Restoration - (3/?)
Oct. 16th, 2016 02:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
diandrahollmanTitle: Restoration
Author: Diandra Hollman
E-Mail: diandrahollman@gmail.com
Website: http://diandrahollman.neocities.org
Rating: Hard R
Keywords: Hurt/Comfort, John/Sherlock, rape recovery, emotional hurt/comfort, PTSD, hurt Sherlock
Spoilers: No
Disclaimer: Not my characters
Summary: "You get the call in the dead of night. early enough for you to not be quite deeply asleep yet, but late enough to be distressing. Because nobody calls at such an hour unless something has gone horribly wrong."
Author's Notes: This deals with the aftermath of sexual assault. The actual assault is never "shown", but will be partially described by the victim. I have never been a victim of such violence, so I won't pretend I understand what this is like, but I will endeavor to do right by all the people who have survived something like this.
All previous chapters here
He only really sleeps when he succumbs to the exhaustion and he often wakes from nightmares with your name on his lips. You take to sleeping in a chair beside him, leaning on the bed, falling asleep with his hand in yours, beneath your cheek, or tangled in your hair.
The nurses take pity on you and arrange for a larger hospital bed to be brought in. It's more comfortable than sleeping in the chair but you don't sleep any better. You are too afraid of hurting him accidentally. He sleeps better, however, when he can burrow in your chest and hear your heart beating. When he can feel the warmth of your body curled protectively around him.
You sleep when he does and sometimes you barely wake up when the nightmares come, whispering sleepy nonsense into his hair until he stops shaking and his breathing deepens.
The first time you help him bathe in an actual bath - the one back in 221b, which he insisted on using immediately upon his return from hospital - you have to fight back tears. The healing bruises on his body are a stark reminder of the violence he endured. It is horrific to contemplate how people can be capable of doing things like this to each other for no reason at all.
"Don't look at me like that," he says, shaking you from your thoughts.
"How's that?"
"Don't look at me like I'm some broken...thing that you don't know how to fix. It's hateful."
You watch as he struggles to finish washing the parts of him he can reach with his non-dominant hand. "I don't think you're broken."
"Is that not the word?" he sneers. "How about ruined?"
"You're not ruined either." You snatch the flannel from his hand so you can finish washing the parts he can't reach. He huffs in annoyance, but doesn't resist as you scrub his good arm and back. "You are hurting and you are angry and - whether you want to admit it or not - you are scared."
"Stop it," he snaps. "Stop pretending you understand. You can't possibly understand what it's like to be beaten nearly unconscious, drugged and repeatedly sodomized. You don't know what it's like to feel your arm break under the weight of one man's knee and be unable to scream because another one is shoving his filthy penis so far down your throat that you can't even breathe. You don't know what it's like to realize that this is how you are going to die and it will not be heroic or even accidental but due to a random act of violence and your body will be found discarded in a back alley like some common prostitute."
You sit back, stunned into silence as he slides under the water for a moment and pushes sodden curls back from his face with his good hand. "Pass me the shampoo," he mutters, holding out his hand.
You reach for the bottle and squirt a generous amount into his palm, quietly watching as he washes his hair one-handed. He is still a bit clumsy, but he is getting better at doing some things left handed. You almost reach to help rinse the suds out of his hair - something he had found soothing when you did it in hospital - but stop yourself, certain that he would not welcome the gesture now.
You wait until he finishes and drain the tub, helping him climb out and sit on the closed toilet. You don't speak, except for the occasional quiet direction as you help him dry off and pull on a t-shirt and joggers.
"Do you want a shave," you ask, eyeing the two-day stubble on his chin.
He shakes his head, sniffs and looks for all the world like a lost little boy. You want to hold him, but you aren't sure he will accept comfort from you just yet.
You reach for his cane. "Can you manage the walk alone while I clean up?"
He nods.
You help him to his feet and watch as he hobbles from the room, reassuring yourself that he won't fall. Then you tidy up the bath and fetch some paracetamol and a glass of water.
You find him sitting on the edge of the bed, staring numbly at the floorboards beneath his bare feet. He accepts the tablets from you with only a slight hesitation, swallowing them with half the glass of water. You gesture for him to finish it when he tries to hand it back to you. He does with little resistance. You set the empty glass on the floor and kneel before him, taking both of his hands in yours.
"I'm sorry," he finally says, watery, anguished eyes meeting yours.
"It's okay," you say soothingly. "You're right, I don't understand. But I'm here. I will listen."
His tears well up despite his obvious efforts to hold them back and his lips start to tremble with his uneven breaths.
You sit on the bed and gather him in your arms before the dam breaks. He collapses into you, his body quaking with the force of his sobs, clinging to you like you are the only thing keeping him from drowning in a sea of pain and depression.
By the time the worst of the storm passes, you are laying on the bed with him draped over you, still clinging but no longer as urgently. You rub his back and neck, comb fingers through his damp hair as he talks in a broken voice, recounting the attack not in the detached way he did for the authorities, but in raw emotions. He talks about the fear he felt when the drugs they injected took effect and rendered him too weak to continue fighting. The pain and shock when the beating turned into rape. The cold of the night air on his bare skin. The horror of understanding that he might not survive - and not knowing if he really wanted to.
You cry with him until he is too exhausted to cry anymore. Then you cry for him. You murmur helpless apologies for all that he has suffered and promises to keep him safe from now on between kisses to his forehead, cheeks and, eventually, his lips. You taste the salt of your combined tears.
"Don't leave me," he whispers.
You know he likely only means it as a plea for you to stay while he sleeps. You never discussed whether you would continue the arrangement you'd had at the hospital once you returned to 221b. But it doesn't matter. You clutch him tightly and vow "never."
TBC
Author: Diandra Hollman
E-Mail: diandrahollman@gmail.com
Website: http://diandrahollman.neocities.org
Rating: Hard R
Keywords: Hurt/Comfort, John/Sherlock, rape recovery, emotional hurt/comfort, PTSD, hurt Sherlock
Spoilers: No
Disclaimer: Not my characters
Summary: "You get the call in the dead of night. early enough for you to not be quite deeply asleep yet, but late enough to be distressing. Because nobody calls at such an hour unless something has gone horribly wrong."
Author's Notes: This deals with the aftermath of sexual assault. The actual assault is never "shown", but will be partially described by the victim. I have never been a victim of such violence, so I won't pretend I understand what this is like, but I will endeavor to do right by all the people who have survived something like this.
All previous chapters here
He only really sleeps when he succumbs to the exhaustion and he often wakes from nightmares with your name on his lips. You take to sleeping in a chair beside him, leaning on the bed, falling asleep with his hand in yours, beneath your cheek, or tangled in your hair.
The nurses take pity on you and arrange for a larger hospital bed to be brought in. It's more comfortable than sleeping in the chair but you don't sleep any better. You are too afraid of hurting him accidentally. He sleeps better, however, when he can burrow in your chest and hear your heart beating. When he can feel the warmth of your body curled protectively around him.
You sleep when he does and sometimes you barely wake up when the nightmares come, whispering sleepy nonsense into his hair until he stops shaking and his breathing deepens.
The first time you help him bathe in an actual bath - the one back in 221b, which he insisted on using immediately upon his return from hospital - you have to fight back tears. The healing bruises on his body are a stark reminder of the violence he endured. It is horrific to contemplate how people can be capable of doing things like this to each other for no reason at all.
"Don't look at me like that," he says, shaking you from your thoughts.
"How's that?"
"Don't look at me like I'm some broken...thing that you don't know how to fix. It's hateful."
You watch as he struggles to finish washing the parts of him he can reach with his non-dominant hand. "I don't think you're broken."
"Is that not the word?" he sneers. "How about ruined?"
"You're not ruined either." You snatch the flannel from his hand so you can finish washing the parts he can't reach. He huffs in annoyance, but doesn't resist as you scrub his good arm and back. "You are hurting and you are angry and - whether you want to admit it or not - you are scared."
"Stop it," he snaps. "Stop pretending you understand. You can't possibly understand what it's like to be beaten nearly unconscious, drugged and repeatedly sodomized. You don't know what it's like to feel your arm break under the weight of one man's knee and be unable to scream because another one is shoving his filthy penis so far down your throat that you can't even breathe. You don't know what it's like to realize that this is how you are going to die and it will not be heroic or even accidental but due to a random act of violence and your body will be found discarded in a back alley like some common prostitute."
You sit back, stunned into silence as he slides under the water for a moment and pushes sodden curls back from his face with his good hand. "Pass me the shampoo," he mutters, holding out his hand.
You reach for the bottle and squirt a generous amount into his palm, quietly watching as he washes his hair one-handed. He is still a bit clumsy, but he is getting better at doing some things left handed. You almost reach to help rinse the suds out of his hair - something he had found soothing when you did it in hospital - but stop yourself, certain that he would not welcome the gesture now.
You wait until he finishes and drain the tub, helping him climb out and sit on the closed toilet. You don't speak, except for the occasional quiet direction as you help him dry off and pull on a t-shirt and joggers.
"Do you want a shave," you ask, eyeing the two-day stubble on his chin.
He shakes his head, sniffs and looks for all the world like a lost little boy. You want to hold him, but you aren't sure he will accept comfort from you just yet.
You reach for his cane. "Can you manage the walk alone while I clean up?"
He nods.
You help him to his feet and watch as he hobbles from the room, reassuring yourself that he won't fall. Then you tidy up the bath and fetch some paracetamol and a glass of water.
You find him sitting on the edge of the bed, staring numbly at the floorboards beneath his bare feet. He accepts the tablets from you with only a slight hesitation, swallowing them with half the glass of water. You gesture for him to finish it when he tries to hand it back to you. He does with little resistance. You set the empty glass on the floor and kneel before him, taking both of his hands in yours.
"I'm sorry," he finally says, watery, anguished eyes meeting yours.
"It's okay," you say soothingly. "You're right, I don't understand. But I'm here. I will listen."
His tears well up despite his obvious efforts to hold them back and his lips start to tremble with his uneven breaths.
You sit on the bed and gather him in your arms before the dam breaks. He collapses into you, his body quaking with the force of his sobs, clinging to you like you are the only thing keeping him from drowning in a sea of pain and depression.
By the time the worst of the storm passes, you are laying on the bed with him draped over you, still clinging but no longer as urgently. You rub his back and neck, comb fingers through his damp hair as he talks in a broken voice, recounting the attack not in the detached way he did for the authorities, but in raw emotions. He talks about the fear he felt when the drugs they injected took effect and rendered him too weak to continue fighting. The pain and shock when the beating turned into rape. The cold of the night air on his bare skin. The horror of understanding that he might not survive - and not knowing if he really wanted to.
You cry with him until he is too exhausted to cry anymore. Then you cry for him. You murmur helpless apologies for all that he has suffered and promises to keep him safe from now on between kisses to his forehead, cheeks and, eventually, his lips. You taste the salt of your combined tears.
"Don't leave me," he whispers.
You know he likely only means it as a plea for you to stay while he sleeps. You never discussed whether you would continue the arrangement you'd had at the hospital once you returned to 221b. But it doesn't matter. You clutch him tightly and vow "never."
TBC
