sherlock Holmes, a man trying to be a god," the voice spits. "Not so mighty now, eh?"
All he can manage in response is a long, painful groan.
The man throws in a kick to Sherlock's stomach, just for good measure. "You're boring," the voice adds. Footsteps echo away from him in the dark alley.
And then he is alone. Physically and mentally, his brain empty save for the pain and the desire to be at home, in bed—a desire not often had by Sherlock Holmes.
Curled up on his side he shifts onto his knees, his forehead to the dirty, wet ground.
The contact feels religious, like an Islam communing with God. He is neither Islamic nor in the mood for any kind of prayer, but he does feel a sort of transfer.
A loss. Specifically, something in him exiting, leaving him. He doesn't know what, but he can't shake the idea that it might have been something he treasured. Something in his carefully placed armor that he needed, something in him that several interested parties would be grateful was finally gone.
He struggles to his feet. It takes at least three tries before he makes any progress, and a fourth finally raises him from the earth.
He limps out of the alley, slowly working his way to a full standing position and making the impairment in his leg less noticeable.
He is walking almost normally when he reaches the main road, and he lifts an arm to hail a cab. He immediately regrets this, and comes to the conclusion that either two or three ribs are fractured.
It's a small miracle that I happen to live with a doctor, he thinks.
The cab stops at the curb before him and he stumbles inside.
"You alright, mate?" the cabbie asks.
"No," he mutters. "But I will be."
"Alright, then. Where to?"
Sherlock sighs, shakily and achingly. "Baker Street."
"You weren't mugged or nothin', were 'ya?"
"I have ample funds to pay you for the ride, if that's what you mean," he groans, sinking further into the seat.
"Baker Street it is," the cabbie says, ignoring him.
"Thank you," Sherlock murmurs, momentarily shocked by how genuine it sounds.
The cab ride is almost pleasant, with only the white noise of radio chatter disrupting the quiet. It distracts him, hums his rampant mind into a state of calm.
Eventually, years and years later, the cab turns onto Baker Street. Sherlock shifts uncomfortably, "Up here," he says and the cab pulls over.
He digs in his jacket pocket for a few bills and hands them to the driver. "Thank you," he repeats.
"Go get yourself cleaned up, yeah?" the cabbie says with a gentle smile. "Those lasses have weak hearts."
"Most people do," Sherlock chuckles. It makes his chest ache and tighten.
Turning away from the cab he hears the tires squeal as they roll forward on the damp road. The rain had stopped an hour ago, but the cold night kept the pavement from drying.
He stumbles on the sidewalk outside the flat, and stops to right himself. Once he has, he continues to the door.
He finds himself at the bottom of the stairs and tempted to go wake Mrs. Hudson so that he may sleep on her couch, but then he remembers what the cabbie said. He smiles through the pain and makes rather slow work of the stairs, quiet as he can.
Inside the flat, he collapses on the couch in the lounge. He closes his eyes and hopes John is asleep and didn't hear him come in. His wounds need cleaning, and probably a few need to be wrapped, but he'd rather sleep some of the night off before the good doctor comes downstairs and finds him there.
No such luck, he thinks, hearing the soft footfalls of his flatmate. "Sherlock?" John calls, his voice drowsy.
So he was asleep, Sherlock thinks, but I woke him. Damn.
"Sherlock, where have you—"
Sherlock's eyes are closed, but he knows John's found him a mess.
"Bloody hell," John mutters. "What happened?"
John's voice grows closer and Sherlock feels his hand tender on his face. He winces regardless.
"Did you run in front of a goddamn cab, Sherlock?" he whispers.
"No," is the only thing he offers up. He'd rather not delineate the details at this particular moment, and especially that thought process that led to them.
Then John's arms are firmly under his and pulling him up. Sherlock drapes an arm over the doctor's shoulders for leverage and lets John carry him to his bedroom.
It never ceases to amaze him how John, a mere five foot six inches, could possibly manage to carry (which he has done only twice before) all towering six feet of him.
But John, the perpetual soldier, has always been very unobviously powerful.
He deposits Sherlock on his bed, and murmurs, "Back in a moment, okay?"
Sherlock grunts, and John leaves the room.
He returns with a med kit, and begins to remove Sherlock's clothes.
As he does, he watches Sherlock, who seems to be completely numb to what John is doing.
Sherlock is oblivious as John cleans the wounds, wraps Sherlock's waist for the ribs, and bandages all the larger cuts.
He then leaves again with the med kit, and returns with a few aspirin, a glass of water, and a cold compress for Sherlock's head.
John moves him under the covers and hands him the aspirin and water, which Sherlock downs without a single word from either of them.
Sherlock then holds out his hand for the compress, and John gives it.
Sherlock's eyes are closed and he places it against his head where the most pounding is taking place.
"All set then?" John asks quietly.
"Yes."
"Alright, then. Goodnight." He turns to leave.
"Thank you," he hears as he's about to walk out the door.
He turns back, and Sherlock's completely still. Might as well be fast asleep, and for a moment John thinks he's imagined it.
But Sherlock opens his eyes and looks directly at John, giving him a nod.
John returns it and retreats to his own bedroom.
He wonders briefly if maybe whatever happened to Sherlock may have done something to him, but he later decides the trauma was what made Sherlock thank him.
He's grateful for it, anyway.
A/N: This was mostly inspired by a passage (not necessarily a particular one) from Life of Pi. Something about religion, obviously. I just tried to come up with a scenario that would bring that to Sherlock's mind. Review?