Written for a prompt on the kinkmeme
Crossposted to my LJ (Heartwing13) and AO3 (Heartwing)
"The right mixture of caring and not caring - I suppose that's what love is." –James Hilton
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John sat hunched over on the exam table. He knew it wasn't his fault. There was nothing he could have done. He had no reason to feel this ashamed.
But he just felt so dirty.
Large, dirty hands, all over him. Bruising, scratching. Holding him down.
The hands were almost as bad as… as what happened after.
.
He was thankful he didn't know the officer who took his statement and the pictures of the bruises and scratches. He would have been ashamed if Lestrade was there instead.
.
John flinched as the nurse opened the door. She smiled at him, and were it any other time, John would have flirted with her.
But not now, not when he was so dirty.
She set some standard hospital clothes down on a chair. "We're all done here. The shower's right through that door behind you."
John nodded, still staring at the floor.
"Is there anyone you'd like me to call?"
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John fidgeted. He didn't want Mrs. Hudson to know. She'd cry and fuss and John couldn't deal with that. Not Lestrade. He'd pity John and try to hide it by asking him questions about the incident. And he'd know and look at John with pity every time he saw him. Not Harry. She'd just drink and then start telling John how much he was of a mess up.
There was nobody else. If he were still here, he'd know what exactly John needed with one glance. But he wasn't here.
But he couldn't be alone. He needed somebody.
John wished, not for the first time, that Harry was how an older sibling was supposed to be. He needed somebody to be there for him. Harry wouldn't, and his friends would be too sorry for him. He needed someone more detached.
He needed him.
But he was gone, and left John behind.
"Sir?" the nurse prompted, jerking John out of his thoughts.
"Uh, yes. Mycroft Holmes. Er, here's his number."
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He went into the shower and scrubbed himself raw.
He had to get the dirt off. Alleyways aren't clean, and he had been lying on the ground.
He needed to get the man off of him. There could be no traces left. He was dirty, he had to get clean.
.
He still wasn't clean. His skin was pink and raw, and it hurt too much to scrub more. He had been in the shower too long. Somebody else probably needed it more than him.
.
"John." John glanced up at him, then looked away. He was ashamed. He didn't want to be seen. He shouldn't have asked the nurse to call him.
"I've already taken care of the paperwork," Mycroft told him, when it was clear that John wasn't able to say anything. "We can leave whenever you're ready."
John could only nod. He jumped when Mycroft put his hand on his shoulder, but allowed himself to be steered to the waiting towncar.
.
Not-Anthea wasn't there. John was thankful that it was empty, though he was a little uncomfortable. He could feel Mycroft's sharp eyes on him, but whenever he looked up, Mycroft was looking out the window.
"The-the man," John started to ask about his attacker, but was unable to finish.
"Is taken care of. I assure you that he has no chance of getting away without retribution."
"I don't want revenge, Mycroft. I want to make sure he can't again."
"Nor will he, John."
"Why?" Why are you helping me?
"I could ask you the same thing." The same reason you called me.
John clenched his jaw and looked out the window again.
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He still felt dirty and ashamed. He couldn't stop replaying it over and over in his mind.
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He flinched when a hand touched his shoulder.
Not the same hand. Smaller, cleaner, not hurting. This hand wouldn't hurt him.
.
He looked up to see that Mycroft had moved next to him. He was looking at John with something akin to warmth, or whatever the Holmes version was. Not even a hint of pity.
John could feel his eyes prickling. He hadn't cried once. Not even in the alleyway. He wouldn't cry now, not in front of the British government.
Mycroft put his arm around John's shoulders and gently pulled him in. "Let it out," he ordered.
John did.