Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.

Thank you all for reading and especially to those who dropped a few words. On with the story!

Enjoy!

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To the Core

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Part 2

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When the black limousine came to a halt in front of a house in Knightsbridge, John thought they had stopped at just another club of Mycroft's or something similar, for he had been expecting an ambulance at the least, or police cars, and certainly a more dodgy area altogether. Upon closer look however, he spotted several black cars similarly unmarked like the one he'd arrived in.

A black man in a suit came out of the house: "Mr Watson? This way please."

John followed him, his stomach twisting increasingly nervously. He was being led down the hall and into a spacious parlour. Mycroft was there, talking to someone but coming towards John as soon as he spotted him, and astonishingly quick: "John." His expression was tense instead of displaying his usual cool self, and his voice was thick with worry: "He hasn't spoken a word."

John followed his gaze over to a large fireplace, in front of which Sherlock sat on a settee; someone who looked like a paramedic without a uniform was talking quietly to him, but Sherlock just stared blankly ahead. It was obvious that something was wrong.

Fear gripped John's heart. "What happened, Mycroft?" he demanded.

The older Holmes looked forlorn as he was staring at his brother, but then he visibly pulled himself together: "He's been kidnapped out of a cab this afternoon. From the information I've got so far, his captor wanted revenge; Sherlock had proven his brother guilty of murder a few years ago, and the man has been killed in prison recently."

He swallowed. "Apparently, Mr Davenport, as is his name, wanted to kill Sherlock in return, but it seems..." he swallowed again, "it seems he took a rather unexpected fancy to him, so he decided to... to... spend some time with him first."

John's knees turned into jelly. "He... what?" he asked feebly. "You mean..."

"He didn't get round to do it, fortunately," Mycroft hurried to continue, "but he would have... abused my brother. My team arrived just in time. A few minutes later..." he briefly closed his eyes.

All kinds of horrible scenarios presented themselves in John's head. He could not but glance at Sherlock, who seemed oblivious to everything around him. He was wearing only his shirt and trousers, and someone had put a blanket around his shoulders; blue, this time, not orange.

"They found him in the bedroom, severely... constrained," Mycroft said shakily.

"My god," John whispered, running his hands over his face. "Is he... all right, apart from that? Was he hurt?"

"I don't think so," Mycroft frowned, "he did throw up though."

"Was he... still dressed?"

"Partially."

John exhaled audibly. "And he didn't say anything?"

"Nothing."

"Okay. All right. I'll go to him. I'll... yeah."

John slowly approached Sherlock and crouched down in front of him. From this close he could see that Sherlock was pale and shaking; he sat with hunched shoulders, hugging what appeared to be his coat to his chest.

"I'm his doctor," John told the paramedic under his breath, "I'll take over now."

"He didn't let me take his blood pressure," the man provided, "but he accepted some water."

"Did you administer any medication?"

"None. His brother told me not to." With a nod, the man got to his feet and went to talk to Mycroft; apparently, he had been informed in advance that a doctor was on his way.

"Sherlock," John said gently, "it's me, John."

He did not get a reaction; he could not tell whether the other had heard him, and he did not need to check his blood pressure to assert that Sherlock was in shock.

Ignoring that, John inched closer; there was an unfamiliar smell lingering faintly on Sherlock, a musky, unpleasant scent.

"Sherlock?" he repeated, tentatively putting his hands over the detective's. His skin was clammy, but at least he allowed John to touch him. "It's me."

Sherlock exhaled with a shudder, and his eyes finally seemed to come to life when he turned his gaze on the doctor.

John forced himself to smile for his friend.

"I can't stop shaking," Sherlock said without preamble, his voice was rough and bare of its usual strength.

"That's okay," John replied, "it will stop eventually. Are you cold?"

"Yes."

"Would you like to put on your coat?"

"M-my coat?"

"It's right here," John indicated it with a nod, gently squeezing Sherlock's hands.

Sherlock looked down on it as if he was seeing it for the first time. "Oh..."

"Would you like to put it on?" John asked again.

"Yes... But I'm not sure I can stand yet."

"That's okay, you don't have to. Take your time."

Sherlock fumbled with the coat until John managed to get hold of the right end and helped him to put his arms through the sleeves after shedding the blanket: "There," he said quietly, "should warm you up in no time. Do you want the collar up?"

Sherlock did not seem to have heard him; unexpectedly, he leaned forward ever so slighty and curled his fingers into John's parka, keeping him close; he did not look at him, and he did not say a word, but it unnecessary anyway. John understood. Silently, he inched forward as well until Sherlock's forehead touched his chest, putting his arms around the other's shoulders and gently pulling him close, holding on firmly with Sherlock's head tucked under his chin.

They remained like this until Sherlock was not shaking as badly anymore, unaware of how Mycroft was watching them, guarded relief settling on his features.

"Can we go home now?" Sherlock asked when they finally let go, testimony of his exhaustion.

"Yes, yes of course. Do you think you can get up yet?"

"Yes, it's better..." Sherlock did not seem to know how to sort his limbs however, so John helped him to his feet. The detective leaned on him for support, something he would not do if it were not necessary. John realized that Sherlock did not have his shoes, but he decided that it did not matter as long as he did not complain; they were going to be home in no time.

Mycroft exchanged one glance with John and nodded, but they did not stop to talk. Sherlock avoided to look at anyone; he only wanted to escape this place, and John was glad to leave.

In the car, Sherlock leaned his forehead against the window frame and looked out into London at night, but John was sure that he did not actually register much. At one point, his exhaustion seemed to have taken over, and his eyes closed as he fell asleep.

The minute the car stopped in front of their flat however, Sherlock was startled into awareness:"John!"

"I'm here," John reached over and briefly touched Sherlock´s arm, "and we're home."

Both of them were relieved once they had managed the stairs, Sherlock leaning on John again. "I want to take a shower," he muttered.

"Sure," John steered him to the bathroom, where Sherlock collapsed on the clothes chair.

"Do you think you're up to it?" John asked, frowning slightly.

Sherlock ran a hand over his face: "No, but I need to wash." A hint of his usual stubbornness was audible in his tired voice.

"A bath maybe?" John suggested.

"Shower," Sherlock insisted. "I'll manage."

"Fine. I'll be in the kitchen if you need me." John put a large towel on the edge of the bathtub within easy reach, then, with one last concerned look at his friend, he left the room.

Sherlock slowly shed his coat, his shirt and the rest of his clothes. He did not know where his jacket had gotten to, or his scarf, or his shoes for that matter, but he did not particularly care. He only wanted to get rid off the awful man's smell and then sleep and forget. And maybe a cigarette, or two.

He did not know why he felt so violated, since nothing really had happened, thank goodness. Mycroft had after all been fast enough. And yet Sherlock felt tainted, dirty. He shivered at the thought of what would have happened; he could still feel the man's hands on him, his breath on his skin, the manacles around his wrists and ankles, and for a moment, his vision blackened. He staggered and his legs threatened to give out under him once more.

With an effort, he kept himself upright and stepped into the shower cubicle. The hot water was a blessing, and he used a generous amount of soap to wash away any lingering scent he did not want on his skin, supporting himself against the wall with one hand.

He needed to pause a few times and kneel down in order to chase away the dizziness which was coming in waves now. It was increasingly difficult to get back up, and at one point, he felt he just could not move anymore. He reached up to turn off the spray, which took all of his remaining energy. Afterwards, he just sat there for a while, waiting for some of his strength to return so he could get out of the shower; the warmth of the shower slowly seeped away as the water dripped off him, and he began to shiver again.

Unsteadily, he began to scramble to his feet, but did not succeed entirely, awkwardly manoevering his body out of the slippery tub until he was on the bathroom floor on all fours. He pulled the towel towards him and wrapped it around his trembling frame, which seemed to take ages, then he lay down on the bathmat for a moment.

At one point, he felt a hand on his shoulder and flinched, but the touch was gentle, and it was John's kind voice he heard: ""Oh no, Sherlock," he murmured, "You can't sleep here..."

Ten minutes later, Sherlock was relatively dry and dressed in fresh underwear and nightclothes and his favourite housecoat. John had wrapped a smaller towel around his wet hair and helped him to his room, where Sherlock sank onto the bed and huddled into the covers which John spread about him, turning onto his side.

John stared at Sherlock's back for a while, lost for words and feeling his own exhaustion bearing down on him. He was relieved that Sherlock was finally lying down, but what was going to happen on the following day? He closed his tired, burning eyes for a moment; no matter how much he was craving his own bed, he could not leave Sherlock alone.

He went and fetched a chair from the kitchen, which he placed between the bed and the door, and sat down on it. If Sherlock noticed, he did not let it on.

For the second time in less than twelve hours, John awoke with a crick in his neck. Groaning, he stretched his limbs, rubbing his neck; falling asleep on that chair had not exactly been a good idea.

Early morning light was pouring in through the drawn curtains, and Sherlock seemed fast asleep. Slowly, John got to his feet and went to his own bedroom. When he emerged from it again around midday, everything was quiet in the flat. He could hear Mrs Hudson's TV from downstairs and the sound of traffic outside, but that was all.

He peeked into Sherlock's room; a few dark-brown curls were visible, but he did not reply when John whispered his name.

Still tired, John went into the kitchen and made some scrambled eggs on toast. He had slept deep and dreamlessly and hoped that it was the same with Sherlock. John had refrained from offering him a sedative, considering that he already had an unknown drug in his blood; apart from that, Sherlock had seemed knackered enough to be able to sleep.

John looked in on Sherlock regularly; he was mostly hidden under the covers, but it seemed that he was severely out of it. Which was true; the detective was not used to sleeping that long, but his physical and emotional exhaustion kept Sherlock under until the late afternoon.

Outside it was getting dark again when Sherlock woke up in terror, shaking and drenched in cold sweat, for a moment confused as to what was real. He struggled to get away and got caught up in the blankets, tumbling off the edge of the bed. Only when he landed on the hard wooden floor did Sherlock realize he was awake.

He had dreamed of being shackled again, and there had been a faceless menace in the room, feeding on Sherlock's unability to move, threatening to do unspeakable things to him. He could still feel the cold metal restraints on his skin, and the horror about his situation was as present as it had been back in that house in Knightsbridge. He had never felt so helpless.

A sound escaped him, a strangled, pitiful whimper which did not sound anything like himself, and he quickly bit on his palm to subdue any more of those, but he could not subpress the tears which were rolling down his cheeks now. He felt ashamed and sullied, and then he felt ashamed that he was feeling violated at all, that he was feeling so sullied and ashamed, in fact, that he would have to shower again even though he knew that it was not going to help.

John found him a few seconds later. He thought he had heard something, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight which greeted him in Sherlock's room: his friend was crouching on the floor, hunched in on himself as far as possible, and was weeping. His slender shoulders were shaking, and he was obviously trying not to make a sound, for he was biting into his hand.

John's stomach dropped; he should have known. He should not have left him alone for even a second. Berating himself, he quickly went to get to his friend's side. He knew that Sherlock would not be delighted for John to witness this, but he could not just leave him to his own devices like that. Without a word, John crouched down next to him and put his arms around Sherlock.

His whole body was shaking with silent sobs; he was staring blindly ahead again, apparently unable to stop the tears which were welling up in his eyes without a moment's pause. He bore no resemblance to the Sherlock the world around them knew, and it broke John's heart.

He gently reinforced his embrace and began to pull Sherlock close; at first, he met resistance, but then the detective complied, leaning into John's touch until he was hidden in his arms, and his so far silent weeping turned into desperate, choked, genuine crying.

John wept as well as he listened to the sounds Sherlock made, reminding him of a wounded animal; his body shook with Sherlock's while he held him all the way through the storm, rocking him ever so slightly. He felt shaken and helpless himself when the bout finally seemed to cease; gradually, Sherlock calmed down until he was very still, apart from an occasional sniffle, shuddering through him like an aftershock.

John's shirt was damp and his eyes were burning, and he became aware of the cold floor they were sitting on, but neither of it mattered. He pressed his cheek into Sherlock's hair, murmuring reassurances into the dark curls which neither of them remembered afterwards; it did not matter either, as long as his voice was sufficient to calm his friend down.

Sherlock felt like he was floating; he could not remember of ever losing control like that, not since he had been very young anyway.

If Mycroft had been there, he could have told Sherlock that in fact there had been a few occasions in Sherlock's later life which had resembled the scene, but which he, contrary to his older brother, had thoroughly deleted. Mycroft had always been there when Sherlock had gone through drug rehab, and it had not exactly been easy on any of them. There had not been any bodily contact though, not like this.

Sherlock was drawing immense comfort from John's embrace, even though he was appalled by his breaking down like this. He wanted to explain it to John, to apologize, but he could not find his voice. John's hand was stroking his back, and Sherlock could feel the other's breath in his hair. He was beginning to feel cold, but he did not want to get up, did not want to have to let go of this safe cocoon, did not want to face John.

He closed his eyes; maybe, if he was really lucky, it was going to turn out to have been nothing but an exceptionally bad dream.

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To Be Continued

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Thank you for reading, please leave some feedback.

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Author´s notes: I don´t know if any of you has ever witnessed a breakdown such as the one described above, but trust me, it´s heartbreaking. I did have difficulties writing about Sherlock crying like that, for he usually is in control of his emotions and one cannot easily imagine him like that, but then I saw a short film with Benedict Cumberbatch on youtube in which he cries (which is similarly heart-wrenching) and voilà.