Synopsis: After the Fall, Sherlock is captured by Moriarty's men and then finish the business of "Burning the heart out of him." Sherlock returns to John and they deal with it.

Pairing: Sherlock/John

Rating: M (THERE IS GRAPHIC SEX)

Dark. Cold. Hands. That's all he can feel around him, nothing to deduce from those hands except bad things. Short nails, hands are used often; calloused, most likely from guns; strong fingers, a lifetime of work. He shuddered, stripped of his shirt and his hands clicked into clasps that closed around them, holding him in place. There's a leather strap around his waist and ankles, holding him down in a tight embrace like that of a corpse. There's a hissing sound from beside him and Sherlock opens his eyes, head pounding. His arm stings where he assumes a needle penetrated the soft skin in the cook of his elbow, a shifting and brief reminder of his addiction in the past.

His head is pounding and there's a dryness in his throat; a sour taste in his mouth, as though he'd vomited. The burning at the back of his throat and the acidic smell from around him substantiated this fact. He can hear footsteps; and he seems to have been strapped to a metal table, the icy surface against his skin making his back arch, the bindings rubbing raw against his skin. The footsteps pause at what he assumes to be the entrance to the room, light flooding the spotless white interior. He tilts his head, his voice rasping in his throat.

"What do you want?" His eyes pick out two figures, one slouched, the other standing military straight. There was no answer, and Sherlock observed them; the military man was revealing nothing, his back ramrod straight and eyes icy. The other man was more interesting, there was a steely glint in his eye, and he was holding a bag in both hands. He's exhausted and he can't focus, his brain feels swallowed in a fog that muffles everything, dumbing him down.

"Shh..." The word is almost a hiss and he shrinks from it, his stomach turning in his abdomen, flipping and seething. He looks around, desperately trying to hide from the men. His back arches off the cold metal and his fists clench.

"Please..." Sherlock nearly breaks, his voice cracking. "Let me go." He wants to be aloof again, uncaring and cold, but the drugs that have messed with his mind have shattered his cold exterior.

"No no, Jim left us a job." Sherlock's eyes widened, his face paling, the shock of dark hair making his eyes ever more large ad stark in his white face.

"What job?" He manages to regain his control, his voice steadying.

"A very special job. I assume you recall." Sherlock draws a blank, his mind unable to comprehend all of what's going on.

"I believe I don't."

"Oh he did tell you, I'm sure." Sherlock's voice quavered, his eyes unfocussing, desperately trying to recall all of the five minutes he'd spent in Jim's company prior to the fall and that final exchange on the roof. Something struck a chord of fear deep in his chest, and he struggled against the bonds again.

"No..." The military man grinned, showing two rows of perfectly straight teeth, brilliantly white.

"Oh at last he gets it." With a sharp smile, he draws out of his bag a blowtorch.

"He said..." Sherlock struggled weakly, biting his lips and clenching his fists, terrified. "He said he was going to... Oh god no... Burn me." The last words barely slip out of his mouth, but the military man, with his sandy blonde hair and piercing blue eyes- so reminiscent of John's it hurt- smiled and flicked the blowtorch on, a steady stream of flame issuing from the tip. Unable to stop himself, he screamed out loud, his face paling and eyes wide open.

"Now now, the great Sherlock Holmes screaming in my hands... What would Jim say?" He laughs bitterly, withdrawing from the bag a knife, serrated edges glinting wickedly under the harsh lighting. Sherlock puts two and two together, his heartbeat racing as the man, Jim's accomplice, heated up the knife. The other man, who he'd forgotten about momentarily in the face of imminent danger, shoved a cloth roughly into Sherlock's mouth. When he spoke, Sherlock expected a rough drawl, and was surprised when a soft, lilting voice rang out.

"We're going to make you watch, don't want to make it too easy for you do we? No that wouldn't be good; can't have you screaming, might draw your friend Lestrade here. Not that he's much of a friend to you after you faked your death is he?" Sherlock couldn't answer, the cloth in his mouth tasted of oil and blood and was making him feel sick. The blade was now super-heated and he desperately tried to wriggle free, the metal radiating heat onto his pale skin. He closes his eyes as the blade passes over his skin, simultaneously cutting and burning, turning the marble flesh red and wealed, blood pouring over the fresh burns. He screams, muffled by the rag, and nearly passes out at the intensity of the pain.

Again and again, the man cuts, the knife reheating each time, until Sherlock's torso is a mass of red burns and oozing cuts, the scent of burning flesh hanging in the air. He passes out more than once, being shocked back into consciousness by a harsh slap across the face, rough hands bruising the delicate skin. He's shaking all over as the man with the blowtorch makes the final torturous wound, turning the torch itself into the skin just above his heart. The flame burns his skin, turning it a shiny red, sparking all the nerve endings in Sherlock's body to scream in pain, his whole body flinching and trying to hide. The man with the fire flicks it off and surveys his work, the sight of Sherlock boneless and pale seeming to satisfy him.

"Throw him out." The command is short and uttered, the soft voiced man releasing Sherlock's restraints and lifting him, carrying him out of the room and into the alley behind the building. When certain they'd gone, Sherlock dragged himself away, each breath sawing in his chest, concealing himself behind an industrial sized bin as the rain fell all around.

It was there that he woke, his chest burning and aching, each new movement sawing in his chest as he took a breath in. After ten minutes of lying on the ground, shaking like a dog, he tried to stand. The pain was so intense he vomited, strings of bile in his throat and on the ground, the retching movement causing more pain. His movements were slow and laboured, each breath drawing tears to his eyes. Eventually he stood, hands gripping the side of the bin so hard his knuckles were white. He swayed on the spot, vision hazy.

The pain in his chest was so exquisite he almost passed out again, his vision blanketed in grey. With a desperate effort, he leant against the wall, inching forwards through the alley. The street was deserted, a soft mist hanging in the air, the bright orange of the sodium lamps harsh against the ethereal sky. Sherlock limped forwards, one hand pressed over his clotted and burnt skin, the other a support against the rough brick of the wall. His vision blurred as he made his way through London, staggering down the roads towards Mycroft's flat, hoping for it to be empty.

Each step he took was an agonising eternity, and he nearly blacked out twice when he stumbled over a broken bottle and again when a car startled him to the extent he bodily jumped; the sudden movement pulled at the tender flesh. There were hot tears coursing down his face by the time he arrived at the flat, and he was shaking all over, weak as a kitten. His hand was tacky with blood, his chest, still bare, was streaked with the stuff; the area over his heart was ravaged, the skin red and inflamed, burning to the touch.

He stumbled to the door and, as he felt consciousness slipping from his grasp, fumbled for the key in his trouser pocket and clumsily unlocked the door, stepping over the threshold and blacking out as the door swung shut behind him.

That was how Mycroft found him a few hours later. The older Holmes brother gingerly turned him over, recoiling at the injuries. His hands were shaking as he texted Anthea, knowing that if Sherlock had come to him, this must remain quiet. Anthea responded quickly, stating that she'd sent a private doctor to the flat. Mycroft then turned his attention to the body on the floor, his fingers seeking out a pulse. It was weak and thready, but definitely there, beating under them.

He was not the most physical of men, but his brother equally was not the most heavy. With soft hands he lifted Sherlock up, his heart wrenching a little at the piteous moan he made. Sherlock's eyelids fluttered but did not open, and Mycroft carried him carefully up towards the lift. He owned the whole building, and currently was the only occupant; though there were only two flats.

Sherlock was nearing consciousness when he reached the lift, and so Mycroft placed him on the ground, ducking beneath his arm to stop him swaying. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but the wave of pain was so intense he nearly vomited instead, but there was nothing in his stomach to bring up.

"What happened to you?" Mycroft's voice was hushed, very different from his usual clipped way of speaking.

"Moriarty's men... A blowtorch..." He shuddered again at the memory of the blade. "Knife." Mycroft's face hardened.

"It's alright, Sherlock, I'll make them pay." Sherlock nodded once, the fight leaving his body. Sherlock shivered, he hadn't noticed that his shirt was still missing and clutched his arms around his body. Mycroft lead him into his top floor flat and sat him down, pouring a large measure of whiskey out of the bottle on the counter and handing it to him. Sherlock drank it, still weak from the injury. Mycroft looked him over, eyes narrowing.

"How do you feel?" Sherlock gave a bitter smile, his face pale and drawn.

"Like John did when he got shot."

"Interesting."

"What?"

"That John's is the first name on your lips when you return." Sherlock felt the will to argue slipping away.

"Mycroft I don't care what you assume." He took a deep breath in, the pain lacing across his side. "Is there anything you can do?" He gestures to his chest, that movement along forcing the air out of his lungs in a soft scream. Mycroft looks him over.

"I have a doctor on the way." As he speaks there's a knock on the door, and Sherlock recoils, terrified. Mycroft places his hand on Sherlock's forearm. "It's fine."

"What if they followed me?" His voice has an edge of panic.

"Brother, please, you're safe here." Sherlock nodded mistrustfully, his whole body alert. Mycroft disappeared and returned a few moments later, a doctor in tow. Sherlock's heart lurched, this used to be John. He bit back tears, and Mycroft turned his gaze curiously onto him and saw the look. "Oh brother... I didn't think..."

"Don't... Please don't say anything." He's desperate to get back to John, so, so desperate, but he sits still as the doctor works on him, not even flinching as the injection numbs his skin and the stitches go in.

"It'll scar." He warned, and Sherlock felt an irrational stab of anger at the man in front of him. John wouldn't have made it scar. It was bandaged up quickly, a medical cream on the burnt flesh. Sherlock winced.

"Three weeks and it should be healed; and then it will scar. It'll always be tender." The doctor then turned away from them and left the building. Mycroft caught the scandalised look on Sherlock's face.

"John..." Sherlock whimpered. Mycroft shook his head.

"Not yet." Sherlock's face fell, a mask of sadness.

"Please."

"I can't, brother, I can't. I'm sorry. I need you to be well first."

"Mycroft, please, I need to see him."

"My sources say he's fine."

"It's not the same! Surely you know that?" Sherlock's chest was heaving, pain sparkling across his skin.

"Sherlock I can't," Mycroft placed his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. "You need to rest." Sherlock tried to fight him off but gave a soft whine in the back of his throat as the pain caught him off guard.

"I love him." His voice was stricken, pain rich in his voice. "God, Mycroft, I do." He dropped to the floor, wrapping his arms around his knees, shaking all over, each movement pulling at his injury. Mycroft carefully sat beside him, his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"I know you do." They sat in silence for a few moments. "Greg's been keeping an eye on him, they get on well now. He's alright." Sherlock nodded.

"I need to see him as soon as I can." Mycroft nodded.

"I understand, but you do need to heal first." Sherlock looked at the wall.

"Okay." Mycroft offered him his hand and pulled him to his feet.

"Go and sleep. I'll wake you in the morning." Sherlock nodded once again. "Goodnight, brother." When Sherlock had disappeared into his spare room, Mycroft poured out a glass of scotch and sipped it, worrying what Sherlock would do when he saw how John had changed. Lestrade's report had made him feel sick to his stomach. John was getting careless and when Lestrade had seen, he'd cried. Mycroft had comforted him all night. Mycroft just worried what Sherlock being back would do to him.

A week later, Sherlock arrived at Baker Street, his heart pounding in his chest, staring up. The key was still in his pocket and he slipped it in the lock, turning the tumblers and pushing it open. He walked up the stairs, silent as a ghost. He could see John sat in his chair, his head tipped forwards. Sherlock padded through the room and placed his hand on the chair, unsure how to proceed.

"John?" His voice was velvety soft, his hand still on the chair. John turned towards him, the mug of tea dropping onto the floor.

"Sherlock?" His voice is husky.

"John. I'm sorry." He places a hand on John's shoulder. "John I'm so sorry." He stepped back as John stood. He was pressed back against the wall as John secured his arms around his waist, sobbing silently. "I'm sorry." Sherlock's own eyes filled with tears and he pulled John in. Johns head was resting on his heart, and he flinched a little, the wound still healing.

"Sherlock... Oh god Sherlock..." Johns shoulders were shaking and he was sobbing into Sherlock's coat. Sherlock held him close, his lips softly brushing the blonde hair. With a sinking heart he realised it was back to its military short length, prior knowing him.

"God John I'm sorry." John was still holding him, clinging so tightly and whispering Sherlock's name over and over. The doctor finally stepped back, his face ashen and streaked with tears.

"Are you really here?" His voice husky, rough.

"Yes." Sherlock nodded, holding him closely. John withdrew a little, and in a mere second Sherlock had braced himself for John's punch. It hit him square in the jaw and he winced, falling to the floor, the impact sending shoots of pain through his chest. He let out a soft whimper. "I believe I deserved that." John helped him up.

"You did." Then his face relaxed. "But I'm so glad you're back." He held out a hand to shake, which Sherlock gratefully accepted.

Things slowly returned to normal, Sherlock and John settled back into normality, until they returned one day from a case, on a complete high. John was laughing and leaning against the wall as Sherlock came in. Sherlock turned as John spoke his name and was surprised when the doctor seized his lapels and pulled him into a kiss. Startled, his mind screaming to let go, he deepened the kiss, hands curling into the fabric of John's coat.

"I've wanted to do that for a long time." John muttered when he pulled back.

"As have I." Sherlock responded, dragging him up for another kiss. John made to undo Sherlock's top but he pulled back, unbuttoning John's shirt and peppering him with kisses. John's hands fell to his sides, grabbing Sherlock's hips. Sherlock pushed apart John's shirt, shoving it off his shoulders and onto the floor, kissing his neck. John gave a breathy moan as Sherlock reached for his belt, his hips bucking into Sherlock's hand.

"Oh god..." He whines, his hands digging into Sherlock's hips. Sherlock pushed him through and into his bedroom; his hands unbuckling the belt and letting it drop to the floor. John's soft whines spurred him on and he unbuttoned his jeans, shoving them down to his ankles. John's hands continue to paw at his shirt but he shoved them down, to the button on his trousers. John obliged, roughly palming him through his trousers and yanking the material down his legs.

Sherlock gave a soft whine, his hips rocking up to John's hand. John clambered onto the bed, his palms on the covers, chest heaving. Sherlock followed, boxers left on the floor as he tugged John's away, his hand ghosting over his cock. Sherlock himself is achingly hard and he pushes up against John, wanton and needy. John seizes control, shoving Sherlock on the bed and going for his buttons once more.

"Don't..." He begs, cupping John's face in his hands. John ignores him, shaking free of his hands to place featherlight kisses on Sherlock's neck and throat. Sherlock doesn't let him undo the buttons; he twines his fingers with Johns and gives a low moan as John licks at the hollow at the base of his throat, triggering a thousand nerve endings to send ripples of pleasure through his body. They're both still hard, and John goes into his drawers, pulling out a small bottle.

He slicked a finger up with the lube and circled it around Sherlock's entrance. Sherlock gives a breathy moan as John slips the finger inside him, tensing. John rubs his stomach to get him to relax and then slides another finger into him, scissoring them. Sherlock cries out, rocking his hips to get more friction. Sherlock grabs at John's forearms as he pulls out, desperate for something. John kisses his hair, gentle brushes of lips against skin. The message is clear: wait

Sherlock does so, gazing up at John with luminous eyes, his stomach fluttering under John's hand. He grabs John and pulls him down for a bruising kiss, biting and tugging at his lips. John groans despite himself, before coating himself with lube and pressing into Sherlock's slick entrance. Sherlock's back arches and his hands grab at the bedcovers, a desperate whine falling from his lips. He pushes in slowly, until he's filling Sherlock entirely, the fluttering contractions of Sherlock's muscles around him making a gasp break free of his lips.

He pulls out and then shoves hard into him again, the purple shirt that Sherlock was still wearing now damp with sweat. Another thrust and Sherlock moans as John brushes past his prostate. Sherlock scratches John's back, scoring red lines across the tanned flesh, his fingers hovering over the scarred tissue there. John distracts him by stroking Sherlock's cock, rhythmically applying pressure and friction. Sherlock's writhing on the bed, his body flushed pink and eyes screwed closed. John can tell the detective is close to coming as he tightens around him, his yells turning into meaningless syllables.

John flicks his thumb over the head of Sherlock's cock, and is rewarded with the detective digging his nails into John's shoulders, his back arching up. He grabs Sherlock's cock with his hand and brings Sherlock over the edge with a few quick strokes, the detective shuddering and moaning, John's name falling from his lips. The white out of orgasm crashes through him and he let's go, coating John's chest with his release and clenching around him. John comes a split second later, inside Sherlock, his hips raised and a breathy moan escaping his lips.

He collapses, pulling out of Sherlock, and falling onto the bed. Sherlock is panting, chest heaving, shirt soaked with sweat. John stands shakily, heading into the bathroom and returning a few moments later with a damp flannel. He wipes Sherlock off of him, and ghosts it over Sherlock, aware of his sensitivity. Sherlock lies, shirt sticking to him. He vaguely hears John speak, though the post-orgasmic haze is muffling it. A moment later he realises that his shirt is hanging open and John has stopped moving.

"Sherlock..." His voice is soft, and Sherlock closes his eyes, trying to hide.

"Please don't, please." He's shaking, and then he feels the softest brush of lips over the ruined flesh of his chest. He twists away, shame flicking all over his body.

"Sherlock..." John's soft voice again, cutting across his thoughts.

"No it's... John please." He lets out a piteous mewl, the sound rumbling out before he can catch himself. He doesn't want John's pity; doesn't want to remember what happened that night. Not now. John's hand on his leg grounded him again.

"What happened?" John's voice was soft and Sherlock shrank from the hushed tones. He felt tears on his cheeks and buried his head in his arms. John curled around him, the doctor protecting him. After a long time, Sherlock felt brave enough to speak, and he recounted the condensed version of what happened, feeling John stiffen beside him. He finished, feeling as though his heart had been ripped out. John didn't move for a long time, hardly breathing, and Sherlock waited with a strange fluttering sensation in his chest.

"John?" He whimpered, voice breaking.

"Don't." The soldier's voice was hard. Sherlock shrank away from him, tugging his shirt closed. "No I didn't mean to... I meant don't tell me it's okay because it isn't." Sherlock nodded, reaching for John's hand.

"Mycroft he... He fixed it." Sherlock whimpered again, his fingertips finding ridged scars on John's wrists.

"I want to kill them." John said dangerously. Sherlock nodded.

"They're dead." He shifted, wincing a little as the sensitivity rushed back. "Your wrists..." He whispered, tracing each line of scar tissue he found. John looked away, pulling them from Sherlock's grip.

"I was so alone. So hurt." His voice was tense.

"You... Oh... Oh John I'm so sorry it's my fault. I'm so sorry." Sherlock took his hand again, raising his wrists to his lips. He brushed his lips over the scars he'd caused, tears threatening in his eyes. John gave a soft whimper.

"Greg knew he... He found me in the bathroom at Scotland Yard he... He cried." Sherlock pressed his forehead to John's.

"I'm so sorry." He whispered, lips brushing John's. John nodded, kissing him back softly.

"I know." His fingers ran over the angry mark on Sherlock's chest, soothing it gently, cold fingertips on the burnt skin. Sherlock quivered under his touch.

"I... John you... I... I came back for you." John nodded.

"I know."

"I love you." The words had never been truer spoken and John wrapped Sherlock in his arms, holding him close.

"And I you. I'm sorry you got hurt."

"I'm sorry you were hurt because of me." Sherlock responded, his head buried in John's neck.

"I don't blame you." John whispered sweetly, holding Sherlock until they both fell asleep. There were no nightmares that night, but it didn't matter anymore. Whenever there were nightmares, they would wake each other and hold them close before kissing the scars and calming down. It was how they coped.

If you liked it, leave me a review (: