This chapter needs a warning for rape, I hate to give things away in advance but there it is, concern for ones readers and all that. Don't read if you think you'll be triggered.

That evening John once again does not come down to eat and but Sherlock tries to be grateful for small mercies, they had at least spent half an hour together having tea although granted John hadn't said much for the whole time, just listened to Sherlock rant on about this that and the other without seeming to really take any of it in.

So he makes another tray for John and brings it up. John is back in bed and this time he really looks like he's sleeping but that could just be because this time Sherlock has knocked. He puts the tray down and gently shakes John's shoulder which makes him jump and cry out in fear. He really was asleep then, John isn't that good an actor. 'It's just me, I'm bringing dinner.' Sherlock sooths and John calms.

'I'm not hungry.' John shakes his head and Sherlock looks at him sternly.

'You need to eat, there's nothing left of you.' He argues an John forces himself up into a half sitting position.

'I've been ill, I'm in pain. It's normal to lose weight; I'll put it back on.' John mumbles but Sherlock isn't having any of it.

'Not if you don't eat. If it was me you would be threatening me with hospital if I ate as little as you're doing. You have done before.'

And John knows it's true. He struggles upright and accepts the tray from Sherlock who grins at him.

'Good, sleep well John.' Sherlock says and squeezes his shoulder.

As soon as Sherlock leaves John pushes the tray away. He puts it on the desk where he retrieves his gun, checks that the window is still unlocked and slips back into bed where he lies staring at the window until depression and painkillers combine to push him into sleep again.

Sherlock comes up to check on him before going to bed himself. It is past midnight and he is sorry when he finds the tray completely untouched on John's desk. He is even more worried when he finds that John is sleeping with his gun clasped lightly in his right hand. Is he really that scared? Well clearly he is.

Sherlock hesitates to touch John again but with the utmost gentleness he pries the gun from his hand, who knows what he'll do with it in his sleep. He doesn't want him to end up shooting Mrs Hudson if she comes up to check up on him. Then he makes his way downstairs where he places the gun on the coffee table and curls up on the sofa. Closer to the door than his own bedroom if John's fears are founded and someone tries to break in.

An hour and a half later the window in John's room slide silently open and two figures slip in. They are nearly upon him when he feels their presence and he whirls with arm outstretched to shoot but there is nothing in his hand. He turns to grab for the gun he must have dropped but it is not there and in that same instance one of the men's hands grab him around the face and force something into his mouth. It is too big, it hurts and John grapples with his one good hand to pull it away to get the man's hands away but he is weak. He's pushed back onto the bed and held still by strong hands which press him into the mattress. It hurt, fuck does it hurt and he bites down hard on the object in his mouth which prevents him from crying out his pain.

Above him stands the man from the pub looking much less attractive than in Mycroft's picture. He doesn't smile now, instead he has a disgusted look on his face as he glares down at John. 'I'm sorry about the ball gag, I had to improvise. It would have been good to have been able to have Sherlock hear you scream but I don't have the manpower for that.' He frowns deeper 'I'm not going to enjoy this he says, in fact you disgust me, but it's necessary to complete the cycle, utter humiliation, that's what she got, that's what you'll have.' He says and sheer and utter terror burns through John's mind. 'Please don't let him, please not that.' He pleads silently with any God out there.

'You do miss certain vital cavities but I guess we'll just have to make do.' The man says and John know what is coming, or at least more or less the just of it. When the hateful man pulls John's boxers down John tries to struggle but it is utterly useless. His injured leg is too weak and when he tries to kick out with his other leg the man wrenches them apart placing a strong knee on John's thigh and pressing down. He brings out a plastic hair brush from one of his pocket's and leans down over John as though he was a science project. 'God you are disgusting' he groans while he gropes John with gloved hands. Yes a doctor, with doctors gloves, how predictable John thinks hysterically.

'She said the worst part of the whole ordeal was that she got wet so we'll have to start with that' He says and as his hand clasps around John's flaccid private parts he has to close his eyes. He tries to drift away, he tries to think of nothing. He refuses to allow his mind to drift back to previous girlfriends doing this to him. He thinks of cases, of the war, of anything to stop himself from reacting but as he has said to so many rape victims before him. 'It's purely physical, you can't help it.'

And then suddenly he can because as the hairbrush rams into him he is sure he must have gone limp because there is absolutely no pleasure now, just burning and tearing pain and the fact that he can't scream makes it even worse. He can't scream and pretty soon he can't breath either. He doesn't know if he has another panic attack or if his injured lungs simply cannot take it any more but there is no more oxygen and the pain slips away as he does so.

He wakes some time later shivering with cold and sweat and fear. Beside him lies another note. 'We'll be back tomorrow. If we can't get in we'll find a replacement. You know the deal' beside it they have left the dreaded ball gag and the hairbrush sleek with blood. John already knows he's bleeding he hopes maybe he'll bleed out before morning that would make things easier, not having to do it himself.

God that was painful to write.