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Chapter Text

The car slowed to a stop as they pulled in front of the hospital.

All were silent.

Sherlock was asleep, snoring softly. John gazed down ready to wake him, only to stare at his peaceful face, eyes blackened and red-rimmed from sobbing.

Could he face those haunted eyes now? He must.

Sherlock needed help, in many ways and John would have to be brave for his Detective when he couldn't be brave for himself. With a deep breath and a gentle hand he roused Sherlock gently, gliding a safe hand down his spine with care. John settled his hand on Sherlock's lower back and rubbed strong reassuring circles as he snuffled his way awake.

From between two slits, grey irises darted around before meeting gentle blue ones. John gave an encouraging smile and continued to urge Sherlock from sleep.

He was thoroughly exhausted, emotionally drained, physically abused and mentally screaming. The combination was less than pleasant but nevertheless he stretched as gently as he could in the small space before wincing at the pull of his torn flesh all over his body. John spoke to him gently, keeping him conscious.

"We're at the hospital Sherlock, you need to wake up so we can get you inside. Come on, wake up."

John moved his hands away from their treatment when Sherlock began to sit up with great difficulty until John guided him the rest of the way and carefully lead him out of the car. With a strong grip around the trembling form they made their way into the hospital where Sherlock was immediately taken from John's hands and sat carefully in a wheelchair.

John followed, unwilling to leave his friend's side and ignoring the looks from the Doctors. They were given a room on the second floor, 2-21.

John smirked at the little sign.

With great care he helped the nurses get Sherlock out of the chair and onto the bed, where they placed a gown at the foot of. After the nurses left, promising the Doctor's entrance in a few minutes Sherlock and John sat there regarding each other.

Scrutinizing him carefully, John watched Sherlock's breathing, shallow and quick. He was nervous, anxious, and afraid. The stirrups at the end of the bed, cold and menacing didn't help in the slightest.

"How about we get you changed. Do you need my help?"

John reached for the gown and shook it out gently.

Sherlock, keeping his eyes glued to the floor tiles nodded minutely.

John sighed, Sherlock was never meek, never defeated and now he looked ultimately hopeless. Silently vowing to kill whoever touched Sherlock he smiled gently and encouraged Sherlock to slowly lift his arms so he could remove the shirt.

After some wincing and tears on both sides, Sherlock now donned a very unflattering blue gown and was sitting underneath the sheets. His dirtied clothes folded and placed in the bag provided. Both men remained silent as John helped Sherlock fill out the form since he was trembling too greatly to write legibly.

Sherlock refused to reveal to John the attacker. John agreed to leave that portion blank for the time being.

A lifetime later the Doctor came in, a middle-aged man, older than both Sherlock and John. He smiled warmly and introduced himself as Dr. Dawson, and accepted the form which he gave to a small nurse who immediately left the room. John stood and introduced both of them before returning to Sherlock's side where he visibly quaked and was twisting nervous fingers into the sheets.

Dr. Dawson looked at him sadly at the display of fear and quickly reassured him.

"Hello Sherlock, I'm your Doctor for today. I will need to run an examination and take some pictures, alright?" Sherlock nodded mutely and allowed the tears to fall freely.

Quickly speaking to not upset his patient any further, he added, "Listen to me, Sherlock. You are in complete control, You can refuse any aspect of the examination, if I am making you uncomfortable in anyway or if I am going too fast just let me know. You're safe now so there is no need to worry. Will your friend be staying with us?" He smiled encouragingly and quietly applied two sets of gloves.

Again, Sherlock nodded.

Dr. Dawson guided his table over and sat at the other side of the bed before nodding, "Okay, no problem. Here we go, Sherlock. First I am going to take an oral swab, it will be a bit uncomfortable just try not to bite me, Okay?"

He smiled again before unwrapping the culture swab. "Open wide."

Sherlock's lip trembled as he opened his mouth, breathing hard through his nose and remaining rigid he reached for John's hand and squeezed it hard. Dr. Dawson had obviously performed this examination innumerable times because the sample was taken quickly and with little discomfort. John caressed large circles across Sherlock's shoulders, soothing him as best he could.

Sherlock trembled but leaned into the touch, wanting the affection but again not knowing quite what to do with it. John didn't mind and continued the ministrations.

Dr. Dawson carefully took samples of the underneath of his fingernails, using efficient, clinical movements. He purposefully ignored the way Sherlock's hands trembled.

Once those samples were packed away, Sherlock was instructed to lie back, which he managed with great pain, his legs pressed firmly together and crossed at the ankles. John gave him a firm squeeze on the shoulder, their eyes met for a mutual moment, a single understanding moment.

John was in it for the long haul; he would stay no matter what.

The reassurance calmed Sherlock's heart a great deal and he managed a deep breath. Scooting his stool to the foot of the bed, Dr. Dawson removed his first set of gloves. Reaching into the kit he took out another, longer than an average swab.

Sherlock's stomach clenched, he knew the next step. Sensing Sherlock's anxiety jump, John doubled his gentle caresses while Dr. Dawson explained that Sherlock needed to put his feet in the stirrups so the samples may be taken.

Sherlock's breaths hitched, small, weak noises escaped, realization dawned lately on John that he was sobbing. Obediently, Sherlock spread his legs, placing them in the stirrups and hiding his face in his hands.

Ashamed of his loss of control, his inability to separate his mind from his body, to dull the pain and fear, to hide away.

He felt obscenely open, disgusting in his nakedness.

Dr. Dawson placed an uncomfortably cold hand on his trembling inner thigh as a physical warning before gently pushing the swab inside.

John hummed in sympathy as Sherlock flinched, hushing him soothingly as the samples were taken. The few seconds seemed agonizingly long as Sherlock's body clenched in discomfort.

At the physical remnants, the intrusion and the memory.

With a soft voice, Dr. Dawson warned him to relax, to make it more bearable and soon the proper sample was required, the swab removed and bagged.

Sherlock was too engrossed in the millions of sensations running through his nerves, high on the endorphins of his ordeal. The crash taking hold, the exhaustion blasting him full force. The light was suddenly too bright, the sheets to rough, his brain felt hot and throbbing with each shaking breath.

He didn't even notice as his pubic hair was combed for evidence, or the blood samples collected. Sherlock was oblivious as he was stripped of his gown for photo documentation. And he remained unaware of the cleaning and stitching of his wounds and gashes, even the ones between his legs.

He lay surrounded by the rubble of his Mind Palace ignorant of his unconsciousness as they injected the anesthetic.

His eyes remained opened, unseeing, vacant.

And for the first time in his life, his mind went blank.