Chapter One

'The police are on to it' John told himself, 'Lestrade's got his best people on the case.' He had been making these half-hearted attempts to reassure himself since he got the news, just over a week ago, that Sherlock was missing. But it was all to no avail – no matter how much he tried to approach this in a calm and measured manner – his irrational, worried mind took over, always fearing the worst. After all, if it was as they suspected; that Moriarty had taken him, then the only person who would have ever been able to find Sherlock, dead or alive, was Sherlock.

That's why John was shocked almost to disbelief when he received a text from Lestrade that read 'We've got him, he's alive – St Mary's.'

Before he knew it he was already in a cab trying to keep calm through a vast onset of emotions; relief, anxiousness, anger… fear. If Sherlock had spent the past week in the company of Jim Moriarty then chances were he wouldn't be in the best of shape.

Eventually he arrived outside the hospital, then he was running up the steps, then bursting through several sets of doors, finding the appropriate reception, being told he couldn't see Sherlock unless he was family, shouting, pounding his fists on the desk, being threatened with arrest. He couldn't calm down – he had to see Sherlock – as a doctor and a friend he wouldn't rest until he knew Sherlock was ok. He didn't notice one of the nurses slip through the door towards the wards, but he noticed when she returned with Lestrade in tow.

"Oh John – I thought it might be you." He said wearily, he looked as though he hadn't slept in days. "Nurse said there was a nutter out here and wondered if I could help." He said with a slight smile. John wasn't amused.

"How is he? What happened? Please, I need to see him!" John blurted out, realising that he sounded perhaps a little too desperate.

"He's conscious, he doesn't appear to have sustained any major injuries but he isn't talking to anyone and he's refusing any medical treatment…" He ran his hands through his hair "…I don't know about you needing to see him, but he definitely needs to see you." He gestured towards the door he'd just come from and John set off at a brisk pace.

Lestrade led him down a long corridor, for John it felt like the longest walk of his life. Eventually they came to the last room at the end of the corridor and Lestrade gestured for John to enter, which he did, hesitantly – Lestrade gave him a nod and remained outside, closing the door.

Sherlock was lying on the bed, the only bed, somehow the police force must have wrangled him a private room. He looked even more pale, thin and worn out than usual, He had a large gash across his face, which was still oozing a small amount of blood, and he was lying as if very uncomfortable. John was surprised to discover that he was asleep – he'd so rarely witnessed Sherlock sleeping, so every time he did it seemed surreal, and he felt strangely privileged.

He crossed the room quietly and went over to his bedside, taking care not to make too much noise. Looking down at Sherlock he felt a huge pang of guilt – could he have prevented this? He wasn't sure, but he was sure that if he ever saw Moriarty again – he'd fucking kill him.

He carefully peeled a lock of lank hair off Sherlock's blood smeared face, he knew that cut had to be treated quickly, it could already be infected. He picked up a swab and some antiseptic that had been left, clearly by a nurse or doctor who had been refused access by Sherlock. He dipped the swab in the liquid and carefully dabbed Sherlock's face, but he was awake as soon as John made contact. His eyes widened in fear, he grabbed John's wrist and looked at him, startled and angry.

"Sherlock." It was all John seemed able to say.

Sherlock didn't seem able to say anything, but the look of intense fear didn't leave his eyes – so John put the equipment down and held his hands up so that Sherlock could see that he wasn't going to attempt anything.

"You had us worried." He said trying, unsuccessfully, to disguise the tremble in his voice.

There was a prolonged silence, in which Sherlock seemed to calm a little before nodding slightly, and then wincing up in pain a little.

"What's wrong? What hurts?" John asked hurriedly.

Sherlock's eyes had moistened, he simply looked up at John and shook his head a little. He looked so vulnerable, almost childlike. In a bid to calm him down, and comfort him a little, John reached out and placed his hand on Sherlock's cheek, and Sherlock leaned into his touch, his eyes closing as one rogue tear found it's way down his face.

John was stunned, Sherlock was so… un-Sherlock. What in God's name had Moriarty done to him?

"I'm sorry Sherlock. I know you don't want to deal with this right now, but I need to check you over, I at least need to clean this cut on your face. Then maybe we can go back to the flat." John said hoping this would entice Sherlock to allow him to treat him.

It seemed to work as Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John at the mention of the flat, seeming a little less distressed and nodded slightly. John nodded back before picking up the tray again and starting to clean Sherlock's face. As soon as he'd finished Sherlock looked much better already, but was clearly still suffering.

"Ok. What else?" John said firmly.

Sherlock looked at him for a while in thought, before gesturing towards his chest. John helped Sherlock to sit forward as he needed to untie the strings that held his hospital gown together. However, as John's arm's wrapped around his body to take the garment off, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John too, and John suddenly found himself holding Sherlock, who was now weeping softly into his shoulder.

"Oh Sherlock… it's alright. I've got you." John said gently as he gave up on treating him for the time being and simply held him close as he cried quietly. John rubbed his back and murmured reassurances that he was safe now. "I'm going to stay with you, I'm not going anywhere." Soon his crying turned into sniffles and long laboured breaths.

Reluctant to let him go, but thinking about his injuries, John moved away from him but held on to his shoulders in a bid not to let him fall backwards.

"M'sorry John." Sherlock said hoarsely, barely audible – it was clearly the first words he had uttered in a while.

"Don't be sorry." John said shaking his head.

Sherlock sniffed a little and wiped his face.

"I'm sorry Sherlock, but I need to treat the rest of your injuries, are you ok for me to continue?" John asked as gently as he could, trying to disguise the urgency he felt, but then remembering that Sherlock would pick up on it anyway… of course.

Sherlock just nodded before reaching his hands around his back and untied the strings of his gown. John helped him slip the sleeves off his shoulders and couldn't quite stifle a gasp when he saw what was underneath. The sick, sadistic bastard had carved the word 'MINE' in vast, deep welts across Sherlock's chest.

"Oh God." John whispered.

Sherlock didn't react at all, which John found rather odd given his prior, sudden outburst of emotion. John hardly knew what to do, he was trying to choose between remaining professional; administering Sherlock with the treatment he needed, wrapping him up in his arms again and never letting him go, or running from the room to track down Moriarty and beat the twisted little shit to death.

Rationality won out in the end and John used a fresh set of tools to clean the wounds on his chest. Sherlock winced a little, and John, though he knew he had to do this, felt guilt fill him every time he hurt Sherlock – it was clear he'd been through enough pain to last a lifetime.

"I don't think you need stitches, but we need to keep the area very clean, I'll have to change the dressing regularly." John explained once he had finished cleaning the wounds and applied a dressing.

Sherlock had his eyes closed and seemed to still be in a vast amount of discomfort – disproportionate to the cuts on his chest and face.

"Sherlock… what else?"

"There's nothing else." Sherlock replied shakily.

"The hell there isn't."

"Leave it John."

"No. I won't leave it. I'm your friend but I'm also your doctor, and I have a duty of care, now please Sherlock, just tell me why you're in that much pain." John demanded.

Sherlock began to cry softly again and John felt terrible – clearly he needed to be more gentle. He moved slowly and sat down on the bed next to Sherlock, gently brushing his face with his knuckles and then cupping his cheek as hot tears ran down over his hand.

"It's ok Sherlock, you can tell me." He whispered.

Sherlock just whimpered and his crying worsened a little. It was unbearable – John's heart shattered, he felt so helpless. He needed to know what was wrong, he needed to help his friend. All he could do was to pull Sherlock into a tight embrace again and hold him close as he completely broke down and his cries turned into loud heart-wrenching sobs, muffled only slightly by John's shoulder.

John stroked the back of Sherlock's hair with one hand, the other resting on his back that heaved as he wept uncontrollably. But John had no words now, no word's of comfort – what could he say to Sherlock to comfort him when he didn't know what was wrong. He just held him and swayed him ever so slightly until, eventually, he calmed and relaxed in John's arms, melting into the warmth.

Whilst still holding him John asked again. "Please tell me." He spoke so softly that he was worried whether or not Sherlock had even heard him. But eventually he felt Sherlock take a long shaky breath.

"He…" he began, sounding fragile and choked up "…he…" there was a pause.

"It's alright." John urged him on, rubbing his back a little, as if it were vital to help him open up.

"…he… raped… me." Sherlock dissolved into a fresh round of tears, clutching desperately at John. John held him closer, trying to stifle a few tears himself, how could this have happened? How?

This explained why Sherlock had suddenly become so emotional, explained why he wouldn't let anyone touch him – except John.

'I'm going to find him and tear him limb from fucking limb.' John thought to himself, he was angrier than he had ever been in his whole life, the overwhelming desire to avenge and protect surged through him and he found himself fighting the urge to break something.

"John." Sherlock said shakily into John's shoulder, pulling him from his contemplation. "I don't want them to touch me."

"I know, Sherlock, I understand." He said pulling away to look him in the eyes, keeping his hands planted firmly on his shoulders. "And I am so, so sorry. I'm sorry."

"You can't make me John." Sherlock sounded scared, ready to run, ready to jump from the window if necessary. John was aware of how tentative the situation was. He didn't want to lose Sherlock's trust right now. And although the clinical, shut-off army doctor was yelling at him to force an examination and the relevant treatment on the patient, his conscience and intuition were telling him to go easy.

"Ok. Ok. Let's just… leave that… for now." John said, somewhat reluctantly and Sherlock relaxed a little. John helped him to lie back against the propped up pillows, trying to make him as comfortable as possible.

"Is there anything else?" John asked sadly.

"My hand hurts." Sherlock said quietly.

"This one?" John asked, lifting up Sherlock's left hand.

Sherlock nodded, his face wincing in pain a little.

"Sorry." John added.

He examined his hand, no bones were broken but there were signs of frostbite on the pads of his palms and on his finger tips.

"Frostbite?" John queried quietly to himself under his breath.

"He made me hold blocks of ice in my hand for two days."

John bowed his head a little in a bid to hide the tears welling in his eyes. Sherlock had been through hell, Moriarty had broken him, Sherlock – the brilliant, invincible sociopath was broken. John lifted Sherlock's wounded hand to his lips and pressed a light kiss into the centre of his palm.

"Are you trying to kiss me better?" Sherlock asked, a slight smile tugging weakly at the corners of his mouth.

"I'm just… I'm so relieved to have you back." John answered tearfully before wiping his face with his sleeve and setting to work on Sherlock's hand. Once he had cleaned and treated the frostbite he set to work massaging the hand.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm just massaging your hand to increase the blood flow – it'll help stimulate new cell growth so it'll heal quicker."

"Of course." Sherlock said dazed.

John didn't bother to add that there were certain pressure points on the human hand which, when massaged, released a signal to alter serotonin levels in the brain - having a calming effect on the patient – because he would of course know that already.

He glanced up at Sherlock, who was now looking slightly more comfortable and relaxed, his eyes closed, his expression no longer scared or pained. John continued to gently massage his wrist and lower arm.

"Sherlock. I'm sorry, I'm going to have to insist that you're checked over properly. You know I have to."

Sherlock frowned and looked as though he might shout, or try to bolt for the door but instead he took a deep breath and then nodded very slightly.

"I can do it if you would prefer that, but I would need to be assisted by a nurse and I would probably need to consult with another doctor." He said gently as he finished massaging his hand and placed it back on the bed.

"No." Sherlock replied shakily. "But… will… will you stay with me?"

"Of course I will." John replied hastily, he didn't want to leave Sherlock's side for a moment. "Would you prefer a female doctor?"

Sherlock's face scrunched up with emotion, he looked confused, angry and so scared, John regretted asking. He waited a moment before adding "I thought it might be easier."

Sherlock eventually nodded very slightly.

"Ok" John said "I'm going to go and have a word with Lestrade, and we'll get someone to come and check you over."

But before he time to even stand up Sherlock grabbed his wrist "Don't tell Lestrade, please, please don't tell him." He sounded alarmingly anxious.

"I'm not going to be specific, I'm just going to get him to go and find a doctor so that I don't have to leave, ok."

Sherlock thought about this for a moment, breathing deeply and nodded again. John stood up to find that his legs felt weak beneath him, he slowly walked to the door and stepped outside closing the door behind him.

Lestrade looked up from his polystyrene cup of coffee and was immediately on his feet. "How is he?" he asked.

John closed his eyes and exhaled, the full extent of the situation hitting him only now. "It's pretty bad. He needs to be fully examined, he doesn't want me to do it. I was wondering if you could get a doctor to come as soon as possible… a female doctor." He looked at Lestrade intently, hoping that he would understand. Judging from the way he bowed his head and ran his hands through his hair, the way he did when a case blew up in his face, John assumed he'd got the message.

He looked up at John and silently nodded before setting off towards reception. John braced himself for what was undoubtedly going to be some of the most difficult hours of his life and walked back into the room.