Theme Prompt - Sanctuary

Sherlock walked to the doorway, intent on leaving this place for good when the wounds on his legs twinged and he looked down. The raw stripes were still bleeding, little trails of red moving down his legs. He couldn't go outside like this, just wearing boxers and a t-shirt. He would get arrested or draw unwelcome attention to himself.

Sighing, Sherlock stepped around the body lying on the floor and back into the bedroom. His clothes were a lost cause; Moriarty had taken great pleasure in cutting those off him when they first got here. The only thing Sherlock could do was root through some of Moriarty's clothes and try to find something that sort of fit him.

Rifling through the closet, Sherlock found a suit and shirt that fit him enough that he wouldn't look too out of place outside. Before he could put it on though, Sherlock knew he had to clean the wounds that still leaked blood on his legs. He walked into the attached bathroom and ran cool water, using a soft washcloth to sponge away the blood. The cuts had mostly started to scab up, the bleeding stopping quickly.

After he was clean, Sherlock dressed quickly and had to give Moriarty a nod at his fashion sense. The suit was impeccably tailored for the shorter man and was of very high quality. Deciding that a few more minutes in the flat couldn't hurt, Sherlock looked around for anything that he could use. The search turned up a couple thousand pounds in cash, a gun, and other tools for torture.

Taking only the cash, since the police would probably be called as soon as Moriarty didn't pay his rent or started to decompose, Sherlock walked slowly outside. He kept his strides short and even, much as he wanted to run, because he didn't want to open up or inflame the wounds on his legs. The rubbing of the pants he was wearing was almost unbearable. About two blocks from Moriarty's flat, he was able to flag down a cab.

The ride was a long twenty minutes, every bump and movement chafing his legs. He could feel some of the scabs break open again but ignored them. He could get them seen to later, once he had seen John. The cab pulled up outside the hospital and Sherlock paid the driver from the money he had found in Moriarty's flat. A simple lie that he was John's brother got him into the doctor's private room and he paused in the doorway, just taking in John's face.

The doctor was sleeping restlessly, his eyes fluttering behind his lids. His left hand was opening and closing on the sheets, deep wrinkles showing that he had been doing that for a while. Sherlock just looked, his heart pounding as he realized yet again exactly how much John meant to him. Much as he wanted to talk to him, Sherlock walked quietly into the room and sat down on the chair. He could wait.

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John was sitting in the flat, a cup of tea steaming in his hands. He was still wondering where Sherlock was, hoping the detective was still alive. Lestrade had given up hope by this time, Sherlock's kidnapping relegated to a cold case. But it would never be cold to John. He sipped his tea, staring contemplatively at the window. The same one the bullet had torn through before hitting him.

A knocking at the door disturbed him but John was too tired to get up. He merely called out, letting the caller know the door was open. Lestrade walked in, his face completely shuttered. Though, John could see a deep grief in his eyes and braced himself for the news he was sure was coming.

"Hey, John," Lestrade said carefully, sitting down across from the doctor in Sherlock's chair. "How have you been?"

"You found him," John replied flatly, not in the mood for verbal sparring. "How long ago?"

"This morning," Lestrade replied heavily, sighing. This wasn't going to be easy. "He was near New Scotland Yard."

"Tell me," John said, his eyes empty as he watched Lestrade. "Whatever it is you're holding back, tell me."

"His throat was slashed," Lestrade said quickly, knowing sometimes it was better to get everything out up front. "He was also beaten badly and looked half-starved. He's with Molly now."

"I want to see him," John said, getting up and shrugging into his coat. In a flash, he and Lestrade were in the morgue, a red-eyed and sniffling Molly standing over a body covered in a sheet.

"This isn't going to be pretty," she warned before pulling the sheet back. John stared down at Sherlock's lifeless face, his breath leaving his body.

"God, no," John muttered before falling to his knees on the floor. "No."

John woke to someone shaking him insistently and calling his name. He groaned as pain flashed through him and the movement stopped. He opened his eyes and blinked several times, not believing that he actually saw Sherlock in front of him.

"I'm still dreaming," he said, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

"No," Sherlock said simply, taking one of John's hands and twining their fingers together. The last remnants of the dream faded away as John felt the warmth of Sherlock's hand and a tentative smile bloomed on his face.

"How? What happened?" John asked, so many questions running through his mind but his mouth only cooperating with those three words. Sherlock understood him, though, knew what John wanted to know.

"I made a deal with Moriarty," he explained. "Let you live in exchange for me becoming his prisoner again. The man was completely deranged; I think he would have done anything to have me come with him. So, once I knew you were safe, I left with him."

Sherlock's face closed then, the memory of what he had endured over the past three days heavy in his mind. John squeezed his hand, causing Sherlock to look up at him.

"Hey, no going away," John said softly. "What happened then?"

"Well, you can guess Moriarty wasn't gentle," Sherlock replied wryly. "Though, lucky for me, he decided not to use box cutters. He whipped me while humming this annoying song. It was the song that got to me most, I think. I'm going to be hearing it in my nightmares for a while. Today, I asked him for proof you were still alive. He tried to call his pet sniper but didn't get a reply. I deduced that that meant the man was no longer working for Moriarty and you were in no danger. I killed him and escaped."

John's mouth dropped open in surprise at the last few sentences, the full import of them slamming into his mind. He brought Sherlock's hand to his mouth for a gentle kiss, a smile teasing at his mouth.

"I'm glad you came back," he finally said. "And I'm glad we don't have to worry about Moriarty anymore. But you said he whipped you. Are you ok? Do I need to call a doctor in here?"

Sherlock shifted and felt the pants catch on some of the wounds and pull away stickily in other places. He could feel blood trickling down his legs and knew that he needed to get them seen to. Nodding hesitantly, Sherlock settled back in the chair while John pressed the nurse's call button.

"I need someone to see to my friend," John said decisively when a nurse came in. "And to call DI Greg Lestrade to tell him Sherlock is back. I'm sure he'll want to question him."

The nurse nodded and left to get some supplies. She came back in, a happy-looking Lestrade following her. The DI kept his questions to himself while Sherlock changed into a hospital gown, dropping Moriarty's clothes with a distinct look of distaste. The nurse efficiently cleaned and bandaged the wounds on Sherlock's legs. To Greg's eyes, it looked horribly painful and raw but John could see that it wasn't as bad as it could have been.

Finally, the nurse cleaned up her supplies and took herself out, leaving Lestrade staring at the two men. Without a thought for indecency, Sherlock climbed carefully into the bed with John, simply wanting to curl up into the other man and forget the world existed for a while.

"So, what happened?" Lestrade asked when Sherlock had settled with John's arms wrapped around him. Sherlock explained the whole thing again, giving the address to the flat to Lestrade. It didn't take as long this time, the telling easier for the detective.

Do you have anymore questions?" John asked, allowing some impatience to creep into his tone.

"No, you both get some rest," Lestrade replied, putting away the little notebook he had pulled out automatically. "If I need anything else, I know where to find you."

They both nodded their thanks, waiting until Lestrade left them to their little sanctuary before speaking. They opened their mouths at the same time, earning a chuckle from John. With a little wave, John told Sherlock to go first.

"I missed you," the detective said, the sentiment the first thing he could get out. "Like last time, you kept me sane."

"I missed you, too, Sherlock," John replied, tightening his hold on Sherlock's shoulders. "It was driving me crazy, being stuck in here while you were gone. But why did you make the deal with him?"

"Because I didn't want him hurting you anymore," Sherlock replied softly, tucking his head into John's neck and closing his eyes. "Everything he did to you was because of me. He wanted me and you were in his way. The only way to stop him was to make that deal with him."

"Well, he's gone," John said, his voice tinged with definite satisfaction. "We'll be able to go home soon. Maybe we can take up where we left off."

As Sherlock lifted his head to ask John to clarify that, John leaned down and pressed his lips to Sherlock's. The detective's mouth opened quickly, inviting John to take whatever he wanted. He did slowly, teasing his tongue in between Sherlock's lips and flicking at his tongue. They kissed slowly, letting heat and desire build between them. Finally, John pulled back and panted heavily.

"You should sleep," John told Sherlock fondly. "When we're both healthy again, we won't be getting much sleep for a while."

"Sounds like a perfect plan to me," Sherlock replied, laying his head on John's shoulder again and letting a smirk cross his face. "How long is that going to take again?"