sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXV

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Prompting Part XXXV

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Sherlock is beaten and raped (nothing personal, no mystery to it and not related to a case, which makes it even worse for Sherlock). Afterward, he knows he's badly injured and needs medical attention, but is too scared/ashamed/whatever to go to the A&E, so he goes to find John at the clinic he works at.

Maybe he signs in with a different patient name and info so John doesn't know it's him right away. Maybe he even lies about his injuries (or only mentions being beaten and not raped), either way, he gets in to see John.

John sees Sherlock. He asks what happened, and Sherlock is quiet and vague. John assumes he's just gone and mouthed off to the wrong people or something like he's done many times before, and proceeds to clean him up. At some point in the exam John realises what's really happened, and things go from there.

OP here: I feel I should add that John and Sherlock can already be in a relationship, or just newly in a relationship, or platonic or whatever. Doesn't matter to me.

Also, lots of angst, and John trying to stay professional and viewing Sherlock as just another patient, to keep from getting too emotional to be able to treat him.

Yes, please!
+1

At the risk of promoting my own fic, I've just started something that sounds like it might be right up your alley: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1434250

"Sherlock may have physically survived his abduction, but in his mind he'll never be whole again. John understands PTSD, understands what Sherlock is going through, and is determined to be patient. Angst, hurt/comfort, and eventual Johnlock as Sherlock tries to rebuild his ability to trust."

(Not exactly a prompt fill, but lots of delicious angst and eventual trust.)

I'm not sure if OP or anyone is looking this far back, but I thought I'd post anyway. I wrote this some time ago in response to this prompt but never posted because I never got any farther (I'm much better at the h portion of h/c haha). I want to get some of my old docs out there though, so I've decided to post this anyway.

I may come back to it but at this point, I have so many other projects, it would definitely be quite awhile. I encourage anyone who might want to to continue on with it if you feel like it!

Hopefully, if anyone is reading this, you enjoy it!

The worst part, he thinks, is the pure random nature of it all. He may not be the most cautious of people, but he makes a point to avoid...situations such as these. In his line of work - in every facet of his life - there’s a clear plan and then a precautionary backup plan. Others may not see it, but it’s true. He is careful. He likes the game and the danger but he is in no way masochistic.

Of course, some things never go according to plan.

Some things in life just happen, for whatever reason. Randomness and disorder control the world, no matter how hard he tries to work to the contrary. It’s abhorrent.

Entropy, his mind provides unexpectedly. Suddenly, with the singular thought comes more. A multitude of useless - bloody useless - thoughts enter and bounce around his mind. For a few slow, terrifying moments, he thinks he’ll drown in them. Thoughts of the second law of thermodynamics turn into ones concentrated on the enthalpy and molar mass of gaseous iron pentacarbonyl - a recent compound he read about somewhere...somewhere - turn into thoughts of the relative pH of iron based blood turn into-.

Turn into panic. Pure panic. It only lasts for a moment but it leaves him staggering, blinking rapidly as he stares up into the late evening sky. The scent of blood is around him, meshing horridly with those of the dumpsters and other littered paraphernalia lingering in this dank, generally unused alley way.

He looks over, slowly letting his head fall to the right to focus on his outstretched hand. Belatedly, he realizes it’s shaking and, try as he might, he can’t will it into submission. In fact, his whole body is vibrating with minute tremors. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

He’d managed to turn himself over but he realizes now it was a foolish waste of energy. He’d allowed his lax in judgement to overcome his more logical side - feelings of fear and a desperate need to see anything besides the damp, grey alleyway floor took charge, helping him to spin over. Now he sees how unorganized the whole venture was - he can’t stand up like this.

He takes a breath, then another, cursing his current inadequacy. He’s supposed to be good at tamping down pain, yet here he is, breathing heavily and wincing as he turns himself back onto his stomach, reaching for the nearby alleyway wall as he does so. It’s slow work, and he’d be horribly bored by the whole process if not for the searing pain deep in his abdomen keeping him occupied.

With a lot of grunting and various other noises that he won’t admit to having made, he manages to pull himself up the wall. He rewards himself by leaning his head against the cool rough brick. His eyes close of their own accord and he finds himself drifting for a moment.

Lestrade had called him for a case some time ago. At this point, he can’t say when, exactly, that was. He was on his way to pick up John at the clinic. He was going to save him from whatever menial task he was assigned today. Of course, John didn’t know he was coming, but there was hardly ever a time the doctor had denied him. A few backroads and an unexpected text message later and he found himself here. Wherever here is.

The thought sends a jolt of panic racing up his spine, the feeling of which is enough to break him free from his half-unconscious haze. He blinks himself back to reality, looking around the alleyway once more. He’s near John’s clinic, now, he’s sure. The point had been to take a shortcut, and it had been working well before-. Well. Before.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock spins around, cringing at the movement. His injuries are rather more than he’d be willing to deal with alone, so he makes a decision. He’ll continue on to John’s clinic. There’s no need for a ridiculously long ambulance ride and no cabbie will take him in this state - the choice is obvious. Perhaps, though, John needn’t know about the full extent of his injuries.

Sherlock takes a step forward, then, failing to tamp down a short cry of pain. Pursing his lips he stares down at the ground. It’s humiliating; beaten and half-crippled by a group of half-wits. Not someone interesting, not even someone well-known. Someone ordinary. Random.

He shakes his head of the spiralling thoughts, forcing himself forward with a hand placed firmly against the wall. He tells himself each step is getting better, but in his weakened state he finds the lie harder and harder to believe.

He catches a glance of his reflection in a nearby shop on the sparsely-populated road adjacent to John’s clinic and is almost - almost - surprised at what he sees. Sherlock is and always has been a master at locking away his consciousness during unwinnable fights, but until now, he hadn’t realized the extent to which he’d done so.

Blood from his nose and mouth is slowly trickling downwards. One of his eyes is swollen to such a point he’s amazed he can still see out of it. His hair is dishevelled and crazed, much like the rest of his clothes. Before moving out of the alleyway, Sherlock had straightened up his pants and trousers, discarding his broken belt. Besides that part of him, everything else is a mess.

He refuses to waste more time on looking at himself and instead trudges forward. The street is a small one, hardly used. However some people are still moving along its walkways. He’s gotten a few strange looks, a few concerned ‘alright there, mate?’s from passersby, but hasn’t been too bothered besides that. He wonders, briefly, if he should be concerned by the overwhelming apathy of the general populace, but decides not to dwell on it as his foot sets down awkwardly on a cracked piece of pavement, causing him to stumble.

Sherlock curses, berating himself as he straightens. The doors to John’s clinic are only a few meters away yet somehow they seem to be stretching farther and farther with every step he takes. The corners of his vision blur as he steps through the sliding doors, and the nurse stares at him in concern as he staggers briefly, clutching at the front desk.

She hesitates before asking, “Can I help you, Sir?”

“Ye-Yes.” Sherlock’s voice cracks as he speaks his first words and he frowns. “I’m here to see Dr. Watson.”

The nurse brightens the slightest bit at the name. “Do you have an appointment?”

He sucks in a breath, completely prepared to berate the woman for the ridiculous question. Does he look as if he would make an appointment for this? Truly the woman must be blind if she thinks he’s anything other than a walk in. Yet he finds himself too exhausted to chastise, instead replying softly with, “No.”

She nods, reaching around for a clipboard before pausing. “Dr. Watson is a fantastic physician,” she says slowly. “But perhaps, sir, you’d be better off going to a more equipped facility. An A&E, perhaps.”

Sherlock lets out a stuttering breath, firmly shaking his head. “No. Doctor Watson.” A pause. “Please.”

She hesitates a minute more before finally finishing her original movement. She hands him the clipboard. “Luckily, he has a few openings today. First I’ll need your name, and then you can go sit over there and fill this out until the nurse comes to retrieve you.”

Sherlock grimaces. He knows John won’t see him outright if he uses his real name - will suspect him of trying to get him to skiv out on his duties to the public or whatever nonsense he likes to chastise Sherlock for keeping him from. He takes a breath again, finding it a bit more difficult than usual. “Bill,” he says. “Bill Thompson.”

The nurse smiles tentatively. “Alright, Mr. Thompson. Dr. Watson is with a patient right now but a nurse will be out to get you when he’s nearly finished.”

“Right,” he mutters, spinning slowly around to look at the small waiting room. There are several very low very uncomfortable-looking chairs of which he foregoes for standing. Leaning against a nearby wall, he allows the clipboard to fall from his hands as he closes his eyes.

The next moment, he hears the name he gave being called, and he moves with a grimace to follow the nurse. Sherlock is deposited in an empty room and told to sit on the bed. It’s only after the nurse leaves that he even tries it. John will ask him to sit when he comes in, and he’d rather avoid any suspicion by getting the uncomfortable part out of the way without a witness.

It’s an extremely difficult prospect; rather more difficult than he first thought it might be. He’s only just managed to sit shakily on the bed before the door opens and John walks in, stopping short and crossing his arms when he sees Sherlock.

“You cannot be serious, Sherlock,” John says.

Sherlock closes his eyes, allowing the sound of John’s voice to wash over him. It’s strangely calming, despite the exasperated chastisement he hears there.

“Sherlock?”

And now it’s tentative. Not good. His eyes fly open and he blinks at John. “Hm?”

“I asked you who you pissed off this time.” He frowns, uncrossing his arms and pulling his stethoscope from around his neck. “Where are you hurt?”

Sherlock shrugs noncommittally. He’s not trying to be contrary - he truly doesn’t know. There’s only one pain overshadowing all others and it’s the one John doesn’t need to know about.

John steps forward, heating the stethoscope with his breath before placing it against Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock flinches at the contact, and closes his eyes in anger at the minute betrayal of his reflexes. He does not flinch.

John’s face is contorted in concentration, a deep line settling in between his eyebrows and a frown curving his lips downward. “Your breathing is shaky,” he says eventually, staring at Sherlock. It would be a paltry observation when assigned to anyone else, but both he and John know that control over his body - no matter how small - isn’t something he gives up lightly.

“I don’t hear any blockages, though. Take a deep breath for me.”

Sherlock does so, at least as much as he’s able. He’s finding the prospect of breathing to be not as boring as he once thought. He glances at John as he tries again for a larger breath, seeing his frown deepen.

John steps back, looking him over. “What happened?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak but finds he is unable. Brief panic is overshadowed with an even stronger anger. This is ridiculous, bloody stupid. It’s all over now; there is no need for dramatics.

He licks his lips and tries again, eventually gritting out a few simple words. “Street thugs.”

John’s eyebrows rise then, and at least in that expression there is faint amusement. Sherlock would find the whole thing comical, as well, if not for. Well.

“You’re serious?” he asks, shaking his head at Sherlock’s affirming nod. “Just a random gang, then? No past ties, no current cases. Just a couple of guys who wanted to beat you up for-? What? Walking?”

Sherlock grits his teeth, watching as John turns to get the tools he’ll need from various drawers. “I cannot account for the animalistic notions consuming the minds of the general populace, John,” he snaps, arms coming unconsciously up to his abdomen.

John glances back at him, any lingering amusement fading as his eyebrows draw together once more. “Well. I guess even Sherlock Holmes can’t forego chance encounters.” A beat. “I’m sorry,” he adds.

Sherlock dismisses the platitude with a wave of his hand and John goes back to rummaging in his drawers while Sherlock closes his eyes again. “Iron Pentacarbonyl,” he mutters, eyes snapping open as thoughts of the alleyway make their way into his mind.

“Iron Penta-what?” John comes back with his supplies, handing Sherlock an ice pack and indicating for him to remove his shirt. His lips purse as he watches. “You were reading about that for your latest experiment, weren’t you?”

Sherlock blinks, gingerly pulling his shirt the rest of the way off. "I don't recall," he says, voice low. He glances up, then, and finds John looking far more concerned than he has as of yet.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” he mutters, probing at some bruising around his ribs. Sherlock hisses, just managing to stop himself from flinching away. “These guys weren’t kidding around.”

Sherlock looks away. He attempts to distance himself as John works, but doing so only sends his thoughts spiralling back to the alleyway and he grimaces, choosing, instead, to stare blankly at some ridiculous generic well-being poster.

“Bruising around the ribs.” He palpitates the area, searching now for fractures or breaks. “Nothing too serious. It’ll hurt like hell for awhile, though.” He steps around to Sherlock’s back, sucking in a sharp breath as he sees it.

Sherlock has no idea what it actually looks like, but he imagines it’s not a pleasant sight. Remembered feelings of hard sneakers and boots enter into his mind, the feeling of being trapped one he is almost completely unable to ignore. He shivers, locking his jaw against the onslaught of irrational terror.

John sets about stitching up the deeper cuts, plastering the others. He wraps Sherlock’s chest slowly, wincing as Sherlock does at the pressure.

His fingers slide into Sherlock’s hair, then, probing about for injuries. Despite himself, Sherlock stiffens and he’s sure John notices.

“Do you have a head injury?”

Slowly, Sherlock shakes his head no. “It’s merely tender.”

John leans back, lips pressed harshly together, and now Sherlock can see the anger. Before, concern and healing overrode John’s revenge-fueled hate, but apparently, seeing Sherlock so bandaged up and uncharacteristically quiet has brought about more fury than even Sherlock would have guessed. The change surprises him, though what surprises him more is John’s immediate retreat back to the calming nature of a doctor.

John takes a deep breath, shooting Sherlock a small smile. “The nurse said you were limping when you came in.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow minutely. He doesn’t remember limping. But then, he doesn’t remember much about the journey here except his need to finish it. He shrugs.

“Right,” John says, kneeling down to get a better look at Sherlock’s legs. His hands come up to Sherlock’s thighs, palpitating the muscle there. “Any cuts or suspected breaks?”

“No,” Sherlock answers dully, staring down at the hand on his leg and working hard to remind himself that it’s John touching him right now and no one else.

Minutes - or perhaps hours - later, John pauses in his ministrations. Sherlock glances at him, eyebrow raised. “Problem?”

“I need you to stand up real quick. Just need to test and see what putting weight on your legs does about this limp.”

Sherlock’s eyes shutter, then. He blinks rapidly, staring down at his legs blankly. He can’t stand up at this point, he’s sure. At least not without some complications.

“Sherlock?”

He shakes his head. John’s voice seems to be coming from a distance, now, and he tries to bring himself back to reality. It’s one request - one simple request. A request, it would seem, that has the ability to reveal Sherlock; to make known his humiliation and fault; to ignite sympathy where he wants none; to turn him into a perpetual victim rather than the great consulting detective, accidentally targeted for one brief moment in history. John will find out and Sherlock won’t ever be able to forget this day. This stupid, meaningless, random day.

Suddenly, John’s hand is in front of him, reaching for him, and Sherlock can’t reconcile the Now with the Then and he rears back, blind fear gripping him and sending him nearly toppling from the bed. It hurts, god - it’s complete agony. The sudden movement incites such a feeling of pain he nearly blacks out and distantly he hears a harsh cry that surely could not have been him.

For a few long moments he’s completely delirious, shaking as he tries to put himself back together - to find the finite control he had only minutes before.

He comes back to himself gradually, arms tight and shaking around his abdomen. His eyes flutter open and he meets John’s, wide in confusion. It would be funny at any other time to watch John’s understanding literally dawn on him. His features change first from confusion to surprise, from surprise to sadness, from sadness to pure fiery anger. The look makes Sherlock shiver again and he turns his face away, instead staring at the linoleum floor.

“Sherlock,” John says again, voice rigid and impassive. “What exactly happened?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, to quell John’s anger, to assure him it’s not as bad as it looks. But he finds he’s unable to do anything but gape, his eyebrows knitting together as he stares at John open-mouthed. Words refuse to come, leaving him sitting, silently shivering.

John’s face immediately falls, changing from anger to something between fear and pain in a single instant. “Fuck,” he whispers, cuffing a hand through his hair. He spins around and paces. “Fuck!” he screams, kicking the bin next to the desk.

The noise startles Sherlock despite his best intentions and he doubles over once more as his flinch incites more pain.

“You’re going to A&E,” John says, rummaging in his pocket for his cell phone.

“John-,”

“No, Sherlock. You’ve been. Jesus you’ve been attacked. Beaten to a fucking pulp and-,” he pauses, turning his head to the ceiling and shaking it. He returns his gaze back to Sherlock, staring at him with a distinct lack of emotion. “You’ve been raped,” he says, voice as calm as possible.

Sherlock sucks in a breath, leans forward, hand outstretched to reach John. He’s at a clinic now. If anyone can help him, John can. No need to bring more people into this. He doesn’t want this to spread farther than it already has.

Those are his last thoughts as he topples forward, unconsciousness hitting him like a brick wall.

I didn't realize how long this was! Hopefully OP, if you ever check back in here, you enjoyed this a bit. I might post it to my AO3 at some point for an easier reading experience.

Thanks for reading!

I loved this so much! I hope one day you're going to write more.
Do you post on AO3?

SA
Sorry, I didn't see your A/N at first. If you decide to post this story on AO3, please, share the link here. :)

Nice! I do hope you can continue it.

I love this! <3

I'll be absolutely happy it you ever decide to return to this story.

Please do link back here if you post to AO3... I would love to read more.

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