Characters: Sherlock, John

POV: John

Prompt: John discovers that Sherlock was tortured at the beginning of TEH.

Submitted by: ScribeOfRED

It's rainy and dreary when the cab pulls up outside of 221B, but John finds himself standing on the street staring up at the building anyway. Sherlock's in there, he thinks, and it's a strange thing to think after three years of Sherlock's not there. He's here at Mary's behest, after weeks of silence. After the dreadful business with Guy Fawkes Night and the train bomb and everything, they'd seen very little of each other. John had tried to stay away. He thought that's what was expected of him - he was a grownup now, a real one. That's not my life anymore, John had said to him. I'm getting married. I've made a life for myself. I can't go running about chasing murderers and thieves. But then the tremors and the nightmares had gotten to be too much, and Mary had pushed him to come, to answer Sherlock's multiple texts of Case - coming?

And so here he is.

Everything's so strange and new that John waffles for a moment on the doorstep, wondering whether to ring the bell or go right up. In the end, he decides to go right up - after all, Sherlock's given him back his key, so he must be welcome. He steps through the outer door and shakes the rain off of his coat, stamps it off of his shoes. The warmth is familiar and comforting as the door slams shut behind him, a pleasant change from the autumn chill outside.

"Sherlock," he calls as he takes the stairs two at a time. His left hand fumbles for his key in his pocket, but as his right tries the knob, he finds it's unlocked. Typical. Sherlock has probably deduced exactly what time he'd arrive based on the timing of his texts or the tone of his voice in his message or something.

The detective is standing in front of a roaring fire with one hand on the mantel. He is all crisp lines, even in a t-shirt and dressing gown, and John finds himself marveling at how some things never seem to change - and it isn't the first time this thought has struck him in these recent weeks. If Sherlock heard John come in, he gives no indication; but that's nothing new.

John clears his throat on the threshold and tries again, "Morning, Sherlock."

Ever so slightly, the detective turns his head toward the sound of John's voice. "Morning," he says mildly, but he sounds distracted.

As John scans the room, he sees a plate of toast on the sideboard, abandoned; a laptop open but asleep on the table; a mobile phone sitting, unlocked, on his armchair. "Case on?"

"No." A pause, and then Sherlock seems to come alive again, turning, looking around, registering John's presence. "What? Yes."

Confused, John tilts his head. "Well, which is it?"

"I… sorry, what?"

"Earth to Sherlock." John chuckles as he shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the rack beside the door, fully aware how distracted his friend can be when he's on a case. He's missed it in a way, all of this, even the way Sherlock can tune people out when he's working. It's familiar, comforting, a reminder of old times.

Unfortunately, John's warm nostalgia is broken when the detective turns to face him, and his eyes take in the hollow, faraway look on Sherlock's face. That's not a look that says absorbed in a case, that's… well, John isn't entirely sure, but it's something else, and he doesn't like it. "You okay? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Sherlock replies predictably, but John notices the way he's slightly hunched over and the faint line of worry between his brows.

Tension coils the muscles in John's shoulders as unease spreads through him. "No - what is it? Maybe I can help."

Sherlock looks uncomfortable, as if he's been caught in a lie. "I'm not sure," he admits. His right hand strays stiffly to his left ribcage, and suddenly John notices the tiny spot of blood on his shirt.

Frowning, John crosses the room to his friend's side. "May I?" At the detective's nod, he slides the t-shirt up out of the way and peers at the exposed skin in the dim light. There is a pink, ropey scar winding up his side, tracing the edge of a rib. The wound is freshly healed - the original injury occurred within the last eight weeks. The middle of it is faintly red, and bleeding slightly. John thinks at first that he's looking at some sort of persistent granulation, but when he runs his fingers over the scar, he can feel a hard lump. He hums thoughtfully and straightens, pointing Sherlock toward his chair. "Go and sit, the light's better over there."

Sherlock does as he's asked, but he has that hollow look again.

He's miles away, John thinks to himself. He kneels in front of Sherlock and lifts the hem of the shirt out of the way again, his touch confident and clinical as he assesses the wound. He can see from the scarring pattern that it was stitched up at one point, but sloppily - possibly Sherlock had done it himself or perhaps it had become infected and reopened at one point. Beneath the swollen flesh, he can feel an object about two centimetres in length. It has healed into the scar tissue, but now his body is rejecting it. Looks a lot like a shrapnel wound. John frowns and lifts his eyes to Sherlock's face. "How did this happen?"

Staring into the middle distance, the detective gives a one-shouldered shrug. "Things didn't go as planned in Serbia."

John has no idea what that means. "Well, I can fix it, but not here. Come on. Put some clothes on and come with me."

John's surgery is a short cab ride away from Baker Street. As today is Sunday, the place is locked up and dark, and they are the only ones in the building.

"Right then," John murmurs as he leads Sherlock through the entrance, down a hallway, and into one of the rooms in the back. He flicks the lights on and points toward the exam table. "Shirt off and hop up." As he turns his back on his patient to assemble supplies, he can hear the rustle of fabric and then the crinkle of exam table paper which indicates that Sherlock has followed directions without argument.

When the instrument cart is ready, John rolls it over beside the table and just barely manages to hold back a startled gasp as his eyes take in the sight of Sherlock's bare torso. His skin is dotted with scars - large ones, small ones; old, new; ones that healed neatly and a few that clearly didn't. There's a particularly nasty one that follows the curve of his left deltoid - long and jagged and fairly new, just like the one on his ribcage that John is about to treat. "Serbia again?" he asks, examining the scar for similar debris.

"Not my best day," Sherlock remarks drily.

With a sigh, John pushes him to lie back on the semi-reclined table, and settles beside him on a low rolling stool, snapping on a pair of sterile gloves. "Arm up. I'm going to inject some lidocaine first. This'll sting and burn a bit." With practised ease, John pushes the needle into four spots around the site of the debris, glancing up just once as Sherlock hisses through his teeth. After a few moments, the detective's face relaxes, and he doesn't react as John palpates the shrapnel trapped beneath the skin. Satisfied that the area is fully numb, he picks up a scalpel and begins making a tiny incision through which to remove the foreign object.

After a few moments of quiet, concentrated work, John allows himself a furtive look at his patient's face. Sherlock is lying still, his expression relaxed as he stares at the ceiling. He's not concerned in the slightest with what John is doing - he trusts him implicitly. The doctor's eyes return to the jagged scar, which is now bleeding freely from the incision. "So, what happened?"

Sherlock turns his head toward John, adjusting the arm folded under it so that he can see him. "I told you."

"Yeah, bad day in Serbia," John replies. "But what happened? To cause this?"

Grey-green eyes scan John's face. "I was stabbed with an ice pick. Which apparently broke."

"I can see that." John has the tip of a pair of forceps inside the incision, easing the tiny piece of metal out of Sherlock's skin inch by inch. He dabs blood away from the field with his other hand and works the debris free. "But what happened, Sherlock?"

"I got mixed up with some bad people."

"And?"

"And they stabbed me with an ice pick." His tone is growing annoyed.

The debris falls into the tray with a clatter, and John drops the bloody forceps down beside it and changes his gloves with a sharp snap. He makes no effort to hide his irritation with Sherlock's evasions - honestly, he's had it with the lies. Enough is enough already.

"I got caught," Sherlock states flatly. "I was caught and tortured for information by Serbian black ops. There, are you pleased?"

"Yes!" John snaps before he can stop himself. He releases the breath he's been holding and drops the half-opened suture kit on the cart. "No. Of course not. Are you serious?"

The ensuing silence is answer enough.

"Jesus," John exhales, his breath ghosting over Sherlock's skin as he gets to work suturing the incision. Of all the things Sherlock could have said, he hadn't expected that. They're both quiet now, as he works; John contemplating what this means and Sherlock no doubt contemplating how to shut down John's next line of questioning.

In short order, John has made two neat little stitches in the incision, cleaned and dressed the wound, and dumped all the bloody instruments in a metal dish on the worktop beside the sink. He disposes of his gloves and the sharps and washes his hands. He turns to find Sherlock sitting up now, his back to him, easing himself gingerly off the end of the table. From here, he can see three scars - the one on his shoulder, one on the right side of his lower back, and another on the back of his neck. Surely they're not all from Serbia - John knows that he spent two full years tracking down dangerous criminals and putting them out of action - but he wonders how many are.

"How long?" asks John, his voice lower now, gentler. He observes his friend carefully slipping back into his crisp grey button-up shirt.

"Mm?" Sherlock half-turns so that he can glance over at John as he buttons his shirt.

"Serbia."

"Two weeks." He shrugs into his suit jacket, moving slowly to keep from pulling on the stitches he can't yet feel. "At least, I'm reasonably certain it was two weeks."

Frowning, John tries to wrap his mind around this new information. Sherlock was held for two weeks by torturers. Maybe longer. "How did you get out?"

"I seized an opportunity. I noticed that my captor's wife was cheating on him, and Mycroft happened to be in the right place at the right time to aid my escape. It was simple, really, despite what Mycroft tries to say."

"Mycroft?" John questions. "Serbia was right before you came back home, then."

"Yes."

"You were being tortured a month ago and now you're…"

"Being Sherlock Holmes," the detective finishes for him.

John blinks. "Are… are you alright?"

Sherlock's fingers pause on the last button and his expression turns pensive. "More or less."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock - really? More or less?"

"What would you like me to say?" He turns to face John at last, tucking his phone into the inside pocket of his jacket. "That I can't sleep? I'm haunted by it? That I can't stop thinking about it?"

For a moment, John just stares, trying to read something in his face. He swallows, hard, and asks, "Is any of that true?"

There's silence as Sherlock gazes back at him, his expression unreadable. John can't tell if he's trying to muster the courage to say yes or come up with a way to prove an answer of no. He's just standing there, for a long time, saying nothing, betraying nothing. Like a tall, wiry statue. At last, he takes a deep breath, inclines his head, and says, softly, "Thank you, John," before stepping out of the room, signaling that the conversation, for now at least, is over.

John can't help wondering if he's got his answer.

| TO BE CONTINUED |

Author's Note: Hello, I have returned! I had another baby! I don't know what it is about being pregnant that makes me not want to write, but for some reason that's what happens to me. However, I am now done procreating, so I'M BACK. Did ya miss me? Please send your H/C prompts my way if you did!