Victim, Bait, Hero, Friend

Author's notes:

Maybe it's all because of the number of post-Reichenbach stories out there, but I haven't seen very many tales that take on the aftermath of the scene with Moriarty and the swimming pool. There are plenty out there that were written before the second season came along with its swift resolution of that scene – and I like some of them very much – but I want to talk about what happens within the canon version. You've got Sherlock and John convinced they are about to die, and then they are saved by Moriarty's ring tone and his diverting phone call. Then next thing we know, we're getting background color on Irene Adler, and there's no time to dwell on what has happened to our two boys. I don't know about you but I felt cheated on that one. Very much like the way some of the Dr. Who season cliff-hangers were resolved (and is that coincidence? Of course not).

I want to dwell on that, as well as on what happened to John between the moment he leaves Baker Street for his date with Sarah and the moment we see him all wired up in that horrid parka. Knowing how absolutely insane Moriarty is, and how obsessed he is with Sherlock and their unholy connection, I decided to give that missing time period a rather dark interpretation. I didn't start out with… well, the way it ended up. Honestly. This was one time where the character just took over and told me what to write. A cynical reader who read some of my lengthier fan fiction would say that I have a thing about putting characters through that particular kind of trauma, and they are probably correct.

I also wanted to give Lestrade some 'air time' here. He's a nice normal guy, very human and perceptive, and I think it's quite believable that he might pick up on John's qualities even more quickly than Sherlock. Finally, I wanted to give John a chance to humanise Sherlock a little bit.

This is non-slash, not because I'm particularly opposed to slash, but because there are readers out there who won't read it and I wanted to write something that could be enjoyed by all.

The story picks up just where the scene ends, but there will be flashbacks and digressions. Warning: this gets dark, and a bit graphic, but not too much. More details would give away the story, so bear with me.

Part One: Live Heroes

"Someone changed his mind. The question is, who?"

John shook his head, and thought about trying to stand up. The crouched position he'd been in during those endless minutes wasn't exactly comfortable, but he had the feeling that if he tried to get up just now he would feel all of the blood leave his head and would end up on the concrete floor, unconscious.

Just like I woke up in the back of that panel van. No muzzy drug after-effects, neck felt sore, so must have been a choke-hold that made me pass out. He remembered the first few seconds of the abduction well enough. Bumping into 'Jim' just in front of the alley, an awkward conversation with the man he thought was just a hospital IT employee and Molly's most recent attempt at a dating life, then the shove from behind… landing hard on his knees in the alley while one unknown assailant blocked the view from the street and another locked an arm around John's neck, squeezing until the blackness descended.

No, I'd prefer to stay conscious. He closed his eyes, took a couple of deep breaths, jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. His eyes flew open, to see Sherlock's face, disconcertingly close and appropriately anxious.

"John, I don't think we ought to hang about here any longer than necessary." He stepped back and extended a hand in assistance. John stared at it for a moment, still a bit stunned by the events of the last few minutes, then gripped the hand and allowed himself to be pulled up. He felt the blood roaring in his ears and saw his vision tunnel briefly, but caught himself by leaning against the wall. Sherlock, he noticed, kept one hand under his elbow, lightly supporting his weight.

"Are you all right?" came the question, more quietly than when his friend had been divesting him of the explosives.

"Yes… just a bit woozy there for a second. Give me a moment." He passed a hand over his face, kneaded his cheek muscles briefly. "Sorry. Smartest thing to do, when light-headed, is to stay low. Didn't want you to have to carry me out." He managed to smile. "That would definitely start the tongues wagging."

"Damn the wagging tongues." John was surprised at the low fierceness in his friend's voice. "Better than leaving you in here. Can you make it, now?"

"I'll be all right." John nodded, and wondered if he was trying to convince Sherlock, or trying to fool himself. "I'll be all right."

Part Two: Being Bait

As soon as they were across the parking lot, Sherlock guided John to the bumper of a car – whose, he had no idea – and nudged him to sit down. "Call Lestrade. I'm going back in there for a moment."

"Sherlock, no, why …"

He called over his shoulder. "Wires. I want to disconnect a few more of those wires."

"Let the bomb disposal crew handle it. Sherlock!"

No answer. John watched dully as the lean form disappeared back inside the pool building, then pulled out his phone and made the call. After giving a brief synopsis and hanging up, he stared at the building. He supposed the explosive wiring wasn't too complicated; after all, he'd seen it all applied to his body. As far as he could tell with his limited knowledge of munitions, it was a simply wired system with an electronically activated ignition and a remote-controlled source. Nothing tricky, like an automatic explosion set off by a lack of electronic contact, with a delay… But still, he held his breath until he saw Sherlock re-emerge from the main door and walk toward the parking lot.

We were lucky, in there. Does he really realise how lucky?

Oh, God, I hurt.

Time crawled to a stop, people came and went, sirens flashed.

"Here."

John roused from a semi-stupor, to see the familiar face of D.I. Greg Lestrade. The inspector was bending down, and handing him … oh, God, a cup of hot coffee. Probably it was horrid stuff, but it was hot and aromatic. He seized upon it as if it were a lifeline.

The police, the bomb people, and the ambulance had essentially all arrived at once. Sherlock had immediately gone back inside the concrete pool building with all of the assorted experts, leaving John still seated on the anonymous auto bumper. One of the ambulance technicians had given him John a hand up, which was a good things as his legs were starting to stiffen from all of the punishment of the previous six hours or so. Near-strangling (and kicking out violently against his assailants), the hours spent tied up, the tense moments in the pool area and the minutes he'd spent crouching…

Muscles fighting, straining, trying to stop what was happening, screaming hoarsely and ineffectually against the gag…

He wrenched his mind back to the present. The ambulance tech, one hand solicitously on his arm, had led him over to the ambulance. He'd sat gratefully down on the hatch. He'd reassured his helper that he was uninjured, just a bit shaken. The young man had draped a blanket around his shoulders, checked his vitals and asked him a few questions in a low, respectful voice (what had Lestrade been telling the ambulance crew?) and left him mercifully alone to watch the police mopping-up operations.

"It's not great coffee, but it's hot. You look like you could use it."

John sipped at the hot, bitter brew. "Thanks."

Lestrade cleared his throat. "I've more or less got Sherlock's statement – at least, what I can gather between his bursts of manic frenzy. You're not a moving target, so I figured I would get yours next." The inspector sat down next to him and pulled out a pad of paper and a pen.

John looked at his coffee cup, idly noticing that his hand was squeezing the round shape of the disposable cup into an oval. "I don't have much to add."

"You were kidnapped by that whack job. If we ever catch him, we want to be able to add that to his list of charges. All Sherlock could tell me is that you were heading out on a date, and that you were here at the pool at midnight instead, wearing a Semtex waistcoat."

John looked over at Lestrade briefly, a sidelong glance. He had a brief impression of the inspector's honest face, warm brown eyes, and an expression of sympathy. He returned his attention back to his cup. "Moriarty and his goons picked me up a couple of blocks from Sarah's flat. Used a choke-hold on me. I woke up in the back of a panel van. Then they took me … somewhere, I honestly don't know where." He could hear Lestrade making scratchy writing sounds on the notepad. "They kept the … place, house, whatever it was, mostly dark. I couldn't see much…"

Hands and feet restrained. Mouth gagged. Hot breath on the back of his neck, a smooth, insane, hated voice purring in his ear. Nausea and fear. Pain, muscles protesting.

It was the pain on his right arm that brought him back to reality. The coffee had slopped out of the cup and all over the back of his wrist and forearm. His hand shook around the cup, even as it was being gently pried out of his fingers.

"Let me set that aside for you for a moment, John." Lestrade set the cup on the ground.

John swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, trying to pick up the thread of his narrative. "It… was dark. Eventually, he had his people wire me up with explosives, and brought me here. As bait, to catch Sherlock."

Moriarty's thugs, handing the explosives and wires to their boss… while Moriarty himself wrapped the whole works around him, attaching the wires while crooning under his breath… his hands, incongruously delicate, easing the parka around his body as John's skin crawled with the need to pull away, to scream, to do ANYTHING…

He leaned forward and abruptly vomited on the ground.

Eyes closed tightly, he was aware of several things. Lestrade had slid a supportive arm around his shoulder, and was saying something to him in a low voice. The ambulance tech had appeared again, behind him, and was asking if he needed to lie down. And in front of him, he was somehow aware that Sherlock had returned.

"Lestrade. What on earth are you doing? Stop bothering John. He looks terrible."

He felt a brief tightening in the supportive arm before it was removed (and oh, the cold sensation once it was gone … arms, so much better than blankets) and Lestrade stood up. At the same time, he felt someone grasp his hands, warm flesh touching his. He opened his eyes…

… to the absurd sight of Sherlock, crouching in front of him, somehow avoiding the disgusting vomit, grasping both his hands lightly. "John. Are you all right? You've gone all pale and sweaty, and your heart rate is elevated." Unreadable pale eyes searched his.

He took a deep breath, tried to straighten up, tried to will his body to look normal, for blood to flow back into his face. "Sorry. Just a bit of after-effects, I think. Whatever they gave me… you know, when they abducted me… it seems to have unsettled my stomach."

Lestrade shot him a sharp look. Sherlock released his hands after what John was almost sure was a brief, reassuring squeeze, and stood up in one of those graceful fluid motions at which he so excelled. "If you're certain…"

"Yes, I'm fine." More deep breaths. "Go ahead and finish what you were doing." He managed a shaky sort of laugh. "I do need to finish my statement. You know, all of that tedious police business."

"Just a few minutes more, Sherlock, and you can have your blogger back." Lestrade pulled out his notepad again. "But don't go pulling one of your disappearing acts; I still have a few questions for you."

Sherlock nodded, absently to John's eyes, and moved away, apparently attempting to catch the eye of one of the bomb disposal technicians. Lestrade was silent until Sherlock was out of sight, then he stood up.

"Into the ambulance with you, John, and let's close the door. You and I are going to have a little talk."

Part Three: Restarting the Heart

John sat, staring into space, on the stretcher. Lestrade sat opposite him on the small hard seat designed for ambulance personnel working on the patient.

Which I suppose he is, in a way.

"John." Soft quiet voice, no urgency in it now. "What happened there?"

He stared at the poster on the side of the ambulance interior, which detailed the current process of adult CPR for health professionals in all its glory. Rescue breathing, to bring oxygen to the lungs. Chest compressions to move the blood. An AED, when indicated, to restart the heart. Restart the heart…

"John."

He chewed on a thumbnail, read further. Recovery position, so that the victim of the arrest doesn't vomit and aspirate.

Victim.

"John. I know you. You are a soldier. You are made of material far tougher than most of the men and women I have at the Yard… in fact, you'd have made a hell of a police officer. You just lied to Sherlock, told him you'd been drugged, after you told me they had subdued you with a choke-hold. You look like death, man. What happened to you tonight?"

Victim.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, and willed himself not to vomit again. "Greg… I can't … it's too…"

"Too what, John?" Lestrade's face was unreadable. "Too graphic? Too personal? John, I have heard it all. I've seen and heard atrocities in this city that even you probably can't imagine. War is one thing. Soldiers are still human, on both sides. Homicidal killers, torturers, rapists… they've left humanity behind." He leaned forward. "Whatever happened to you, or whatever you've had to do… just tell me. I promise not to be shocked."

John looked down at his shaking hands, at the slight redness caused by the scalding coffee, and tried again. "This isn't for your police report," he whispered. "And you cannot, absolutely cannot, tell Sherlock." The words came a little easier, now that he seemed to have made the decision to talk. "He's unbalanced enough. I have no idea what he would do if he knew this. Which was probably the whole idea… Moriarty must have known Sherlock would go berserk if he knew."

"Knew what, John? Just tell me."

And then both tears and memory began to flow, as John haltingly began to describe what had happened.

Part Four: Of Peppermint and Insanity

Smack.

The hand slapped across John's face, bringing stinging pain and demanding his attention.

Smack.

He welcomed the pain. The man who stood in front of him, with his sly manner and oily voice and utterly insane comments, needed to disappear. The blows to John's face helped him to think only of the sharp red pain, not of what this small, delicate, evil man was saying.

Smack.

At first, he'd thought he was to be tortured for information. Something to do with one of Sherlock's cases, gone horribly wrong. Who would be a better source of the details? But no one had asked any questions. They'd brought him here, tied him to the chair, and then 'Jim' had come into the room.

"I suppose that's enough." His adversary held up a hand, and the thug who'd been hitting John stepped aside. "He's really rather a beautiful fellow, you know, with that honest face, those compelling eyes. Let's not damage him. It won't be nearly as much fun."

He leaned closer to John, far too close, breathing upon him. His breath smelled of peppermint and insanity. "Untie him from the chair and untie his feet," he drawled, "but keep his hands bound for now. Gag him. Bring him to the Blue Room."

John did his best to put up a good defence as he was partly untied, kicking and bucking and trying to get a swing at his captors with his bound hands… until he felt the muzzle of a handgun against his cheek. He went instantly still, then, and allowed them to follow out their instructions. In their grip, he stumbled down a long hall, faintly lit only by one weak lamp. One of the men opened a door; the other threw him roughly down on a bed.

The bed had a blue blanket on top. Good quality, to John's eye. With the feeling that his brain was somehow floating several feet above his bewildered body, he noticed that the bed was a four-poster, and that … oh, God, were those handcuffs? Leather restraints? on each corner?

His head spun as his captors ruthlessly stripped off his clothing – oddly enough, without damaging any of it - and made his limbs fast to each corner of the bed. He lay face-down, spread-eagled, naked and vulnerable and small. He began to hyperventilate, quietly.

"John, John, Johnny boy." He turned his head slightly, to see a slight figure standing next to the bed. The small, smooth man that he had known as Jim from IT, that had been giving orders in the other room, was the one who was speaking. He was now clothed in a finely cut grey suit, with every hair immaculately in place and every move of his body part of a graceful and sinister dance. "Just look at you, my dear. My goodness. Compact, sturdy, all of those hidden muscles, like a small panther." John felt a touch upon his back; his skin crawled. "All rather beautiful, except for that dreadful scar here." The hand moved to his shoulder and traced out the healed scar from his war wound. "Like a wrestler," he purred. "What a waste it would be to blow you up too soon, my dear, without … getting to know you better. What a waste."

The hand moved to his lower back again. John gritted his teeth.

"Rather nice skin, as well. Not very hairy, but of course…" the voice oozed, "what hair you do have is fair, and suits you. Altogether an attractive picture."

The hand touched his right buttock. "I can see why he keeps you around, his favourite pet." Voices of panic began to rise in John's brain. Oh my God, he's touching me. He's going to…

"Tell me, dear John… does he touch you here? Like this?" The hand moved, glided, caressed. "Really, when I think about it… he is so much like me. He is me, and I am him. So what he enjoys, what he touches, I must touch." More motion from the hand. John squeezed his eyes shut as his skin crawled.

Christ, he's got some complex about Sherlock, and he thinks we're lovers. Not exactly an original thought, but … but it's never been actively dangerous to me before. Even though he knew it was useless, he strained against the handcuffs, fought to dislodge the gag from his mouth.

"Now, Johnny boy, you really must learn to relax, or how are we to have any fun?" crooned the voice. "Although… perhaps he likes it when you fight him? Perhaps… you like it rough?" The last word was barked out loudly and abruptly, and accompanied by a stinging blow to the back of his head. Even with the gag in place, he bit into his lip and tasted blood.

"I think you do," hissed the voice, now harsh and snakelike. "Rough, and very very hard."

And then… the unmistakable sound of a zipper coming down. John writhed again, his mind screaming in fear at what he knew was about to happen. No. Nononono…

Pain and shame exploded through him and time lost its meaning as he screamed voicelessly into the gag, and into the void.

Part Five: Recovery Position

"Jesus… John, I'm so sorry." Lestrade ran a hand through his hair. "Do you… do you want to go to the hospital? For an exam?" He swallowed and looked hard at John. "Not just for evidence. What if that bastard gave you something? Some kind of infection?"

"I can't," John whispered, tears leaking down his cheeks. "I know I would tell my patients to go be checked out, if anything like this happened to them. I'll… maybe I'll see my own doctor, in a couple of days. But to the hospital?" He imagined the long wait, the necessary but intrusive questions, the lack of privacy in the curtained cubicles of A&E… and the exam, oh God, the exam. Swabs, cultures, lack of dignity. Strangers touching him. "I can't do it, Greg. I can't," he choked out. "And as for evidence… they made me shower before they dressed me and wired me up with the explosives. I … thought I was going to scrub my skin off. There's no evidence left to find."

"It's your call, of course." Lestrade took a deep breath. "Listen… I won't put this in the report, for now. We've got more than enough on this guy to put him away if we can catch him. But, with your permission, I'll write up a private statement and keep it locked up at home. That way, if you ever need corroboration on what happened, I can produce it."

John nodded. "That sounds… appropriate." He scrubbed at his face, trying to obliterate the tears that had leaked out while he told his story. "When… when it was happening, I remembered thinking something. That even though Moriarty had it all wrong about us, the part about us being lovers…" He was surprised to hear a short bitter laugh come out of his throat.

"I'm straight, really I am, even though no one ever seems to believe it, and Sherlock, as far as I can tell, has no sexual interest in anyone or anything. Unless he makes love to his microscope when I'm not around; it wouldn't surprise me. But even if something ever did happen between us … because of whatever circumstances that I can't imagine right now … it would still be a consenting act between friends, and compared to what he did to me, still something that… that was all right.

He snorted. "Awkward as hell, maybe, and probably not a good idea… but nothing to damage anyone. Like Sarah taking me to bed out of friendship or maybe pity, even though she hasn't. Yet." He raised his head, looked Lestrade in the eye. "But this… this was fuelled by hatred, by the desire for revenge. He thought I belonged to Sherlock … and God knows, Sherlock's the most possessive friend I've ever had, so he got that part right … and he wanted to own me himself, if only for a few minutes." He swallowed. "He wanted to mark me as his."

"John, rape is never about desire or passion. It's a crime of violence." Lestrade's voice was low and steady. "You know that. He assaulted your body to hurt you, and as you said, for revenge." He ran his hands through his hair again. "I've seen it all, one way or another, and I frankly don't care anymore what two consenting adults do with each other, but I've got a special hatred for rapists."

They sat for a few more moments. John blew his nose and tried to collect his thoughts. Finally Lestrade stood up, and motioned John toward the door of the ambulance. "I'm going to go round up the troops and get this all finished. Probably send the ambulance away. Do you want to go home, now? I can call you a cab."

John shook his head. "I'll wait for Sherlock. He must be about done by now."

"All right." Lestrade helped him out of the ambulance, then stopped and clapped a hand on his shoulder. Warmth again, touch from a friend, so different than the other… "John, call me if you need anything. I know you've got … well, let's face it, even if Sherlock manages to stay home and rest for a few hours, sitting up with a traumatised friend isn't exactly his style." He smiled wryly. "You are more than welcome to come over to my place, stay in the guest room for a day or two, if that would help."

"I'll be all right. I think that I would rather have familiar surroundings right now." John stared off across the parking lot, where he could see a familiar tall shape beginning to stride toward him. "And Sherlock… well, he isn't precisely normal, but I've become accustomed to him. The more annoying he is, the more of a needed distraction he'll probably be." He looked up at Lestrade. "He does care, you know, even if he doesn't realise it. You saw him, just now, when I was being disgracefully sick. He really was concerned."

Lestrade nodded. "I'll just go touch base with him about the case, then try to convince him to get both of you home. You've both had a hell of a night."

Part Six: In the War Zone

The shaking started almost as soon as they were in the back of the cab. He'd been expecting it. It began with his hands. He crossed his arms over his chest to hide them, but the tremors spread to the rest of him fairly rapidly. In a few minutes, his entire frame was shuddering.

The sensation was familiar. In Afghanistan, he'd developed a reputation for being absolutely fearless as long as danger was present. Others admired his cool nerves and his steady hands. Only those in his unit who were closest to him knew what sometimes happened to him once the need for absolute courage was gone. The shaking, the nausea, the tears.

More than once, he'd collapsed on the shoulder of a sympathetic friend, briefly useless from after-reaction. He'd never actually been all that embarrassed by it. Comrades in arms understood: you did the job, took the risks, kept your cool as long as you had to, and it was okay to freak out a little afterward. You cried if you needed to and then you held your buddy while he (or she) cried. Especially amongst the doctors and nurses and medics; while they were trained in all the skills necessary to serve in a war zone, they knew that their job was primarily to take care of the wounded and ill. Falling apart for a little while once everyone was out of danger was okay. It meant that they were all still human, not killing machines.

But now he was shaking like a leaf in the back of a London cab, accompanied only by Sherlock Holmes. Who'd never been in a combat zone, even if he did seem to end up in dangerous situations on a regular basis. Who didn't exactly express a wide range of emotion. And who could ascertain the smallest detail about a crime scene yet be unaware of the fact that his flatmate had walked out hours ago on an errand and wasn't able to hear the comments, questions, and demands that constantly erupted out of Sherlock when he was concentrating on a case. How was he going to react to John's symptoms? Would he even notice?

Even as John's thoughts raced through these ideas, he felt the tears begin to leak from his eyes again. Damn. He'd already wept in front of Lestrade; he'd hoped that he'd be able to bypass any more waterworks. Apparently his body had other ideas. He wiped futilely at his face with one shaking hand while staring fixedly out the window on his side.

Somehow, he kept it all together for the rest of the cab ride. The shaking decreased and the tears slowed. He continued to keep his head turned, and breathed a sigh of relief as the cab door opened and he was able to get out. The cold air made him shiver – Moriarty's goons hadn't let him have his own coat, only the horrid parka, and he'd left the blanket behind in the ambulance – but seemed to blow more oxygen into his exhausted and frantic brain. He left Sherlock to deal with the cab and sprinted into the flat.

Part Seven: The Pain of Becoming Human

He ran up the stairs to his room, ignoring any looks he must have been getting from his flatmate. Once in his room, he threw himself down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, his jaw working and his eyes burning.

Victim. Moriarty's victim.

Then bait. Bait for the trap. Passively strapped with enough explosives to take out a city block.

He couldn't think about what had happened to him at Moriarty's … hideout, headquarters whatever. He couldn't. If he didn't think about it, if he ignored it until he was ready to cope with it, then it hadn't happened. Instead he found himself thinking about the events at the pool.

It had been a standoff, with Sherlock holding a gun – John's own gun, of course, taken from this very room without his permission, but what else was new – on Moriarty while the sniper had John (with his unwanted explosives) targeted. They'd exchanged comments, almost bantered at times. Then John had seen his moment, as Moriarty moved in front of him. A chance to jump forward and grab his assailant, use him as a hostage instead.

A chance to kill the bastard, maybe. And a chance to salvage something out of this mess. Maybe dying in the process, but dying as a hero. Not as a victim, not as bait.

But Moriarty had outsmarted him there, had make it clear that his snipers could take out Sherlock before John could do anything to prevent it. So they'd gone back to their stalemate, and their near-banter. And then Moriarty had left the building, or so they'd thought, and he'd had the gratifying experience of seeing Sherlock rip the parka and the explosives from his body and send the hated bomb materials skittering across the floor. And then heard Sherlock's awkward, stammering thanks for the attempted self-sacrifice. And felt briefly like a hero.

And then Moriarty had come back, and they had both been certain they were going to die, but it might have even been worth it, dying together, if they could have taken that monster with them… He shuddered violently, his skin still crawling with revulsion.

A light tap on the door made John jump a bit. "Yes?" His voice cracked.

"John? Are you all right?"

That phrase again. Sherlock, who seemed so oblivious to the irritation that he caused others and who so rarely admitted to any emotions except boredom, frustration, irritation, and a sort of unholy glee, did seem to have mastered those few very useful words.

John struggled to sit up, and scooted up the bed until he was sitting against the headboard on the middle of the bed. "Yes. I'm all right, Sherlock," he answered wearily.

To his surprise, the door slowly opened, and the familiar dark head poked inside. "I think I shall verify that for myself." He stopped just inside the door, and John could actually read some degree of hesitancy in his body language. "May I come in, John?"

Politeness? From the man who borrows all of my belongings without permission and assumes that I never have anything better to do than traipse around with him? He cleared his throat. "You are in, Sherlock, or mostly in. You may as well come in the rest of the way."

Sherlock crossed the room in two strides of his long legs, and to John's astonishment, sat down on the edge of the bed. Ice-pale eyes studied his face intently, and Sherlock's fingers rested lightly against his wrist. Checking my pulse, right.

"You are still pale, and sweaty," observed Sherlock. "In most people, signs of nausea or some other internal distress. Your heart rate is elevated. And your eyes are blood-shot, your eyelids are red. You've been crying, John.

"You were experiencing distress during the cab ride, on the way back. Tremors of some kind, and you wouldn't look in my direction because you were embarrassed about something. Presumably you were crying then, and didn't want me to know." Sherlock removed his fingers from John's wrist but then, incredibly, took John's cold, sweaty, shaking hand into his own warm one. "Putting this all together, I can only conclude that you are NOT 'all right'. You are in pain of some kind, physical or emotional or both."

John didn't try to pull out of Sherlock's grasp. He could tell that his hand, at least, had stopped shaking as soon as it was enclosed in those long fingers. "Lestrade talked to you, didn't he? Told you to keep an eye on me?"

"Yes, he did." Sherlock actually looked faintly amused. "He was rather forceful about it. Told me that I needed to watch you closely and get you whatever you needed. He threatened to take you home with him instead, if I didn't promise. I told him that I was quite capable of doing what was needed." Now he looked and sounded indignant. "Just tell me what you need, and I am sure I can manage."

From deep within, John felt something burbling up. It wasn't … it couldn't be… laughter? Despite his bone-crushing fatigue, despite the tears still on his face and his churning stomach, despite the deep raw pain down there that he couldn't acknowledge, the violation that he couldn't think about … there was something incredibly funny about Sherlock holding his hand and proclaiming that only he could properly care for his flatmate. Possessive. As I told Lestrade, he's possessive of me. A rather hysterical giggle escaped him.

He was rewarded by seeing Sherlock look perplexed. "You're laughing at me, John."

John felt a real smile crack his face. "A bit. I'm not exactly sure why. Chalk it up to nerves." Another giggle.

"Nerves." Sherlock looked intently at him for a moment or two. "Lestrade said something about that. An acute stress reaction, he said." He cleared his throat. "But John, you've seen combat, and far more danger in your life than I have. Yet you are clearly feeling the effects of our encounter with Moriarty much more strongly that I am. I must conclude that he did something to harm you while you were his prisoner. What happened?"

Still chuckling over Sherlock's logical-earnest bedside manner, John had not been expecting the bluntly worded question. It sliced into him with an almost physical pain, wrenching his gut and making his vision tunnel.

Laughing? Was he still laughing? Was that was this convulsive shaking was, these noises coming from his throat? More giggles?

No. Balanced on that precarious knife-edge between laughter and tears, he'd slipped down the precipice on the other side. Into pain, and weeping, and sudden black despair.

He gasped and curled into himself, drawing up his legs and wrapping his arms around them. He must have pulled his hand out of Sherlock's. He bent forward and buried his face in his knees. His body shook violently with sobs, and he no longer care about hiding his tears. Pain. Shame. Victim, victim, victim. Never be whole again, not while he's alive. Never.

"John!" Sherlock's voice: deep and strained. Hands gripping his upper arms, so hard that it hurt.

"Go away. Leave me alone," he managed to gasp out. You don't want to see this. I don't want you to see this. You can't handle this, Sherlock.

"No. John, please. Let me help. How can I help?"

Hesitantly, John lifted his face from his knees. Through the glittering prism of his tears, he could see Sherlock's face, much closer than he expected. The usually smooth brow was furrowed with worry. The pale eyes, reddened slightly. The voice, almost frantic, and beginning to shake.

"How can I help?" he repeated. "John, please, I don't know what to do." A catch at the end, almost a sob.

He thought about pulling back again, curling up. He thought about shouting at Sherlock to leave him the hell alone. He even thought about jumping off of the bed and trying to escape the room. He thought about texting Lestrade to come get him, take him someplace where friends were less complicated and knew what to do when someone they cared about was a broken, sobbing, snivelling, mess.

What he did, instead, was to slide his legs back down, lean forward, and more-or-less fall onto Sherlock's chest. He wrapped his arms around that skinny frame and buried his face in that soft shirt. It smelled like expensive laundry soap, and honest human sweat, and some essential collection of aromas that his brain catalogued as Sherlock-familiar, and thank God nothing at all like Moriarty.

He felt Sherlock's arms come around him, hesitantly at first, then clutching him more tightly. "John," he said softly. "I am so very sorry. Forgive me. I had no idea, no warning that Moriarty intended you as a target." His voice was muffled against John's head. "I had been looking on all of this … this case, as a giant game, a great contest, perhaps the greatest of my career. But it stopped being any sort of a game when I saw you there, with all of those explosives on you." He was quiet for a moment, his breathing the ragged intake of a grown man fighting tears. "I knew then, that you were likely to die. And it would have been my fault, for involving you in the first place." The arms tightened. "And then there you were, like a true hero, throwing yourself on him and trying to give me a chance to get away. John, I don't deserve you."

John's breathing was slowing as he took in this monologue. His heart had stopped pounding, the shakes were going away, and overall he felt he was starting to get back some measure of control. He didn't move, though, didn't make any attempt to pull away. This was a side of Sherlock he'd never seen before, a Sherlock who had some insight into his weaknesses, into the consequences of his often-selfish actions. A Sherlock who was holding him, without displaying impatience or revulsion, who was allowing John to get tears and snot all over that beautifully tailored shirt. A Sherlock with remorse, and compassion, and gratitude, who was – maybe - starting to understand the value of simply having a friend.

Had he been there all along? Or had he come into being just now, in these last few minutes? Whatever the answer, John had a sneaking feeling that this contact, this conversation was just as beneficial for Sherlock as it was for him. He's healing me, and I'm humanising him. Let it last as long as it can.

They sat there for long minutes, in silence. Finally John's head twitched up and he realised he had briefly fallen asleep. Reluctantly, he pulled back far enough that he could look at Sherlock's face, but with their arms still loosely about each other. He knew that the unanswered question still lay between them. He decided to deal with it as directly as possible.

"Sherlock … believe me when I tell you this. You are giving me exactly what I need. And I may need more of it before I'm … before I'm back to myself. But I can't tell you what happened with Moriarty. Not yet. Can you respect that?" He gulped, the tears welling out of his eyes, the tremors threatening to start up again. "Can you wait for me to be ready to talk to you about it? Not use your bloody powers of deduction to come up with theories, not snoop around to find the answer?" If that doesn't at least hint broadly at what happened, and give him the message to back off, I don't know what would.

He had to break into a watery smile, then, when he looked, really looked at his friend's face. Sherlock's face was wretched… exhausted, guilt-ridden, strung-out, and yes, tear-stained as well. It hurts, becoming human, doesn't it?

"You told Lestrade everything, didn't you?" His low voice was almost accusatory. Possessive, again. "You were in the back of that ambulance with him for a long time."

"Yes, well... he's the officer in charge of the investigation, isn't he? More importantly, Sherlock, he's not my best friend (did Sherlock jump a bit in surprise at that turn of phrase?) and he doesn't live with me."John reached up and brushed some tears off of Sherlock's face. Sherlock looked surprised; perhaps he hadn't actually realised he'd shed them. "It's called professional distance. It's the reason people will tell things to their doctor that they might not share with their family or their friends. It works for police, as well."

"If that is what you need, John, then I won't ask you any more questions." Sherlock wiped at his own face. John thought he had never seen him look so serious, so earnest, and his throat tightened again at the sight.

"It's what I need." Experimentally, he hugged his friend again. Sherlock's arms came back around him, tightly. Hugging lessons… I'm giving hugging lessons to a recovering sociopath. He smiled to himself, then broke the contact to lower himself carefully back onto the bed.

"I think I can sleep now, Sherlock. In fact, I don't think I have much choice in the matter. Thank you for coming to check on me." Thank you for being here.

"Lestrade said to watch you closely. Should I stay?" He motioned to the battered chair in the corner of the room.

John shook his head. "You need sleep as well. You look terrible."

"Keep your phone nearby, then. Please… send me a text if you need anything." He stood.

He's looking hesitant, again. That's twice. Maybe I pushed him too far, too fast, with all of this hugging and crying. Yawning hugely, John nodded. He sat up to kick off his shoes and decided to just leave everything else on. He rolled back the blankets and slid into his bed. "There. I'll be asleep by the time you get downstairs."

Sherlock shook his head slowly. "No… I think we'll do this my way, after all." He walked to the far corner of the room, picked up the chair, and came back to the bedside. He sat down in the chair and stretched his legs out to rest his feet on the bed, then extended his hand. John slid his own out from under the blankets, gripped it warmly in return, interlaced his fingers with those of his friend.

Tomorrow, he'll probably be back to being a complete dick, and we'll be snapping at each other again over stupid things. But tonight he's just being my friend, with all of his being. There's hope for him yet.

Friend….

Finis!

Please let me know what you liked and what you didn't. Planning on a sequel in the future, but it's likely to be a long time out. John isn't going to talk to Sherlock about his trauma until he knows Moriarty is dead, and that means waiting for a new season and an unquestionably live Sherlock. Until then…