A/N: Nongraphic childhood noncon flashback contained and some Johnlock fluffiness. I'm going to list this as complete, but there will be at least five more chapters coming. Please, please, read and review. The more reviews, the sooner I'll continue. Until then, I have a couple others slated in the Sherlock world. I'm on a serious Sherlock kick, just because of the new one coming out this month.

Chapter Five: John

Consciousness was seemingly elusive to Sherlock. It was coming in snatches and bits and pieces, but he couldn't hold onto it. Now, instead of having his mind palace blocked from him, he was trapped inside it, trapped with the memories that he couldn't file away and delete. To put it mildly, it was frustration incarnate. He was going to go out of his mind if he didn't come to consciousness soon. Logically, he knew what the problem was. He was in a drug induced coma. Of course he was, because if he were still with that…man…he wouldn't be unconscious for this long. The break in his arm proved that. No, despite unconsciousness, Sherlock felt the passage of time. Of course he would. No one else did, but he felt it. And it was more than anything frankly frightening. Part of him wanted to question if the state was permanent. But he tried to reason out of that. The swelling he'd felt in his mouth was enough to keep him from being awake. Still, there was a fear that he'd never wake up and he'd never see his John again.

Of course, the first things he heard were John's words. He couldn't tell if they were real or memories, though. Then, he woke to see John's face and he felt the world crashing down for several reasons. John knew. How could he be sitting here knowing what had happened to him in that room? How could he ever look at him again without disgust? Sherlock felt the constriction when he asked if he remembered what happened. Oh he wanted to go back to sleep, slip away into the inner world so he didn't have to think. But that was a fallacy because Sherlock Holmes never went without thinking. So it was inner turmoil once more.

Sally Donavan and Mike Anderson visiting was a surprise all on its own, but John waking him in his still drugged up state to have them ask him the dumbest questions was more of a surprise. Didn't John know these things already? He talked, but after he did he didn't remember much. Whatever they were giving him for pain was quite good at blurring his head right now. Everything while he was with him was clear as a bell, but since his eyes opened here, things were fuzzy. He knew they wouldn't be narcotics, so he imagined it was Stadol or something similar. He'd honestly had enough opiates to last a lifetime officially.

So it was that the first thing that made John realize that Sherlock was decidedly not alright was the fact he didn't ask to go home. In fact, he barely spoke unless spoken to. He didn't berate the nurses, he didn't deduce anyone into annoyance so they'd let him leave, and when Mycroft came he ignored him (which was normal). He lay there, looking far too small for a man of his size, as the nurses fretted over him, and then John slowly noticed the beginnings of what he'd feared. It was somewhat refreshing to know that Sherlock was just as human as the rest of the world, but it made him ache to see the signs of PTSD starting to show on his friend. John dealt with it, but Sherlock, he shouldn't be dealing with PTSD, and most certainly should not be dealing specifically with rape trauma syndrome (RTS). No, he should not at all be dealing with these things.

"He will be going home this week," the psychiatrist, a very nice woman named Dr. Naomi Sellers, said to John as they stood outside the room. "I understand you suffer from PTSD from your time in Afghanistan. So you are aware of a lot of what may happen over the next few weeks. He's still acute, so be prepared. He appears to be in a controlled state, but I'm going to give you some anti-anxiety medication in case he has begins to suffer flashbacks or the other anxiety based symptoms. One thing I should warn you about, men who have suffered this kind of assault typically become aggressive. So be prepared. I've included some sedatives in his medications, of course; only use them if you need to because of his past chemical dependence. I understand that he is highly intelligent?"

John snorted. "That's an understatement. I'm surprised that he isn't making the nursing staff's life miserable right now by telling them all how their life is and whose partner is cheating on them."

"This will be harder on him, in that case, Dr. Watson. My patients with the most difficulty adjusting are those with higher intelligences. They tend to overanalyze things. And considering his past history of self-harm, you need to be hyperaware of what he does. You do realize he had recent evidence of cutting?" she asked.

"I knew about his past, with his arms, but I believe when I discovered it, he moved location. I should have noticed it sooner, but he is quite good at deception. The current case involved young boys being raped, and I think it triggered his past history of sexual assault at a similar age. In the end, he was kidnapped by the same person he was tracking…" John scrubbed his hands over his face.

Dr. Sellers nodded. "Were you aware of his past experience?"

John shook his head. "He'd locked it away, and the only sign was he has been completely asexual in the time I've known him. He's used his appearance to get information from both men and women, but he's never indicated actual interest."

"Was he ever put into therapy after the childhood trauma?" she asked, looking at her notes.

"No, he refused, and as an adult he's never felt the need."

She nodded. "Expect changes. He may continue to pull away from sexual contact, or he may change completely and seek it to the point of having dangerous relations with others. Sexual orientation confusion is especially common with male assault victims."

John nodded, knowing that the next few weeks would be extremely hard, on both of them. But the idea of Sherlock of all people, going out and seeking sex from strangers was so foreign that he couldn't really even quantify the idea. He bit the doctor farewell and went back in where Sherlock was, surprisingly, awake. He wasn't under sedation or enough drugs to make him that sleepy, but he was sleeping at least eighteen hours of the day. For a man that practically never slept, that was also a telling symptom. But by far scariest was the fact that he hadn't deduced anything, even for John.

"Hey, Sherlock, how are you feeling?" he asked with a completely fake smile that should not have fooled Sherlock for a moment.

He shrugged, picking at the cast on his arm gingerly with the bandaged hand on his other arm. John sighed. "They say you can go home day after tomorrow. Mrs. Hudson will be glad to see you home instead of having to come by here."

He nodded, absently, laying back and closing his eyes again. "So, when we get home, how long before you get bored?" John asked, hoping for anything at all.

Again, he got a shrug. "M'tired, John. Talk later," he said to him and John sighed, nodding.

"Okay, Sherlock, you sleep. You'll get better sooner. While you sleep I'll go get a coffee in the cafeteria. I'll be back though."

Nothing, so John got up and left to go to the cafeteria. On the way, he ran into Lestrade. "Hey, Greg, was going down for coffee, he's sleeping again, so you want to come with me?" John asked hopefully. He really needed to interact with another human being.

They sat in silence for a while. "So, how's he doing?" Greg finally asked.

"I don't know, Greg. He's distant, doesn't talk, hell he hasn't deduced anything since he came out of the coma. Something's going on, and he's escaping from it. He obviously doesn't want to deal with anything, but he's going to have to," John said, staring at the wannabe cappuccino.

Greg nodded, staring at his own black coffee. "Anything we can do?"

"I don't know, but I'm scared that the man we knew was left in that warehouse. I've seen it happen, not exactly the same I know, but so many came back from the Middle East and never recovered some part of themselves. I don't want to see that happen to Sherlock. He's too…too…important to me," John said with a heavy sigh.

"I know, but have you told him that?" Greg asked slowly.

"Would it matter right now? I mean, I don't want him to think I expect anything from him, you know, not after this, he might not ever recover from it…to even have a relationship with another person," John said, looking around at the bustling of the people around him.

"I think it matters. Especially since you don't expect anything from him. You need to prove to him that what that bastard did wasn't right, what he said wasn't true. You heard how he degraded him…John, he's not immune to the things he did. In fact, he may be more affected because of how smart he is. I mean, damn, John, can you imagine…" Lestrade's eyes looked far away for a minute before he came back. "I can't. I mean, to be put in that position. It's beyond anything I can comprehend."

John nodded. "I know. It…it insults everything he is at the core. Add to that the fact that no one, not even Sherlock, could predict his behavior. You saw the shock in his face every time he flipped and did something different. That was enough."

"Remember, he's dealing with the childhood trauma too, something he never did," Lestrade said with a sigh. "He's not dealing with this, but he might have some problems distinguishing his own father and this guy because he tried to imitate a father figure."

John nodded. "God, I don't know how I'm going to deal with this. I have a vacation I took for the next two weeks. I just hope he gets through the first part of this by then…"

"If not, my brother does have a trust fund I can assign to you for the time being," came Mycroft's voice entirely too close.

"Shit, Mycroft!" John exclaimed. "Warn a bloke!"

"Sorry, you were just into your conversation and I did not wish to interrupt. The offer is genuine. I know my brother will be…difficult. But I do not wish for you to get behind in your bills. The best place for him to recover is with you in Baker Street, though part of me wishes he would let me help," Mycroft said, fiddling with his umbrella handle and looking decidedly away.

John nodded. "Maybe he will, Mycroft. Just give him some time. You saw what he's been through."

"That's what has me worried, John. Just…take care of him."

Before John blinked, it seemed he was signing the paperwork to check Sherlock out and take him home. He didn't even complain about the wheelchair, which was a good thing, because with his ankle still in plaster and his only good hand being one with a broken forearm, he wasn't capable of much movement on his own. The black cab deposited them outside Baker St and John asked him to wait a moment so he could get Sherlock situated and come back for the chair and crutches he would be able to use eventually.

Getting up the stairs to the couch was interesting, but they managed. John expected at least one insult along the way, instead he got nothing, only silence. And that was perhaps so much worse. He went down and got the chair and bags from the cabbie, paying him and sending him on his way. He gave a knock to Ms. Hudson's door and then raced up the stairs to make sure Sherlock was okay. He sat staring out the window as snow began to fall outside. Typical London winter, John thought.

"All set, Sherlock. Need anything?" John asked softly.

Sherlock's eyes were still locked on the window as he shook his head. "Right, then, I'll get myself a cuppa, certainly need it after all that awful coffee at the hospital."

A few minutes later, Ms. Hudson came up and fussed over Sherlock, which he allowed, but didn't respond to in the least. A nod here, a shake there, but nothing else. John brought him a mug of tea, which he stared at for a long time before he accepted it. John was well aware that giving Sherlock a cup that looked anything like those he'd been forced to drink out of for that man would end in disaster, so he'd opted for a mug with the London Underground on it.

Ms. Hudson grabbed John's arm as she left. "He's not alright, is he?"

John swallowed and shook his head. "Not at all." She merely nodded and left.

And so John was left with a strangely silent Sherlock, and after another couple days, the doctor was at his wit's end. He asked Ms. Hudson to come sit with him for a while so he could run to the pub. She was agreeable and he did just that. Until a text came through on his phone during his second beer.

Alone so soon. Do you think that's safe, Jawn? –JM

John paid the tab and headed back immediately, grumbling in anger at Moriarty and his mind games. He went upstairs to find things just as he left them, Sherlock plucking absently on his violin staring into space and Ms. Hudson having tea at the living room. He swallowed and smiled them as he went up to his room for a bit.

Message from M when I stepped out for a bit. He's watching the flat.-JW he shot off in text message to Mycroft. He hated to do it but he wanted all the help he could get. If something happened to Sherlock now, before he'd even begun to heal, the damage would possibly be permanent.

Understood. – MH came the quick reply.

John headed down and let Ms. Hudson head back to her own flat. He then had enough and went to sit across from Sherlock.

"Okay, this may be wrong, but I've had it," John said, crossing his arms and staring at the detective as strongly as he dared.

Sherlock turned his head and a frown creased his brow briefly.

"Okay, this is exactly it. This is more than a bit not good, Sherlock. You are Sherlock Holmes and you most certainly do not refrain from insulting the idiocy you are surrounded with on a daily basis, because face it, everyone is an idiot compared to you. I've thought up loads of insults in my head for the gits at hospital and you've ignored them. And I'm really missing my Sherlock," John said the last with a sigh, hoping beyond hope he wasn't overstepping his bounds.

He got a look, a real look, from Sherlock at that. Well, that was something, a reaction, at least. "Now, you've been sleeping a lot but not dreaming that I've seen. You sit and stare at the window all day, and you haven't looked at the files Lestrade brought by. I don't like this. You are still you, Sherlock. Every bit of you, even if you don't know it right now. And I want you back, I can't help it, because I'm being fucking selfish about it. I miss you."

Sherlock honestly didn't understand. For once in his life, Sherlock was confused so badly that he didn't know what to say. He was at an utter and complete loss for words. And he felt on the edge of crying. And that, he most definitely didn't do. Not since he was a child. Not since that night. That night, seared into his memory forever. And he couldn't delete it, instead he'd filed it away in the deepest recesses of his mind palace and never went there again but no it was there, right in front of him, the face of that…man…blending and mixing with his father's face.

"I'm sorry, John," he said finally. "I…I'm lost."

John blinked in surprise then went to sit beside him, not daring to touch him. He'd become very haptaphobic in the hospital toward the end, only allowing the female nurses anywhere near touching him. The few times a male nurse had come in, John had to gently tell him that he needed to send in a female. The reaction wasn't startling, mostly because John was there, but the signs of a panic attack would begin the second a man touched his skin.

"Then, Sherlock, let me help you. I want to help you. Will you let me?" John asked, softly now.

Sherlock swallowed and looked upward, and John caught the glistening of tears in his lovely silvery eyes. "It was too much. The drugs…they messed with me so much, John, I couldn't think and I knew beyond a doubt…if I could think I could get us out. I…I couldn't even predict what he was going to do…"

"Sherlock, even you, without the drugs, couldn't have predicted him. He was completely insane," John assured.

Sherlock nodded, staring at the violin in his lap. "But…but if anyone could have, it was me…but then he…he made those demands. And wanted to know about the Incident. And that was too much, I had the Incident filed away, and he opened it up and I couldn't see him, I saw someone else…"

"The Incident?" asked John. "When your father hurt you. Why don't you tell me what happened then? Maybe it will help."

Sherlock nodded, and looked at John. "I didn't tell him. I couldn't, not really, and it made him angry. I think…I think he enjoyed hearing what the other victim's fathers had done, that was part of the game, I think, and he was angry I didn't play that part…" Sherlock's voice was low as he plucked strings as he spoke.

"Then, tell me, and then you'll have given up the thing he wanted to me instead," John said, hand reaching out, wondering if he could touch him.

Sherlock reached out without looking and took John's hand in his own, relishing the warmth from the contact. His arm still ached, but the light plaster was above his wrist now. "You…you won't think…differently? Of me?" he asked, and John's heart nearly broke at the positively broken sound in his voice that didn't belong in this man's voice, ever.

"Sherlock, no, never."

He nodded. "I remember he hit Mycroft once, and Mummy was so angry and it was just after that he went off to school. He was like me, at Uni early. But then, he would get mad at me more when Mycroft was gone. I used to hide a lot. And even then, I couldn't keep my mouth shut. And that night, I was ten, and he'd been drinking bourbon in the study. I didn't know what was wrong, but there was something…"

The smell of rain was heavy as the young Sherlock fiddled with a petri dish in his room. He smiled, seeing that the experiment was going well. He heard footsteps and hid it in his closet quickly. He didn't need his father to catch him again. Mummy was gone to the city with Mycroft for the weekend. Sherlock hadn't gone, claiming it was dreadfully boring to be cooped up in a dorm room with his brother and his stuffy friends. But really, he was staying to complete the experiment he'd been working on. By Sunday morning, it would be finished and if he didn't record the results, he'd have to repeat the whole thing. It was hard enough to do the first time without being caught, he didn't want to take the chance again.

"Sherlock?" came the alcohol roughened voice of his father. He ran out and looked in the hall to see him clutching a bottle of expensive bourbon.

"Yes, Father?" he said, trying to be polite. His father got violent when he was drinking.

"Comere," he slurred and went toward the study. Sherlock didn't want to do it because he knew he was going to regret it, but his tone left no room for him to disobey.

He entered the study where his father had sat at the desk, feet up on top of it, drinking straight from the bottle of bourbon.

"What do you need, Father?" Sherlock asked, his stomach tight. He hated dealing with drunks more than anything else. Unpredictable. That was why he hated it. His father wasn't the easiest to read at the best of times, and when drunk, his masks and shields were gone completely. Sherlock was fascinated by the way alcohol often revealed hidden desires and wants.

"Comere, boy," he said roughly, dropping feet down, and slamming the bottle onto the table.

Sherlock swallowed and went over toward him. He stared for a long time before he reached out and ran a hand tenderly through his hair. A chill shot through the boy's spine. A sign of affection? From his father? Maybe this wasn't a bad thing. He was a child, and approval and love from his father would be welcome.

"Ya know, boy, I love ya, and yer brother. Never say it, but I do," and Sherlock smiled at him. He really did, because hearing those words was a miracle.

Then, of course, the moment was broken when the hand on his head gripped tightly and yanked him harshly forward until he stumbled into his father's lap. He gasped as he was sat on his lap, eyes wide. He'd never sat on his father's lap, and it felt strange to do so now.

"F-father?" he asked, and there was another harsh tug to his hair that he responded with a yelp. "F-father, that hurts!"

"Oh, does it?" he asked, yanking harder, this time bringing tears to the boy's eyes.

"Stop, please, Father," he begged but then he was shoved off the lap he was sitting on to land in a heap on the floor.

He caught his breath, mostly shocked until he felt his father's foot connect with his side. He screamed then, feeling the bone crunch under the power of the kick. He didn't understand what he'd done, what had brought this on. He turned to his back, receiving another kick for his effort as his father fell to the floor, kneeling over him now, and struck out hard, and he felt fire blossom in his face and figured his orbital was definitely hurt somehow.

He was so absorbed in his own pain that he didn't hear the study door open and the gasped surprise from one of the maids as she quickly shut the door and ran off to call the Mistress of the house. She knew better than to interfere, but she couldn't allow a child to be hurt. So she dialed frantically and detailed what was happening.

Before he knew what was happening, he was lifted up under his shoulders and slammed down onto the desk, his ribs screaming, or was that him screaming? He didn't know what he was saying, but he felt hot breath on his neck and in his ear.

"Yer always teasin' yer dad, ya know," he said. "Pretty little boy, shoulda beena girl, ya know. So let's see if ya make a good lil slut like I think ya will," he growled, bourbon soaked breath nearly choking the boy so much that the fact he was missing half his clothes failed to dawn on him.

Sherlock was stunned into silence as he was pressed hard into the desk by the weight on his back. His ribs were throbbing, and his feet were well off the floor. He stared at the desk, there was paperwork, some sort of lawsuit with his father as the defendant. He supposed that explained the drinking… His thoughts slammed to a close when he felt something against his backside. His eyes went wide and he started to struggle, only to have his head yanked up by the hair and slammed into the desk with dizzying effect, blood blossoming from his nose and stars flittering across his vision.

If his scream before had been loud, the one that followed was deafening to his own ears. He felt the thick run of blood and he was crying then, both pain and fear and everything else, as his father clamped one hand over his mouth tightly, nearly cutting off his airflow. Soon he was dizzy from the small amount of oxygen, and his struggles had ceased. Finally, he was sliding bonelessly off the desk to the floor, his father backing up. He heard voices around him, but he didn't recognize them. Was someone saying his name? He wasn't sure.

"Sherlock!" came Mummy's voice. He looked up through teary eyes and promptly passed out. Blood loss, he thought as he slid from the world. Blood loss and a concussion maybe.

Sherlock was staring at his bandaged hand when he finished. He'd never told anyone what had happened that night, not even his mummy or Mycroft. He looked over to see John's face, thinking how disgusted he had to be.

"Thank you," John said, squeezing his hand, and when Sherlock's face turned confused. "Thank you for sharing that with me, I know you've never told anyone about that night, and I'm glad you trust me enough."

Sherlock was fighting with himself. His logical mind was screaming at him to quit acting like this, that of course John wouldn't change his opinion just because he was raped at ten years of age by his own father. But the other part, a buried part, was screaming about how horribly dirty he'd been made, and then again recently it returned.

"You…you don't…think…I'm…" he started, unable to say the words he needed to say. "You're not disgusted by me?"

John's face twisted in disbelief and hapnophobia or not, he yanked his friend into his arms to hug him tightly. There was a brief moment of stiffness that melted away.

"Sherlock, you mean more to me than you'll ever know, and nothing changes that. I want to help you get through this. I love you, you bloody git," John figured why not go the whole route.

He felt his arms come around him, and Sherlock buried his face in his shoulder, and then something amazing happened. Amazing to John Watson, anyway. He felt his shirt growing wet. He was startled for a second when he realized Sherlock was crying. Quietly, but crying nonetheless. He pulled him into a tighter embrace and ran hands over his too thin back in soothing circles. He whispered nonsense to him, as those long fingered hands gripped him desperately.

"I…I never knew…what I did…wrong," he gasped out at one point. "Not then…not now…"

"Sherlock, you were a child then, he had no right, no matter what you did or didn't do, and this Dalton bastard, he never had any right or reason to do what he did. I saw, and you did what you could do to stop him from hurting Sally. Please, Sherlock, remember that, she's alive because of you. You sacrificed your own pride for her safety. She knows it, I know it, we all know it, Sherlock," he said gently, one hand running over those dark curls.

They sat like that long after dark, John murmuring assurances to a consulting detective who cried like a ten year old child in his arms. Because that was one of the problems. That ten year old boy had never cried on someone, had never let out the pain and frustration that came with being hurt so terribly by someone who he should have been able to trust. It was after midnight when John noticed that Sherlock had fallen into a deep sleep against him. He sighed and wondered if he could manage to get him into a bed. Well, perhaps. Perhaps not. But he definitely wasn't going to like sleeping like this all night…

So, John twisted up his courage and managed to pick the taller man up into a bridal carry, which absolutely amazed him, but reminded him keenly how thin he was for his frame. He dropped him into the bed, but he barely moved at the motion. He tucked him into the bed but before he could move away, a hand was gripping his wrist tightly. He looked down into hazy eyes.

"Can you stay with me?" he asked softly and John nodded.

"Of course, Sherlock."

He settled in beside him, and found himself suddenly wrapped with four long limbs, slightly surprising him. A murmured thanks as the half asleep detective returned to his own oblivion. John got comfortable, off his bad shoulder, and pulled the lanky, too skinny man closer to him. Was this a good thing? Or a bad? John wasn't sure. He'd told him what was perhaps his darkest secret, one that his family desperately had tried to erase like it was some sort of accident. And again John was brought to the wonder of how a family could do that. Take a child who had been hurt so badly and then ignore the entire event because it would be bad press. It made him slightly sick to his stomach to think about it.

One thing stuck out, though, that he wondered if it would come up again. His father had told him he should have been a girl, and Dalton had proceeded to dress and treat him like one. Sherlock had never had issues with his own gender…or had he? John was confused now. Was asexuality simply a way to avoid his own internal struggle? John knew him well enough to know that was likely. And now, he was face to face, once again with the pain and unknowing, and everything was mixed up.

Eventually he fell asleep thinking about these things. The thrashing beside him woke him, however, and a glance at the clock said it was almost five in the morning. Sherlock had rolled to the other side, and was fighting invisible attackers, it was obvious, muttering in his sleep for them to stop. John recognized the nightmares too well. He put a hand on his shoulder and whispered to him that it was alright, that he was here, that no one was going to hurt him while John was beside him. It seemed to calm him, and he rolled and put John into a crushing embrace, as though afraid he would escape and leave him.

"Mm, Don leave me, John," he muttered.

"I'll never leave, Sherlock, even if you tell me to leave," he whispered to the sleeping man.

It was after eleven when the sunlight finally brought John from his slumber. And he had to pee. And Sherlock's long leg was wrapped over his body right on top of his straining bladder. In fact, he was pretty sure that Sherlock had him in a better body lock than any wrestler in the history of wrestling. One leg over his midsection, hooked under his hip, the other wrapped around his leg, one arm over his chest and the other under his head crooked and resting on his shoulder. Good lord, this man had long limbs, he thought for the thousandth time. Of course, this was the first time he had them wrapped around him like this. But as wrapped as he was, he had to pee. Badly.

"Sherlock?" he said softly, reaching over to shake his shoulder. "Hey, Sherlock, I really need to piss, but…"

Gray-green eyes fluttered open to stare at him in confusion. He blinked, his eyes felt swollen and puffy, like he'd cried himself to sleep, and then he remembered, that's exactly what he'd done, and he'd asked John to stay in bed with him. He swallowed thickly and stared for a long moment.

"Um…" he started, and John smiled, leaning over to place a kiss on his forehead. The detective flushed pink immediately at the kind gesture.

"Shh, Sherlock. Shh. I'd stay here like this all day, but I'm afraid I've gotta piss."

Sherlock frowned and nodded, not really understanding what John was talking about. "Okay…" he said, his mind blurry from sleep still.

"So…I need you to disentangle yourself, Sherlock," he said, a soft smile gracing his lips.

Sherlock frowned then looked at the absolute tangled heap he'd managed to make out of their limbs during the night. "Oh…" he muttered softly and began pulling away, twinging at the stiffness in his muscles from the strange position he'd put himself in with John. With John.

John got up and patted his plaster as he got up leaving Sherlock absolutely confused. He'd been confused since he woke up in that basement, and he was sure the feeling wasn't going away anytime soon.

John sighed as he washed his face quickly with a rag, and picked another and wrung out warm water to clear Sherlock's face. He returned to find him exactly as he'd left him, looking after him with a dazed look. John sat down and sighed and began to wash his flatmate's face gently with the warm rag. He jerked at first, but then seemed to be willing to let him wash away the crusted salty tear tracks, and rub away the sleepy gunk from his eyes.

"There, now, is that better?" John asked, softly.

Sherlock nodded. "I…thank you, John. F-for last night, for this…for not…leaving."

"Sherlock, why would I leave?" John asked, moving to sit beside him.

"After what you saw…what he did…I'm not anything anymore. I can't…I can't even think straight. I can't even begin to put two thoughts together, and every time I close my eyes he's there. And then I just think I'm going to explode but I can't because…because…I don't know," he said, his eyes dropping. "And I never don't know."

John swallowed, and then grabbed him and held him against him again, though he didn't cry this time, he felt the tension evaporate. "Sherlock, please, listen to what I'm going to say right this minute. I love you, you bloody idiot, and I don't care if you can't ever deduce the color of my underpants for the rest of your life. I don't care if you have to sleep wrapped around me for the rest of my life if it helps you I'll do it. I don't care if you cry on me. I don't care. I will be here, for it all. I'll stay while you insult me, while you yell, whatever it takes. I sat there, watching you and I came to a lot of conclusions. The biggest of which is my life would be much poorer without your presence, and I'll take you by my side no matter your condition. I don't expect anything, Sherlock. I just want to be here for you. Whatever you need, I want…I want to be the one there for you."

Sherlock's brain had short circuited again (okay this was beginning to be a bloody annoying habit, he told his brain). He couldn't say anything, he just wrapped his bony hands around him and pressed his face into the hollow of his neck and breathed in John and felt better. John, who had watched everything, who knew everything, and hadn't run away. John, who had let him cry, which he never did. John, who had already become his whole world, and now was beginning to become even more central to it. John.

"P-please…John," he whispered finally. "D-don't say that if you don't mean it, please, I've…never let anyone…ever…in…and…I might just give up…if you leave after saying that…please…"

John just pulled him tighter. "Sherlock, I wouldn't say it if it wasn't true. You mean everything to me. The worst thing ever was watching you be hurt and not being able to stop it. I can't tell you how much I ached to reach out and take you from him, but I couldn't bloody find him fast enough, Sherlock, and it nearly killed me."

"I…I don't know what I can give you…John…" he said softly. "I can't…I'm not like other people. I don't…know about these feelings…I've locked them away so long…"

"Shh," John whispered, running soothing hands over his back, flinching a bit at the ridged wounds from the crop near the small of his back still. "Look, I know, I bloody well know, Sherlock, just…just let me be here. I can take it. And I know a little about what's going to happen, I still have nightmares, remember?"

Sherlock nodded slowly into the crook of his neck. "Okay," he said simply.

Time passed as he sat there in John's arms, but for once his mind was quiet. No thoughts, only blissful silence filled the spaces. Finally he swallowed and sat up.

"Maybe I could look at those files today," he said finally and John smiled wide at him.