Daylight streamed through the windows as the day of the trial dawned on 221B. John stirred awake and found Sherlock asleep beside him, the soft morning light casting shadows in the valleys of his sharp cheekbones. The boy looked more peaceful than John had seen him in a long time. He was hesitant to wake Sherlock up, but someone else beat him to it.

There was a knock at the door, and John heard Mrs. Hudson call from the other side, "Woo-hoo. You boys awake yet? It's been ages since you've come downstairs for breakfast, and so I thought I'd bring it up for you."

Sherlock's eyes opened just as Mrs. Hudson stepped into the bedroom and found Sherlock and John lying naked under the covers. She blushed and apologized profusely. "Sorry, sorry. Should have asked if you two were decent." Hearing the soft pitter-patter of tiny footsteps behind her, she turned and said hastily, "Dannie, no. Don't come in here."

"Why? What's wrong?"

The girl appeared in the doorway and quickly covered her eyes with one hand once she saw the state that Sherlock and John were in, though she intermittently peaked through her fingers and giggled. Mrs. Hudson shushed her and said, "Come on, let's set this up in the kitchen. The table looks relatively clean."

After the door was shut, Sherlock and John looked at each other for about three seconds before bursting into laughter. Once they both calmed a bit, John sighed and rubbed his eyes. Then he gazed down at Sherlock and asked, "How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay," Sherlock answered, his mercurial eyes bright in the pale morning glow pervading the room. "I just wish I didn't have to leave this bed for the rest of the day."

"Me too," John muttered. "We can't keep Dannie and Mrs. Hudson waiting, though, or God knows what they'll think we're doing in here."

John crawled out from underneath the covers and went to the wardrobe in search of the proper courtroom attire, but while he was doing this, Sherlock stood up and wrapped the bed sheet around himself. By the time he was dressed, John walked into the kitchen and saw Sherlock sitting at the table wearing only the bed sheet as Mrs. Hudson said in an exasperated tone, "For goodness sake Sherlock, go put some clothes on."

"What for?" Sherlock murmured with a shrug. "Mycroft is coming over in an hour to bring me the suit that I'm supposed to wear today, though I don't see why it's necessary. I mean really, can you imagine me wearing a suit?"

"Well, it's better than walking around in a bed sheet," Mrs. Hudson quipped. "Honestly, at my time of life."

John grinned and took a seat at the table. He didn't bother to telling Sherlock that Dannie and Mrs. Hudson had already seen enough semi-nudity this morning. At least Sherlock was eating.

At nine o'clock Sherlock got dressed and walked into the sitting room in the immaculate black suit that Mycroft had brought to the flat. Then when he saw the last article of clothing Mycroft was holding, Sherlock shook his head fervently. "No, absolutely not. I refuse to wear a tie."

Accustomed to Sherlock's stubbornness, Mycroft sighed and said, "It's only for a couple of hours. You have to look presentable."

Sherlock huffed. "Why would I care about that?"

"You don't have to care. You just have to let me put it on for you."

The younger Holmes eventually gave in and allowed his brother to fasten the tie around his collar. As Mycroft arranged the silky black material, he asked quietly, "Are you quite certain that you don't want me to be present for the trial?"

"What I am certain of is that you and I both detest repetition," Sherlock muttered. "Surely you don't want to have to hear it all again."

I don't want you to have to hear it all again.

"Fair enough," Mycroft said, "as long as you understand that if you ever require anything from me, you only have to ask." Mycroft adjusted the knot and rested his hands on Sherlock's slim shoulders. "I'll always be there for you, whenever you need me."

Sherlock swallowed and met Mycroft's gaze. "I know."

John stood back and watched the emotional exchange between the two brothers. Then Sherlock tugged at his tie and said, "I might as well warn you, as soon as I get home this thing is going straight into a beaker of hydrochloric acid."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and glanced at John. "What's he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine."

John simply smiled and said, "I'm never bored."

Lestrade let Sherlock and John ride in the back of his squad car to Her Majesty's High Court of Justice. He gave the two boys some space while they sat at the bench outside the doors waiting for the prosecution to finish presenting evidence related to the murder and drug trafficking charges. Knowing that they would soon call Sherlock to the stand, John reached for Sherlock's hand and interlocked their fingers.

"No matter what happens today, I just wanted to tell you that I'm really proud of you," he whispered. "You amaze me. You always amaze me."

Sherlock nodded and held tighter to his hand. John knew that he must have been nervous if Sherlock was allowing him to have the last word.

Finally the doors opened and Sherlock was summoned. John reluctantly let go as Sherlock was ushered into the courtroom. Lestrade rested a hand on John's shoulder and steered him towards the stairs to the balcony.

The courtroom doors closed behind Sherlock with a resounding thud. He stared at the vast crowd of people filling the rows of seats in front of the imposing platform where the judge overlooked the room. Over in the defense section, Moriarty was leaning back in his chair and tapping his fingers on the table, apparently bored with the proceedings. However, when he turned and saw Sherlock standing in the aisle, he flashed a sinister smirk and straightened up in his chair as if he'd been eagerly awaiting this part of the event. Steeling his nerves, Sherlock crossed the room and took his place at the witness stand.

The prosecuting attorney began with a series of casual questions, such as Sherlock's name, how old he was, what he planned to do after secondary school, etc. It was a common method used to help put the witness at ease, but Sherlock simply found it annoying. Still he obliged and gave brief, concise answers as he waited for her to move on to more relevant questions.

Once this tedious process was over with, the attorney cleared her throat and asked. "Mr. Holmes, would you describe your relationship with the defendant as-"

"No, don't. Don't do that," Sherlock interrupted.

"I'm sorry?"

"Leading. You're leading the witness. The defense is going to object and the judge will uphold. Ask me how. How would I describe it?"

A few of the jury members glanced at each other in bewilderment. No doubt when they came here to listen to the victim's testimony, they had been expecting to see a timid and traumatized child, not this bold and brilliant, if somewhat impertinent young man who had the audacity to criticize the prosecutor's line of enquiry. It was almost impressive.

Starting again, the attorney asked, "How would you describe your relationship with the defendant?"

"I would hardly call it a relationship at all. I was fifteen years old for God's sake. Even with an IQ of 194, according to the law I was a minor and I didn't have the capacity to consent, not to mention the fact that I had no prior experience with sex or romantic attachments. I didn't understand those things or have any interest in them." Sherlock paused a moment to steady himself. "The day that I met Jim, I had just run away from home, and he offered me a place to stay. I assumed that the offer was that simple, that he was only interested in my mind. He had found me sitting in one of his chemistry classes at the university, and he told me that I knew more about the subject than any of his students. We stayed up late talking, and I was beginning to fall asleep on the sofa, but then he picked me up and carried me to the bedroom. It was obvious then that he expected sex in exchange for allowing me to stay there. I was a bit frightened by that idea, but I didn't want to go home."

"Jim could tell that I was distressed every time he took me to bed, but he told me it was perfectly normal for sex to hurt. I wish I had known then that was a lie. He started giving me heroin, which made the things he did to me significantly more tolerable, but it further impaired my ability to consent. It's possible that I could have figured out sooner how abusive the situation was if he hadn't kept me strung out all the time, but at least I never entertained any kind of delusion that he actually loved me. I didn't think that was possible for someone like me."

As Sherlock spoke, the audience shifted uncomfortably in there seats. Everything they'd heard so far was upsetting enough. The room fell completely silent, however, when the attorney asked her next question.

"And when did Mr. Moriarty start selling you?"

Sherlock glanced at the defense attorney, who was sitting passively in his chair. It was apparent that even if he thought that question was leading, he had no intention of voicing an objection, and so Sherlock would have to answer. Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath as he searched through his mind palace for something to calm himself down. He recalled the previous night, the feel of John's hands against his skin as he gently stroked his back and held him. Finally, he opened his eyes and began to speak.

The boy stood still as a marble statue and gave an account of the hell he lived through for ten months. Sherlock talked about how night after night he was dragged into the small office in Jim's flat where the man sat back and watched as he was stripped, tied down, beaten, and raped. He explained how eventually he felt as if his own body didn't belong to him anymore, that he was merely an object to be played with and abused for Jim's entertainment. He admitted that every cruel, invasive touch of Jim's hands made him wish he were dead, of how even after the police found him and brought him home, he still wanted to die. Throughout his testimony, Sherlock's deep, sonorous voice remained steady, but the pain was evident in every word he spoke. However, there was also a quiet strength in his voice, a sign of survival, of healing.

When Sherlock was finished, the attorney waited a few minutes to allow the audience to recover from the shock of what they just heard before she asked her final question.

"What brought you to Mr. Moriarty's residence on the night of May 29th?"

Feeling a bit drained, Sherlock sighed and said. "Earlier that day Jim tracked me down and told me that he had scheduled another session with a client and that he expected me to show up at his flat at a quarter to midnight. In order to make me comply, he made a few vague threats about harming my boyfriend, John. I snuck out in the middle of the night to meet Jim's demands because I wanted to keep John safe, but John noticed I was gone and followed me. Then Jim's men found us and snatched us both off the street. I did everything I could to convince Jim to let John go, but in spite of that he ordered one of his men to take John outside and shoot him. Thankfully the police arrived in time to prevent that."

As he spoke the last sentence, Sherlock willed himself to look directly at Moriarty. To his surprise, the man appeared genuinely confused. "Seriously?" Sherlock asked. "No one bothered to tell you? John's alive. He's sitting right up there."

Moriarty glanced up to where Sherlock was pointing and his mouth fell open in shock when he saw John sitting next to Lestrade in the balcony. John stared back at him with a murderous smile, a look that clearly said, "You're going to get what's coming to you, mother fucker."

The judge banged his gavel and dismissed the jury so that they could go to their designated room and decide on the verdict. Sherlock stepped down from the witness stand and found a vacant seat behind the prosecution table. He rested his head against the bench in front of him and breathed slowly, relieved that the most difficult part was over. After no more than five minutes of deliberation, the jury returned to the box. Everyone in the room held their breath until one of the jury members stood and declared the verdict.

"Guilty of all charges."

Though it was hardly appropriate etiquette for a courtroom, the audience reacted to the verdict with a quiet smattering of applause. This quickly died down, however, when people began to notice that something was very wrong. Rather than removing Moriarty from the courtroom, the armed guards walked towards the exits and stood in front of doors.

The judge stared at the guards and narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "What is the meaning of this?"

Moriarty relished in the terror that was slowly building in the room. "Her Majesty's High Court of Justice should screen its employees more carefully. You'd think something like being on the payroll of a dangerous criminal would stand out on a background check."

Members of the audience gasped and cringed away as Moriarty walked past them towards the defense table. Then the man stopped in front of the row of benches where Sherlock sat rigidly in his seat. Without looking up at him, Sherlock said calmly, "Yes? What do you want now?"

"That was quite a performance, darling. I believe most of the audience was moved to tears by your story. Such a brave little boy who's been through so much." Moriarty shook his head and tisked for dramatic effect. "I've enjoyed this immensely, but I'm afraid I can't stay and chat for very long. There's a plane waiting for me at the airport, but before I leave, I just want to give you one last reminder."

Moriarty's dark eyes glinted malevolently as he lashed out and struck Sherlock across the face, knocking him back against the seat of the bench. Before the boy could upright himself, Moriarty climbed on top of him. The man leaned forward and breathed in his ear, "Nothing has changed between us, dearie. You're mine. I own you. I took that brilliant mind and beautiful body and broke you beyond repair. Your precious John thinks he can kiss it all better, but deep down you know that I'll always be right there." He pressed a calloused fingertip against Sherlock's forehead. "You can't go to sleep at night without thinking of me. You can't be touched by someone else without thinking of me, of my hands on your body. I'm the reason you need to stick needles and blades in your arm, and one day you won't be able to take it anymore. One day you'll want to end it all, and I'll be waiting."

Barely able to breathe under the crushing weight, Sherlock whispered, "Sorry to disappoint you, but you'll be waiting until hell freezes over."

He felt Moriarty's hands close around his throat. They were in a room full of people, but Sherlock didn't bother trying to cry out for help. The guards had their weapons pointed at the petrified crowd, and it seemed unlikely that any help would come.

However, help did come. A crashing sound reverberated from the side exit door as several MI6 agents in black police gear stormed into the room. Apparently Mycroft had been watching through the security cameras the whole time. A look of panic flashed over Moriarty's face, but instead of letting go, he snarled and pressed harder against the boy's windpipe. Sherlock choked and gasped until finally Moriarty was pulled off of him and hauled away.

Onlookers swarmed around Sherlock as he lay still on the bench and tried to get his breath back. Those who were nearest checked him over and asked if he was okay, but all Sherlock said was, "John? Where's John? JOHN!"

"SHEROLCK!"

The crowd parted as John came running down the aisle, Sherlock managed to get to his feet and grab hold of John as he rushed towards him, and the two boys connected in a tight embrace. All at once, the random smattering of applause picked up again, growing louder this time. The judge banged his gavel and called for order, but to no avail. The loud clamor of clapping continued as Sherlock and John held onto each other, locked in their own little world.

In all the chaos, Lestrade found them and shouted over the din, "You two okay? Good God, that was intense. It took three people to keep John from jumping off the balcony."

Sherlock kept his arms wrapped around John and murmured. "John, you are expressly prohibited from jumping off of balconies or tall structures of any kind."

John clung on and responded, "That goes for both of us."

Once the commotion in the courtroom began to subside, Lestrade muttered. "Let's get you two out of here before the news reporters start swarming."

Sherlock and John slowly disentangled their limbs and allowed Lestrade to shepherd them out of the room through the side exit. It was over. They were going home.

The cluttered and cozy sitting room greeted them when Sherlock and John returned to the flat. Easing down onto the sofa, Sherlock immediately unraveled his tie and tossed it on the coffee table.

"I thought you were going to throw that into a vat of corrosive chemicals," John remarked.

"No need. I already know the effects of hydrochloric acid on various types of materials," Sherlock muttered.

John shook his head and smiled. "You said that just to annoy him."

Sherlock smirked. "Exactly."

"Well, you look good in a suit. You should wear them more often." Sherlock was silent for a long moment, and John grew uneasy. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah. I just… don't know how to ask for these things."

"What do you need?"

Sherlock stared down at the carpet and bit his lip anxiously. Then instead of answering, he rose from the sofa and walked to the bedroom. After about a minute of sitting still, John got up and followed him. In the doorway he saw Sherlock removing his clothes and standing naked in front of the bed. The cruel, possessive word carved into the porcelain skin on his back made John shudder.

Sensing John behind him, Sherlock crawled underneath the covers. John was unsure of how to proceed, but he eventually made up his mind and stepped into the room and undressed as well. Joining Sherlock under the covers, he studied Sherlock's face and silently asked him what he wanted.

Sherlock looked back at him and whispered, "What you did last night... when you held me... it made me feel safe. I like feeling your hands on me. Your hands and no one else's."

Understanding what the boy needed from him, John stroked back Sherlock's dark curls and kissed his temple. Then he wrapped his arms around him and gently caressed Sherlock's back, his fingertips brushing over the scars. The marks were still vivid, but they would fade with time.

"I'm yours, John," Sherlock said softly. "I'm completely, entirely yours."

John breathed deeply, feeling his heart swell in his chest. "And I'm yours."