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"We have Dr. Watson."
Those four words had become the true torture in Sherlock's life. The physical pain was horrible, but he could handle it knowing that it was him experiencing it and not John.
He'd been in the small, concrete room for three days now. They'd kept him blindfolded almost continuously, but his zip-tie bound hands had felt over nearly every reachable inch of the concrete block walls and roughly poured cement floor. He'd explored the entirety of the heavy steel door, even going so far as to tug at the hinges on the door on the off-chance that one might be loose enough for him to work free.
He'd been completely alone for the first day, except for the moments he'd tried to reach up and remove his blindfold. He had, of course, tried to remove it within seconds of waking up the very first time, splayed out on the rough cement floor of his new prison. He'd woken up and tried to free his hands first. Failing that, he'd pushed into a sitting position and reached up to jerk his blindfold off. As soon as he reached up, though, he heard a metallic shriek of hinges followed by the sound of a soft, explosive puff and a sting in his upper arm that came so closely together as to be indistinguishable. He'd dropped almost instantly into unconsciousness and had woken what had to be hours later, judging by the fullness of his bladder. He'd also had a rather large goose egg on his forehead from falling insensate to the floor with bound hands.
The second time he'd tried to remove his blindfold had been after he'd felt the walls and door of the room with his bound hands. During his careful search of the cell, he'd found a metal bucket in one corner and had relieved his over-full bladder. As far as he could tell, though, the bucket was the only amenity they'd allowed him besides his trousers. His button-up shirt, Belstaff overcoat, shoes, and socks had all been removed. Whoever had him had obviously not intended his stay to be a comfortable one.
He'd decided to risk removing his blindfold again, but as soon as his fingers touched it, he heard another metallic shriek of hinges in need of oil. Not large enough to be the door; perhaps the panel in the door he'd felt while exploring the steel surface?
There was another soft puff and another sting, this time in his right thigh. He'd been falling towards the floor before he'd even been able to reach down for the dart stuck in the muscle of his leg.
He'd learned to leave the blindfold alone then. With nothing else to do, he'd planted his back in one corner of the room and retreated to his mind palace, trying to put together the details of his capture.
He and John had been assisting a client on breaking open an embezzlement scheme that looked likely to steal a few million dollars from a very successful interior design business that styled the homes of the ridiculously rich and incredibly famous. In fact, they'd been on their way to meet with the client for a second time when Sherlock had been captured. John had been paying for the cab as Sherlock stepped into the building their client lived in. The next thing Sherlock could remember was waking up in the concrete box.
He had to assume that whatever they were darting him with now had been administered to him then as he stepped through the front door. They'd taken advantage of the brief moment when he went from bright daylight to the dimmer interior of the building, a time when his eyes would be dazzled and he'd be otherwise distracted.
Other than the two dartings, though, Sherlock had been alone for three days. They hadn't given him food or water. They also hadn't emptied his bucket, which would have been a problem if he had still been using it regularly. With no food or water coming in, though, his output had decreased significantly.
Of course, there was no way for him to be sure it had been three days. Sherlock had tried to keep track of the passage of time the best he could, but with no way to gauge whether it was night or day and with nothing to occupy him beyond his own thoughts, he could only guess at the passage of time. He tried to keep what he assumed was a normal sleeping/waking schedule, only letting himself doze off when he felt utterly exhausted, but he couldn't be sure of even that. He had spent so many years denying himself regular sleep, it was possible that his body's need for sleep was catching up to him all at once now that there was nothing else to distract him.
Sitting still and listening had told him very little. The silence in his cement room seemed complete and heavy, indicating that he was perhaps underground. He could hear nothing beyond the heavy metal door. He had explored everything there was to explore in his prison. There was nothing to do but wait.
When the heavy steel door groaned open sometime later, jerking him from his light doze, Sherlock was almost relieved. Finally, something to break up the monotony.
"We have Dr. Watson," a familiar, light voice said, and Sherlock froze. "So, don't try anything."
He hadn't been planning to 'try anything;' what was the sense in attacking an unknown number of people with an unknown number of weapons, especially with a blindfold over your eyes and a zip tie around your wrists? But the knowledge that John was in as much danger as he was had frozen him into complete immobility in his corner.
"Moriarty," Sherlock said in greeting, and heard the pleasure in Moriarty's voice when he spoke again.
"You recognize my voice; good! That means you'll take this whole thing seriously. I won't need to convince you that I'm not joking when I tell you what I need you to do."
"And what would that be?" Sherlock asked cautiously. Moriarty was like a buried landmine, waiting for one false step to destroy you. Best to tread with extreme caution around Moriarty.
"That would be telling," Moriarty scolded. "All you need to know right now is that we have Dr. Watson. Go ahead, Sebastian."
The last sentence had sounded different, quieter; Moriarty must have turned his head to speak to someone else in the tiny concrete box. 'Sebastian' could only be Colonel Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's rumored right-hand man. Sherlock had never seen Moran in person, but there were enough accounts of him being tied to Moriarty that Sherlock felt fairly sure that was who Moriarty was addressing now.
Sherlock heard the sound of footsteps coming towards him, caught the faintest whiff of heated metal, and then searing, blinding pain was radiating through his left upper arm. Wave after wave of agony made him howl and thrust himself uselessly back against the concrete block walls of his prison as he tried to escape.
The footsteps retreated and Sherlock was left gagging at both the pain in his arm and the scent of charred meat.
"That was just the first taste of what we'll be doing to you today," Moriarty said, sounding bored. "You can tell Sebastian to stop at any point, but if you beg off before he's given you the full number of prods with his fire poker, we'll have to switch to someone else. Remember, we have Dr. Watson."
Sherlock voiced a low, tortured groan. His arm was in absolute agony. He couldn't imagine allowing himself to be touched by the hot fire poker again, but at the same time, the idea of letting John take this torture for him was an absolute anathema.
"It is heated up again, Sebastian? All right. Again."
Sherlock listened to the same footsteps approach again and tightened his body in preparation. It was useless trying to ready himself for the pain, though; as soon as the heated metal touched him - this time pressing against his bare ribs low on his left side - he was writhing and screaming.
"Ready to beg off?" Moriarty asked as the footsteps of Moran retreated again. Wave after wave of pain swept over him and twisted nauseatingly in his guts. Sherlock shook his head at Moriarty violently, not trusting himself to speak without vomiting all over himself. "Twice more, Sebastian."
Sherlock tried not to scream as the hot poker pressed against his right kneecap, but this was not the kind of pain that would allow him to keep his silence. His voice was hoarse by the time the poker touched the back of his right hand, and yet still he screamed.
When Moran's footsteps retreated the fourth time, Sherlock slumped against the wall, gasping and leaking desperate tears behind his blindfold, the material absorbing the tears Sherlock could not seem to stop. He caught his breath enough to whisper, "Why are you doing this?" and Moriarty laughed softly at the question, his voice amused when he spoke.
"I can't tell you that now." Moriarty's footsteps retreated to the door, the sound of his voice fading as he moved away. "I'll tell you in a few days, maybe. Sebastian?"
Sherlock had only a second to realize footsteps were coming towards him again and then the skin on the top his right foot was sizzling from a touch of the heated poker and he was screaming in agony again, jerking his foot away.
His screams died out just in time to hear the soft puff from the doorway and to feel a sting in his arm - tiny compared to the five burned spots spread across his body - and then he was dropping heavily into unconsciousness, the pain of the burns chasing him down into the dark.
- - - - -
When he woke next, his burns had been treated and were covered in plasters. The pain was still extreme, but it was at least tolerable. His thirst was less tolerable, though. His mind swung wildly between to two extremes, focusing on the burns and then his thirst.
Sherlock took several long, slow breaths as he fought to bring his mind back under control. He needed to be rational the next time Moriarty showed up.
Almost as if summoned by Sherlock's thoughts, the heavy steel door groaned open again and Moriarty's cheerful voice asked, "How are you feeling today, Sherlock?"
"Fine," Sherlock said, his voice still rough from the screams he'd voiced when Moran was burning his skin. He was sure his dehydration wasn't helping, either.
"Good. That means you're ready for round two. Sebastian?"
Sherlock had to admit as Moran's fist collided with his face that this was not nearly as bad as the hot poker had been.
After almost ten minutes of his face being hit over and over, though, he was beginning to rethink his earlier assessment of this session of torture. When Moran stepped back, Sherlock put his bound hands against the wall beside him, trying to keep from slipping down to a prone position as he spat out a mouthful of blood. He was losing fluids and his body would be struggling to heal the burns and now the bruising on his face. There was already a threatening thickness to his tongue that bode ill for him if he didn't get water soon.
"Ready to beg off?" Moriarty asked, sounding almost excited. "We do have Dr. Watson, and you're looking almost done in."
"More," Sherlock whispered, bracing his hands against the wall at his side to shove himself back into a sitting position, leaning more firmly against the wall at his back.
"Stubborn," Moriarty said, sounding disappointed. "All right, Sebastian."
The ache of his face had become almost constant, so Moran's fists did little to change the overall misery. Sherlock took the final five minutes of his beating with no other sounds than soft groans. When Moran stepped back again, Sherlock let himself fall to the floor, curling on his side with his unburned biceps pressed into the cold, rough cement.
"You're being foolish, Sherlock. All you have to do is say you've had enough, and Sebastian will finish the session with Dr. Watson and leave you and I to talk. We're going to talk soon anyway, but it would help if you would let Dr. Watson have his share of the fun." Moriarty waited but Sherlock had nothing to say. After a few minutes, Moriarty spoke again, his voice darker. "Suit yourself. We'll be back soon."
There was a soft clink, the sound of something glass being set on the cement floor, and then the heavy door was groaning on its hinges as they pushed it shut again.
When the heavy door shut behind them, Sherlock allowed himself to voice a series of long, pitiful moans. His burns were agonizing and his face felt pulped. Moran had been careful not to knock any teeth out - at least, this time; Sherlock was not going to fool himself into believing that the same level of care would persist throughout whatever torture Moriarty had planned for him - but the bruises felt like they went all the way to the bone.
For the briefest moment, he wondered why he wasn't letting them torture John, too. Why was he taking it all on himself? They were friends, certainly, but this was insane.
As soon as the thought crossed his mind, though, Sherlock was recoiling from it. Moriarty would never touch John again. Sherlock still sometimes woke in the night from nightmares of Moriarty strapping John into the Semtex vest, even though it was unlikely that Moriarty had dirtied his own hands by taking an active role in John's kidnapping. In Sherlock's dreams, it was Moriarty who put the Semtex on John and it was Moriarty who was the threat, not the nameless snipers or the other hired help.
Sherlock wanted nothing so much as to protect John, even if that meant that he died in the process. He would not let Moriarty harm John again.
Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what that meant for his feelings for John. Being willing to die for another person was something straight out of the romantic films Mrs. Hudson liked so much, but Sherlock was John's friend and that was all. Wasn't it?
He carefully shrugged the thought away, rolling slowly from his side onto his stomach and crawling awkwardly on his forearms and one knee - the other kneecap was still too tender from being burned to put weight on it - across the floor towards the door. He reached out carefully, patting both hands slowly across the floor until his fingers brushed against something that made a sound like glass scraping across the floor when he bumped it. He wrapped both hands around the thin container - obviously a drinking glass, now that he had it in his hands. He brought it up to his nose, sniffing cautiously. It smelled like basic tap water, but there was always a chance it was poisoned. Moriarty had killed with poison at least twice that Sherlock knew of. Then again, if he didn't drink water soon, he would die anyway.
Sherlock downed the glass in slow sips, fighting against the urge to drain it after the first cool, wet trickle touched his tongue. He had been without a drink of water for at least three days, although it was more likely to be four days at this point. He knew that drinking the entire glass in a continuous gulp the way he wanted to do would only make him vomit.
Several minutes later, the glass was emptied and Sherlock set it back on the floor beside the steel door. Exhaustion was pulling at him, dragging him down towards sleep. He crawled back across the floor to lodge his back into his corner and then didn't resist the pull of sleep any longer, his chin dropping down onto his bare chest; if he was to heal enough to survive the next round of torture, he needed as much rest as he could get.
- - - - -
"Rise and shine, Sherlock!" Moriarty crowed, his voice almost drowned out by the groan of the steel door being forced open. "Are you ready to let Dr. Watson take his portion or are you still going to be greedy?"
"Why ruin the system that's been working so well for us?" Sherlock asked, his words slurring from the swelling of his lips and jaw due to Moran's beating. Based on the amount of swelling and tenderness, the beating had taken place at least four hours before, but it was quite possible that he was miscalculating. Dehydration combined with pain were serving quite well to muddle his powers of deduction.
Moriarty said only a single word in response to Sherlock's blithe refusal, his voice dark with disappointed fury. "Sebastian?"
It was a knife this time. Long, precise cuts were applied to his shoulders and arms, and the cuts just went on and on. Through it all, Moriarty was talking to Sherlock, his tone conversational.
"You can beg off any time. He's going to do both arms, you know. Any time you want Dr. Watson to take his share, just say so. I would suggest you do it soon, though; it's only going to get worse from here on out. I want you malleable, not broken. You won't be able to do me a favor if you're broken, Sherlock. And that's the whole point of this exercise, after all; I need you to help me out. I have a job that only you can do."
"I decline," Sherlock said through gritted teeth. Moran had finished his shoulder and biceps and was moving slowly down his forearm. The cuts hurt almost as much as the burns had, each new injury melding with the ones that came before to turn his entire upper arm into one continuous line of searing pain.
"But you seem so interested in everything I do. After all, you were meddling in my business yet again when I brought you and Dr. Watson in."
"The embezzlement," Sherlock whispered, pushing the back of his head against the rough concrete blocks of the wall behind him, gasping in short, sharp breaths as Moran moved slowly down his forearm and towards the back of his hand. The cuts were increasingly painful on the thinner skin at the end of his forearm.
"Full marks!" Moriarty said cheerfully. "Since you are so taken with my work, I thought you would be agreeable to taking on a job personally."
"I've already declined," Sherlock said, the words barely audible. Moran was moving to his other shoulder now, beginning the process all over again.
Moriarty gave a soft huff. "We'll have to be more persuasive, then. Tomorrow should be loads of fun. Finish up at your leisure, Sebastian."
The sound of Moriarty's retreating footsteps and a heavy clunk of another metal door of some sort filtered dimly through the pain as Moran worked his way precisely down Sherlock's arm. Moran had just finished the last cut on Sherlock's wrist where the bump of Sherlock's ulna pressed up against the skin when he spoke.
"It would go easier on you if you'd just agree to this one job," Moran said, his voice low and just as precise as the cuts he'd been making in Sherlock's skin.
"But it wouldn't be 'one job,' would it?" Sherlock asked, his own voice horribly weary.
There was a long pause, Moran staying crouched next to Sherlock. The heat of his body stayed firmly against Sherlock's left side, unwavering as the other man considered Sherlock's words. Finally, he spoke again. "No. It never is."
And then Moran was rising, the heat of his body fading and leaving Sherlock in the chill of his prison. Moran's footsteps moved away, but he paused at the doorway. Sherlock turned his blindfolded face tiredly towards where he'd heard Moran pause.
"Yes?"
"You should still do the job. You will eventually, anyway. You should save yourself some scars on the way to the bottom." Then there was a soft puff of a dart gun going off, the tiny sting of the dart digging into Sherlock's thigh, and a slow spiral away from the pain.
- - - - -
Sherlock rose from unconsciousness with Moriarty's voice in his head: "We have Dr. Watson."
Those four words had become the true torture in Sherlock's life. The physical pain was horrible, but he could handle it knowing that it was him experiencing it and not John.
He was no longer sure how long he'd been in his concrete prison. Had it been a week? Was anyone looking for him and John? Had Mrs. Hudson phoned the police or did she assume they'd left on a case without informing her?
Was Moriarty leaving John in misery and silence or were they giving John water and food? Was John getting the same frequent visits with Moran that Sherlock was getting? Expecting Moriarty to keep his word was a ridiculous exercise; Moriarty had already proven how 'changeable' he was. What if John were going through the same bouts of torture under the guise of protecting Sherlock?
He could not think of that, though. His entire body hurt, each small injury adding to the nearly unbearable overall weight of the combined injuries. He was thirsty, so desperately thirsty. One glass of water over the course of four (or five?) days was simply not enough, especially with all the swelling from the wounds Moran had inflicted. If he started thinking about John being tortured and suffering like he was, his mind would break.
And yet, now that the idea had occurred to him, Sherlock couldn't seem to pull himself away from the consideration of it. He could easily picture John blindfolded and bound in his own concrete prison. He could imagine John being beaten by Moran, cut by Moran, burned by Moran, while Moriarty taunted him from the doorway. Sherlock struggled against the zip tie on his wrists, twisting his hands until he felt warm blood trickling over his hands. Even then, he couldn't stop himself from twisting, hoping the blood might allow him to slip one hand free of the binding.
He finally stopped when the pain became too intense. He had suffered for days on end but the physical was nothing compared to the pain of his imaginary John being tortured by Moran. Sherlock voiced a long scream of frustration and misery, thrusting the back of his head against the concrete block wall.
He thought he heard John's voice calling his name at some distance, and he cried out again, misery pounding through him. So, they did have John.
But then the door was groaning open and John's voice was right there, sounding desperate as he repeated Sherlock's name over and over. John's warm hands were touching the blindfold, his fingers brushing against Sherlock's skin at the edges of the material.
"Sherlock? Can you understand me? Sherlock, please, answer me."
"John. You weren't captured?" Sherlock whispered as the blindfold came off. His eyes, so used to the darkness behind the material, couldn't handle the sudden blinding light from the single bare bulb hanging in the tiny concrete room and he slammed them shut, flinching away.
"Captured? No, I've been losing my mind for the last five days, trying to find what had happened to you. You just bloody vanished while I was paying for a cab! If I hadn't seen the drag marks from your shoes on the white tile floor, I would've thought you'd just decided to take off on holiday or something." John's voice was equal parts frustrated and worried. "Can you stand? Can you walk? There's an ambulance outside, just outside... I can go back to get help - a stretcher -"
"I can walk," Sherlock whispered, forcing his eyes to squint open. They stung sharply and watered a bit, but he was able to take in John's face. The bags under his eyes, the creases of concern on his brow, the slightly ruffled sandy hair... it was all so comfortingly familiar that Sherlock gave a soft sob, his head dropping forward for a second as an unexpected surge of emotion overpowered him.
"Sherlock... look, I'm going to get someone else -"
"No," Sherlock said, his voice tight. "I can manage."
He gripped John's plaid button-up shirt with both hands, unable to part them thanks to the zip tie still around his wrists. John glanced down as Sherlock grabbed him and swore softly under his breath, taking in the sight of Sherlock's shredded wrists and the embedded plastic. He turned to look towards the door of the concrete room, raising his voice and shouting, "Greg! Someone, I need someone now!"
Footsteps pounded towards them and Detective Inspector Lestrade appeared in the doorway, his expression tight with worry. His clothes looked like he'd had them on for at least two days, rumpled and stained with takeaway food. So, Sherlock's absence had been noticed by The Yard. Of course, with John free to search for him, it was likely he'd been riding Lestrade almost constantly in his efforts to find his friend and flatmate.
Lestrade took in the sight of Sherlock clinging to John and his expression went from worried to shocked to angry in the space of a few seconds. He had a small red Swiss Army pocket knife out in another second, striding the few steps across the rough concrete floor to slice through the zip tie, freeing Sherlock's hands. Sherlock did not let go of John's button-up as he carefully pushed to his feet, his back scraping along the cement block wall as he continued to lean against it, unsure if he'd be able to stay on his feet without the support.
"Did you get Moriarty?" Sherlock asked Lestrade, still squinting in the painfully bright light. John hissed in a breath at the name, but Lestrade was speaking.
"We only found one man. If there was a second... well, the first guy slowed us down, let himself be taken into custody. Said his name was Moran?"
"Sebastian Moran," Sherlock agreed, his voice weary. "Moriarty's right-hand man. He's the one who did... all of this." Sherlock nodded his head down at his own body and he felt John going tight beside him. John was turning towards the open door, his expression murderous, but Sherlock could not seem to untangle his hands from the thin cotton of the button-up shirt and John stopped as soon as he felt the tug of Sherlock's weight preventing him from moving forward.
Lestrade took in John's expression, though, and leaned back into the hall, calling out, "Donovan? Get him into a car right now, please." At John's look, Lestrade shrugged. "Saving you from yourself, mate. Besides, you need to get Sherlock to the ambulance. He may even need hospital. Some of the cuts on his arms... and what's under those plasters?"
"Burns," Sherlock said, his voice colorless. "From a heated fireplace poker."
John's sharp intake of breath sounded incredibly loud in the sudden silence of the concrete room. After a long pause, John spoke, his voice carefully controlled and utterly emotionless. "Let's get you out of here, let the emergency medical techs have a look at you, yeah?"
"Fine," Sherlock said, shifting until he was no longer leaning against the rough concrete block wall and was instead leaning his weight fully on John.
John responded by wrapping an arm carefully around Sherlock's bare lower back, careful of the burn low on Sherlock's ribs, moving at a slow shuffle as they made their way out of the tiny room. Despite the fact that the room couldn't have been any larger than three meters by three meters, it took them at least two minutes to make their way to the open steel door. Lestrade stepped out of the way, letting them head down a very short hallway to a ladder that led up at least another three meters to a rectangle through which Sherlock could see the star-speckled night sky. Sherlock looked at the ladder silently for several long moments until John cleared his throat.
"Sorry... this is someone's old bomb shelter. Can you manage the climb?"
"I suppose I'll have to," Sherlock said, taking his hands unwillingly from John's button-up and latching onto the rungs of the ladder. The climb was almost as bad as Moran's torture, the movements causing the scabbed-over cuts on his arms to reopen. By the time he made it all the way to the surface, his arms were absolutely covered in blood and it had begun running down his bare sides. The warm late-summer air felt good on his bare skin; the concrete bomb shelter had been very well insulated and the temperature had been constantly cool.
Sergeant Donovan was waiting at the top of the ladder, but she took one look at Sherlock and all her calm, professional superiority blew away and left her face stark and shocked as she stared at him. Slowly, the expression turned to sympathy and she turned away, giving him some privacy. He didn't have the energy to tell her off and was almost pitifully grateful to her for leaving him to his misery in relative solitude.
John was up the ladder a second later, his arm going around Sherlock's back again, and they resumed their slow, limping pace across the front garden of a good-sized house.
"Unoccupied," John said, nodding towards the house as the shuffled past it. "It was the homeless network that found you, tracking down someone who'd heard from someone who'd seen something... and once they gave me the possible location, I had Lestrade and every available officer on the way here. Anyway, here's the ambulance."
Sherlock was not even moderately surprised when the emergency medical tech recommended a trip to hospital to have the wounds treated. John rode in the ambulance with Sherlock, his expression coolly professional as he watched the tech searching for a vein in Sherlock's dehydrated body so he could run an IV of lactated Ringer's solution. Sherlock shut his eyes and let himself drift as the ambulance juddered and bounced over ruts in the road. He didn't even care that the bouncing caused the various marks of torture on his body to ache; he was simply relieved to be with John once more and to see that John was uninjured. Moriarty had not gotten him again.
He felt the brush of John's clasped hands against the back of his left hand where it dangled beside the stretcher and he did not stop to question his choice as he wrapped his fingers into John's, letting his awareness center on the warmth of John's skin and the roughness of calluses on John's palms. He could feel the startled jerk of John's hands, a pause as John undoubtedly stared at Sherlock's face questioningly, and then John's fingers were closing around his. Sherlock's breath shuddered out in a soft sigh as John held on to him and he let himself doze the rest of the ride to hospital.
Surprisingly, only a few of the cuts on Sherlock's arms needed sutures to hold them together. Moran had been careful, keeping the marks thin and shallow, aiming more for maximum pain rather than maximum damage.
The burns were already healing. The harried-looking ER doctor gave them instructions on taking care of the wounds and started to explain the signs of infection until Sherlock finally mustered the energy to cut him off tersely.
"I live with a doctor," he said, nodding towards John. The ER doctor raised a single eyebrow at John and had then addressed the rest of his speech to the other man, leaving Sherlock to lean against the cool white wall of the exam room, his eyes shut, waiting until John told him it was time to go home. Before they left the exam room, though, John took off his button-up shirt. He stood in the stark white room in nothing but his white vest and held his button-up out to Sherlock.
"Can't do anything about the lack of shoes... but at least you won't look quite so..." John trailed off and then cleared his throat. "Anyway, put it on."
"It won't fit right," Sherlock murmured, leaning forward on the exam table to grasp the button-up shirt in his hand.
"Like any of your shirts do?" John muttered, but he was smiling faintly.
Sherlock dozed in the back of the cab until they arrived at Baker Street, leaning heavily against the seatback. Getting up the stairs to 221B was not quite as bad as the ladder had been, but it was close. His burned foot and knee were really beginning to protest to all the walking. He was relieved when John finally deposited him on the sofa before rushing off to make him a mug of sweetened tea.
The flat looked the same as it had the last time he'd seen it. Even the scents were the same: formaldehyde, books, and the heavy woodsy scent of the shampoo John favored. It swept over him like a comforting balm, and Sherlock was dozing when John returned. He snapped awake at the sound of John setting his mug down on the coffee table. For a moment, he wasn't completely sure that he actually was home, and he had to blink around himself in confusion for several seconds.
"So... Moriarty?" John asked, his expression carefully blank as he settled himself on the coffee table across from Sherlock, handing over Sherlock's mug of tea.
"Yes," Sherlock confirmed, lifting the mug to sip at the hot, sweet brew. "This time, it was me in the Semtex vest."
John gave a quick, humorless laugh, his dark blue eyes searching Sherlock's face. "Why was he doing it? Why... all this?" John gestured at all of Sherlock, indicating with a single wave all the wounds on Sherlock's body, currently hidden beneath John's button-up shirt. Sherlock set the mug down next to John's hip and began slowly unbuttoning the shirt to return it to its owner.
"He said he had a job he wanted me to accept. This was his way of convincing me to go along with him." Sherlock shrugged the shirt off carefully, holding it towards John. John gave a minute shake of his head, though, and Sherlock draped the shirt over the arm of the sofa before retrieving his tea to take another sip.
John was letting his eyes slide slowly from wound to wound, cataloguing each individual injury. When he spoke, his voice was tight with frustration. "Why didn't you fight back?"
"Moriarty told me they had you, too. He threatened to... do all of this," Sherlock paused to gesture at himself with his free hand, "to you if I didn't cooperate. Given the choice between being tortured or having you tortured, I found my decision quite easy to make."
John sat up straight, staring at Sherlock in wide-eyed silence, his face blank. "But... they didn't have me."
"Obviously," Sherlock murmured, raising his tea to take another sip. The sugar and caffeine were doing him good; he felt less vague with each sip. "But, I had no way of knowing that. I couldn't risk that they did have you and would hurt you if I didn't cooperate. There is very little, I am finding, that I would not endure to keep you safe."
"Why?" John asked, his brow furrowing and his face twisting in pain as he stared at Sherlock.
"Because you matter," Sherlock said, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the sofa wearily. "It's distracting how much your happiness and comfort matter to me. There are many days when thoughts of you are so intrusive that I find it hard to concentrate on the cases. What did you call the one with the women with dyed-blonde hair and the unusual pattern of red spots on her body?"
"The Speckled Blonde?" John whispered, his voice weak.
"I would have been able to solve that one much more quickly if it hadn't been for the distraction you yourself provided. It's like having a snippet of music you can't get out of your head, coming back and repeating itself over and over until you're driven to distraction. Except I never find myself bothered by thoughts of you. They're the most pleasant part of my days, second only to the reality of you." Sherlock sighed, rolling his head slowly against the back of the sofa, not quite shaking it. "I suppose it has caused me to be somewhat protective of you. The desire to keep you safe only grows stronger when paired with the idea of Moriarty being the one harming you. It's completely illogical, but there it is."
John hesitated for a moment and then Sherlock heard the creak of the other man rising from the coffee table. He expected John to walk away; hearing that his flatmate was obsessed with him probably wasn't the most comfortable bit of information John could have received.
When the sofa cushion next to Sherlock dipped down and Sherlock felt the warmth of John's body along his right side, his eyes popped open in surprise. Slowly, carefully, John twined his fingers through Sherlock's right hand, holding their hands palm to palm as he moved close, cautious of the cuts along Sherlock's arm. It was very similar to what had happened in the back of the ambulance, and Sherlock enjoyed it just as much the second time.
"You drive me to distraction in the best way, too," John said, his voice low and careful. "But, I'd prefer it if you never let someone torture you for my sake again. Even if you know they have me, don't just let them hurt you. Because... because seeing what Moriarty's done to you hurts as much as if he'd actually done it to me."
"I very much doubt that, John," Sherlock murmured, distracted by the warmth of John's palm against his. Cautiously, he stroked the pad of his thumb across the knuckle of John's thumb, amazed at being allowed to do so. "The reality of these injuries is beyond imagining, I assure you."
"Sherlock. That's not what I meant," John said, squeezing Sherlock's hand gently. "Seeing you injured... upsets me."
"Oh," Sherlock said, lifting his head to look at John's face. There was something in John's eyes, something important. Sherlock wasn't quite sure what it meant, but he felt fairly certain that John would help him understand.
"Yeah, 'oh,'" John repeated, raising their joined hands carefully to brush his lips across Sherlock's knuckles. It caused a burst of adrenaline and a thrill of something like expectation to tremble through Sherlock's core and he drew a shaky breath in response. He suddenly wanted more - much, much more - from John, although he wasn't entirely positive what 'more' he was wanting. At that moment, though, he felt quite sure that John would willingly show him. "Come on, you; if you're going to sit around in nothing but your trousers, at least let me help keep you warm."
John tugged gently at Sherlock's arm to make him sit up and Sherlock complied. There was a bit of maneuvering and shifting of positions, but eventually John was leaning into the crook of the arm and back of the sofa with Sherlock's head pillowed on his shoulder, both of his arms around Sherlock's chest. Sherlock had to admit the position was both much warmer and much more comfortable.
They stayed that way for hours, Sherlock dozing on and off but always waking to find John still holding him. They were both tentatively and silently absorbing the change in their relationship. Truthfully, they didn't need any words between them just then.