Fic: Everything a Bit Broken, 4/5
Warnings in Part 1.
By the time he reached home, John was well past anger and back into worry. (Sherlock had left him a 20 pound note, after all, which nearly got him back home). He borrowed Mrs. Hudson’s phone as soon as he was in and sent a message to his own phone. Where are you?
“Everything all right?” she asked.
“Not really,” John said.
“Where’s Sherlock?”
John sighed. “He’s busy being an idiot,” he said.
“Well,” she said brightly, “it can’t be as bad as all that if he’s up to his usual tricks.”
It can be, John thought. It is. He checked the phone again. Three long, silent minutes had passed. “Could I use it again?”
He was in the middle of composing a new text, this one to Lestrade, when the doorbell rang. Mrs. Hudson excused herself to answer it while John tried to figure out how to word his request without sounding too worrying. He’d nearly settled on, “Has Sherlock gotten the address list from you?”, knowing that was how he would have been in contact, when he heard a grating and familiar, cheerful voice.
“Ah, Dr. Watson. I hoped I might catch you at home. I was just in the neighborhood,” Mycroft explained, his smile at once bright and terrifying and false and true. Rather like his brother in that. John just stared. He wasn’t even sure what to do with Mycroft right now. He never really was, but the usual solution -- telling him to piss off -- wasn’t quite right this time. “I wondered if I might trouble you for a cup of tea?”
“Oh! I’ll just put the kettle on,” Mrs. Hudson said, clearly already fascinated by Sherlock’s dapper brother.
“No need,” John said quickly. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Hudson, but I couldn’t possibly trouble you further. Come up, Mycroft, I’m sure I can find something.”
“Quite good of you.”
John unlocked the flat and let Mycroft pass inside first. He gave the armchair a small thump with his umbrella as he strode by; John didn’t think he cared. It was Sherlock’s chair, after all. He closed the door and stared at Mycroft’s back. On the way up the stairs, he’d thought of something new. This wasn’t a friendly visit, obviously; they weren’t friendly with Mycroft. Sherlock had run off, and now something bad -- something worse -- had happened. Say it, he thought. Just tell me.
“He’s quite safe,” Mycroft said. “I assure you.”
John let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “You know where he is?”
“Mm. Kensington Station. Doubtlessly deducing the travel destinations of everyone he passes.” Mycroft turned. His smile had wound down into something more real but still terrifying. “Your mobile is GPS enabled, you know.”
He -- shit. He did know, of course he knew. He just hadn’t thought of it. Probably, he would have, once he reached the flat and saw their computers on the end tables. Probably. “You didn’t come all the way here just to tell me Sherlock’s all right.”
“No,” Mycroft agreed. He put a hand into his pocket, then drew out a very small, slick black phone. “I imagine he’ll need a new one.”
It was doubtlessly bugged, doubtlessly registered in some terrible government program that would alert Mycroft every time Sherlock set foot outside their apartment or ordered the wrong kind of dinner. Though a tiny, Sherlock-like voice in his head protested, John thought that was wonderful, really. He took the phone with a nod of thanks.
Mycroft cleared his throat. His eyes were flicking up and over their things, across Sherlock’s many books, over their messy table. “I’ve read the physician’s report from the hospital. About the, ah, incident. Is it true?”
John didn’t even bother with the speech about privacy. The concept didn’t seem to register with either Holmes brother. “I’d imagine so,” he said.
“And what they’ve left out,” Mycroft said, and only the raise of his eyebrow told John that was a question.
“What they’ve left out is Sherlock’s business, if he wants to tell you,” John said, and Mycroft frowned.
“So it is as I suspected, then,” he murmured.
John sighed. “Yes,” he said.
He nodded. For a second, maybe just a half second, the look on Mycroft’s face was one that John wasn’t used to seeing: sadness, disappointment. Maybe, just slightly, anger. Hurt. Though he quickly cleared back to his usual dour face, John understood. Mycroft did worry constantly, and this must have been the confirmation of his worst fears. Someone had hurt Sherlock. Even if Sherlock refused to act like it had ever happened.
“I really can make a cup of tea,” John said.
“No, that won’t be necessary,” Mycroft said, though he looked like a man in need. Perhaps he’d have a nip of something in the car, John thought, then nearly grinned. The thought was too absurd. “I just wanted -- well, to speak with you, where he wasn’t.” He straightened himself. “Sherlock has never dealt well with sympathy. He sees it as pity.”
“Yeah, I’m catching on to that,” John said.
“But I do feel quite -- awful,” Mycroft said, his voice surprisingly soft. “Really. I would have never wished for this.” He seemed to be nearly talking to himself. “If I had only been paying more attention.”
John frowned. He didn’t think that was true -- he’d been to the scene, he wasn’t sure how Mycroft could have kept a better eye out -- but he was curious. “Why -- if I might ask, why weren’t you watching, that day?”
He studied the wall again. “He’s been much safer, of late. With you. It didn’t seem so -- necessary.” He tapped the umbrella against his shoe and looked quickly over at John. John figured he deserved that, after what he’d just asked. He hadn’t been keeping an eye out as much recently, either. It hadn’t seemed as vital, not after a year of no word, not even a peep, from Moriarty. He’d let himself forget about the big monster, focused instead on the day-to-day.
“There wasn’t any way to have stopped this,” John said.
“Probably not,” Mycroft agreed. “We do everything we can, of course, but crime --”
“Right,” John said. He didn’t want to hear the Ministry’s line on Sherlock’s sexual assault. Not from Mycroft, not from anyone. “He’s convinced it’s Moriarty.”
“I know,” Mycroft said. “What do you think?”
“He’s usually right about these things,” John said, and he knew even as he said it that Mycroft would read exactly what John felt into his small equivocation: he wasn’t sure, not at all, that Sherlock was right this time.
“Well, I’m sure he’ll find a solution,” Mycroft said, tone again too bright. “If I were to trust my brother’s case to anyone, it would, really, be my brother.”
John nodded. It summed up perfectly how he felt about the whole business, too. No one was better than Sherlock, even a distracted, pained Sherlock.
He and Mycroft said a quick, awkward good-bye, and he was down and out before John had even made it to the couch. What a ridiculous family, he thought, though he felt somehow a little nicer about Mycroft at the moment. The man did worry.
When Sherlock came home two hours later, his hair mussed with rain and his face pale as parchment, John was lying on the couch, staring blankly at the TV. Sherlock took two steps into the flat and said, “My brother is a nosy git.”
John blinked and sat up. “How’s that?”
“He was here. Mycroft.” He shook his head and hobbled toward the armchair. He lowered himself into it slowly, but John didn’t miss his grimace. Christ, he looked just awful. Pale, a little crust of blood by one nostril, eyes red-ringed. If he was running a fever, John would shoot him. He walked to the kitchen and put the kettle on, then came back to the living room.
“How’d you know?”
“Bloody awful cologne,” Sherlock said. “And you would’ve been worried, otherwise. You’re not worried.”
“I actually am, a bit,” John said. “You look like death warmed over. Except not warm. Where’s your coat?”
“I dropped it at the cleaner’s,” Sherlock said. He was shivering. John sighed and went to the cupboard for a blanket. He held it up while Sherlock took off his damp suit jacket, then he pressed it over him. “Am I back in shock, then?” Sherlock said, but he didn’t turn it away.
“So what did you find out?”
“Precious little,” Sherlock muttered as John returned to the kitchen to prepare the tea. “I spoke with Thad Anchor. Terrible man, hateful little wife, three god-awful children. Mugged three months ago near an abandoned schoolyard. Wouldn’t even say the word ‘rape’ while his wife was in earshot.”
John was a bit surprised to hear Sherlock use the word, but he didn’t know why. They dealt with terrible crimes all the time. Sherlock was never fazed by the terms. John wondered why he found himself stumbling over saying anything stronger -- truer -- than “the attack” in his own head. Even as he asked the question, he answered it for himself: he didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to think of Sherlock being raped, of anyone assaulting him. He hated that this had happened. He hated it.
“What’s the connection?”
“There is none,” Sherlock said, sounding miserable.
“None?” John paused in the act of tearing open a packet. “How can you be so sure, already?”
“Of course, I’m not sure,” Sherlock said. Cross was a much better sound on him than discouraged. “But there’s nothing obvious or inobvious. He’s a banker in Leeds. He goes to school plays. Doesn’t cheat on his wife, doesn’t make more than he should, still has debt from studying in America for a while. And - worst - he wasn’t even in the right place at the right time the day they got him. He got off the Tube at the wrong stop and got turned around.”
John poured the water and dropped in the tea, then let it steep a moment before he carried the mugs to the living room. He handed Sherlock his and took stock. Maybe he sounded so bad because of his nose. “Did you have a nosebleed?”
“I faked it to get a look at their washroom.”
John set his tea down, then reached out and turned Sherlock’s face with one hand on his cheek. God, but his skin was cold. “That’s not fake blood, though.”
“Well. I tried a bit too hard to fake a nosebleed,” he said, and John sighed.
“So what does it mean, that there’s no connection?”
Sherlock took a small sip of his tea, made a face - no wonder, it had barely steeped, and John hadn’t added any sugar - and set it on the side table. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s not impossible to believe that he’s set it up this way. No connections, a seemingly random crime. The police won’t care, he’s not endangered. But I get the message all the same.” He rubbed his forehead gingerly, his fingers weaving on either side of the gash.
“So you think, what, this wasn’t a warning? Just a hello?”
Sherlock smiled grimly. “Something like.”
That thought was too miserable to think of. John collected his tea and took a seat on the couch. A mad man, he thought. Moriarty’s absolutely mad.
Sherlock tried his tea again, and though he pulled another face, he drank it. John watched. He waited until the cup was empty, until he could see Sherlock’s shoulders starting to curl inward, and then he said, “All right. To bed with you.”
“Can’t,” Sherlock said.
“What, you have someone else to interview?”
“I need to sit up.”
John smiled. “You can do that quite comfortably in bed. Come on. I’ve had broken ribs before, too.”
Sherlock frowned. “Is that a good idea?“
“I’m your doctor,” John said.
Sherlock rose, slowly. God, but he looked almost pitiful. It was frightening to see him moving so slowly, frightening more still when he just stood there. There was none of the usual manic energy about him, none of the usual zeal or even the usual scorn. “John,” he said, his voice low. “Do you want to have sex?”
“Right now?” John said, a bit aghast.
“Well, that’s certainly an interesting question, but no,” Sherlock said. “Ever again.”
John sighed. “Sherlock,” he murmured, and Sherlock didn’t move. “Well, of course, I do. Not tonight, not right now. That’s not on my agenda. But ever again? Of course.”
“To be clear, with me?”
“Yes, with you,” John said. “Of course with you. You’re brilliant at it, and -- I know we haven’t ever talked about this, but I do, I, well. I quite enjoy it. With you. All of this.”
Sherlock nodded, just once. He was staring at something on the floor. “It’s never been something I -- felt entirely comfortable with.”
“Right. Wait. Sorry. D’you mean how we are, or sex in general?”
“Sex, of course,” Sherlock said. “We’re very comfortable.”
“Yes.” John nodded. He’d known this about Sherlock from the start. It wasn’t that Sherlock was some kind of blushing virgin -- John wasn’t convinced that Sherlock could even blush -- but that Sherlock was clearly not a man used to being particularly open about things, and that was exactly what this required. “And yet you’ve been rather successful at it. We both have, I think. Together.”
Sherlock’s lips quivered, as though a smile was fighting to come through. “Yes. Well. What I mean is, now, I -- “ he stopped and John watched his hands curl into fists. “It’s so absolutely frustrating to find one’s own reactions to be so on par with those more ordinary.”
John didn’t have to ask what he meant. The man was shaking a bit where he stood. He couldn’t make eye contact. The great Sherlock Holmes couldn’t make eye contact. “Listen,” John said. “This isn’t something we need to decide tonight. Give it some time --”
“Damn time!” Sherlock said. “Damn -- damn all of this. It’s -- it’s awful, and it’s humiliating.”
“OK,” John said in the same voice he might use to soothe a soldier freaking out on the line. “All right. Yeah, it is pretty bloody awful. But let’s take this one step at a time, all right? First, could you sit down?”
“Why?”
“Because you’re trembling,” John said, “and I don’t want you falling and re-damaging that gorgeous head of yours.”
Sherlock did actually smile at that. “Really, flattery, John?”
“It’s gotten me pretty far, hasn’t it?” He met Sherlock’s eyes, gave him a smile he didn’t even have to try for, not too hard. He did want Sherlock, nearly all the time, did think he was a gorgeous bastard, did want him in his bed.
“ I accept your medical opinion of what would be best for tonight,” Sherlock said. “Let’s go upstairs. Bring the new mobile.”
John reasoned that just because this was less of a fight than he’d expected, it didn’t mean he needed to make into more. “All right, then,” he said, grabbed the mobile, and followed Sherlock up the stairs and into John’s room. Sherlock sat slowly on the edge of the bed, one hand pressed to his chest. His breathing was labored just from the stairs, and maybe - well. From it all. John sat next to him and felt him trembling. “Would the medicine help?” he asked quietly.
“Yes and no,” Sherlock said. “It causes some vivid dreams. I’m not sure -“
“Right,” John said. “Well, some ibuprofen, at least, to take the edge off the swelling.” He touched Sherlock’s face, gently, his fingers resting just along the dark smudge of his bruised eye. Sherlock still wasn’t meeting his eyes.
“About this afternoon.”
John sighed. “Are you going to apologize, now, because I’m really going to think your head needs closer examination.”
Sherlock looked up, and John saw the flicker of a smirk. “No. I was only going to say - I didn’t relish the thought of leaving you behind.”
“Well, that’s something,” John said. “I didn’t much relish the thought of walking home, so thanks for the 20 spot.”
“Least I could do,” he said.
“I know - there were three of them in my wallet. Where is that, exactly?”
“Downstairs in my jacket.” Sherlock smiled. “I’ll get the groceries next.”
“Seriously, did you hit your head again today?”
“It’s fine,” Sherlock said. John carefully ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “It’s all fine.”
When Sherlock was settled, John lay next to him and let his arm rest just so against Sherlock’s thigh, a warm and he hoped welcome pressure. He thought about Sherlock’s question, the hesitation there, and something inside of him exploded into that same dark, dangerous rage he’d felt earlier. He would find these men and rip their hearts out.
The next morning, Sherlock did not demand they go immediately to Scotland Yard, because Scotland Yard came to them.
John was making tea when he heard the door downstairs. At first he thought it might be a delivery for Mrs. Hudson; then he heard feet on the stairs.
“We’ve got them,” Lestrade said as soon as John opened the door.
“You’ve - really?” He nodded. “You’re sure it’s them?”
“That tip Sherlock sent us yesterday about the coffee cart was spot on. We found the owner this morning and he sent us straight to the other two.”
“Really?” John wondered why Sherlock hadn’t mentioned sending a tip. Odd, that. Then again, they’d had other things to discuss yesterday, hadn’t they? “Well, this is great news.”
“Yeah. We thought - it might help if he could come down and have a look in person. You know? Do you think he would?”
John nodded. “Almost certainly.” Lestrade kept staring at him, and John finally understood. “Now, you mean. Right. I’ll just go and ask.” He started to move the kettle off the hob.
Lestrade said, “No need, if you want. I know the way. Been through that rubbish heap of a room more than once for drugs.”
“No need,” Sherlock said, appearing at the bottom of the stairs. If it was possible, he looked worse today than the day before; his bruises were still dark, and as he was wearing only a half-buttoned shirt, they were visible from his neck to mid-chest. The bruises on his chest had yet to fade into anything even manageable; they were livid red and purple, the pattern of a boot sole visible at the edge. Had the men stood on him? John wondered. The sexual assault still stood out as the worst part, but god, the beating itself had been terrifically severe, too. Sherlock’s voice was low and rough. “You’ll find nothing in my room.”
“Ah,” Lestrade said. “Jesus, Sherlock, you look awful.”
“Oh?” He glanced downward as though unsure what Lestrade could be talking about. “Yes, well, I’ve only just woken.”
He shook his head. “You know, this can wait, if you’re not --”
“Of course I’m coming,” Sherlock said. “But I want to interrogate them.”
Lestrade coughed. “No, seriously,” he said.
“I’m being absolutely serious.”
John knew he was, and he knew it would be pointless to try and impress how inappropriate that request would be. Lestrade, poor man, had to try anyway.
“You’re not -- you’re not an investigator on this case, Sherlock.”
“No? I seem to remember giving you the tip that made it possible to catch these men.”
“You’re an eyewitness,” he said. “I can’t have you messing about, ruining our case.”
“Your case?” Sherlock raised one eyebrow perfectly, then gestured at himself. “I thought perhaps as the victim in this case, I might be permitted to face the perpetrators.”
“But why?” Lestrade said.
Sherlock sighed. “Please, spare me your concern. They’re connected to Moriarty, and I want to know why. It might be enough for you that they’re off the street, but I’m almost completely uninterested in that. They weren’t likely to assault me again, were they?”
Lestrade shook his head.
“Besides,” Sherlock said, “you have plenty of other witnesses, if you’re worried about their court case.”
John said, “When would you want us there?”
“Soon as you can,” Lestrade said. “I’ll have them brought up for questioning. Because I’m insane,” he said, muttering the last.
“It’s one of your best qualities,” Sherlock said, nearly smiling.
He leaned against the door frame as Lestrade left, and when John came back, his face was dangerously pale. “I may need your help,” Sherlock said.
John nodded, waiting.
Sherlock sighed. He held out his hand, and it quivered in the air between them. “I can’t seem to button my shirt properly,” he said. “I would appreciate your assistance.”
“Oh,” John said. “All right.” He stepped forward and grabbed the lowest button. “That’s, um. Listen, are you --”
“They’ll know something,” Sherlock said, his face turned from where John was fastening his shirt. “Whether or not they know it, whether or not Lestrade believes me, whether even you do -- they’ll know something. They may be able to lead me to him.”
“Right,” John said. He heard Sherlock take a sharp breath as he moved to fasten the final button; his knuckle brushed Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock flinched as John tightened the shirt.
“Really,” John said, stopping. “Is this a good idea?”
Sherlock glared at him. “They aren’t likely to jump me at Scotland Yard, are they? I rather think it might be satisfying to see the tables turned.” His voice was too cavalier, John thought, but then again, it always was. “Hurry up.”
“You’re shaking.”
“Of course I bloody am,” Sherlock said. “Physical proximity continues to prove a challenge. It’s fine,” he said, when John had finished and stepped back.
“It’s not fine,” John said. “You’re not fine.”
Sherlock sighed impatiently. “My involuntary reactions are simply a manifestation of anxiety from the entire experience. I assure you, my mental performance is unaffected. It’s a minor inconvenience.”
“A minor inconvenience,” John said, stepping abruptly closer and watching Sherlock flinch again, “that you’re terrified all the time?”
“I’m not,” Sherlock murmured. He crossed his arms and only winced a little. “I just haven’t completely mastered my own reactions, yet. I will.”
John shook his head. God, this was going to go so wrong, he thought, but he knew there was nothing to be done. Not while Sherlock was still convinced he was fine, he was coping. They’d go, and it would be a disaster, and it would tear them both up. Lovely.
“Why would he hire such imbeciles?” Sherlock asked. “If you’ve got the entire criminal world at your beck and call -“
“It was rather last minute,” John offered.
“It just doesn’t make sense,” Sherlock muttered. “A robbery, done by common criminals? It’s inelegant, and inefficient, as a way of getting my attention.”
John sighed. “You said it yourself. He wants to burn the heart out of you. This is - this is exactly how someone would go about that.”
“What, the sex part?” Sherlock scoffed. He was staring off, above John, as if at the window. John couldn’t quite step away, though he knew he should.
“Sure,” John said. “This is how people work, Sherlock. There are certain things - certain acts -“
“Yes, yes,” Sherlock said. “I know. The feelings of powerlessness, the panic, it’s supposed to overwhelm me, right? Make me incapable of holding a normal romantic relationship, overshadow and destroy any feelings of security I’ve had. Make regular social interaction difficult or impossible.”
He looked at John for the briefest of moments, and John was tempted to touch him -- his face, his pale shaking hands, something -- before he looked away. He started to fiddle with the cuff of his shirt. “Hand me my jacket, would you?”
John nodded and walked to the couch to gather it from where Sherlock had slung it. While his back was turned, Sherlock spoke again. There was the tiniest of shakes in his voice. “I don’t suppose he knows me that well, does he, if he thought I was capable of all of that in the first place.”
John sighed. The thing was - Sherlock was unusual. He was socially awkward, cold, calculating. He wasn’t quite the sociopath that he liked to think he was, but he was close. Yet he was very much able to be hurt and harmed, and John wasn’t so obtuse that he didn’t know this was one way that someone would do it.
“All along,” John said, holding out his jacket, “we’ve thought he’d get to you through me.”
Sherlock paused, for a fraction of a second, then stepped free of the wall and turned around to get into the coat. They hadn’t discussed it, but John knew he was right. It was the only vulnerability Sherlock had shown at the pool - the only one John had shown, as well. Now that they were even more involved than they had been, John had assumed he’d be the route Moriarty would take. If he’d come to that conclusion, Sherlock had probably reached it months ago, perhaps even before the pool.
This, though, John knew, would be harder for him to understand. “Why attack me, then?” he asked, as John stepped closer to help him with the jacket.
“Because it’s tearing me up, what they’ve done to you,” John said softly.
“I’m fine.” Sherlock’s voice was tight.
“Sure,” John said. He lifted the jacket and set it on his shoulders, then rested his hand at the juncture between Sherlock’s neck and back, the tips of his fingers against the smooth skin at Sherlock’s nape. Sherlock shuddered violently, then cursed.
“Stupid,” he gritted out, reaching sharply, too sharply, for the jacket’s sleeves. He hissed at the pain.
John kept his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder for a moment. “It’s all right,” he said, holding the coat so Sherlock could get one arm into it, then the other. When he had it on, John put his hands on his shoulders and turned him around, buttoned the coat swiftly. “It’s fine.”
“Is it?” Sherlock asked, his eyes too wide.
John leaned in and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s mouth, to the side, as non-threatening as possible. Sherlock shivered but stayed close to him for just a moment; his hands came up and gripped John’s forearms, and John saw his eyes flutter closed. He smelled of the long, scalding bath he’d taken that morning. It was the closest they’d been since the attack, the closest, perhaps, that they’d ever been outside of bed. “It will be fine,” John said. “They’re caught, and you’ll deal with them, and it will bring you closer to catching him.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said, his voice low and shaky but strong, somehow. When he drew back and opened his eyes, they were alight with something like his normal ferocity. “It will.”
Next Part
By the time he reached home, John was well past anger and back into worry. (Sherlock had left him a 20 pound note, after all, which nearly got him back home). He borrowed Mrs. Hudson’s phone as soon as he was in and sent a message to his own phone. Where are you?
“Everything all right?” she asked.
“Not really,” John said.
“Where’s Sherlock?”
John sighed. “He’s busy being an idiot,” he said.
“Well,” she said brightly, “it can’t be as bad as all that if he’s up to his usual tricks.”
It can be, John thought. It is. He checked the phone again. Three long, silent minutes had passed. “Could I use it again?”
He was in the middle of composing a new text, this one to Lestrade, when the doorbell rang. Mrs. Hudson excused herself to answer it while John tried to figure out how to word his request without sounding too worrying. He’d nearly settled on, “Has Sherlock gotten the address list from you?”, knowing that was how he would have been in contact, when he heard a grating and familiar, cheerful voice.
“Ah, Dr. Watson. I hoped I might catch you at home. I was just in the neighborhood,” Mycroft explained, his smile at once bright and terrifying and false and true. Rather like his brother in that. John just stared. He wasn’t even sure what to do with Mycroft right now. He never really was, but the usual solution -- telling him to piss off -- wasn’t quite right this time. “I wondered if I might trouble you for a cup of tea?”
“Oh! I’ll just put the kettle on,” Mrs. Hudson said, clearly already fascinated by Sherlock’s dapper brother.
“No need,” John said quickly. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Hudson, but I couldn’t possibly trouble you further. Come up, Mycroft, I’m sure I can find something.”
“Quite good of you.”
John unlocked the flat and let Mycroft pass inside first. He gave the armchair a small thump with his umbrella as he strode by; John didn’t think he cared. It was Sherlock’s chair, after all. He closed the door and stared at Mycroft’s back. On the way up the stairs, he’d thought of something new. This wasn’t a friendly visit, obviously; they weren’t friendly with Mycroft. Sherlock had run off, and now something bad -- something worse -- had happened. Say it, he thought. Just tell me.
“He’s quite safe,” Mycroft said. “I assure you.”
John let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “You know where he is?”
“Mm. Kensington Station. Doubtlessly deducing the travel destinations of everyone he passes.” Mycroft turned. His smile had wound down into something more real but still terrifying. “Your mobile is GPS enabled, you know.”
He -- shit. He did know, of course he knew. He just hadn’t thought of it. Probably, he would have, once he reached the flat and saw their computers on the end tables. Probably. “You didn’t come all the way here just to tell me Sherlock’s all right.”
“No,” Mycroft agreed. He put a hand into his pocket, then drew out a very small, slick black phone. “I imagine he’ll need a new one.”
It was doubtlessly bugged, doubtlessly registered in some terrible government program that would alert Mycroft every time Sherlock set foot outside their apartment or ordered the wrong kind of dinner. Though a tiny, Sherlock-like voice in his head protested, John thought that was wonderful, really. He took the phone with a nod of thanks.
Mycroft cleared his throat. His eyes were flicking up and over their things, across Sherlock’s many books, over their messy table. “I’ve read the physician’s report from the hospital. About the, ah, incident. Is it true?”
John didn’t even bother with the speech about privacy. The concept didn’t seem to register with either Holmes brother. “I’d imagine so,” he said.
“And what they’ve left out,” Mycroft said, and only the raise of his eyebrow told John that was a question.
“What they’ve left out is Sherlock’s business, if he wants to tell you,” John said, and Mycroft frowned.
“So it is as I suspected, then,” he murmured.
John sighed. “Yes,” he said.
He nodded. For a second, maybe just a half second, the look on Mycroft’s face was one that John wasn’t used to seeing: sadness, disappointment. Maybe, just slightly, anger. Hurt. Though he quickly cleared back to his usual dour face, John understood. Mycroft did worry constantly, and this must have been the confirmation of his worst fears. Someone had hurt Sherlock. Even if Sherlock refused to act like it had ever happened.
“I really can make a cup of tea,” John said.
“No, that won’t be necessary,” Mycroft said, though he looked like a man in need. Perhaps he’d have a nip of something in the car, John thought, then nearly grinned. The thought was too absurd. “I just wanted -- well, to speak with you, where he wasn’t.” He straightened himself. “Sherlock has never dealt well with sympathy. He sees it as pity.”
“Yeah, I’m catching on to that,” John said.
“But I do feel quite -- awful,” Mycroft said, his voice surprisingly soft. “Really. I would have never wished for this.” He seemed to be nearly talking to himself. “If I had only been paying more attention.”
John frowned. He didn’t think that was true -- he’d been to the scene, he wasn’t sure how Mycroft could have kept a better eye out -- but he was curious. “Why -- if I might ask, why weren’t you watching, that day?”
He studied the wall again. “He’s been much safer, of late. With you. It didn’t seem so -- necessary.” He tapped the umbrella against his shoe and looked quickly over at John. John figured he deserved that, after what he’d just asked. He hadn’t been keeping an eye out as much recently, either. It hadn’t seemed as vital, not after a year of no word, not even a peep, from Moriarty. He’d let himself forget about the big monster, focused instead on the day-to-day.
“There wasn’t any way to have stopped this,” John said.
“Probably not,” Mycroft agreed. “We do everything we can, of course, but crime --”
“Right,” John said. He didn’t want to hear the Ministry’s line on Sherlock’s sexual assault. Not from Mycroft, not from anyone. “He’s convinced it’s Moriarty.”
“I know,” Mycroft said. “What do you think?”
“He’s usually right about these things,” John said, and he knew even as he said it that Mycroft would read exactly what John felt into his small equivocation: he wasn’t sure, not at all, that Sherlock was right this time.
“Well, I’m sure he’ll find a solution,” Mycroft said, tone again too bright. “If I were to trust my brother’s case to anyone, it would, really, be my brother.”
John nodded. It summed up perfectly how he felt about the whole business, too. No one was better than Sherlock, even a distracted, pained Sherlock.
He and Mycroft said a quick, awkward good-bye, and he was down and out before John had even made it to the couch. What a ridiculous family, he thought, though he felt somehow a little nicer about Mycroft at the moment. The man did worry.
When Sherlock came home two hours later, his hair mussed with rain and his face pale as parchment, John was lying on the couch, staring blankly at the TV. Sherlock took two steps into the flat and said, “My brother is a nosy git.”
John blinked and sat up. “How’s that?”
“He was here. Mycroft.” He shook his head and hobbled toward the armchair. He lowered himself into it slowly, but John didn’t miss his grimace. Christ, he looked just awful. Pale, a little crust of blood by one nostril, eyes red-ringed. If he was running a fever, John would shoot him. He walked to the kitchen and put the kettle on, then came back to the living room.
“How’d you know?”
“Bloody awful cologne,” Sherlock said. “And you would’ve been worried, otherwise. You’re not worried.”
“I actually am, a bit,” John said. “You look like death warmed over. Except not warm. Where’s your coat?”
“I dropped it at the cleaner’s,” Sherlock said. He was shivering. John sighed and went to the cupboard for a blanket. He held it up while Sherlock took off his damp suit jacket, then he pressed it over him. “Am I back in shock, then?” Sherlock said, but he didn’t turn it away.
“So what did you find out?”
“Precious little,” Sherlock muttered as John returned to the kitchen to prepare the tea. “I spoke with Thad Anchor. Terrible man, hateful little wife, three god-awful children. Mugged three months ago near an abandoned schoolyard. Wouldn’t even say the word ‘rape’ while his wife was in earshot.”
John was a bit surprised to hear Sherlock use the word, but he didn’t know why. They dealt with terrible crimes all the time. Sherlock was never fazed by the terms. John wondered why he found himself stumbling over saying anything stronger -- truer -- than “the attack” in his own head. Even as he asked the question, he answered it for himself: he didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to think of Sherlock being raped, of anyone assaulting him. He hated that this had happened. He hated it.
“What’s the connection?”
“There is none,” Sherlock said, sounding miserable.
“None?” John paused in the act of tearing open a packet. “How can you be so sure, already?”
“Of course, I’m not sure,” Sherlock said. Cross was a much better sound on him than discouraged. “But there’s nothing obvious or inobvious. He’s a banker in Leeds. He goes to school plays. Doesn’t cheat on his wife, doesn’t make more than he should, still has debt from studying in America for a while. And - worst - he wasn’t even in the right place at the right time the day they got him. He got off the Tube at the wrong stop and got turned around.”
John poured the water and dropped in the tea, then let it steep a moment before he carried the mugs to the living room. He handed Sherlock his and took stock. Maybe he sounded so bad because of his nose. “Did you have a nosebleed?”
“I faked it to get a look at their washroom.”
John set his tea down, then reached out and turned Sherlock’s face with one hand on his cheek. God, but his skin was cold. “That’s not fake blood, though.”
“Well. I tried a bit too hard to fake a nosebleed,” he said, and John sighed.
“So what does it mean, that there’s no connection?”
Sherlock took a small sip of his tea, made a face - no wonder, it had barely steeped, and John hadn’t added any sugar - and set it on the side table. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s not impossible to believe that he’s set it up this way. No connections, a seemingly random crime. The police won’t care, he’s not endangered. But I get the message all the same.” He rubbed his forehead gingerly, his fingers weaving on either side of the gash.
“So you think, what, this wasn’t a warning? Just a hello?”
Sherlock smiled grimly. “Something like.”
That thought was too miserable to think of. John collected his tea and took a seat on the couch. A mad man, he thought. Moriarty’s absolutely mad.
Sherlock tried his tea again, and though he pulled another face, he drank it. John watched. He waited until the cup was empty, until he could see Sherlock’s shoulders starting to curl inward, and then he said, “All right. To bed with you.”
“Can’t,” Sherlock said.
“What, you have someone else to interview?”
“I need to sit up.”
John smiled. “You can do that quite comfortably in bed. Come on. I’ve had broken ribs before, too.”
Sherlock frowned. “Is that a good idea?“
“I’m your doctor,” John said.
Sherlock rose, slowly. God, but he looked almost pitiful. It was frightening to see him moving so slowly, frightening more still when he just stood there. There was none of the usual manic energy about him, none of the usual zeal or even the usual scorn. “John,” he said, his voice low. “Do you want to have sex?”
“Right now?” John said, a bit aghast.
“Well, that’s certainly an interesting question, but no,” Sherlock said. “Ever again.”
John sighed. “Sherlock,” he murmured, and Sherlock didn’t move. “Well, of course, I do. Not tonight, not right now. That’s not on my agenda. But ever again? Of course.”
“To be clear, with me?”
“Yes, with you,” John said. “Of course with you. You’re brilliant at it, and -- I know we haven’t ever talked about this, but I do, I, well. I quite enjoy it. With you. All of this.”
Sherlock nodded, just once. He was staring at something on the floor. “It’s never been something I -- felt entirely comfortable with.”
“Right. Wait. Sorry. D’you mean how we are, or sex in general?”
“Sex, of course,” Sherlock said. “We’re very comfortable.”
“Yes.” John nodded. He’d known this about Sherlock from the start. It wasn’t that Sherlock was some kind of blushing virgin -- John wasn’t convinced that Sherlock could even blush -- but that Sherlock was clearly not a man used to being particularly open about things, and that was exactly what this required. “And yet you’ve been rather successful at it. We both have, I think. Together.”
Sherlock’s lips quivered, as though a smile was fighting to come through. “Yes. Well. What I mean is, now, I -- “ he stopped and John watched his hands curl into fists. “It’s so absolutely frustrating to find one’s own reactions to be so on par with those more ordinary.”
John didn’t have to ask what he meant. The man was shaking a bit where he stood. He couldn’t make eye contact. The great Sherlock Holmes couldn’t make eye contact. “Listen,” John said. “This isn’t something we need to decide tonight. Give it some time --”
“Damn time!” Sherlock said. “Damn -- damn all of this. It’s -- it’s awful, and it’s humiliating.”
“OK,” John said in the same voice he might use to soothe a soldier freaking out on the line. “All right. Yeah, it is pretty bloody awful. But let’s take this one step at a time, all right? First, could you sit down?”
“Why?”
“Because you’re trembling,” John said, “and I don’t want you falling and re-damaging that gorgeous head of yours.”
Sherlock did actually smile at that. “Really, flattery, John?”
“It’s gotten me pretty far, hasn’t it?” He met Sherlock’s eyes, gave him a smile he didn’t even have to try for, not too hard. He did want Sherlock, nearly all the time, did think he was a gorgeous bastard, did want him in his bed.
“ I accept your medical opinion of what would be best for tonight,” Sherlock said. “Let’s go upstairs. Bring the new mobile.”
John reasoned that just because this was less of a fight than he’d expected, it didn’t mean he needed to make into more. “All right, then,” he said, grabbed the mobile, and followed Sherlock up the stairs and into John’s room. Sherlock sat slowly on the edge of the bed, one hand pressed to his chest. His breathing was labored just from the stairs, and maybe - well. From it all. John sat next to him and felt him trembling. “Would the medicine help?” he asked quietly.
“Yes and no,” Sherlock said. “It causes some vivid dreams. I’m not sure -“
“Right,” John said. “Well, some ibuprofen, at least, to take the edge off the swelling.” He touched Sherlock’s face, gently, his fingers resting just along the dark smudge of his bruised eye. Sherlock still wasn’t meeting his eyes.
“About this afternoon.”
John sighed. “Are you going to apologize, now, because I’m really going to think your head needs closer examination.”
Sherlock looked up, and John saw the flicker of a smirk. “No. I was only going to say - I didn’t relish the thought of leaving you behind.”
“Well, that’s something,” John said. “I didn’t much relish the thought of walking home, so thanks for the 20 spot.”
“Least I could do,” he said.
“I know - there were three of them in my wallet. Where is that, exactly?”
“Downstairs in my jacket.” Sherlock smiled. “I’ll get the groceries next.”
“Seriously, did you hit your head again today?”
“It’s fine,” Sherlock said. John carefully ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “It’s all fine.”
When Sherlock was settled, John lay next to him and let his arm rest just so against Sherlock’s thigh, a warm and he hoped welcome pressure. He thought about Sherlock’s question, the hesitation there, and something inside of him exploded into that same dark, dangerous rage he’d felt earlier. He would find these men and rip their hearts out.
The next morning, Sherlock did not demand they go immediately to Scotland Yard, because Scotland Yard came to them.
John was making tea when he heard the door downstairs. At first he thought it might be a delivery for Mrs. Hudson; then he heard feet on the stairs.
“We’ve got them,” Lestrade said as soon as John opened the door.
“You’ve - really?” He nodded. “You’re sure it’s them?”
“That tip Sherlock sent us yesterday about the coffee cart was spot on. We found the owner this morning and he sent us straight to the other two.”
“Really?” John wondered why Sherlock hadn’t mentioned sending a tip. Odd, that. Then again, they’d had other things to discuss yesterday, hadn’t they? “Well, this is great news.”
“Yeah. We thought - it might help if he could come down and have a look in person. You know? Do you think he would?”
John nodded. “Almost certainly.” Lestrade kept staring at him, and John finally understood. “Now, you mean. Right. I’ll just go and ask.” He started to move the kettle off the hob.
Lestrade said, “No need, if you want. I know the way. Been through that rubbish heap of a room more than once for drugs.”
“No need,” Sherlock said, appearing at the bottom of the stairs. If it was possible, he looked worse today than the day before; his bruises were still dark, and as he was wearing only a half-buttoned shirt, they were visible from his neck to mid-chest. The bruises on his chest had yet to fade into anything even manageable; they were livid red and purple, the pattern of a boot sole visible at the edge. Had the men stood on him? John wondered. The sexual assault still stood out as the worst part, but god, the beating itself had been terrifically severe, too. Sherlock’s voice was low and rough. “You’ll find nothing in my room.”
“Ah,” Lestrade said. “Jesus, Sherlock, you look awful.”
“Oh?” He glanced downward as though unsure what Lestrade could be talking about. “Yes, well, I’ve only just woken.”
He shook his head. “You know, this can wait, if you’re not --”
“Of course I’m coming,” Sherlock said. “But I want to interrogate them.”
Lestrade coughed. “No, seriously,” he said.
“I’m being absolutely serious.”
John knew he was, and he knew it would be pointless to try and impress how inappropriate that request would be. Lestrade, poor man, had to try anyway.
“You’re not -- you’re not an investigator on this case, Sherlock.”
“No? I seem to remember giving you the tip that made it possible to catch these men.”
“You’re an eyewitness,” he said. “I can’t have you messing about, ruining our case.”
“Your case?” Sherlock raised one eyebrow perfectly, then gestured at himself. “I thought perhaps as the victim in this case, I might be permitted to face the perpetrators.”
“But why?” Lestrade said.
Sherlock sighed. “Please, spare me your concern. They’re connected to Moriarty, and I want to know why. It might be enough for you that they’re off the street, but I’m almost completely uninterested in that. They weren’t likely to assault me again, were they?”
Lestrade shook his head.
“Besides,” Sherlock said, “you have plenty of other witnesses, if you’re worried about their court case.”
John said, “When would you want us there?”
“Soon as you can,” Lestrade said. “I’ll have them brought up for questioning. Because I’m insane,” he said, muttering the last.
“It’s one of your best qualities,” Sherlock said, nearly smiling.
He leaned against the door frame as Lestrade left, and when John came back, his face was dangerously pale. “I may need your help,” Sherlock said.
John nodded, waiting.
Sherlock sighed. He held out his hand, and it quivered in the air between them. “I can’t seem to button my shirt properly,” he said. “I would appreciate your assistance.”
“Oh,” John said. “All right.” He stepped forward and grabbed the lowest button. “That’s, um. Listen, are you --”
“They’ll know something,” Sherlock said, his face turned from where John was fastening his shirt. “Whether or not they know it, whether or not Lestrade believes me, whether even you do -- they’ll know something. They may be able to lead me to him.”
“Right,” John said. He heard Sherlock take a sharp breath as he moved to fasten the final button; his knuckle brushed Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock flinched as John tightened the shirt.
“Really,” John said, stopping. “Is this a good idea?”
Sherlock glared at him. “They aren’t likely to jump me at Scotland Yard, are they? I rather think it might be satisfying to see the tables turned.” His voice was too cavalier, John thought, but then again, it always was. “Hurry up.”
“You’re shaking.”
“Of course I bloody am,” Sherlock said. “Physical proximity continues to prove a challenge. It’s fine,” he said, when John had finished and stepped back.
“It’s not fine,” John said. “You’re not fine.”
Sherlock sighed impatiently. “My involuntary reactions are simply a manifestation of anxiety from the entire experience. I assure you, my mental performance is unaffected. It’s a minor inconvenience.”
“A minor inconvenience,” John said, stepping abruptly closer and watching Sherlock flinch again, “that you’re terrified all the time?”
“I’m not,” Sherlock murmured. He crossed his arms and only winced a little. “I just haven’t completely mastered my own reactions, yet. I will.”
John shook his head. God, this was going to go so wrong, he thought, but he knew there was nothing to be done. Not while Sherlock was still convinced he was fine, he was coping. They’d go, and it would be a disaster, and it would tear them both up. Lovely.
“Why would he hire such imbeciles?” Sherlock asked. “If you’ve got the entire criminal world at your beck and call -“
“It was rather last minute,” John offered.
“It just doesn’t make sense,” Sherlock muttered. “A robbery, done by common criminals? It’s inelegant, and inefficient, as a way of getting my attention.”
John sighed. “You said it yourself. He wants to burn the heart out of you. This is - this is exactly how someone would go about that.”
“What, the sex part?” Sherlock scoffed. He was staring off, above John, as if at the window. John couldn’t quite step away, though he knew he should.
“Sure,” John said. “This is how people work, Sherlock. There are certain things - certain acts -“
“Yes, yes,” Sherlock said. “I know. The feelings of powerlessness, the panic, it’s supposed to overwhelm me, right? Make me incapable of holding a normal romantic relationship, overshadow and destroy any feelings of security I’ve had. Make regular social interaction difficult or impossible.”
He looked at John for the briefest of moments, and John was tempted to touch him -- his face, his pale shaking hands, something -- before he looked away. He started to fiddle with the cuff of his shirt. “Hand me my jacket, would you?”
John nodded and walked to the couch to gather it from where Sherlock had slung it. While his back was turned, Sherlock spoke again. There was the tiniest of shakes in his voice. “I don’t suppose he knows me that well, does he, if he thought I was capable of all of that in the first place.”
John sighed. The thing was - Sherlock was unusual. He was socially awkward, cold, calculating. He wasn’t quite the sociopath that he liked to think he was, but he was close. Yet he was very much able to be hurt and harmed, and John wasn’t so obtuse that he didn’t know this was one way that someone would do it.
“All along,” John said, holding out his jacket, “we’ve thought he’d get to you through me.”
Sherlock paused, for a fraction of a second, then stepped free of the wall and turned around to get into the coat. They hadn’t discussed it, but John knew he was right. It was the only vulnerability Sherlock had shown at the pool - the only one John had shown, as well. Now that they were even more involved than they had been, John had assumed he’d be the route Moriarty would take. If he’d come to that conclusion, Sherlock had probably reached it months ago, perhaps even before the pool.
This, though, John knew, would be harder for him to understand. “Why attack me, then?” he asked, as John stepped closer to help him with the jacket.
“Because it’s tearing me up, what they’ve done to you,” John said softly.
“I’m fine.” Sherlock’s voice was tight.
“Sure,” John said. He lifted the jacket and set it on his shoulders, then rested his hand at the juncture between Sherlock’s neck and back, the tips of his fingers against the smooth skin at Sherlock’s nape. Sherlock shuddered violently, then cursed.
“Stupid,” he gritted out, reaching sharply, too sharply, for the jacket’s sleeves. He hissed at the pain.
John kept his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder for a moment. “It’s all right,” he said, holding the coat so Sherlock could get one arm into it, then the other. When he had it on, John put his hands on his shoulders and turned him around, buttoned the coat swiftly. “It’s fine.”
“Is it?” Sherlock asked, his eyes too wide.
John leaned in and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s mouth, to the side, as non-threatening as possible. Sherlock shivered but stayed close to him for just a moment; his hands came up and gripped John’s forearms, and John saw his eyes flutter closed. He smelled of the long, scalding bath he’d taken that morning. It was the closest they’d been since the attack, the closest, perhaps, that they’d ever been outside of bed. “It will be fine,” John said. “They’re caught, and you’ll deal with them, and it will bring you closer to catching him.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said, his voice low and shaky but strong, somehow. When he drew back and opened his eyes, they were alight with something like his normal ferocity. “It will.”
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