Restoration - (4/7)
Nov. 12th, 2016 02:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
diandrahollmanI'm still reeling over the way the world has been turned upside down this week. I'm not sure when I'll be able to focus enough again to write anything, but I'm hoping offering up something I had already written might prove therapeutic. I know I can somewhat relate to the way Sherlock feels in this chapter, even if the reason for my grief isn't quite so direct.
Title: 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
You cannot stay on leave indefinitely. One of you has to work. So you go back to the clinic and try not to worry about him. He is stronger, physically, but he still has nightmares. You doubt he will ever stop having them. It helps that he sends you the sort of texts he always has, aside from the one rant about not being able to play his violin as well as he used to (this will improve with time as his arm strengthens, you know. He just has to be patient). Mostly, it's grumbling complaints about Mrs. Hudson's "endless prattling" (you make a mental note to thank her for checking on him) and requests for you to bring home various odd supplies for whatever experiment he's conducting followed by "and we're out of milk".
His return to a mostly normal routine explains why you don't worry when he goes quiet one day, even if the last message he sent informed you that you were out of bleach and the kitchen towels were now hopelessly bloodstained. Which is why you are surprised to find him curled on the couch in the sitting room when you return to the flat.
"Everything all right," you ask as you hang your coat. When he doesn't respond, you know the answer is no.
You drop your bag on the chair hastily and kneel beside his head, feeling his brow and checking his pulse and pupils. "Speak to me, Sherlock," you plead. He seems fine, physically, but his eyes are bloodshot as if he's been crying. "What happened? Are you hurt?"
He doesn't reply, simply stares through you.
You follow his gaze and spot his mobile on the coffee table. You pick it up and turn on the screen to find his inbox already open to a text from Mycroft.
'Brian Hillcox is dead,' it says simply.
The tension bleeds from your body as you understand the significance. With his help, Mycroft had finally tracked down all of the men who had attacked Sherlock. Three have already been remanded into custody. Brian was the final suspect, and, you recall from Sherlock's testimony, the most vile. He was the one who had dislocated Sherlock's jaw and nearly choked him, both with his hands and his dick. He had only drawn a line at any further violation because he was as hypocritical as he was disgusting, a fact he made clear when he called Sherlock every homophobic slur he knew while holding him down so his buddies could have a go.
You turn the mobile off and set it down before reaching for him again, covering his clenched hand with yours and rubbing his knuckles gently with your thumb. "Sherlock? Can you hear me?"
His eyes slowly focus on your face and you reward him with a smile.
"I'm going to make you some tea."
He doesn't reply. He just blinks sluggishly and lets his gaze slide away again. You squeeze his hand and lean in to kiss his cheek, tasting long-dried tears.
You call the clinic while you wait for the kettle to boil to tell them you will need to take one more day off work. You don't want to leave him alone right now.
You set your mobile beside his on the table when you return before coaxing him to sit up. He drags himself upright as if fighting the overwhelming pull of gravity. You wrap his hands around the cup and take a moment to kick your shoes off before sitting beside him, sideways on the couch, rubbing circles on his back while he sips numbly at the tea.
"Do you want to talk about it," you ask gently.
He sniffs.
You lapse back into silence. He doesn't need to explain what he is feeling now. You can guess. He may not have been innocent by any measure before the attack. You doubt he was a virgin as some claimed. But those men still took something from him. He isn't the same man he used to be. He can barely leave the flat anymore. He is terrified of being alone - this you recognize even though he would never admit it. He doesn't trust anyone but you. Not even himself. He clings to you even though you can tell he hates how pathetic it makes him feel.
What he's experiencing now looks familiar to you even if you doubt he fully understands it. He is too rational and grief is too irrational. He is grieving; not for the men who did this to him, but for what they took from him. It doesn't matter that all the men who attacked him have been dealt with - faced some sort of justice. It doesn't change what happened to him. It doesn't undo the damage they did.
Sherlock sets his mostly empty cup on the coffee table and curls into your welcoming arms, his face buried in your neck.
Eventually, you wind up laying with your head on one of the pillows you keep on the sofa, Sherlock trapped between you and the back cushions, your legs entwined, arms wrapped around each other, pressed intimately together in the narrow space. It's not comfortable. You're pretty sure his tight grip is the only thing preventing you from falling to the floor. But you don't care.
"You're safe now," you whisper, kissing his forehead tenderly, feeling him tremble beneath your hands as you continue your efforts to soothe him. "I'm here."
Note: The end of this chapter is partly inspired by these two beautiful fan images (though I reversed the arrangement):
http://constancecream.tumblr.com/post/111827040728/milfiepumpkin-i-told-you-theres-enough-space
http://ofcowardiceandkings.tumblr.com/post/114065348893/aaaayyyyyy-guess-whos-scanner-is-working-again-b
Title: 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
You cannot stay on leave indefinitely. One of you has to work. So you go back to the clinic and try not to worry about him. He is stronger, physically, but he still has nightmares. You doubt he will ever stop having them. It helps that he sends you the sort of texts he always has, aside from the one rant about not being able to play his violin as well as he used to (this will improve with time as his arm strengthens, you know. He just has to be patient). Mostly, it's grumbling complaints about Mrs. Hudson's "endless prattling" (you make a mental note to thank her for checking on him) and requests for you to bring home various odd supplies for whatever experiment he's conducting followed by "and we're out of milk".
His return to a mostly normal routine explains why you don't worry when he goes quiet one day, even if the last message he sent informed you that you were out of bleach and the kitchen towels were now hopelessly bloodstained. Which is why you are surprised to find him curled on the couch in the sitting room when you return to the flat.
"Everything all right," you ask as you hang your coat. When he doesn't respond, you know the answer is no.
You drop your bag on the chair hastily and kneel beside his head, feeling his brow and checking his pulse and pupils. "Speak to me, Sherlock," you plead. He seems fine, physically, but his eyes are bloodshot as if he's been crying. "What happened? Are you hurt?"
He doesn't reply, simply stares through you.
You follow his gaze and spot his mobile on the coffee table. You pick it up and turn on the screen to find his inbox already open to a text from Mycroft.
'Brian Hillcox is dead,' it says simply.
The tension bleeds from your body as you understand the significance. With his help, Mycroft had finally tracked down all of the men who had attacked Sherlock. Three have already been remanded into custody. Brian was the final suspect, and, you recall from Sherlock's testimony, the most vile. He was the one who had dislocated Sherlock's jaw and nearly choked him, both with his hands and his dick. He had only drawn a line at any further violation because he was as hypocritical as he was disgusting, a fact he made clear when he called Sherlock every homophobic slur he knew while holding him down so his buddies could have a go.
You turn the mobile off and set it down before reaching for him again, covering his clenched hand with yours and rubbing his knuckles gently with your thumb. "Sherlock? Can you hear me?"
His eyes slowly focus on your face and you reward him with a smile.
"I'm going to make you some tea."
He doesn't reply. He just blinks sluggishly and lets his gaze slide away again. You squeeze his hand and lean in to kiss his cheek, tasting long-dried tears.
You call the clinic while you wait for the kettle to boil to tell them you will need to take one more day off work. You don't want to leave him alone right now.
You set your mobile beside his on the table when you return before coaxing him to sit up. He drags himself upright as if fighting the overwhelming pull of gravity. You wrap his hands around the cup and take a moment to kick your shoes off before sitting beside him, sideways on the couch, rubbing circles on his back while he sips numbly at the tea.
"Do you want to talk about it," you ask gently.
He sniffs.
You lapse back into silence. He doesn't need to explain what he is feeling now. You can guess. He may not have been innocent by any measure before the attack. You doubt he was a virgin as some claimed. But those men still took something from him. He isn't the same man he used to be. He can barely leave the flat anymore. He is terrified of being alone - this you recognize even though he would never admit it. He doesn't trust anyone but you. Not even himself. He clings to you even though you can tell he hates how pathetic it makes him feel.
What he's experiencing now looks familiar to you even if you doubt he fully understands it. He is too rational and grief is too irrational. He is grieving; not for the men who did this to him, but for what they took from him. It doesn't matter that all the men who attacked him have been dealt with - faced some sort of justice. It doesn't change what happened to him. It doesn't undo the damage they did.
Sherlock sets his mostly empty cup on the coffee table and curls into your welcoming arms, his face buried in your neck.
Eventually, you wind up laying with your head on one of the pillows you keep on the sofa, Sherlock trapped between you and the back cushions, your legs entwined, arms wrapped around each other, pressed intimately together in the narrow space. It's not comfortable. You're pretty sure his tight grip is the only thing preventing you from falling to the floor. But you don't care.
"You're safe now," you whisper, kissing his forehead tenderly, feeling him tremble beneath your hands as you continue your efforts to soothe him. "I'm here."
Note: The end of this chapter is partly inspired by these two beautiful fan images (though I reversed the arrangement):
http://constancecream.tumblr.com/post/111827040728/milfiepumpkin-i-told-you-theres-enough-space
http://ofcowardiceandkings.tumblr.com/post/114065348893/aaaayyyyyy-guess-whos-scanner-is-working-again-b
