Chapter Three
John glanced down at Sherlock, who was pressed into his side, hiding in the blanket. Sherlock's trembling had begun again when they had left his cell, and by the time they had gotten outside, he was hyperventilating. John tried to speak soothing words to him, but it seemed the unknown, open space terrified him. At least in his cell, there was no input to watch out for. Now, there were all sorts of new sounds and things to be wary about. Thankfully, he had calmed a bit once John had gotten him into the car Mycroft had driven to the building and put his arm around him. Now, Mycroft, Greg, John and Sherlock were headed to Mycroft's safehouse a couple dozen miles away.
John looked up into the rearview mirror to see Mycroft staring back at them. John could see an emotion he had never seen Mycroft exhibit before, despite Mycroft's statements to the contrary: worry. John doubted that even in Sherlock's most drug-wrecked youth he had ever seen his brother in this state.
"Sherlock," said John quietly.
Sherlock's head turned slightly in the blanket.
"Why don't you try another sip of water?" John asked him.
Sherlock hesitated and then emerged from the blanket. John opened the water bottle and held it out, and Sherlock grabbed it with his left hand, taking a big gulp.
"Hey, hey, slow, remember?" John coached, easing the bottle away from him.
Sherlock handed the water over and retreated back into his blanket. John put the lid on the bottle and wrapped his arm around Sherlock again.
It wasn't long before Mycroft announced, "This is it."
They pulled to a stop in front of what appeared to be a small two-story manor in the middle of nowhere. Greg and Mycroft got out of the car as John looked down at Sherlock.
"Hear that?" said John. "We're here. Are you ready to get out?"
Sherlock looked up through the windscreen at the house, and then he glanced at John nervously.
"Don't worry," John told him. "I'm staying here, too."
Sherlock's head emerged a little more from the blanket, and he nodded. John opened the car door and got out, turning back as Sherlock scooted along the seat and hung his legs out the door.
John took hold of Sherlock's arms through the blanket and helped him to stand. He then pulled him into his arms and carried him towards the house. He seemed more calm here than back at the installation, now that things had quieted down. Mycroft unlocked the door and held it open, and John entered the spacious house, heading straight into a sitting room off the main hall.
Mycroft had had his people prepare things for their arrival, and John was grateful for it as he set Sherlock down on the sofa in front of the warm fireplace. Sherlock immediately pulled his feet up onto the cushion, hugging his knees to his chest under the blanket.
"Inspector, there should be soup ready in the kitchen," said Mycroft.
Greg headed out of the room as John sat next to Sherlock. Mycroft appeared next to John, holding out a bag as Sherlock shrunk away from the stranger.
"Ta," said John, taking the bag and opening it. He glanced up to see Sherlock's eyes barely peeking out from the blanket. He looked over to see that Mycroft had not moved away from them. "Mycroft, back off."
Mycroft looked over at his brother's reaction to him and then moved over to an armchair on the other side of the room, taking a seat. Sherlock watched him for a moment and then glanced at John, but he didn't relax.
John gestured towards the man. "Sherlock, this is Mycroft Holmes. He's your brother."
Sherlock looked back over at Mycroft, staring at him for a while before letting his face emerge from his haven.
"And the other man is Greg Lestrade," John told him. "He's a police officer. A detective."
Sherlock nodded slightly in understanding before his eyes moved over to John, watching everything that he was doing with the bag.
"I'm getting out some things to help you after you eat," John explained as he pulled items out. "Some antibiotic so you don't get sick, rubbing alcohol to clean your cuts, plasters for the smaller cuts, gauze for the larger ones; things like that. I promise to explain everything I do and to only do it if you want to."
Greg returned at that moment with a bowl of steaming soup on a tray along with some crackers and a cup of water. "Ready for some food?"
John got up and pulled a small table up in front of the sofa, taking the tray from Greg and setting it on the table. "You eat whatever you can; you don't have to finish. But just remember: go slow. Your stomach isn't used to food, so eating fast will just make you sick."
Sherlock nodded but made no move towards the food he so obviously wanted.
"Do you want us to go in the other room?" asked John.
Sherlock looked up with a grateful nod.
"We'll be just through there," John told him, pointing through the doorway to a lounge. "If you need me, just call, okay?"
Sherlock nodded as Mycroft stood, and the three of them headed through to the lounge, where John positioned himself so Sherlock could see him.
"Blimey…" breathed Greg. "I hardly recognize him."
"Me either," said John. "I mean, he's…Sherlock, you know? Nothing rattles him."
"That's not true," said Mycroft.
John looked over at him. "No?"
Mycroft took a breath before speaking. "When we were children, Sherlock suffered the loss of his best friend. Victor suddenly vanished one day and was never found. Sherlock didn't speak for a month, and when he did, we surmised that he had no memory of this friend. He had altered his memory; instead of having had a friend who died, Victor became Redbeard, the beloved family dog." He sighed and looked over at Sherlock. "It seems as though Sherlock's defense mechanism is to erase that which is painful."
John stared at Sherlock in shock. "He never remembered?" He looked back at Mycroft. "Even now, he never remembered Victor?"
Mycroft slowly shook his head, still staring at his brother. "Never."
John looked back at Sherlock, his heart breaking. Did this mean Sherlock's memory would never come back? This wasn't like last time; Sherlock had forgotten everything, not just one childhood friend. That meant he would start to remember, right?
"Sherlock has the strongest will of anyone I have ever met," said John. "But a year of constant torture?" He looked back at the other two. "I guess I just didn't think what that could do to him." He looked back at into the other room.
Sherlock scooped a small amount of soup onto the spoon and hurriedly swallowed it, glancing around the room as he tightened his hold on the blanket around him.
"I've never seen him this broken before," John went on. "I honestly don't know if he'll come back from this."
"This is the most trying test he has ever been through," said Mycroft. "I'm afraid I have to agree with Dr. Watson. He may not come back to us. And if he does…he may not be the same person he was."
"I also can't help wondering…" began John before he dropped his gaze and shook his head.
"What?" asked Greg.
John hesitated before he looked back up at them, meeting Mycroft's eyes with difficulty. "What if he was more than just…physically abused?"
Mycroft's face paled as Greg's eyes widened.
"No…" muttered Greg. "They wouldn't…"
"Wouldn't they?" said John. "Moriarty employed the worst sort of criminals in his network. What if…" He looked over at Sherlock as he slowly ate his soup, glancing up every few seconds at John. "I mean, is his fear of being touched because of sexual abuse or simply because he's expecting pain?"
"Is there any way to tell?" asked Mycroft softly.
John shook his head, looking back at them. "I'd hate to put him through those kind of questions and tests. That's too much for him right now. Eventually, he needs to talk about it all, but…"
Greg nodded. "Not now. You're right."
John straightened up in his seat as Sherlock put the glass of water down and leaned back against the sofa, insulating himself in the blanket. "I think he's finished." He stood. "Can the two of you go get everything in his room ready?"
Mycroft and Greg stood and moved through the door that led into the hall.
John stepped through the door that led back to the sitting room. "Finished?"
Sherlock nodded.
John glanced down to see that most of the soup and a few of the crackers were gone. "Great." He sat next to Sherlock. "So, here's the deal: it will be much easier to get you cleaned up before I patch you up since we won't be able to get the bandages wet. But it's up to you. Do you think you're ready for a shower, or a bath? Or do you want to fix your wounds first?"
Sherlock looked down at his hands, inspecting the dirt there. He then ran one of his hands over the scraggly beard on his face. He looked back up at John.
"Bath?" asked John.
Sherlock nodded, and John helped him up. This time, Sherlock's legs didn't buckle, so John wrapped his right arm around his shoulders and took hold of Sherlock's left arm with his left, helping him to cross the room. It was slow-going, but they eventually made it up the stairs to the first floor.
John looked down both hallways. "I'm, erm…not sure where to go."
Sherlock's body shook once with what John suspected was a laugh.
Greg stepped out of a room on their right. "John."
John helped Sherlock down the hall and into the room.
It was like a first-class cabin in a luxury cruise liner halfway between modern and Edwardian. There was an oak four-poster super king-size bed, a marble fireplace with an armchair, end table and small sofa in front of it, two built-in bookcases across from the fireplace and a flat-screen television across from the bed. An open doorway next to the bed, which had light pouring through it, obviously led to a private bathroom.
"How about this?" said John as he helped Sherlock over to sit on the bed. "Your own private penthouse."
Sherlock looked down at the plush comforter he sat on, running his hand over the material in amazement. Smiling, John went through the bathroom door to see a spacious walk-in shower, jacuzzi tub that could probably fit three people and a long bench across from the toilet and marble sink. He found a change of clothes—pajama bottoms, t-shirt and pants—sitting on the bench along with any toiletries that might be needed—soap, shampoo, razor, shaving cream. John moved everything on the bench over to the sink and went back out to the bedroom.
"I think what we'll do is clean your arm off first," said John, pointing to Sherlock's splinted right arm. "Then you can take a bath. After you're done, we'll get you a shave and put that cast on. Does all that sound okay?"
Sherlock looked down at his broken arm and frowned down at it before looking up at John, holding the arm up.
"I was wondering about that, too," said John. "Tell you what: we'll get you another pair of pants, and you can wear those while I help."
Sherlock nodded as Greg came into the room, carrying the bag of medical supplies.
"Ta," said John as he took the bag and set it on the bed. "Can you get everything ready for the cast?"
"Yeah, no problem," said Greg, heading back out of the room.
John walked over to a dresser under the television, opening drawers until he found the pants, and he pulled a pair out. He walked back to the bed. "Ready?"
Unwrapping the blanket from around himself, Sherlock shakily stood as John helped him. They headed into the bathroom, and John eased Sherlock down onto the bench, setting the pants next to him.
"Go ahead and change into these," John told him. "Then we'll start with that arm." He moved back out into the bedroom, closing the door behind himself.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, John kept his ears perked up for any sign of danger Sherlock might be in; he wasn't exactly the most steady on his feet right now. After a while, the bathroom door opened, and Sherlock was standing in the doorway, his legs trembling.
"Hey!" said John as he darted forward and caught him. He gave his friend a smile. "What did you think you were doing? Trying to run a marathon?"
Sherlock smiled a little as John helped him back to the bench. He went to retrieve the medical bag and then closed the door. He then started running a bath, filling the tub. He searched the cabinets until he found a stack of flannels, and he pulled one out and wet it, scrubbing some soap into it. He turned back to the bench to see Sherlock trying to get the splint off.
"Here," John told him. "Let me help."
He set the flannel on the bench and slowly unstrapped the splint, trying to jostle the broken arm as little as possible. When he finally got it off, he picked up the flannel again.
"Hold it still for me, all right?" said John.
Sherlock grasped onto his wrist, holding the broken bones steady. John gently wiped the flannel across his arm, removing the filth and dried blood from who knew what injuries. He had to go back to rinse the flannel a few times—and turn the tap on the tub off—but eventually, Sherlock's right arm from his fingers to his shoulder was clean.
John smiled as he picked the splint back up. "You look like you're wearing a bodysuit with a sleeve missing."
Sherlock smiled as John put the splint back in place.
He still won't talk, John thought. Is that because of the trauma like when he was a child? Or when he was held captive, was he punished for making any sound?
"Well," said John as he let go of Sherlock's arm, "I'd say that bath is calling, wouldn't you?" He bent down to remove his shoes and socks and then rolled his trousers up to his knees. "All right, come on."
John helped Sherlock up and over to the jacuzzi, stepping over the edge and onto the bench that ran all around the inside. He helped Sherlock get his legs over the side and sit down while John got back out. He went to retrieve the toiletries and some towels, placing them on the floor next to them. He put his feet back in the tub and sat on the edge of it, grabbing the bar of soap.
"Go ahead and clean whatever you can, and I'll get the rest," John told him.
An hour and one bath and shave later, Sherlock looked like himself once again, apart from his wounds, which John set to work on. It was slow-going as he had to explain everything before he did it so as not to alarm Sherlock. After the small wounds were patched up, they then put the cast on Sherlock's arm.
"There," said John after the cast had finally set. "All done. You'll need surgery eventually, but we can save that for when you feel more up to it." He looked up at Sherlock to see his eyelids drooping. "You're exhausted, aren't you? Come on."
They made their way back to the bed, where John helped him get his shirt on over his cast. John pulled the blankets back, and Sherlock got under them, getting comfortable.
"I'm going to go get a glass of water so you can take some pain medicine," said John.
As expected, Sherlock's face drained a little.
"I'm not leaving," John told him. "I'm going downstairs, and I'll be right back. I promise. Neither me, your brother nor Inspector Lestrade are going to let anything happen to you."
After a moment, Sherlock nodded, and John headed for the door, going downstairs to the kitchen.
At the island in the middle of the room, Greg looked up from the tea he had made himself. "How is he?"
John sighed as he got a glass down from the cupboard. "Well, he looks better. Pretty sure he feels the same, though."
Greg nodded as John filled the glass. "Listen, Mycroft made an offer to pay us to stay here until Sherlock gets better."
John turned to him. "Instead of going to work?"
"Yeah," said Greg.
John let out a sigh. "Well, that's a relief. I was wondering how I would pay the bills if I was going to stay here for who knows how long."
Greg smiled knowingly as John turned and headed back for the staircase. When he opened the door of Sherlock's room, he noticed several things: the bathroom door had been closed, the curtains on the window had been drawn tight, and Sherlock was curled up into a ball under the covers, trembling with his face buried in the blankets. When the door had opened, Sherlock's head had darted up, his eyes wide, and he let out a held breath as his trembling subsided.
John sighed as he walked towards the bed, setting the glass on the bedside table. He headed for the medical bag on the sofa and pulled a bottle of paracetamol out. He paused as he was about to open it.
Did they drug him while he was in there?
Turning towards the bed, his question was answered when he saw Sherlock's gaze locked on the bottle of pills in his hand.
John stepped forward, holding the bottle out. "It's never been opened. See?" He pointed to the plastic wrapped around the cap. He broke off the plastic and opened the bottle, taking one of the pills out. He put it in his mouth and took a drink of water, swallowing it.
Sherlock watched him a moment before sitting up a little and holding his hand out. John tipped the bottle onto his hand to give him a pill and then grabbed the glass. Sherlock put the pill in his mouth and took the water from John, swallowing it. John placed the glass back on the table and watched as Sherlock hunkered back down under the covers. John glanced once again at the closed bathroom door and drawn curtains—both attempts to shut the world down to one entry point: the door that led to the hall. He remembered back to Sherlock trembling under the blankets, Sherlock's terrified face each time John talked of leaving the room and Sherlock huddled alone in his cell where he had been tortured for the past year.
John moved to the dresser and pulled out a change of clothes, ignoring Sherlock's confused frown as he passed him and headed into the bathroom. Once he had changed, he came back out, tossing his other clothes onto the window seat.
John moved around the foot of the bed. "All right, budge up." He stepped up to the side of the bed nearest the door and flung the blankets down.
With a confused frown, Sherlock scooted over to the middle of the bed.
"Your bed looks so much more comfortable than mine," said John as he climbed into the bed, pulling the blankets back up.
John watched as the frown disappeared from Sherlock's face and a look of understanding and gratitude appeared, and John could tell Sherlock was perfectly aware of the fact that John had not visited his own room at all. Sherlock settled himself back down, his limbs held not quite so tight to his body this time. John got himself comfortable, trying to ignore the lamps he had left on for Sherlock. It wasn't too difficult; he'd had to get used to sleeping in all sorts of conditions in Afghanistan.
And if Sherlock was woken up by nightmares several times during the night and John held him until he fell back asleep, neither one said a thing about.