Last chapter, readers! :)

Notes: contains sexual content. Definitely an R/MA rated chapter.

"Here you go, Doc." Lestrade placed a hot cup of coffee in John's hand.

"Thanks, Greg."

John was sitting in the back of an ambulance, a paramedic bandaging and cleaning his head. John accepted the coffee and took a small sip. An orange shock blanket was wrapped around his shoulders, and John was sitting practically on Sherlock's lap, the detective's arms twined protectively around John as he looked out the back of the ambulance at the milling crowd. One arm was around John's waist, his other hand idly stroking his thigh. Lestrade smirked at them and climbed into the ambulance with a pad of paper and a pen.

"Okay, John, everything that happened as clearly as you can remember it."

John began speaking and Sherlock focused on John's voice, the cadence of his speech and the way his used his hands a bit to gesture now and then. Sherlock was pleased to find that he didn't mind this close proximity. The enclosed space of the ambulance, made tighter by the presence of the male paramedic, John, and Lestrade was…not bad at all. Certainly a month ago when he'd gotten raped he wouldn't be able to deal with this at all. When we get home, John and I are going to have sex. Try to, anyway. Sherlock smiled at the thought and his hand wandered higher up John's leg to his hip. He wanted to at least try. Hell knew that if this had happened before he'd gotten raped, he would have locked John and himself in the bedroom for a week to make sure that John was okay.

John didn't seem to mind Sherlock's not-so-subtle groping as he finished detailing to Lestrade what had happened.

"Why, Greg?" John asked. "Why did this happen?"

"I was saying to Sherlock before. The driver of your train is Pakistani. He had some bad debts in his homeland and some goons came to collect."

"Jesus." John murmured. "Is he okay?"

"Banged up and unconscious in the hospital, but we got to him. He should be alright." The officer left and the paramedic finished stitching John's head.

"All done, sir."

"Thank you."

The paramedic turned away to clean up.

Sherlock didn't move. "Sherlock?" John ventured.

"Mm?"

"Comfortable as I am—" and he was, "—I'd like to go home now."

"Of course, John."

"To be continued?" John asked hopefully, eying Sherlock's wandering hand.

Sherlock tightened his hand on John's hip. "Oh God yes."

Sherlock hopped out of the ambulance and waited as John used his shoulder to grab onto to lever himself to the pavement. A few feet away, John saw the girl that had been crying next to him on the train. She was hugging a man that John guessed was her boyfriend. She saw John and threw herself at him, hugging him too.

"Thank you!" She said in a croaky voice. Then she saw Sherlock and gave him a bear hug too. "And thank you!"

"You're…welcome." Sherlock said awkwardly.

"Here." John pulled out his wallet and dug around for a moment, extracting a worn business card. Sherlock glanced at it. It bore the information of John's old therapist, Ella. "If you need it. She's good—specializes in traumatic events." John offered the girl the card.

"Oh thank you." She said sincerely. "That's really sweet." She hugged John again and they parted ways, striding away from the crowds and towards Baker Street.

"You want to get a cab or take the Tube?" Sherlock asked.

"Haha." John muttered. Sherlock smiled. John snuck a glance at the detective out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock seemed calm and composed, moreso than he had been in the last few weeks, ever since the rape. John thought back to the Tube and the sense of fear and adrenaline he'd felt at the hands of the captors. The mental image of Sherlock dropping through the roof like James Bond was seared into his memory. The way he had smoothly dealt with the hijackers was incredibly hot as well. Sherlock hailed a cab and John had to restrain himself from taking Sherlock right there in backseat. Sherlock had said they'd continue at home, but John wanted him to make the first move.

"So, how did you…do everything?" John asked, mostly to distract himself. His body was going sexsexsexsex pretty insistently.

"I suspect I'll tell you that whole story later." Sherlock said. He was tapping his fingers along the leather on the door, his leg bouncing.

John smirked. He wasn't the only one eager to get home.

When the cab pulled up to 221B, Sherlock swept up to the door to open it as John fumbled for money. He flung some bills down into the cabbie's hand and jogged through the doorway. Sherlock kicked the door closed once John was inside and grabbed John by the lapels, pushing him back up against the wall and kissing him. John kissed eagerly back with a dignified 'mmph.' He wanted to grab and grope Sherlock's body, but he stopped himself. He wasn't entirely sure if he should…

Sherlock broke the kiss, sensing John's hesitancy. "I appreciate it, and I'm thankful you're holding back, but…" Sherlock grabbed John's wrists and slid them under his long coat, guiding the doctor's hands to his butt. John needed no more encouragement. He squeezed Sherlock's cheeks, mindful of any lingering tenderness. Sherlock kissed him harder and John widened his stance, actually twining one leg around Sherlock's. Their groins pressed together, hot and hard, and John stiffened, waiting for a reaction from Sherlock. The detective fondled his tongue in response. They both heard Mrs. Hudson's door open, but neither one stopped.

"I saw the news!" She exclaimed, "are you two—oh!" She froze when she saw their embrace, her cheeks coloring a bit as she smiled. A tear came to her eye. John broke for air.

"Hello Mrs. Hudson." He said pleasantly. Sherlock moved down to his neck, nuzzling and nibbling. "Sorry for the disturbance. We're both fine."

"Oh you two!" She waved them off. "You're going to make me cry—and if the plaster falls out of the wall behind the headboard, it's coming out of your rent."

Sherlock startled. "Mrs. Hudson!" He sounded scandalized but he was smiling. Mrs. Hudson made a crying sound and retreated back into her flat.

"Sherlock." John swallowed, "C'mon, don't want to come in my pants outside Mrs. Hudson's door."

They managed to get upstairs, and a trail of shed clothing soon led from the door to the bedroom. They fell on the bed, naked, snogging like they'd never get enough of each other again.

"Wait, wait…" John put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock growled.

"I need to know what's okay for you." John said, panting. "I don't want to do anything you don't want…"

Sherlock leaned down and bit John's shoulder.

"I, oh God, I need you to tell me when it gets too much. Can you do that?"

"Uh-huh." Sherlock nuzzled his nose behind John's ear, sending a tsunami of goose bumps over his body. "Sherlock." John rubbed Sherlock's arms and the detective looked at him. John gulped. Sherlock's lips were swollen and red and his face was flushed pink. He looked eager but hesitant and John took a sharp breath. Tread carefully. "Do you want to be in me, love?" He asked gently. He highly doubted Sherlock would want to be penetrated.

Sherlock paused, then nodded slowly. "Want to try."

"Okay. We'll take it slow. You call the shots, alright?"

Sherlock nodded and went back to kissing John's face and neck. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's back, panting as Sherlock painted and dabbed him with kisses and little licks. He wrapped his leg around Sherlock's waist, prompting the detective to keep going. He wanted Sherlock to lead, and judging by the enthusiasm Sherlock was showing, he wanted to lead too.

Sherlock, while still giving John's mouth his full attention, reached into the bedside table drawer and withdrew the lubrication. He broke the kiss, popped the cap, and drizzled a generous amount on his fingers, then reached down and smeared them through John's crack. He squeezed more into his hand and paused, a slightly worried look coming over his face. John widened his legs and kissed Sherlock on the cheek.

"Ready when you are." He said. Sherlock looked down at John, settled into the soft mattress and completely pliant and willing. He watched Sherlock with trust and love in his eyes and stroked a hand through the detective's dark curls. Sherlock cleared his throat and nodded, then very gently slipped a finger inside his partner. John closed his eyes and grunted, his back arching up.

"Am I hurting you?!" Sherlock's voice was tight and tense.

"No, love." John smiled, "you're amazing." He rocked, fucking himself on Sherlock's still finger. "I'm proud of you." He rocked forward and kissed Sherlock's lips and the detective responded hungrily, sliding another finger inside. John was tight and hot and Sherlock felt some faint distant stirrings in his cock. He really hoped he could get it up for John tonight. A hazy memory of the rape crept at the corners of his palace, what was left of the puddles of greasy ooze in his head spilling over his rational mind and he firmly shoved it all into the little iron box he'd created for it. That shit had no place here. John's golden threshold was clean again, and it was going to stay that way.

"That's it…" John growled. Sherlock slid his hand in and out, twisting his fingers in John's body, relishing the way the doctor's mouth was partway open, his head thrown back and his eyes closed as the little waves of pleasure swam through him. His neck and face were flushed and a beginning sheen of sweat was forming on his forehead. Sherlock continued with his fingers for a while, watching John respond to him. He curled his fingers into John's prostate and grinned as John's breath caught harshly in his throat and his brows knitted together for a second. His mouth fell open wider and Sherlock happily grazed that spot again, loving that he could play John's body this way.

"Sherlock," John opened his eyes. They were nearly black with lust. "If you keep it up I'm going to come. Do you want me on my front? Might be easier…"

"No!" Sherlock snapped. John blinked in surprise.

"S-sorry." Sherlock soothed his sharp tone with a kiss on John's jaw. "It just, I, he—I was bent over when he—from behind…"

John hugged him hard, kissing his face and rubbing his back. "My back then." John said. His voice was shaky with emotion and he swallowed it down. If he ever saw that motherfucker, he'd wish he'd never been born.

"Get a pillow under your hips." Sherlock murmured. He reached for one and John crammed it under his butt, lifting his arse higher. "Are you stretched enough?"

"Yes." John said. He was more than plenty stretched, but if Sherlock needed to take the extra time and care, John was fine with it. John glanced up and saw that Sherlock wasn't quite ready, his cock barely halfway.

"C'mere, love." John patted his chest. "Straddle me."

Sherlock did, kneeling around John's chest, his cock inches from John's mouth.

"Can I…?" John looked at Sherlock's dick and the detective nodded quickly, easing himself into John's mouth.

"Oh God…" Sherlock tensed and hung his head back. John brought his hands up to Sherlock's hips, massaging them in what he hoped was a soothing gesture. "Fuck, John. This is f-fucking fantastic." He tilted his hips towards John's throat. "I mean, I was-was a bit lost in my head for a while, but I forgot how good you are with your, your—tongue!" Sherlock hissed as John frankly massaged the crown of his cock with his tongue. John grinned as Sherlock hardened some more, flushing at the compliment. Being able to reduce the cold, calculating detective into a moaning pile of goo was something of an accomplishment in his eyes. John eased his mouth away, the taste of him on his tongue and in his cheeks.

"You still want to keep going?" John asked.

"Yeah." Sherlock took a breath and turned, giving John a pleasing eyeful of his arse as he got off his chest and repositioned himself at John's legs. The bruises had faded completely, and his skin was white and smooth again. Good.

"Anytime." John mentally braced himself. It had been a while, and though he'd masturbated a few times, Sherlock was bloody long. Sherlock gripped John's leg and hoisted it up further, then he slid his hard cock inside, exhaling as he slid all the way in. John hissed at the pleasant burn and smiled when Sherlock bent forward until he was fully sheathed and their faces were only inches apart.

"God." John said, sweat trickling down his temples.

"Does it hurt?" Sherlock asked, nuzzling John's ear again.

"No…just full and deep." John grinned. "Perfect."

Sherlock smiled and leaned down for a kiss, murmuring sweet, dirty things into John's ear as he rolled his hips in and out. He snuck a hand down and fisted John's cock, giving him friction.

"Oh God—this won't take long." John lifted his hips, meeting Sherlock's thrusts. Less than a minute later, John felt himself start to crest. He clung to Sherlock as his orgasm exploded and his body clenched around Sherlock's cock. Sherlock came only seconds after John and they both continued thrusting, Sherlock pumping and John rocking, kissing hard all the while.

They slowed and stopped eventually, and Sherlock rested his head on John's shoulder, both of them panting and winded.

"Y'okay?" John asked after a moment. He patted Sherlock's hip.

"Uh-huh. Thank you, John."

John kissed Sherlock's cheekbone in response. The blood in his head was pounding, reminding him that he had a fresh wound, and it was starting to hurt again. A hot shower, prescription-strength painkillers for his head, and a long nap with Sherlock sounded like the most amazing thing in the world right now. Preferably, the nap would come last.

"Sherlock." John said. "You want to shower?"

"'Kay." Sherlock pulled out of him and John winced at the not unpleasant burn. He rolled to a sitting position, throwing the pillow aside, and grimaced. His head wouldn't be the only thing sore tomorrow. A bottle of pills landed next to him, the very ones he'd thought of a moment ago. John glanced up and saw Sherlock, standing beside his medical bag, a smug grin on his face. Seriously the man was telepathic. John swallowed two pills dry and Sherlock held his hand out, slightly self consciously. John took it and followed Sherlock to the shower.

The next morning, John and Sherlock were sitting to breakfast at the table in the sitting room. John was in a washed-soft blue striped shirt and charcoal PJ bottoms, quickly typing up the hijacking on his blog (what happened afterwards in the bedroom would definitely not be on the blog, thanks). Across from him Sherlock was in his long red dressing gown and some heather grey sweats, reading the news on his laptop. Both had bare feet and their legs were tangled together comfortably under the table. They were sharing a coffee mug, since Sherlock had elected to use all the other clean ones for experiments. Mrs. Hudson had mistakenly thrown out all the Petri dishes, numbered and all. The remains of the breakfast dishes were shoved aside and John and Sherlock were more content than they'd been in weeks.

The buzzer sounded, and John frowned. "Who could that be?"

"Who cares?" Sherlock groused, irritated that someone dared break their current domestic bliss. John started to move—"Don't!" Sherlock commanded.

"I have to see who's here." John protested.

"No. They can come back."

"Honestly," John settled back into his chair, "you're five years old."

"Am not." Sherlock muttered. They were both grinning. Moments later, Mrs. Hudson was knocking. "Boys? Are you decent?"

John's ears turned pink. God, had she really seen them making out on the stairs yesterday? John wondered if he should be embarrassed. "Come on in, Mrs. Hudson." He called. Nah, she understood.

The door opened, and Mycroft and Lestrade entered.

"Hey guys." John started to get up, but Sherlock's growl kept him in place.

"Well, isn't this sweet." Mycroft said, noting the single mug and their tangled legs.

"It was sweeter when you weren't here, Mycroft." Sherlock snipped. "And speaking of sweet, we have no cake, so get out."

"Sherlock!" John admonished. "God, you're horrible."

"Nevermind, John." Mycroft didn't seem insulted.

"We were in the area." Lestrade said, "wanted to see how you were doing." There was a pause as Greg took in the scene. "I take it things are good between you."

"None of your business." Sherlock growled.

"Yes, fine, Greg. Thank you." John said. "How is the Tube driver?"

"Still in the hospital. Stable. We got all the hijackers."

"Are the other passengers okay?"

"Yeah, thank Christ."

"Good." John tried to get up again and Sherlock pinned him with an icy glare that kept John in his seat.

"Oh Sherlock, for heaven's sake, if he wants to stand, let him." Mycroft scolded. "He's not going anywhere."

"You could've died yesterday." Sherlock hissed to John. "You're not leaving my sight."

"Aw, Sherlock, you care."

"At times it's just convenient having you around to do legwork." Sherlock sniffed.

"High praise indeed, John." Mycroft said. "Sherlock doesn't want you out of his sight. May God have mercy on your soul."

John's mouth twisted into a grin and he looked at Sherlock. The detective raised an inquisitive brow and John smiled. They still had a long road ahead. Sherlock wasn't "better" and John knew he never really would be. Time would help put distance between them and the attack, but it would always be there. The rape and hijacking had changed both of them, strengthening their love and binding their friendship even stronger. John knew they could tackle anything else life threw at them, and they'd do it together. John found he was looking forward to it.

"That's okay." He said, "I really don't mind."

End.

Thank you so, so much to everyone who read and commented on this fic. Your words helped me as a writer!

A note: I realize that people may have been waiting for Lestrade and the Yarders to catch Sherlock's rapist and have him brought to justice (or for John to find and murder him). I purposely chose to not have that happen because, like Sherlock said in chapter 9, 97 out of 100 rapists are never caught. In male rape, the statistics are even more fractional. Like I said at the beginning of the story, I wanted to keep this as realistic as possible, thus it's extremely unlikely that he would be caught.