Let the More Loving One Be Me

by SherlockFan5000

Summary:

Sherlock has barely survived his kidnapping. A ghost of his former self, he considers himself a burden to his family and friends. And when, in a moment of vulnerability, he unwittingly reveals his greatest secret, he loses all hope. Will Sherlock survive?

Notes:

This was a tough story to write and perhaps a hard one to read. Be warned: there is past violence and rape mentioned. There are specific descriptions of scars. Severe depression and a suicide attempt are mentioned. Please pay attention to the tags.

Chapter 1

He lay there in the dark, his chest heaving as he couldn’t seem to draw in enough oxygen. He could feel his heart thumping wildly in his chest. His screams still echoed in the room. He could feel sweat cooling all over his body. The blankets were twisted around his torso and arms. He felt trapped, alone, terrified. Tears spilled from his eyes and sobs from his throat. Pain throbbed everywhere in his body.

“Sherlock! Sherlock!” he heard outside the door. Not waiting for an answer, John came into the room, switching on the light. “Are you okay?”

Sherlock felt ashamed to have John see him like that. He couldn’t even bear to look at him. He heard him move towards the bed and sit down.

“Nightmares?” John asked as he reached out to touch Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock flinched away from the touch, cursing himself for the involuntary movement.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” John said softly. He reached again and Sherlock just managed not to pull away, but only with the greatest of effort. “I’m here for you. You’re not alone.”

“I wish that was true,” Sherlock whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

“I’m here.”

“For how long? How long will Mary let you stay here? You’ll go home and leave me alone.”

“You’ll never be alone. I’m here now, for as long as you need me.”

“I always need you, John,” Sherlock whispered as the tears fell harder. John leaned over and gathered Sherlock into his arms, pulling him to his chest, careful of Sherlock’s injuries. Sherlock rested his forehead in the space where John’s neck and shoulder met and felt John’s arms close around him. John laid the side of his face against the top of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock could feel himself shaking, heard his own sobs, as he clutched weakly at John’s t-shirt with his ruined hands.

“It’ll be okay, Sherlock. I’ll make sure of it.”

“How? I feel so weak, so useless, so . . . lost. I’m not myself, John. I don’t know if I ever will be.”

Sherlock felt something hit the top of his head and quickly realized that John was crying too. “We’ll find a way, Sherlock. You have all of us. We’re all here for you. Me, Mary, Rosie, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Molly, Mycroft, and your parents. We’ll be here for you, always.”

“But, what if they come back? They said they would. They said they’d come back and take me again. They said I was theirs. They said I was their . . . whore.”

Sherlock heard and felt John take a deep breath through his nose and recognized that sound. John only did it when he was so angry he could hardly speak. “They will not come back. Mycroft, Greg, and I will see to it. We will hunt down every one of those monsters and destroy them. They will never touch you again.”

“But it’s too late,” Sherlock whispered. “They’ve already destroyed me. Everything that was me is gone.”

John’s arms held Sherlock tighter. “You’re not destroyed. You’re still you, Sherlock. They can’t take that from you.”

“They already did. My mind is gone. I can’t think anymore. I can’t deduce. My mind palace is either gone or I can’t access it anymore. Every time I close my eyes, I see them. I feel them. They ruined my hands. I can’t play my violin anymore. I can’t do experiments. I won’t ever walk again. I need someone to do everything for me. I can’t even go to the loo by myself,” Sherlock was sobbing again, his chest heaving.

“Sherlock, please. You’ve got to calm down.”

“I wish . . . I wish you’d just let me die,” Sherlock whispered.

The words cut through John like a knife. To see Sherlock, the greatest man he’d ever known, reduced to this, so deep in depression that he didn’t want to live anymore, broke his heart into a million pieces.

“Please don’t say that. We all love you. We need you.”

“You have Mary and Rosie. No one needs me. I’m useless. I can’t be the consulting detective anymore. Can you imagine me showing up at a crime scene in my wheelchair? Donovan would have a field day calling me names and telling me I deserved it.”

“No one deserved what happened to you. And if she ever says a word to you again, I’ll make her regret it.”

“What am I going to do, John?” Sherlock winced as he sat up to look at John. “I can’t do anything anymore. I . . . I told Mycroft to see if he can find an institution that will take me in.”

“No, you can’t. You can’t go away. We’ll look after you.”

“How?” Sherlock laughed bitterly. “I can’t even go downstairs. I need someone to carry me. You have to go home. You belong with your wife and daughter. You need to go back to your life. I’ll go away and you can forget about me.”

“Don’t say that! I could never forget you. You’re my best friend. And I want to help you.”

Sherlock looked down at his hands. He winced trying to move the fingers that had been crushed, trying to ignore the missing fingers. “You feel obligated. I won’t have you ruining your life for me.”

“I don’t feel obligated. You’re one of the most important people in my life. I want to help you. We’ll make it better.”

Sherlock grabbed the blankets and threw them to the side, exposing his twisted, mangled legs. “How can we make this better, John?” he asked, his lower lip trembling. He showed John his useless hands. “They told me they would ruin me. And they did. I can’t sleep for the pain most of the time and when I do fall asleep I feel them touching me, torturing me, breaking bones, cutting, whipping, punching, I feel them pushing themselves into me. I hear myself screaming until my voice gave out.” He grabbed his head as pain bloomed behind his eyes. “They offered to let me go. Did I tell you that?”

“No,” John said, stunned. “No, you didn’t. Why did you stay?”

Sherlock looked up at John, tears glistening on his face, his glass eye shining strangely in the lamplight. The scar bisecting his face ran through the eyebrow and down his cheek. The Glasgow smile they’d carved into his face had scarred deeply. So much so that Sherlock had made him remove all of the mirrors in the flat that were at wheelchair level. “They said I could go. But I had to pick one of you. I had to pick either you or Greg or Molly or Mycroft. If I left, one of you would have to take my place. This was after the first three days, when I was in so much pain that I wanted to die. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t let any of you get hurt. You’re all so much more important than I am. You all have people that need you. I don’t matter. I didn’t then and I certainly don’t now. So they started breaking my legs, mangling them, crushing them, and they asked again the next day. I said no. Then they started cutting off fingers and crushing my hands. They asked again the next day, and I said no. Then they started pounding my head into the floor. I knew there’d be brain damage but I still said no.”

John felt his heart pounding. “Oh, God, of course you matter. You matter to all of us. Sherlock, you never think you’re good enough. How much have you sacrificed for us? For all of us?”

“I don’t think I can sacrifice anymore. I haven’t anything else to give. But I’d do it all again. All so long as you were safe, John.”

John looked into Sherlock’s eye and saw it then. He’d never let himself see it before. He fooled himself into thinking Sherlock didn’t think of love. But he saw it then. Sherlock Holmes had sacrificed, had given everything he had, had let himself be broken because he was in love.

“Sherlock . . .” John tried to swallow in a suddenly dry throat. He reached out a trembling hand and cupped Sherlock’s cheek, his thumb tracing along the cheekbone. “Sherlock, are you . . . do you love me?”

Sherlock looked at John, and John swore he’d never seen him look more vulnerable in his life. Not when they’d told him he’d never walk again. Not when they told him he had brain damage or that his hands were useless. He looked like a child who’d been abused all of their life who had found one bit of hope to cling to. He looked away from John. “I . . . It’s alright, John. I know that you don’t love me. I know that you never can and never will. It’s alright.”

It hit John then. Why Sherlock had left John’s wedding early, the look on his face when he boarded that airplane to go off to his death in Eastern Europe. He’d known Sherlock meant to say more than Sherlock was a girl’s name when he left. His heart was broken because he’d sacrificed all to come back to John and John had abandoned him for Mary.

Tears sprang to his eyes. The pain he’d caused Sherlock. He reached out and touched Sherlock again, pulling him into his arms. “I’m sorry. Oh God, I’m sorry, Sherlock. I didn’t know. All you’ve given up for me. All you’ve sacrificed. I . . .”

“I know,” Sherlock whispered. “I know . . . you’re not gay. And you wouldn’t want me anyway. Not now. Not after so many of them used me. I’m dirty now. I . . . I only ever wanted you to touch me there. When they had me in Serbia, when they were torturing me, I dreamt of you. I dreamt of coming home to you and giving myself to you. I wanted you to be the first, and the last, the only one to ever touch me.”

John couldn’t swallow past the lump in his throat. To know that he was that loved. To know that Sherlock had only ever wanted him. And to know that the only sex Sherlock had ever experienced was vicious, violent rape. “You’re not dirty. Sherlock, none of it was your fault. And I do love you. I’ll always love you.”

“Just not the way I love you. You have Mary. I have nothing. And no one. And I never will. You’re all I’ve ever wanted since the moment I met you, and I’ll love you until the day I die.”

“Sherlock, I . . .”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock whispered as he pulled himself from John’s arms and lay down carefully on his side. “I’m tired, John.”

“Sherlock, please, we need to talk.”

“No. I said more than I should have. I should have kept my mouth shut. I should never have let you know how I felt. I shouldn’t have let you know that they offered to free me. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!” he said harshly, beating on his head with his hands. The sharp pain behind his eyes exploded into the rest of his head.

“Stop it!” John said as he grabbed Sherlock’s hands.

“So stupid!” Sherlock whispered. “You see. You see what they did to me. Go, John. Please go. Please go home to Mary. Forget I told you what I told you. Forget me. Forget I’m here. Pretend I died there. Mourn if you want. Just don’t come back. Please. Please go. It hurts too much to see the pity in your eyes. To see you and know that I’ll never, ever have you. Please John.” Head throbbing and blinded by tears, he rolled over, bringing his hands to his head, cradling it and moaning.

“I’ll get you something for the pain.”

“No. Just turn out the light. The pain will get so bad in a few minutes, it’ll knock me out. I might be able to get some rest.” He closed his eyes and moaned again.

John stood and turned off the lights. He stood in the doorway, watching Sherlock struggling with the pain. The moans got louder and louder until they bordered on screams. It was a blessing when Sherlock passed out. He moved back to the bed and pulled the covers back over him. He leaned down, placing a soft kiss on Sherlock’s forehead.

He shut the door and went out to the sitting room, collapsing on the sofa. He looked at the baby monitor to make sure it was still on. The other half was in Sherlock’s room. He put his elbows on his knees and put his head in his hands. Tears welled in his eyes. All he could think was that it was him. He was the one who had broken Sherlock. Sherlock had suffered so much for him, all because he loved him. And John knew. He knew that, although he loved Sherlock as a best friend and as a brother, he couldn’t be Sherlock’s lover. He was with Mary. Guilt hit him in waves and he wanted to scream. Sherlock needed him. He needed to know that someone loved him. He never asked anything of John to repay him for all he’d sacrificed. And, John knew, he never would. Sherlock would continue to feel rejected, continue to feel unlovable. And there was nothing that John could do. And the thing that made him wince the most: the look in Sherlock’s eye. The depth of love in that one look was endless, and in that second, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Sherlock loved him with a single-mindedness and intensity that made Mary’s love pale in comparison. But John had made a vow to Mary that he couldn’t break.

He heard someone coming up the stairs. He looked up, rubbing the tears from his eyes. He knew that it wasn’t Mrs. Hudson, the step was too heavy. He also knew it wasn’t anyone dangerous. Mycroft’s agents were all around the building, and there were snipers on the roofs of the buildings opposite. He heard an extra tap with each step. Mycroft.

The door slowly opened, and Mycroft stepped through. The ordeal of the last few months had weighed heavily on him. Mycroft had lost weight, his face was haggard, and he looked tired, bone tired. Though he’d never admit it, Sherlock’s condition had nearly broken him. The fact that it had taken five days for him to find where Sherlock had been held was something John knew Mycroft would never forgive himself for.

“Good evening, John,” he started. “What’s wrong? Is he worse?”

“No. About the same. I . . . don’t know what to do. He told me something tonight, several things. I don’t know what to do with it.”

“Ah, he’s told you he loves you,” Mycroft said as he went to the kitchen and put the kettle on.

“You knew?”

“He never told me. But he’s never cared for anyone the way he cares for you. As he’s proved multiple times, he’d sacrifice anything for you and he has. I take it that it didn’t go well.”

“I wish I could do something. I’m with Mary. I vowed that I’d be her husband. I can’t love him like he wants. And I feel so guilty about it.”

“You can’t help your feelings anymore than Sherlock can help his.”

“I know. I know, but . . . There’s more. He told me they offered to let him go, several times. But he refused.”

Mycroft looked shocked. “What? Why . . . why would he do such a thing?”

“For us. Three days after they took him, before they started really hurting him. They told him he could go but he had to pick either you or me or Greg or Molly to take his place. He refused. They destroyed his legs and he refused; they destroyed his hands and he refused; they beat his head into the floor and he refused. He did it all to keep us safe.” John couldn’t stop the sob that escaped his throat on the last word.

Mycroft sat down heavily in John’s chair. “Oh God, Little Brother.” John had never seen Mycroft Holmes cry before but he watched as Mycroft covered his face with his hands and began to sob. John stood and walked to the chair, kneeling down in front of it. He reached out and touched Mycroft’s arm and suddenly found himself with an armful of Holmes. He couldn’t help himself, Mycroft’s tears were joined by John’s as both men struggled to process what they’d just learned.

“He’s in such pain,” John managed to say. “Physical, emotional, mental. He told me to leave. To go back to Mary and Rosie and to forget him. He told me he wanted you to send him to an institution. You can’t, Mycroft. He needs us.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, pulling away from John as the kettle began to boil. He stood abruptly and went out to the kitchen. John sat down in Sherlock’s chair, wiping his eyes and pretending not to notice that Mycroft was desperately trying to bring his emotions under control as he made the tea. He brought in two cups and handed John his. He sat back down in John’s chair, his eyes red. “I’ve already hired two full-time nurses to be here at all times to help in every way from medication to getting him in and out of the bath. All of us — his family and his friends — need to make a schedule so that he’s not alone.”

“He needs to talk to a psychiatrist. He needs to have some hope that something of his mind palace can be recovered.”

“We don’t know that it can be, John.”

“No. But we have to try.”

“He needs you. He’s trying to send you away because he wants you to be happy, and he no doubt feels he’s a burden to you. Sherlock has long had severe self-esteem issues stemming from the abuse he suffered throughout school and university. He’s never felt worthy of love. I’m afraid I haven’t helped him in that regard.”

“He needs to know, Mycroft. He needs to know what he means to you. What he means to all of us. We have to help him. All of his strength is gone. We have to give him ours.”

“Is he sleeping now?”

“Yes. He hit himself in the head, punishing himself for revealing so much. He had a migraine. He wouldn’t let me give him anything for the pain. He was almost screaming before he passed out. But he wanted to. He said it was the only way he could get any rest.”

“He was addicted to morphine when he was younger. I imagine he doesn’t want to be again.”

“There is a difference, Mycroft. He can’t get any extra. He can’t inject himself. We control it.”

“Do you want me to stay with him tonight?”

“No. I want to. In case he needs me. I’ll sleep on the sofa so I’m near him.”

“Alright. I . . . I’ll have a nurse here by morning to help.” Mycroft got to his feet and started for the door. “I . . . I never realized how much . . . I knew he cared for all of you but . . .”

“Of course he loves you, Mycroft. You’re his brother. He might not say it. And you might not say it to him. But it’s there.”

Mycroft nodded and started down the stairs. “Please take care of him, John.”

“I will.”

John turned down the lights and pulled the blanket from the back of the sofa before he lay down. He pulled his mobile from his pocket and called Mary.

“Hello?”

“Hi.”

“John. How is he?”

“Not good. Really not good.” He sighed tiredly. “I don’t know what to do. He told me some things tonight. I just don’t know how to process them.”

“What did he tell you?”

He quickly filled her in before he said, “And he told me he loved me.”

“I’m glad he finally told you.”

“You knew?”

“It was pretty obvious, John.”

“I feel so guilty. He’s convinced himself that he’s not worth loving. He told me to leave and not come back. But I can’t leave him.”

“I know. And I won’t ask you to. He’s done so much for both of us. He’s kept us safe. We wouldn’t be together if it wasn’t for him. Call me tomorrow and let me know if you think it would be okay for Rosie and me to come and visit.”

“He loves both of you. I think it’ll be good for him to have Rosie here. He’s so depressed.”

“Okay. I’ll bring some treats too. Goodnight, John. I love you.”

“I love you too. Goodnight.”

He lay there, staring out the window, listening to Sherlock breathing through the monitor. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep but couldn’t. He felt so guilty. He knew that Sherlock had pushed him and Mary back together because he thought it would make John happy. He thought back to everything that had happened since Sherlock had come back from the dead. How many times he’d caught Sherlock looking at him with a sad look on his face. How sad he’d looked on the dance floor at the wedding when he’d told John and Mary that they’d hardly need him around with a real baby on the way. How he’d killed Magnusson for flicking John in the face and for threatening him and Mary. How broken he’d looked on the tarmac when he was being sent off to die. And all that time, he’d only wanted John to love him.

After a few hours of tossing and turning, John got up and made himself a cup of tea before turning the television on and watching whatever was on until the sky started to lighten outside. He’d gotten out a pad of paper and wrote out all of Sherlock’s relevant medical problems and the drugs that he has to take for pain and infection. He sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. His brain was fuzzy and he just wanted to sleep until everything was better again.

He stood up and stretched. He went into Sherlock’s room and checked on him. He was still sleeping. He reached down and smoothed the hair off of his forehead. He frowned. Sherlock was warm, too warm. He’d have to up the antibiotics.

He disappeared into the toilet and took a quick shower. When he came out, after shaving and brushing his teeth, he climbed the stairs to his old room and dressed. He came down and heard Mrs. Hudson coming up the stairs.

“You’re up early, John,” she said as she handed him a cup of tea.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“How is he?”

“Truthfully? Not good.”

“I’m sorry, John. Do you need any help?”

“He wants his brother to send him to an institution. He doesn’t want us to pity him. He doesn’t want to be a burden to us. Mycroft and I were talking last night. He’s sending by nurses to look after him. And we’ve decided he’s never to be alone. One of us has to be with him. He’s so depressed. He doesn’t feel like he means anything to anyone. He told me last night that he . . . he loves me. And I don’t know how to fix this.”

“Oh, John. Of course, he loves you. And I know you love him. Maybe not in that way, but you love him.” She reached out and touched his shoulder. “The two of you will work it out. Let him know how you feel.”

“He saved my life so many times. He’s sacrificed so much for me. All he wanted was for me to love him, and I feel so bad, so guilty because I can’t give it to him.”

“I know.”

“He’s felt rejected all of his life and now this. He told me I’m the only one he’s ever wanted and that he’ll never love anyone else.”

“Oh, the poor dear.” Mrs. Hudson had tears in her eyes.

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Be his friend. Show him how much you care.”

“John?” a weak voice called.

“I’ll be right there. Do you want to talk to him?”

“Maybe for a second, dear.”

John and Mrs. Hudson went into Sherlock’s room. He was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.

“Good morning, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson said cheerily as she bent over to kiss his cheek.

“Good morning, Mrs. Hudson,” he whispered.

She reached out and touched his forehead. “You’re rather warm.”

“Yes, I noticed that when I got up. I’ll get the thermometer.” John went into the toilet and came back, sticking the thermometer in Sherlock’s ear until it beeped. He looked closely at it.

“Only two degrees. How’s your head? Still hurting?”

“A bit. It’s not gone completely,” he said softly.

One of the things that most bothered John was the defeated tone in Sherlock’s voice. He hardly spoke above a whisper. The confident, knows everything tone was gone.

He smiled at Sherlock. “I’ll get you a paracetamol. Mrs. Hudson, would you do me a favour and draw a bath?”

Sherlock seemed to pep up a little. “A bath? I think I’d like one.”

“We’re going to have a guest soon. Mycroft’s sending a nurse. One that can help with everything you need.”

Sherlock froze. “So, you’re going home?”

“No. No. Don’t worry. He’s coming to help. There will be one who stays during the night too. And, if you’re up for it, Mary and Rosie are going to come by later.”

Sherlock smiled a bit. “I’d love to see Rosie and Mary.”

John smiled at him. “Okay. Let’s get you undressed.” He helped Sherlock sit up and pulled the T-shirt over his head. John ran his eyes over Sherlock’s scars, anger rising in him as he checked to make sure none of them were infected. He especially hated to look at the marks on his chest. For every time they had raped him, they had marked a long thin line on his chest. It was all he could do to avoid counting them each time he saw them. But still, he knew that there were twenty-four, twenty-four times his best friend had been taken. The mass of scar tissue that was his back looked alright, but at the bottom of his back, he saw a slight swelling. He looked closer, definitely swelling and a bit red. “Sherlock, one of the scars on your back is infected. I’ll clean it and bandage it after your bath. I’ll give you a shot of penicillin. Should take care of everything. That’s why you’ve got the fever.”

“Bath’s drawn,” Mrs. Hudson called as she came through the door. She gasped as she saw Sherlock’s back. “Oh, love. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock whispered, staring at his useless hands. “It just hurts some.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Mrs. Hudson said and gently touched Sherlock’s shoulder before she turned and left the room.

John pulled Sherlock around and laid him down so he could pull Sherlock’s pyjama pants and pants down, pulling his socks off too. He reached down and pulled Sherlock into his arms. Sherlock was still too thin. John could count his ribs and he weighed far too little for a man who was over six feet tall. He took him into the toilet and sat him down on the loo. After Sherlock was done, he picked him up again and set him in the bathtub. He washed Sherlock’s hair and face before wetting a flannel and getting the soap out, quickly washing him. He gave Sherlock the flannel to wash his privates. When they were done, he let the water out of the tub and started to dry Sherlock. While he was sitting there, he blew Sherlock’s hair dry and shaved him. Sherlock sat silent. John knew he felt embarrassed that John had to do this for him.

He picked him up and took him back into the bedroom. Once he was dressed and sitting in his wheelchair, Sherlock was more alert. He asked John to place a blanket over his legs. There was so much nerve damage in his legs that they constantly pained and were constantly cold. They were so misshapen that he didn’t want anyone to see them so he kept them covered.

John wheeled him out to the sitting room. “Do you want to look out the window?”

Sherlock nodded. He looked out, seeing people hurrying to work, going on with their boring, predictable lives. And he would gladly trade places with any of them. He found there was a lump in his throat and his eye was filling with tears.

“What do you want for breakfast?” John asked as he brought over the syringe of penicillin. He pulled up the sleeve on Sherlock’s T-shirt and wiped the skin with alcohol before he injected him. He got Sherlock to lean forward as he cleaned the wound on his back and put a plaster over it.

Sherlock used the distraction to wipe the tears off of his face. He hated that part of the brain damage had left him unable to control his emotions. “J . . . just oatmeal,” he whispered.

“I’d have thought you’d be sick of it by now.”

“No, I like it.”

“Let me guess. With brown sugar and cream?”

Sherlock nodded and looked back out the window. He wished with all of his heart that his mobile would ring. That Lestrade would call him in on a case. That he’d pull on his coat and scarf and holler to John, “We’ve got a case.” That he could bound down the stairs and out to the street, raise his hand and yell “Taxi.” But those days were gone and were never coming back. He was of no use to Lestrade now. He was of no use to anyone now. This was the most he had to look forward to. Sitting and staring out the window or in front of the telly. His mind felt like it was tearing itself apart. One part of it fighting the other to keep the memories at bay. And he was so bored.

Added to all of it was the embarrassing situation with John. He’d never meant to say so much. He’d never meant for John to know that he loved him. He was sure, despite what John said, that he was disgusted with him. He sighed. He really wished he had died. But there was nothing for him to do to accomplish that. He couldn’t get to any of the medication for an overdose. John and now this new nurse would watch him like a hawk. The razor blades he had hidden in his room for when he used to self harm, he couldn’t hold them or use them. He couldn’t even drown himself in the tub because there would always be someone there watching him.

A few minutes later, John returned and pushed him to the kitchen table. All of his experiments were gone, the equipment swept clean. “Where have you put my microscope and all the beakers and test tubes?” he asked.

“Mrs. Hudson put them away. They’re just in one of the cupboards.”

“You might as well sell them, John. I can try to pay Mycroft back for all he spent on me.”

“Why don’t we hold off on that, hey? You’ll be doing your experiments again.”

Sherlock hung his head. “No. Never. I told you. Everything I was is gone.”

“Sherlock, please don’t talk that way. Here.” He sat down beside Sherlock and picked up the bowl of oatmeal holding a spoonful out to him. Sherlock begrudgingly ate it. He hated this. He hated that he couldn’t even hold a spoon.

“You’re sure you don’t want some toast and jam? Mrs. Hudson got some new jam and it’s really good,” John said as he took a bite of his own toast and a sip of tea.

Sherlock felt a stab of fear go through him. “N . . . no. I’m okay with just oatmeal.”

John looked closely at Sherlock. Something was wrong. Sherlock wouldn’t eat anything much in the hospital. He’d been on a feeding tube for weeks. It could be that he was just getting used to food again. He’d make him sandwiches for lunch, nothing heavy.

Once breakfast was done and he’d taken Sherlock in to help him brush his teeth, John settled him back in the sitting room while he cleaned the kitchen. “Do you want me to turn on the telly?” John asked.

Sherlock winced. “No.”

“Okay.” John washed up the few dishes there were. He kept looking at Sherlock from time to time. He was just sitting there, staring. John hated to see him like this. He looked so young, so vulnerable, so . . . absolutely defeated. Sherlock Holmes wasn’t supposed to be a victim. But he was. His eyes were haunted, rimmed with dark circles. His face was tight and John knew he was in pain. But he wouldn’t tell him how much, he knew.

When he was finished, he came back in. “Do you want to sit in your chair?” he asked Sherlock.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Suit yourself,” he said as he sat down with the paper. “Do you want me to read the paper to you?”

“No. Don’t bother.”

He put the paper down. “It’s not a bother, Sherlock.” Sherlock’s gaze had fallen to his lap again as he stared at his hands. “I hate seeing you like this. There must be something you want to do.”

“I want to go out on cases. I want to do experiments. I want to play my violin. I want to chase after criminals through the backstreets of London. I want to do a great many things, John. But there’s no point thinking about them because I can’t do anything except sit in this stupid chair and stare for the rest of my absolutely pointless life,” he whispered, his tone one of defeat and resignation.

John stood and kneeled in front of Sherlock. “Look at me,” he said. Sherlock shook his head. “Please look at me.” Sherlock glanced up quickly and then back down at his hands. John reached out and took Sherlock’s hands in his. “Look at me.” Sherlock looked up. The pain in his eye made John want to cry. “Your life isn’t pointless. It will never be pointless. You are important to so many people.”

“No. No, you all feel sorry for me. You’ll get tired of having to deal with me being as helpless as a baby. You’ll all be glad to get rid of me. Then I can sit in a hospital in a wheelchair looking out the window all day. I’m just getting used to it. My life is over, John. There’s nothing left. They said they would destroy me. And they did. They won and there’s nothing I can do to get my life back. I’m, for all intents and purposes, dead. My stupid transport just won’t stop and make it official.” He weakly pulled his hands from John’s. “Just go home, John. Please go home and leave me. Mycroft will have nurses here. They’ll keep me alive. You don’t have to worry. Just go. I want you to be happy. And you can’t be happy having to deal with me. Please just go.”

“Listen to me. Listen well. I am not leaving you. I will not go home and leave you here with someone paid by Mycroft. You’re not being sent away to rot in an institution. And your life is not over. I know you feel like it is. I know that you’re in pain. I want to help you. We’ll work it out.”

“Work what out? What am I supposed to do with my life? There’s no job which requires a person to sit all day and stare into space. I don’t think they pay people to be doorstops. That’s all I’d be good for. Please John. Please leave me alone. I can’t stand for you to be wasting your time with me. You have a family now. You have a practice. You have a home. Please go home. Please.” Sherlock’s lip was quivering, tears running down his face.

“You’ve just got out of the hospital. You’re still healing. You don’t know what’s going to happen.”

“Am I going to walk? Are my hands going to heal? Is the brain damage going to miraculously heal itself?”

“Brains find ways to rewire themselves all of the time. You might be able to relearn to use your hands to do things with physical therapy. You can’t tell the future. You could end up getting so much out of life.”

“Not the thing I want most. Never that.”

John hissed. He didn’t know what to say to that.

Sherlock looked up at him again. “When I was there. When they were hurting me. When everything was pain, I didn’t scream for help. I screamed for you. Every time I’m in trouble, I call for you, instead of for help. And at night, when they were asleep, I dreamed of you. I dreamed that you rescued me. That you held me and looked into my eyes and realized how much you loved me. That you kissed me and told me it was okay. That you loved me and always would. I knew. I knew in the back of my mind that you would never do it. That you never loved me. But, oh God, how much I wanted it to be true. I’ve wanted you so much. I would do anything for you, John. But it’s just too much. It’s too much now. There’s too much pain. And now I know. I know that I can’t ever have you. There’s no point wishing for it anymore. So I have nothing left to hope for. Nothing to look forward to. No future. I have nothing left to fight for. And I can’t make myself want to care about getting better. I can’t make myself want to live.”

“Oh God, Sherlock. I’ve hurt you so much. I don’t know how to fix this.”

“You can’t fix it. You can’t fix me. I’m broken. If something’s broken, you throw it away. You forget about it. That’s what I need you to do. I need you to forget about me. I’m not worth thinking about anymore. There’s nothing left. I had the work, and when I didn’t have that, I had my experiments and my music. All three have been taken away from me. And I still had hope. A small flicker of hope that one day you would love me. But I had to tell you. I had to see that look on your face. And now the hope is gone. Please John. Please go. Please.” Sherlock whispered, looking down at his hands. “You being here just makes it all real. I’m 38 years old, John, and my life is over.”

“It’s not over. You’re alive and it’s something we’re all thankful for.”

“I wish I wasn’t.”

“Sherlock . . .”

“It’s alright. I know you can’t help what you feel. Just like I can’t help what I feel. And I feel like my life is over.”

There was a knock downstairs. They heard Mrs. Hudson rush to the door and open it and then two sets of steps coming up the stairs.

Sherlock wiped the tears off of his face as John stood up. Mycroft came in with a man dressed in scrubs. “John. Sherlock. I’d like you to meet Robert Kilkenny. He’s going to be your day-time nurse. The night-time nurse, Peter Tyler, will be coming by tonight. They’ll be helping you with your medications, getting you in and out of the bath, getting you dressed, and so on.”

Sherlock looked up briefly at the man who would be seeing everything they had done to him for as long as he wanted to work for Mycroft.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes,” Robert held out his hand.

Sherlock reached out with his mutilated hand and Robert hesitated. Sherlock’s face turned red with embarrassment and he dropped his hand into his lap, his eyes fell to his lap. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Kilkenny,” he whispered.

“Yes, well. John, perhaps you’d like to fill Robert in on Sherlock’s particular medical conditions and his routine,” Mycroft said.

John took Robert into the kitchen to show him Sherlock’s meds and give him a run down on Sherlock’s condition.

Mycroft sat down next to Sherlock. “How are you, Brother Mine?”

“Tired. In pain. In despair. I don’t need a nurse, Mycroft.”

“You need someone to help you.”

“I know. I know that I can’t even go to the loo. I know that I can’t get dressed or hold a spoon or get myself a drink of water. I know all of that, Mycroft.” He looked up into his brother’s eyes. “I don’t need a nurse, I need someone to help me do the only thing that will truly help me, that will bring me peace.”

“And what is that?”

“I need someone to kill me,” Sherlock whispered. The pain in Sherlock’s eye was so acute, it made Mycroft wince.

“No, Little Brother. You don’t need someone to do that.” He reached out and took Sherlock’s hand. “You have all of us. We’re here for you.”

“I don’t need all of you to feel sorry for me. I don’t need pity. I don’t need you to try and make me feel like I still have something to look forward to, that I still have a purpose. I need you to make the pain and the hopelessness go away. I need you to make those five days stop playing over and over and over again in a loop in my brain until it makes me want to scream. I need you to help me stop feeling useless and disgusting and used and . . . empty. I need you to get my mind palace back, my ability to deduce back. I need you to make me be able to walk and use my hands. I need to be a consulting detective again. I need my experiments. I need my violin. I need to be able to fool myself into thinking John might love me someday as much as I love him. Can you give me any of those things, Mycroft? Can you?”

Mycroft looked at his brother, at the utter despair radiating out of him in waves. “I will do my best.”

“But even you can’t get me any of those things, Mycroft. The absolute best thing for me is to let me die. Would you want to live like this? If this were you, would you want to live like this?”

Mycroft didn’t have to think. He knew. He knew with 100% certainty that he wouldn’t want to live like this. And Sherlock, despite the loss of his deductive capabilities, he knew as well.

“Sherlock, please. Be reasonable. You can’t expect any of us to do that to you.”

“Then I don’t want anything from any of you. Send your nurse away.”

“You need someone . . .” Mycroft began.

“All of you need to go. All of you. If you won’t help me, then leave me here alone.”

“We can’t. We won’t.”

Sherlock looked up once more. “Mr. Kilkenny. Could you come help me?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”

“I’m tired. Would you mind helping me into bed?”

“No, sir.” Robert took the parking brake off and wheeled Sherlock into his room.

“What was that all about?” John asked Mycroft.

“He begged me to kill him. He doesn’t want anything from any of us. He doesn’t want any of us here. He just wants to die, to make the pain go away.” Mycroft was shaken. Never, at his lowest point, had Sherlock ever been this desperate.

“We need to get him to talk to his psychiatrist as soon as possible.”

“I can arrange for him to get into an institution . . .”

“No. Not that. He already thinks we don’t want to be around him. If we do this, he’ll think no one cares and have just dumped him in the nearest convenient place. It has to be someone who’ll come here.”

“I’ll make sure she comes today.”

Mycroft followed John into the kitchen as John put the kettle on. They needed to talk. To discuss what was best for Sherlock. Robert joined them a few minutes later, saying that Sherlock was in bed. John got up and brought the baby monitor out to the kitchen. He looked up at Mycroft, neither of them could deny the sound of Sherlock crying was breaking their own hearts. John gave Robert a cup of tea and began to give him some ground rules about dealing with Sherlock.

“He’s blind in his left eye. Don’t approach him on that side without making some noise. He doesn’t like to be grabbed or touched without permission. He can’t use his hands for much, he can’t walk, he gets extremely painful migraines. He’ll need help with just about everything: getting out of bed, getting dressed, bathed, going to the loo, being shaved, brushing his teeth, being fed. He doesn’t want to see himself in mirrors so avoid it. He’s suffering from PTSD and has sometimes violent nightmares. He can’t sleep as a result of them so he’ll take cat naps through the day. He’s suffering, as well, from very severe depression. We have a psychiatrist coming to talk to him. He has brain damage that has impaired the way he thinks and means he’s lost control of his emotions. He’ll be angry, he’ll cry. I’ve written all of this down along with his medication schedule. He’s also in a lot of pain but won’t admit to it. He was addicted to morphine when he was younger and is afraid that he’ll get addicted again. Why don’t you take this and have a look at it and let me know if you have any questions?”

Robert nodded, picked up his tea, and went into the sitting room, settling on the couch.

Mycroft and John started to make a list of people they could count on to look after Sherlock: the two of them, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Greg, even Billy and Anderson, if need be. Mycroft was adamant that his parents not be included. His mother had taken one look at Sherlock’s face and had completely broken down. It was fine for them to visit, but they couldn’t be with Sherlock for long. Mycroft promised to contact all of them to make a schedule.

Hours later, Sherlock had managed to nap for about an hour before he began screaming. John and Mycroft came into the room. John bent over and slowly woke him, shaking his shoulder and calling his name until, with a gasp, Sherlock woke up. He looked wildly around the room for a few moments before he realized he was home, he was safe.

“Are you okay?” John asked quietly.

He nodded.

“Are you hungry?”

He shook his head but his stomach growled.

John smiled at him. “I think your stomach disagrees.”

“Just soup,” Sherlock whispered.

“You have to eat something besides soup and oatmeal, Sherlock. You need something solid.”

Sherlock looked nauseated at the thought. “I . . . I can’t, John. Please don’t make me.”

“Why not? You need to eat.”

Sherlock turned red and looked away from John. “Mycroft, maybe if you left, maybe he’d tell me.”

“Yes, of course,” Mycroft said as he went out to the sitting room.

“Okay, your brother’s gone. Why can’t you eat solid food?”

“It . . . it’ll hurt.”

“Is your stomach bothering you? It’s because you haven’t been eating enough.”

“No.”

“Oh, you mean . . .? No, Sherlock. Your stitches have healed. It might sting a bit, the first time, but it won’t really hurt when you go to the loo.”

“That’s not the only reason, John.”

“Then what? What is it? I can’t read your mind.”

“When . . . when they were . . . when they forced themselves on me, sometimes one of them would force me to . . . he’d put himself in my mouth and make me do things.”

John blanched. “Oh God, Sherlock. I never thought . . .”

“You know what happened when they tried to get me to eat at the hospital.”

“You vomited.”

“It felt like they were pushing themselves into me again. I could feel them touching me again.” Sherlock started to hyperventilate.

“Calm down. Calm down. Sherlock, take deep breaths.”

It took a few moments, but Sherlock gradually calmed down. John took his pulse and it was gradually slowing. “Why don’t we try something small? I’ll make you a sandwich and cut it in really small pieces. You can try can’t you?”

“Stop fussing over me, John. I went for days without eating before.”

“But you can’t go the rest of your life.”

Sherlock looked at him. “I could if someone would give me what I want.”

“Stop it! Just stop it! I won’t have you talking like this. You have so much to live for, Sherlock. You have so many people who love you. I love you.”

“Then kiss me.”

John looked at him in shock. “Sherlock, you know I . . .”

“Go. Get out.”

“I’ll start your lunch.”

“I don’t want anything. Go home to the one you chose.”

“Sherlock, please don’t be like this. Mycroft’s here. I’ll ask if he’ll stay.”

“Tell him and his nurse to go too.”

“You can’t be here by yourself.”

“Just get the fuck out!” Sherlock screamed. It was the first time John had heard him speak above a whisper since he’d woken up in the hospital. Mycroft came to the door. “And you go too! Both of you leave me the hell alone! And take your nurse/spy with you! All of you leave me alone! Now! Go, now!!!” He roared. His eyes were streaming tears of anger and frustration and he balled up his hands in as close to fists as he could attempt.

“Calm down, Sherlock. Please, calm down,” John started to say.

“Get out! Stop treating me like a broken puppy! Get out, go, now!!!!” he howled.

John stood up and shoved Mycroft out of the door. “Don’t just go out to the sitting room! Get out! Leave me alone!”

The three men started down the stairs. They stood at the bottom of the stairs as Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat, her eyes wide.

“What’s wrong?”

“He’s having a meltdown of major proportions,” John said, worried. “He needs to calm down. He wanted all of us to leave.”

Mrs. Hudson put her hand on John’s arm. “Don’t worry. It was bound to happen. You know how he hated anyone to fuss over him.”

“But he can’t be alone, Mrs. Hudson. He can’t do anything for himself,” Mycroft said, looking troubled.

“I know. Let me go talk to him.”

“Mrs. Hudson . . .” John started.

“He’ll listen to me.”

She started up the stairs and, taking a deep breath, stepped into Sherlock’s room. He was lying on the bed, on his side, breathing hard.

“Sherlock, love?” she said.

“Please go, Mrs. Hudson. Please leave me alone,” he whispered, all of the anger and vitriol gone.

“You don’t need to be left alone. You need someone to listen, don’t you?” She sat down beside him and gently touched his arm.

“Why won’t they leave me alone? Why won’t they listen?”

“What do you want them to do?”

“Just leave me alone. Mrs. Hudson, I’m so broken. I’m so scared. I don’t have anything left. I just want all the pain to go away.”

“I know, pet. I know. But you need us to be here for you, just like you’ve always been here for us. It’s alright to need other people.”

“But I’m Sherlock Holmes, I shouldn’t need anyone.”

“Even you. Even Sherlock Holmes needs people.”

He looked up at her. “But the one I want most doesn’t want me,” he whispered.

“John?”

He nodded silently.

“You love him?”

“With all my heart.”

“And he doesn’t love you?”

He shook his head.

“And he’s told you he doesn’t.”

“I know he doesn’t. He loves Mary. I would give my life for him and he doesn’t want me. I just want all of this to go away, Mrs. Hudson. I can’t stand the pain anymore.”

“Oh, my poor boy. Can’t you be brave awhile longer? Things are always better once a bit of time goes by.”

“Not for me. Do you know what they did to me? How they hurt me? How they humiliated me? How they ruined me?”

“Not all of it.”

“I’m done. I’m finished. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t make myself want to go on, Mrs. Hudson. Why won’t they let me go?”

“Because we love you. And we want you to be safe. We want you to be happy.”

“I can’t be happy. I need him. I need John. I need him to love me.” He sat up and Mrs. Hudson took him into her arms as he started to cry.

“It’s alright, love. He does love you. He loves you because you’re his best friend. He loves you like a brother.”

“But I want him to love me like I love him. I want him to kiss me, to hold me, to tell me that he’ll love me forever and nothing they did to me mattered. I want him to make love to me. I want him to lie beside me to keep the nightmares away. And to know that it won’t ever happen . . . I just want to curl up and lie here until I die.”

“Oh, Sherlock. Please don’t give up. I know your heart is broken. I know that you’ve been hurt in ways that I can’t imagine. I know that you’ve always pushed people away so they won’t hurt you. But you must find the strength to go on. You need to find the strength to live with the memories. You remember when you helped me? You remember what my husband did to me? You helped me to want to go on. You freed me from him. You saved John from his past. You gave him a reason to want to go on. You’ve been there for all of us. You gave up your life for two years, you suffered, and you nearly died to save John and Greg and I. We all owe you so much. We need you to stay. We need you to be here with us.”

He pulled her closer and cried into her shoulder as she stroked his hair and whispered that she loved him. He was still shaking when the tears stopped.

“Will you promise me that you’ll be strong? Will you promise me that you’ll try to go on?”

“I promise,” he whispered. “I’ll try.”

“Good. Because it would break my heart if anything more happened to you.”

He nods into her shoulder.

“And if you’re frustrated with them, make them come and get me. You can tell me anything. I will always listen.”

“Will you . . . will you make me some tea?”

“Of course I will. Shall I send John and Mycroft and your new nurse back up? They’re all milling around downstairs, not sure what to do.”

Sherlock nodded. He sat back up and she patted his cheek and smiled at him. She stood up and bent once more to place a kiss on his forehead. He sat there and watched her leave. He’d meant it. He would try for her. But he knew that it would take a lot. He heard the three of them coming back upstairs. John popped his head around the door.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. I understand. You’re frustrated and angry. I know what that’s like.”

“I’m so scared, John. I don’t know who I am anymore.”

“Then let us help you find yourself.” He came over and sat down beside Sherlock. “Do you want to come back out?”

He nodded. John stood and picked him up, sitting him in the wheelchair. He took him back out to the sitting room.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to Mycroft and Robert. “I’m sorry that I lost my temper. I’m sorry that I yelled.”

“It’s alright, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “I understand.”

“I’ve heard worse,” Robert said. “Don’t worry about it, sir.”

John took him into the kitchen to make him his lunch. He placed a plate with a sandwich cut into very small pieces in front of him as Mrs. Hudson brought him his tea. Sherlock started to shake as he looked at the sandwich, imagining the feel of it in his mouth. He tried his best to calm himself, to steady his breathing, to force the thoughts out of his mind. He watched as John speared one of the sandwich pieces with a fork and asked him, “Ready?”

He nodded once as John put the sandwich bit into his mouth. He wanted immediately to spit it out but kept himself from doing so. He closed his eyes, trying not to think of it.

“Look at me,” John said softly. He opened his eyes and looked into John’s. Sherlock was struggling. “Look at me. You’re safe. No one will hurt you here. I promise.”

And Sherlock began to chew. His stomach was rethinking the whole thing but as he looked into John’s eyes, he was finding the courage to continue. He swallowed the first bite and asked for a drink of tea. John smiled at him and gave him another piece. He got almost half of the sandwich down before he gagged. The flashback started to whirl around his mind. One of them was pounding into him, his fingers leaving bruises on Sherlock’s hips. Another approached and got down on his knees before he undid his zip and pulled Sherlock’s head up by his hair and forced himself into Sherlock’s mouth.

“No!” he screamed. He pushed back at the table. He could feel them violating him, he could hear their grunting, he could feel the pain. He started to retch. He needed to get it out. He couldn’t hear John telling him it was okay, that he was home, that he was safe. He struck out as he leaned over the side of his wheelchair and vomited. When the sandwich was gone out of his system, the flashback continued. They were laughing at him as one of them held him down and the other carved a line on his chest. He was lying on the cold cement floor, naked, bleeding, and crying. Every part of his body was aching.

He could feel hands on his face. “No! Don’t hurt me again! Please. Please, not again. Please.” He tried to push them away but he had no strength left. “Don’t hurt me,” he whispered. “No more, please.” He began to hyperventilate. He just wanted to get away.

He was starting to feel lightheaded. Maybe if he passed out, they’d leave him alone. He tried to curl in on himself, but every part of his body was in agony. “No, no, no, no, no. Please,” he whispered. He wanted John. He wanted John to come and rescue him. “John, John help me.”

He felt his body unclenching. He felt the warehouse disappearing around him. He felt the hands on his face again. “Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?”

The hands. Those were John’s hands. He shook his head and looked again. It was John looking at him. John was helping him. He could see the look of concern, of fright, of love on John’s face.

“John? You came? You came to get me out of here?”

John looked so afraid. “No, Sherlock. You’re home. You’re home and you’re safe. You’re with me at 221B.”

“No. No. It’s a trick. It’s my mind playing tricks. You’re not here.”

“Sherlock, please come back. Please come back. You’re safe. I promise you’re safe.”

He looked at John again. Then he looked down at his hands. He looked around. It was the kitchen at 221B. He looked at the table. The remains of his sandwich were sitting on a plate. And he remembered. “Oh God. John. I’m so sorry. I . . . I tried. I tried.” The pain came back, hitting him like a sledgehammer. He sobbed once before John knelt in front of him and took him into his arms. Sherlock began to cry into his shoulder, his whole body shuddering with sobs.

John was rubbing his back. “I know. I know you tried. It’s okay. We’ll work on it some more.”

Sherlock was shaking with fear and anguish. “It was so real, John. I was right there. I could feel them. I could feel them raping me. I can still feel it.”

He heard gasps and straightened. He’d forgotten. Mrs. Hudson, his brother, and the nurse were staring at him, shock on their faces. Mrs. Hudson burst into tears. Sherlock could feel his face heating up. He knew he was blushing.

“Oh, God,” he whispered. “John . . . please, I . . . I can’t.” John nodded and pushed him back into his bedroom. Sherlock hung his head into his hands. “John, I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have said . . . how can I ever face Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft and Robert again?”

“It’s okay. Calm down. They understand. I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

“It was working. I was eating. I just . . . all of a sudden it took me back. It was so real. What am I going to do? This morning, you thought I was sitting there staring. I wasn’t. It plays like a movie in my head, over and over and over. I try my best to block it out but it’s hard. It’s so hard. If I had my mind palace, I could store it away, lock it behind closed doors. But now I can’t.”

“It’s alright. It’ll be okay. We’ll find a way.”

“Before I go mad? I don’t think so. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat.”

“You’ll need to talk to the psychiatrist when they come by today. Maybe they can help you.”

“I don’t want to talk anymore. I want my life back, John. That’s all. I just want my life back.”

“I wish I could give it to you.”

“I know. Should we try again? The food?”

“I’ll ask Mycroft to get you some of those shakes that have all the vitamins and nutrients in them. And we’ll work on it. I’ll make you some soup for now. That sound okay? Maybe I can crush up some crackers in it?”

Sherlock nodded. He felt so mortified about what he’d done. He kept his head down when John wheeled him back to the kitchen. The vomit was cleaned up off of the floor. Mrs. Hudson knelt down in front of him.

“It’s okay, Sherlock. You don’t have to feel embarrassed. My heavens, if I’d gone through a fifth of what you went through, I’d be a broken mess. You’re so strong. Just know that all of us are here for you. We’re always here for you.”

He looked up at her and smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I made a mess.”

“It’s alright, Brother Mine. Easily cleaned up,” Mycroft said, softly. Sherlock glanced at his brother, surprised to see the soft look on his face. “I’m a bit concerned about you’re not being able to eat.”

“I’ll work on it, Mycroft.”

“I know you will.”

“In the meantime, I’ll make you that soup.”

“Okay,” Sherlock said, quietly.

Sherlock was able to keep the soup down and John did up the dishes.

An hour later, when Sherlock was just nodding off, there was a knock on the door downstairs. A woman, in her late forties, came up the stairs. “Mr. Holmes?” she asked.

“I’m Mycroft Holmes, you must be Dr. Fraser.” Mycroft came forward and offered her his hand. “You come very highly recommended.”

She smiled tightly at him. “And you must be Sherlock Holmes,” she said, walking over to Sherlock.

He held out his hand. “Yes. I must be,” he whispered.

She took his hand and shook it. “Do you think we could talk for a bit?”

“Alright. In my room, perhaps?”

John wheeled Sherlock into his room. He’d made the bed earlier and taken Sherlock’s chair in there. When he came out, he and Mycroft stared at each other, not sure what to do. John reached over and shut off the baby monitor. Robert sat down on the sofa, leafing through one of Sherlock’s medical texts. John was frightened. He didn’t know exactly why. He supposed he feared the psychiatrist would suggest that Sherlock needed John to not be around him until his heart healed a bit.

An hour later, the bedroom door opened and Dr. Fraser came out. “Dr. Watson?” she asked as she came up to John.

“Yes?”

“I understand you’re his doctor.”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to suggest that I see him every day for the foreseeable future. He has a lot to work through. He’s severely depressed and suicidal. He can’t be alone. He’s lost so much and gone through so much. It will take a lot for him to accept what’s been done to him. I understand that there will be a physical therapist coming to work on his hands.”

John nodded. “We’ve made plans for one of his friends to always be with him, in addition to a nurse.”

“Good. Very good. He’s going to try and push you all away but don’t let him.”

“He’s already tried. Did he mention his inability to eat anything solid?”

“Yes. We’ll work on that as well.”

“Is there anything we can do in the meantime?”

“He told me you’ve been trying. Keep doing that. I’ll be back tomorrow and I’ll bring a medication that should help. He’s a bit upset. You might want to go to him, calm him down.”

Mycroft said quietly. “I’ll show you out.”

John took a deep breath and went into Sherlock’s room. He was looking into the distance, tears slipping down his face. But he was quiet.

John sat on the edge of Sherlock’s bed. “Are you okay?”

Sherlock remained quiet. His gaze still distant.

“Hey, Sherlock. Come back to me.”

Sherlock blinked once and looked at John.

“You okay?”

“I talked to her, John. I did what I was supposed to do. And she thinks I’m insane and suicidal, no doubt. But I suppose you and Mycroft won’t let her lock me away so they can keep me drugged all day and force me to eat and talk in group sessions and tell everyone over and over how they beat me and raped me.” Sherlock was again staring at his hands and whispering in a tired, defeated voice.

“She’ll be back tomorrow. She’s bringing a new medication to try.”

He snorted. “Ah, keep me drugged but leave me here. So I can ruin all of your lives.”

“Sherlock, please.”

“Wheel me out so I can stare out the window?” he asked.

John sighed and wheeled him out to the sitting room, depositing him in front of the window. Sherlock leaned forward to stare at the people passing by.

“Tell me,” John asked. “That guy with the skateboard. What can you tell me about him?”

“He’s got appalling taste in clothes. He’s young. There’s nothing else. I can’t deduce anymore, John. Don’t taunt me.”

“I’m not taunting you, Sherlock. You can try, can’t you?”

“No. It doesn’t matter. What’s the point?”

John sighed. “Can I make you some tea?”

“Alright.”

Mycroft spoke up from Sherlock’s chair. “I’m proud of you, little brother. I didn’t think there was any chance you’d actually talk to her.”

“Why ever would I not, Mycroft? The old me would have reduced her to tears within a few minutes. But that man’s dead. Why not cooperate? I’ve got nothing left to lose.”

“Sherlock . . .”

“Don’t bother, Mycroft. I don’t want to hear how everything will be fine. That I’ll miraculously get better. It’s bad enough I have to listen that that drivel from John. Don’t you lie to me too. Don’t you have a government to run?”

“I’ve taken some personal time.”

“For me? The little brother that did nothing but embarrass you? The little brother you spied on? The little brother who’s of absolutely no use to you anymore, who can’t solve mysteries. This is all so pointless.”

Sherlock was quiet most of the rest of the afternoon. He stared out the window and answered John’s questions but said nothing else. John heard the door open downstairs and a child’s giggle as Mrs. Hudson said something. He heard someone coming upstairs and went to the door, a big grin on his face.

“Hello you two. How are you?” He kissed Mary on the lips and then Rosie on the cheek.

“Papa!” Rosie said as John pulled her into his arms and spun her around. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too, sweetheart. But I had to stay with Uncle Sherlock. Do you want to go and say hello?” He set her down on the floor.

She walked over to Sherlock, almost shyly. He lifted his head up, looked at her, and smiled.

“Hi, Uncle Sherlock,” she said and smiled. John lifted her up and set her in Sherlock’s lap. She put her arms around Sherlock’s neck and hugged him. He hugged her back.

“I missed you, Rosie,” he said. “I’m sorry I’ve been keeping Papa away from you. He’ll be coming home to you soon, I promise.”

She sat back down on his knee and looked at him, closely. “Uncle Sherlock, why does your face look so funny? It’s all ugly. Are you wearing a mask?”

“Rosie!” John and Mary both yelled, looking mortified.

Rosie looked upset and started to cry. “It’s okay, Rosie,” Sherlock whispered but John could see the look of devastation on Sherlock’s face. His eye was blank. “I’m sorry I scared you. Some bad men did this to me.”

“Why did they hurt you?” she asked, rubbing her fists across her eyes.

“They were bad men I put in prison. They were mad that I sent them away.”

“Did Uncle Greg catch them?”

“Not yet but he will.”

“Okay. Do you want to play a game?”

“I can’t, Rosie. They hurt my head too. It hurts to think sometimes.”

“I’m sorry.” She reached up and kissed his cheek. “We brought you a treat.”

“Oh,” Sherlock whispered, the defeated tone back. “What did you bring?”

“Those biscuits you like. The ones with the chocolate.”

Sherlock’s face went even whiter. “Thank you for bringing them, Rosie. But I’m afraid the doctor said I couldn’t have sweets just yet. I want you to have them. Maybe Papa can get you a drink of milk and you can have some.”

“Can I, Papa?” she asked.

John picked her up and took her to the kitchen.

Mary sat down beside Sherlock. She reached out and took his hand. “Sherlock, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for what she said. She didn’t mean it.”

He looked up at her and smiled sadly. “Oh, I really think she did. It’s okay. Doesn’t the saying go, out of the mouths of babes? I’m well aware of how hideous I am.” Tears trickled down his face. He made no move to wipe them away. “Can I ask you something? Promise you’ll answer?”

“Anything, Sherlock.”

“What’s it like? What’s it like knowing that he loves you?”

“Sherlock, please. Don’t do this.”

“What’s it feel like when he kisses you? What’s it feel like when he tells you he loves you? What does it feel like when he makes love to you?”

“Sherlock . . . I think maybe you need . . .”

“You won, Mary. You won. I died for him, I killed for him, I ruined myself for him, I lived for him when all I wanted to do in that Serbian prison was die, I came home to him, and he chose you. I planned your wedding, I convinced him that you didn’t want to kill me because I thought it would make him happy. And all I want is for him to be happy. But I need to know what it feels like to know that he loves you. I need to know.”

“You’re hurting yourself, Sherlock. Please stop this.”

“I have absolutely nothing to live for anymore, Mary. Nothing. I have no hope that anything will ever be better.” He sobbed once. “Do you know I died when you shot me? I was in my mind palace. Moriarty was there, tormenting me, telling me to just die. And it was so easy. It was so easy to just go. But then he told me that John was in danger. I pulled myself back from death for him. I murdered a man for him because it was all I could do to keep you safe. I was going back to Eastern Europe, being sent away to die for him so you’d be happy together.”

Mary had tears in his eyes. “It feels like coming home to a warm hug. It feels like the most beautiful thing you can imagine. When you used to lose yourself in your violin, you felt free and comforted. It’s like that. He makes me feel protected and safe and . . . cherished. And wherever I am, as long as I’m with him, I know I’m home.”

Sherlock closed his eyes as he listened to her. “Everything I wanted. Everything I’ve ever wanted. And you have it. Why?” He looked at her, the pain radiating off him in waves. “Why can’t anyone love me?”

“We do love you.”

“No. I . . . I can’t . . .” He started to hyperventilate and he felt the pain gathering in his head.

“Are you okay?” he heard John ask.

He welcomed the pain. It was less than the pain throbbing in his heart. And he hoped that if there was a God, it would kill him. He felt John’s hands on his head. His vision was dimming. He could hear his heart beating in his ears. And with every beat, he prayed it was his last. He hoped the pain would cause a stroke. The blackness was coming, and he welcomed it. He dove head first into it hoping it would take him forever.

He had no idea how long it was before he woke up, drawing in a deep breath as pain spiked in his head again. He was lying on his side in his bed. It was dark outside. There was the sound of deep breathing across the room. Someone was asleep. He opened his eye. The nightlight he slept with (total darkness completely frightened him) was illuminating the room. He had no idea who the man was but assumed he was the night nurse.

“So,” he thought, “they’ve left me alone.” He considered it for a moment. “Good.” He was slightly disappointed that he’d even awoken. His stomach growled. He needed water. He needed the loo. But he also wanted to just lie here, curled up, and wait. Wait for death to claim him. He didn’t believe in an afterlife, or at least he didn’t think he did. Though the idea of going back to the time he was happiest was something he would like. Running through the fields with Redbeard, playing pirates with him. Maybe, it would be a place where John and he could be together. The thought of it, of being able to touch John, to kiss him, and to make love to him, made him so happy. But he knew it would never be. If there was an afterlife, John would be with Mary. And he’d be alone there too.

He lay there, staring at the wall. After what felt like hours, Mycroft came in. It was still dark out.

“Been awake long, Brother Mine?”

“Mmmm,” he said.

“Do you need anything?”

“Water.”

“Do you need any painkillers?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Why do you keep torturing yourself?”

“Physical pain is nothing.”

“I don’t just mean that. Mary told me what you asked her. You have to stop this, Sherlock. I know how much you love John, but he won’t ever be yours. He’s done so much for you but if you keep on, you’re going to destroy yourself pining for him.”

Sherlock knew that what Mycroft said was true. But it didn’t matter.

 

Three days later, Sherlock tried to kill himself. Mycroft was in the sitting room dictating to Anthea. Robert had just drawn Sherlock’s bath and carried him into the toilet. He quickly undressed Sherlock and set him in the bath.

“Robert, will you go bring my clothes in here. I really don’t fancy Anthea seeing me naked.”

“Yes, sir. You’ll be okay?”

“I’ll just sit here. It’s nice and warm. Close the door when you go out.”

As soon as he heard the click, Sherlock slipped beneath the water. Ignoring every instinct, he breathed in a lungful of water. He felt himself scrambling to try to get to the surface but stopped himself. He drew in more water as the comforting blackness crept over him again. It hurt so much but he was determined. When the black took him this time, he met it with a smile on his face.

Hours later, he woke. His chest hurt. He could hear air hissing. He felt an oxygen mask on his face. “No,” he whispered. He opened his eyes. He was in a hospital room.

Disappointment and anger flashed through him. He couldn’t do anything right. He couldn’t even kill himself. He pulled the oxygen mask off and pulled the IV out of his hand. Blood started to drip from the wound in his hand but he didn’t care.

Why wouldn’t they do what he wanted? Why wouldn’t they just let him go?

He looked towards the window. Maybe he could get to it. Maybe he could throw himself out of it. He found the bed controls and stabbed at one of them three times before his finger caught on it enough to lower the bed as low as it would go. He pulled off the quilts and slid out, falling heavily on the floor. He moaned when pain flashed through his already throbbing chest. He pulled himself along as well as he could towards the window. He got underneath it and sat up. He tried to reach the window sill but couldn’t pull himself up.

“Damn!” he swore. He pulled his legs in and wrapped his arms around them, huddling in the corner. He refused to cry. He sat there, leaning against the wall, staring, thinking nothing. And he slowly began to beat his head against the wall. Each jolt sent another jarring flash of pain through him but he didn’t care anymore.

John was just coming back from the cafeteria with a cup of tea when he opened the door to Sherlock’s room. He’d left a suitable chastised Mycroft, who he’d yelled at for ten minutes. He knew Sherlock would claim that it was an accident, but he knew that his best friend had tried to kill himself. And it was eating him up inside.

The bed was empty. And John began to panic. “Sherlock?” And then he saw him, sitting on the floor. John dropped the tea and rushed to Sherlock’s side, sliding down to the floor. “Stop it,” he said as he put his hand between Sherlock’s head and the wall. He didn’t like the blank look on Sherlock’s face. He was hurting himself and it didn’t seem to be affecting him at all. “Look at me,” he said softly. “Look at me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock continued to hit his head, against John’s hand. He gave no indication that he’d heard John at all. John took Sherlock’s face in his hands and turned him so he was looking at John.

“Stop this, Sherlock. Stop this, now,” he said firmly. He looked into Sherlock’s eye and it was haunted. He knew that that look meant he was lost in the memories of those five days. “Wake up, Sherlock. Wake up and come back to me.” Sherlock wasn’t coming out of it. There were no tears; there was no reaction. John let go of his face and got to his feet. Sherlock began banging his head on the wall again. John bent down and picked Sherlock up. He hardly weighed more than Mary. He pulled him to his chest and laid him carefully back into the bed. He covered him up and replaced the oxygen mask. He noticed the blood on Sherlock’s hand and called for a nurse to come and tend his wound and replace the IV.

Sherlock lay still as a corpse, the slight raise and fall of his chest the only sign of life. He didn’t flinch when the nurse reinserted the IV. When she left, John sat down next to him and took his hand in his.

“Sherlock. I know what you did. I know you tried to kill yourself. I hate that you’re in so much pain. I hate that I’m causing you so much pain. I wish . . . I wish I could give you what you want. I do love you, you know. I’ll always love you. I just . . . I’m married. Please don’t throw your life away. I know what you said to Mary. I know that you’ve sacrificed absolutely everything in your life for me, to keep me safe, to keep me happy. And I can never, ever pay you back for it. Though I know you wouldn’t ask for anything. You won’t even really ask me to love you. I wish you would believe that you’re loved. I wish you would believe that you were worth loving. I know that you’ll find someone. There’s someone out there who will make you happy. Someone who will hold you in his arms and tell you what a wonderful man you are. Please, believe me.”

“He won’t,” he heard Mycroft say from the door. “He’ll never believe it. And he won’t ever get over you.”

“Not now Mycroft,” John said.

“What’s happened?”

“I found him on the floor under the window in the corner. I don’t know how he got there. He was sitting there, pounding his head against the wall. He’s unresponsive. I think he’s reliving those days again.”

“Under the window, you say? You do know what he was trying to do, don’t you?”

John looked back at Mycroft, a look of horror on his face. “He was trying to throw himself out the window, wasn’t he?”

Mycroft nodded. “It appears that he’ll stop at nothing to get what he wants. You didn’t let me get a word in upstairs. You have no idea what it was like last night. I spent two hours holding my little brother while he cried. Cried over you. Begging me to tell him why you wouldn’t love him. Telling me that you were the only thing he wanted in all the world and if he couldn’t have you he didn’t want to live anymore. The most important thing in the world to him is your happiness. He wants me to do whatever I have to to make you stop, as he put it, wasting your time with him. He wants you and Mary and Rosie to get on with your lives. To forget him. He made me promise to send him away once he realized I wouldn’t ever harm him.”

John felt a sob break from him. “Oh God, Sherlock,” he said quietly as he touched Sherlock’s hair.

“My brother is broken, John. To his mind, there’s absolutely nothing left for him. He needs to know you’re happy. And he’ll never believe you are as long as you’re with him. He never thought he was good enough for you. He told me that. And he thinks now, after they . . . after they . . . raped him, that he’s too damaged for anyone. He’s loved you since the day he met you, John. If you give him a little time, just a little time, maybe he’ll get well. Give him a few weeks.”

“Where are you sending him?”

“The best place available. They’ll get him on the right combination of antidepressants, put him into group therapy, and when he’s better, when he’s no longer suicidal, then maybe you should come and see him.”

“Mycroft, I can’t leave him.”

“You have to think about him, John. Not yourself. He knows you will never love him the way he wants you to. He knows that you will only ever be happy with Mary. His heart, despite what I advised him, will only ever belong to you John. And since you don’t want it, you’ve destroyed it. His body is broken and so are his mind and his heart. He’s right when he says he has nothing to live for. But I will admit, I’m as selfish as the rest of his friends and my parents. I have no wish for my brother to die. I want him to be able to enjoy some semblance of the life he had before. And if I could force you to love him, I would. This is the best thing I can do. Until he’s stronger, you have to stay away from him.”

“I know how much I’ve hurt him. I know that. And it’s tearing me apart.”

“You’ll stay away?”

“Will you let me know how he’s doing?”

“I’ll give you periodic reports as I see fit.”

“I suppose that’s all I can ask for.” John stood up. He reached down and ran his thumb across one of Sherlock’s cheekbones. “Goodbye, Sherlock. Please get well. Please. I’ll stay away from you as long as I need to. Just know that I do love you and I only want the best for you.”

 

Two months later, John was sitting in his office. It was the end of a particularly boring day and he was just finishing his paperwork so he could get home to Mary and Rosie. He heard a knock on his door. “I’m sorry. I’m done for the day. One of the other doctors will see you . . .” He turned around and saw Mycroft standing there.

“Mycroft. Well, it’s about time you came to see me. How is he?”

“Not . . . well, John. I may have been mistaken. I need you to come with me.”

John looked more closely at Mycroft. The man looked horrible. Deep dark circles were around his eyes, he’d lost weight. “What’s wrong?”

“Just come. I’ll explain.”

John followed Mycroft out of his office and locked the door behind him. They got into one of Mycroft’s cars and started away. John pulled out his mobile and called Mary telling her he wasn’t sure when he’d be home. They had driven for quite a while before Mycroft spoke. John noticed that Mycroft’s hands were trembling against the hilt of his umbrella.

“He’s much worse, John. They’ve tried but he hasn’t spoken since he arrived there. He won’t eat anything. They had to put in a feeding tube. He’s almost skeletal. He sits and stares and . . . drools. They have to do everything for him. They’ve given him drugs but they don’t work.” John closed his eyes in pain.

When they arrived at the hospital, they hurried upstairs. Mycroft reached out and took John’s arm before he went into the room. “I warn you. They cut his hair because it was easier to deal with. They took out his glass eye and his false teeth. He doesn’t look anything like he did.”

John pushed through the door and saw Sherlock sitting in a wheelchair looking out the window. His hair was shorn, no longer than half an inch. He picked up a chair and moved it towards him. “Sherlock?” he asked. He put down the chair and sat down, looking at his best friend.

Tears sprang to his eyes. If he didn’t know this was Sherlock, he’d never have recognized him. His cheekbones looked to be so sharp that he was afraid to touch his face, scared that they’d break the skin. His left eye socket was empty, his cheeks sunken around the missing teeth. His mouth was open slightly, drool dripping onto his lap. But it was the awful, terrible emptiness in his eye. And he knew he’d help put it there.

“Sherlock? Please look at me. Please.” He reached out and touched one of his poor broken hands. It was ice cold. He took his pulse. It was weak and thready. His breathing was shallow. Sherlock was dying.

He sat there for a long time, speaking slowly, trying to get Sherlock to react to him. He watched Mycroft move into the room and sit at the edge of Sherlock’s bed. “You should have gotten me before this.”

“I didn’t know it had gotten this far,” Mycroft replied. “They told me he wasn’t doing well but they didn’t tell me he’d failed this much.”

“Sherlock.” John reached out and touched his face, moving him so he was looking into John’s eyes. “Please. Please don’t leave me. I couldn’t bear it. Please come out of your head. Come away from those men. I know that’s where you are. I know you’re letting them hurt you over and over again. Please stop. Please don’t do this anymore. You’re killing yourself. Please stop.” John reached out and pulled Sherlock towards him. He laid Sherlock’s head on his shoulder and pulled his cold, emaciated body against his own. He started to hum one of the songs Sherlock would play when he woke screaming from his PTSD dreams of Afghanistan. He kissed the top of Sherlock’s head and laid his cheek against the bristles. He closed his eyes, letting the tears flow down his cheeks.

“Don’t go,” he whispered. “Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me again. Please.” He continued to hum and began to rock Sherlock’s frail body back and forth. He was so frightened. He looked up at Mycroft and could see the tears shining on his face.

It seemed like he was there for hours, talking and humming. He heard a hitch, finally, in Sherlock’s breathing. He carefully pulled himself away from him and touched his face. “Sherlock?”

The eye continued to stare vacantly. John carefully set him back in the chair.

“I have an idea,” he said to Mycroft. He got up and moved to the bed. Mycroft stood up. John pulled the covers back and went to get Sherlock. He picked him up easily. He weighed so little. He carried him to the bed and set him on his side. John lay down beside him and pulled Sherlock into his arms, setting his head on his own chest. He pulled him closer. “Cover us up, will you?”

Mycroft covered the two of them up.

“I love you,” John whispered. “I love you, Sherlock. I can’t live my life without you. It’s been two months since I saw you and I worried about you every day. You’re my family. You’re as important to me as Mary and Rosie. I can’t be without you anymore. I need to know you’re safe and happy. I want you to get well. I’ve been talking to Mrs. Hudson. We’ve been talking about renovating 221B. And we’ll all be there to look after you, me, Mary, Rosie, and Mrs. Hudson. We’ll all be there. And Molly and Greg. And Mycroft and your parents. We all miss you so much. We all want you to be with us. We all need you. If it wasn’t for you, none of us would know each other. None of us would be together. Come back and we’ll spend the rest of our lives helping you. Give us a chance. But you have to want to live. You have to want to come back to us. Please.”

He felt Sherlock’s hand move. He laid still and waited. The hand moved again, slowly clutching John’s jumper in a very weak grip. He carefully moved Sherlock’s head so he could look at him. “Sherlock, are you there?”

Slowly, oh, so slowly, something returned in his eye. Tears began to form and flow down his cheek. He blinked once, hard, and John knew that Sherlock was there.

“Jaaaa?” a raspy, disused voice began.

John smiled at him. “Hey there. Hey.” He looked up at Mycroft. “Hand me that glass.” He gave Sherlock a sip of water. “Throat’s dry, right?”

“Jawn, you come for me?” Sherlock said very slowly. “Save me from them? They hurt me.”

“You’re not in the warehouse anymore. You’re in the hospital. You’re with me and Mycroft.”

“Feel bad.”

“I know. You’ve been very sick for so long. We’ll get you well. You have to fight now. Fight as hard as you did when you survived in Serbia. You have to fight to get well. You’re emaciated, Sherlock. You need to gain weight. You need to let the doctors here help you so you can try and feel better about yourself, so you can try and not let those five days take over your life. And I’ll be here to help you. All of us will. All you need to do is ask.”

“I don’t think I can do it alone.”

John nodded and smiled. The old Sherlock would never have admitted something like that. John ran his thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone. “You’re never going to be alone. I promise.”

Mycroft moved to John’s side.

Sherlock looked up. “My? You’ll help me, too?”

“Anything. Anything you need, Brother Mine.” Mycroft reached out and touched Sherlock’s hand, squeezing gently.

“I feel bad,” Sherlock whispered.

“I know, Sherlock. I know. Mycroft, could you get the doctor? We can get you some painkillers.”

Mycroft returned with Dr. Fraser.

“Sherlock. It’s nice to see you awake.”

“’Lo Dr. Fraser.”

“I understand you’re in pain.”

“It all hurts. Please make it stop. Please make me forget,” the small voice was that of a wounded child begging for help. John found himself trying to swallow past a rather large lump in his throat. All he wanted to do was hold Sherlock tighter and protect him. He wanted to take those memories that were torturing him. He’d live the rest of his life with them if he could give Sherlock peace.

“We can get you something for the physical pain. We’ll work on the rest. I can’t make you forget but I can give you ways to cope with it so it won’t overwhelm you. It won’t be something that will happen overnight. I told you before that it will take time. I can get you some sleeping aids so at least you can rest. And I can help you cope with eating. I won’t lie to you. It won’t be easy.”

“I want to get better. I want to stop hurting. Please help me. Please.”

She reached out and touched his arm. “I will help you.”

“John, will you stay with me? Just for awhile?”

“As long as you want.”

A nurse came through the door with a syringe.

“This is the painkiller. It’ll just be a few minutes.” Dr. Fraser took the needle and quickly injected Sherlock.

Sherlock seemed to relax a bit in John’s arms.

“For now, we’ll keep your mind busy so you don’t let those memories overwhelm you. Talk with your friend and your brother. We’ll get the telly hooked up so you can have something to listen to. Small steps. I’m going to let you rest for now. You’ve just come out of something traumatic. I don’t want to push you. We’ll get you something to eat in a bit. Once you’ve rested a bit, we’ll put together a treatment plan. Okay?”

Sherlock nodded his head and snuggled into John. Somehow the sound of John breathing and his heart beating was calming Sherlock more than anything else could have. He felt so weak, so tired, so helpless. And he didn’t want to think of them anymore. He didn’t want to be inside his head anymore. He’d wanted to die. He’d wanted it all to go away. But there was something he was clutching onto. Some tiny spark was keeping his heart beating even though it was broken in a million pieces. He so loved John. And John wanted him to live. So he would live. It was as simple as that. If he had to live the rest of his life with only smiles, the occasional hug, and knowing that John was his best friend and would never be his lover, that John loved him as much as he was able, then that would have to do.

He had broken John’s heart once before in jumping from St. Bart’s. And he knew that he couldn’t ever do it to him again. He’d live in physical, emotional, and mental pain for as long as he needed to to make sure that John was okay. He would do his best to become as independent as possible so that his friends wouldn’t be burdened with him. He knew he would be bored for the rest of his life, would feel useless and worthless for the rest of his life, but he needed to be there for John. He needed to go into battle once more. He needed to sacrifice himself once more. John was worth all of it.

So he would pretend. He would make them believe that he had accepted this so-called “life” that he was cursed to live. He could allow the despair but only when he was alone.

He fell asleep cuddled in John’s arms and he felt safe and whole and he felt like he was at home. And he somehow knew that John would fight off the nightmares and let him rest.

 

Dr. Fraser asked him the first day if he still wanted to kill himself. John’s breath caught in his throat. Sherlock had insisted that John stay with him for the first session.

“Yes,” he said. John’s breath hitched and he clenched Sherlock’s hand. “But I won’t do it. I won’t.”

“Why’s that?”

“John doesn’t want me to. I’ll stay alive for John.”

“Sherlock, you can’t live just for me . . .”

“I won’t hurt you again like I did before. I heard what you said. I heard you beg me to live for you. So I will. I’ll suffer through all of this . . . all the pain, all the feeling worthless and useless for you, John. Just for you.”

“Sherlock, you have to want to live for yourself.”

“But I don’t want to. It hurts too much. But, as I said, I’ll live because John wants me to.”

“That’s not really the healthiest attitude to have.”

“I can’t help how I feel. I love John too much to put him through any more pain. I tried to kill myself but I knew deep down that it wouldn’t work. I knew they’d force me to live.”

“You shouldn’t be thinking of it that way.”

“But it is that way. I don’t want to live. They want me to. So, I’ll live to please them.”

“Sherlock, we’re not trying to force you to . . .”

“Yes, you are. I’m in too much pain. I hate what they did to me. I hate what I am now, what I’ll always be. I’ll never be Sherlock Holmes again. I’ll only ever be that poor pathetic detective who got himself raped and tortured by men he put away. So, when I get home, I won’t be leaving. I’ll be staying there so people won’t talk behind my back. I’ll wait for you and the others to visit. And that will be my whole life. I promise you John that I won’t hurt myself. I won’t try and kill myself again. I’ll wait. I know that you’ll all abandon me eventually. First one then all. You’ll be last, I think. But eventually, you’ll stop feeling obligated and go back to your life. Go back to being a doctor and going home to Mary and Rosie. And you’ll forget about me. You’ll forget that we ran through the streets of London and caught criminals. You’ll forget that I loved you more than my own life. You’ll forget and I’ll be free.”

“Free for what?”

“Free to do what needs to be done so all the pain goes away.”

“Sherlock,” John said as he squeezed his hand. “That won’t ever happen. I’ll never leave you.”

“You say that now. But the time will come. I can’t give you anything like what you needed from me before. You’ll tell me that I’m selfish. You’ll tell me that suicide is selfish. But what’s worse? Isn’t forcing me to live when I don’t want to more selfish then me not wanting to suffer every day of what’s left of my life? The pain is almost unbearable, John. My body hurts. My mind hurts me remembering what they did to me. It won’t stop. I was never one to believe in metaphors but my heart is broken into a thousand pieces, John. It’s as broken as the rest of me. And you all keep telling me that it will all work out. That I’ll be okay. That I’ll magically recover or I’ll magically find a job or I’ll find someone to love me. But it won’t be okay. None of it will happen, John. None of it. I’m less than useless. I’m a waste of resources. I can’t go to work. I can’t support myself. Could you imagine me trying to work with the public? They’d look at me and scream. I used to take advantage of the way I looked to get people to do things for me. When I think of the things I did to poor Molly to get her to help me. I guess I’m paying for it now. And how could I ask anyone to love me when I hate myself?

“Don’t look so worried, John. I told you. I won’t kill myself. I won’t hurt myself. But when the time comes, and it will come, I’ll get Mycroft to put me back here. They’ll have the drugs to take away the pain, to take away the memories of what they did to me, to take away all of the memories I have left so I won’t miss any of you. I gave everything to keep all of you safe and I don’t expect anything back. I just want you to be happy. That’s all I want. I don’t want any of you wasting time worrying about poor brain-damaged, paralyzed Sherlock.”

John felt the tears dripping down his face. Sherlock was so broken. His best friend was teetering on the edge, so lost in his depression and pain that he was the barest push away from losing himself forever. John squeezed his hand tightly and sat up, drawing Sherlock into his arms.

“Please, Sherlock. Please let me help you. Please don’t do this to yourself.”

“It’s already been done, John. It’s just a waiting game now. They destroyed me. I know it. It’s just time for the rest of you to know it now.” Sherlock’s voice was so calm, so . . . resigned.

“Sherlock, this is just the depression talking,” Dr. Foster said. “I’ll give you coping mechanisms so that you won’t think about what they did to you all the time. We’ll get you on the right meds and you’ll feel better.”

“Oh, Doctor,” Sherlock said, looking at her. “My parents hired the best doctors in the country to pull me out of depression when I was a teenager. If they didn’t work, why do you think your treatment will work?”

“Medications and therapies have improved a lot since you were a teenager. I have your records. I know what didn’t work. I promise you, Sherlock, we’ll find a way to help you.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be helped.”

“Sherlock, please. Please try,” John asked.

Sherlock looked into John’s eyes. “John, you can make me live, though I don’t want to, but you really can’t make me want to get better. What’s the point?”

“You can’t live your life in misery.”

“Why not? Those five days, those five men, they took everything from me. They broke me. They destroyed my body, my mind, my heart, and my soul. There’s nothing left here of the man who was Sherlock Holmes. He’s dead. It’s just the transport that’s left. And all of you don’t want me to have peace. I know it’s because you think it’s the best thing for me. I know that you have only the best in mind for me. You want me to get better. Well, as better as I can become. You want me to pretend that I’ve accepted what’s been done to me. You want me to pretend that I have a purpose and a use. You and Mycroft will try and find something for me to do to pretend that I can work. Maybe you’ll bring some young man around to try and prove that someone can care about me. Who knows? Maybe Mycroft will pay him to even degrade himself enough to have sex with me. All so I’ll feel better. Then you can all sit back and congratulate yourselves on fixing poor broken Sherlock. I don’t want to be fixed. I don’t want a purpose. I don’t want someone to pretend to care about me. My life is over, John. I will continue to breathe, to eat, to drink, to sleep, to allow Dr. Fraser to try her tricks and potions. But, make no mistake, Sherlock Holmes is dead and gone.”

John sat, stunned.

“That was quite the speech,” Dr. Fraser said. “It’s the depression talking. It’s the PTSD. You can’t see it now but one day you will change. You’ll never be able to forget what they did to you but you can cope with it.”

John didn’t know what to say. Was he being selfish? Sherlock didn’t want to live. He would for John. He would because John wanted him to. But he was miserable. He was lost. He thought he had nothing to live for, no dreams. He had no purpose. The only thing he had left that he wanted was John. And John couldn’t give him that.

“Sher . . . Sherlock. Please listen to me. I know it’s hard . . .”

“You know it’s hard? Seems to me you can walk, you can use your hands, you can work, you have someone who loves you and a daughter. I don’t have any of those things and I never will. I love you, John. I will only ever love you. I promised you my life and it’s yours. But you can’t tell me that you know that it’s hard. You weren’t tortured. You didn’t watch them cut your legs apart or cut your fingers off. You didn’t lose your virginity to someone shoving himself into you so hard that you bled for an hour after. You didn’t have your eye destroyed or your face scarred so badly that now I do look like a freak.”

“Sherlock . . .” Dr. Fraser said.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I promised you I’d live and I will. Don’t ask me for anything else. I can’t promise anything else.”

That night, as John watched Sherlock sleep, he promised himself that he would do everything he could for Sherlock. He had no idea what that would entail, but he wouldn’t fail Sherlock, not like he’d done so many times in the past. He took one of Sherlock’s twisted hands, and held it to his mouth, kissing it softly.