Sherlock100 29/100 #91 Birthday
Title: Staring Down the Barrel 3/3
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade
Prompt: Sherlock/anyone
Sherlock never thinks he needs the police's help, and goes off in pursuit of some criminals.
Needless to say, they overpower him.
Word Count (if fiction): 1600
Rating: M
Summary: We do actually get into the fluff this time, I think. Maybe I just don't understand what fluff is...anyway, here is the final part, in which Sherlock accepts some help.
Spoilers: First season
Warnings: Non-con, violence. Not terribly graphic, but potentially triggering.
Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock or John.
My table: http://marill-chan.livejournal.com/4488.html
Beta: HUGE thanks to the lovely grassle for all your help!!
John got the fright of his life the next morning. He’d ended up stretching out on the floor when it had become clear he was going to fall asleep in his chair and possibly wind up on the floor anyway. He woke up as sunlight feathered through the open blinds and across his forehead.
John got up straight away, needing to see if the night’s rest had helped Sherlock in any way. John flinched back seeing that Sherlock’s eyes were wide open and fixed upon the ceiling.
“Sherlock, what are you doing?” John said at last, with a breath of nervous laughter. Sherlock was gripping the bed sheets. John put a hand on the twitching shoulder to anchor him. Sherlock was stiff as a board and the doctor in John started to panic, his thoughts jumping immediately to catatonia.
He got onto the bed next to him and put his hands on either shoulder. “Sherlock, stop it, listen to me. It’s John. Can you hear me?”
Sherlock’s eyes suddenly tracked him and he gasped. “John…” His voice sounded worse than it had the day before even, but John wasn’t going to get picky about a thing like that.
“What were you doing?” his own voice shaking.
Sherlock scoffed. “Sleeping.”
“Right,” John said, as he slid off the man. “Nightmare?” he guessed.
Sherlock closed his eyes. His jaw clenched, and he pulled the sheet up to his throat. John leaned back a little, giving him time. When he was about to engage with Sherlock to start asking questions, Mrs. Hudson’s voice called to them from the living room.
John left Sherlock’s bedroom to find Mrs. Hudson standing in the entryway, holding a basket. “This was delivered for Sherlock,” she said. “It isn’t his birthday, is it? If it is, I’ll get started on a cake right away!”
John smiled and inspected the basket, which held a dozen apple streusel muffins, arranged around a BlackBerry, which was tied with a red ribbon. “No, it isn’t his birthday, Mrs. Hudson.” He read the small tag and nodded. “Yeah, this is from his brother. Strange way of checking up on Sherlock, you see.”
Mrs. Hudson nodded knowingly. “My older sister once sent me a cat, so I know how it is.”
John stared, blinked and smiled. “I’ll see you later, Mrs. Hudson.” He closed the door and wondered if Sherlock would care for the muffins, or trust that the phone wasn’t tapped, which of course it was. He brought the basket into the bedroom anyway, hoping that a little brotherly annoyance would snap Sherlock back to himself. At least a little.
The man looked as though he could shrivel up and fall through a crack in the floor. John set the muffins on the bedside table and felt Sherlock’s forehead. Still acceptable.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock mumbled, glaring at the basket. “Thank God he sent that, otherwise I wouldn’t be so obviously restored to good health.”
John snorted. “Well, I’m not going to turn down a breakfast muffin…-wish we had milk, though.” He unwrapped one of the crumbly cakes and took a bite. “These are really good. Want one?”
“It’ll get crumbs in my bed.” Everything about Sherlock, his voice, his lack of movements was completely lethargic and dulled.
“Yesterday there was an old bowl of noodles in your bed.”
“I was going to get to it eventually.”
John set his muffin down, having finished a little over half of it. “How are you feeling this morning? Pain any worse?”
Sherlock stared vapidly.
“You have to talk to me,” John insisted. “I have to know what’s going on with you so I can help you.”
“Don’t want help.” Sherlock stuffed his face into his pillow.
John rolled his eyes. “I know. But you probably need it, don’t you think?”
Sherlock turned his face back to John. “Tea would be helpful for my throat.” He said the last word delicately, as though it were being used to express a secret.
“Okay. Want honey in it?” John asked. At Sherlock’s agreement, he left to briefly brew a pot of tea and prepared a lemon as well.
…
Sherlock sipped his tea and even had a bite of John’s muffin. He ignored John’s flitting around like a mother hen with a hurt chick. He had more important thoughts bearing down on him. The right side of his body was just a bruise. Not flesh and muscle. A vast, encompassing bruise. He supposed he’d been lucky to have not sustained a worse injury when he’d been pushed out of the car. His head throbbed, every now and then fading to the background, but always coming back with a thump of nausea. The nausea grew vaster as he drank the tea, every swallow, the movements of his tongue and oesophagus reminding him of what he had been made to do. The emotions tagging along the nausea were a frightening mixture: guilt, shame, exposure, vulnerability, violation, regret, defeat, all of them in the same family of pitiable feelings, but each with its own twist on his psyche.
John’s restless shuffling brought him back. “Can we talk about what happened?” John asked, when Sherlock met his eyes.
That was the last thing Sherlock wanted to do. The top five on his list of helpful activities would be taking a shower, brushing his teeth, getting dressed, getting back to work, and forgetting what he‘d been put through. John’s eyes seemed to insist. Sherlock would talk about it, if only for John’s peace of mind. The smaller details being less significant, Sherlock went for the substance of the issue. “I was made to suck on a man’s gun while he pleasured himself on top of me.”
That seemed to knock the wind right out of John. He forced out breaths and went as pale as death. Sherlock watched him as his mouth hung open like a gasping fish’s as he groped for words in his stunned brain. “Sherlock…that’s terrible. I’m so…so sorry,” John was finally able to say.
Sherlock erupted. “Oh, it’s terrible, is it? So glad you’re here to tell me, because I had no idea at all!” He set his mug down on the table with a loud clank.
John had the nerve to look kind and compassionate. “It’s perfectly normal to feel angry right now. In fact, any emotion you feel is--”
“Don’t try stupid bloody therapy on me, John. I won’t have it.” Sherlock wouldn’t let John normalise this for him. What had happened was the complete, rational opposite of normal, and he just wanted to shut it away into a dark box in his mind.
John seemed to settle, looking hurt and uncertain of himself. “How can I help?” he said, finally.
Sherlock swallowed as he thought about the question. He knew that John needed to feel useful, to feel he was valuable. “I want to have a bath,” he admitted, choosing this as a small way that John could be helpful.
…
John drew Sherlock a warm bath, having to stop himself from going overboard by lighting a candle. You’re not trying to court him, John, he insisted to himself. That would make him uncomfortable.
It was a slow, but steady process to get Sherlock out of bed, out of his sweat-damp clothing and lowered into the bath, but they managed. John grimaced as Sherlock accidentally bumped into the porcelain wall of the shower against his blackened right side. After some cursing, a lot of straining and more patience than John thought he had, Sherlock was up to his chest in a warm, unscented bath.
John was seated upon the closed lid of the toilet, feeling absurdly out of place. He handed Sherlock a wash cloth and waited to be told to take his leave. Instead, much to John’s surprise, Sherlock asked if he would help wash his hair.
He used a jug to fill water and then pour it over Sherlock’s head, much like his mother had done when John was young. He scrubbed shampoo into the tangly locks, meaning at first to give a light massage, but giving up on that when he hit a tender bump, indicated by Sherlock grunting. He rinsed his friend’s hair carefully, managing to get all of the suds out. Sherlock requested a comb, which John used to get out all the knots and snatches.
“Thank you,” said Sherlock once John had finished, and his hair was in long, straight tendrils down to his shoulders. “I think I’ll soak for a while longer.”
John nodded and placed some towels within Sherlock’s reach. As an afterthought, he brought in the new BlackBerry so Sherlock could call him when he was prepared to get out. A red light indicated a new message, which Sherlock asked him to read.
“It says, ‘Keller apprehended. Both Thomas and Roger. Listen to John. Mycroft,’” John read.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It does not say ‘Listen to John.’”
“Yes, it does,” John insisted, showing him the screen. Sherlock glanced at it and frowned. “And that means taking things easy, actually eating something with substance in it, which a bite of muffin does not have, and accepting that you need help now and again.” He raised his eyebrow with a warning look, daring Sherlock to debate him on anything.
Sherlock didn’t have anything to say, so John considered it a victory. He left the phone with the towels and went into the living room to wait for Sherlock to call him again. He kept his own phone on his lap, waiting for it to summon him. He wanted to be there when Sherlock needed him. For now, and for as long as Sherlock would have him.