Restoration - (5/7)
Dec. 2nd, 2016 03:31 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 or on AO3
You can't keep him from going back to consulting work for long, so you try to at least steer him from the more dangerous cases. This doesn't prove all that difficult as he is more hesitant and takes fewer risks than he used to. He also still doesn't stray far from the flat without you, though he would deny this if you mentioned it.
The first time you venture back into the field you carry your pistol. It is more for your peace of mind than anything and you hope you don't find reason to draw it. Everyone treats Sherlock like he's made of glass at first. Donovan even offers to fetch tea for him. By the end of your first real case, though, they have all relaxed and fallen back into something resembling their old routines.
It's the second case where your slackened vigilance catches up to you.
It is all so easy. The criminal walks straight into your trap like a mouse going after a bit of cheese. And that's when Sherlock gets over confident, drawing the confession out of the suspect with all the delighted flair of a showman, gloating as he points out all the mistakes the killer made that made his guilt so very OBVIOUS. Suddenly, there is a knife in the desperate man's fist and - heedless of the police officers surrounding him, or perhaps simply uncaring - he lunges for Sherlock.
You react quickly, disarming the suspect and pinning him to the nearest wall, unsure if the officers shouting commands are telling you or the killer to "stand down". It doesn't matter. You hold him immobile until Lestrade can take over and cuff him.
"I've got 'im," he mutters. "See to Sherlock."
You turn to Sherlock, adrenaline still buzzing through you, and find him frozen, staring numbly at his bloodied hand. Your training takes over and you paw at his clothing in search of the source of the blood while you try to get his attention.
"Sherlock? Stay with me. Where are you hurt? Sherlock! Look at me!"
His eyes focus on your face, wild and terrified, in full panic. He struggles to say your name between breaths so uneven and forceful that he is nearly choking on them. His body is beginning to shake. If he keeps this up, it won't be long before he passes out.
You abandon your search and cradle his head in your hands. "Look at me, Sherlock. Slow it down. Deep breaths. Look at me!"
His eyes can't stay focused, frantically searching for the danger that has already been neutralized. You feel it when his body starts to collapse, his knees giving out, and you catch him, slowing his fall.
You sit behind him on the pavement, pulling him up against your chest, and speak directly in his ear. "Breathe with me, love. Just close your eyes and breathe. I've got you." You take deep, forced breaths yourself until he begins to unconsciously match your rhythm. "That's it," you murmur as he sags in your arms. "That's good, Sherlock. You've got it. Nice and steady."
You finally located the source of the blood - a slash along his side that is deep but not serious, his coat having deflected most of the blow. You pull his scarf from his neck and use it to stop the bleeding, murmuring reassurances when he issues a soft, broken whimper in response.
Lestrade squats beside you, eyeing Sherlock worriedly. You're not sure Sherlock even registers his presence, so focused is he on you to the exclusion of all other input, his eyes tightly closed.
"I'll call an ambulance," Lestrade offers, reaching for his mobile.
"Noooo," Sherlock moans, his hands scrabbling at your supporting arms. "No hospital. Please..."
You understand this, even if you would prefer to let somebody else treat his wound. He doesn't want to be surrounded by people right now. He needs calm and quiet and gentle reassurances. He needs the comfort and safety of home.
"No." You make sure to keep your voice low and calm. "Just call a cab. I can take care of him back at the flat."
Lestrade looks at your hand pressing the scarf to Sherlock's side. "Sure?"
"It's nearly stopped bleeding. Just needs a few stitches. I can handle it."
He nods, trusting your judgment. "I'll drive you."
He goes to hand the suspect off to Donovan. You don't hear what they say, but you see her bend the suspects arm just a little too far, drawing a yelp from him.
"'m sorry," Sherlock mumbles.
"Shh...just keep breathing. It's fine."
"No," he moans softly and draws his knees up, hands fumbling for the edges of his coat. You mistake this as an instinctively seeking of warmth and abandon your efforts to put pressure on the cut so you can wrap the coat tighter around him and rub his arms.
It isn't until Lestrade returns to help Sherlock into the back seat of the car that you realize he was trying to hide the urine stain on the front of his trousers. He is shaking so badly he can barely stand and has to lean on you to walk, but he still looks away from you in shame when he catches you looking at this evidence of his fear. You wonder how many times your heart can break for him.
"It's fine," you assure him as you help him ease into the leather seat and climb in right after. "It's perfectly normal."
He remains silent the whole way home, staring blankly out the window, his hand clutching yours tightly.
He leaps from the car the second it rolls to a stop and runs into 221B. You follow as quickly as you can while still taking the time to thank Greg (promising to text him later) and reassure a startled Mrs. Hudson hovering at the bottom of the stairs.
You find him in the shower, hunched over, arms wrapped tightly around himself, shivering despite the heat of the water, which is turning slightly pink from the blood. You turn off the tap and wrap him in as many towels as you can get your hands on before settling him on the edge of the bath so you can stitch the wound.
"I can't stop shaking," he whispers when he finally breaks the silence.
"I know. It's okay." You keep your voice low and even, your touch careful as you finish the stitches. "I ever tell you...the first week I got back from Afghanistan...I was just walking out of Tesco when a car backfired. By the time I figured out what it was I was on the ground, reaching for my weapon, which, of course, I didn't have. I just sat staring at the box of cereal it had taken me twenty minutes to decide on spilling out onto the curb and I cried." You tie off the last stitch and cover the area with gauze, taping the edges down smoothly. "PTSD is normal. It doesn't make you weak. It makes you human."*
His hands are in your hair suddenly, pulling you into a frantic kiss. You don't fight it. After a minute he sags into your arms, his face buried in your neck, still trembling faintly.
"Let's get you to bed, yeah?" It's still early, but he could use some rest before considering dinner. You'll probably get takeout again if you get hungry. It wouldn't be the first time you've eaten in bed. You could use the rest yourself as you're pretty sure your own panic at the sight of him bleeding and terrified will kick in soon.
He nods, not lifting his head as he adds tentatively, hopefully, "your room?"
You both discovered that he sleeps better when he is in your bedroom upstairs. You don't know if that's because it's further from the front door of the flat or because he feels more secure crowded onto your smaller bed with you wrapped protectively around him. It doesn't matter. You will continue to do whatever it takes to make him feel safe.
You kiss his cheek softly. "Okay, love."
Pressed into the curve of your body beneath the thickest blankets you can find, with your breath warming the back of his neck, he finally stops shivering.
*I realized when I wrote this that it was a direct response to something He Who Shall Not Be Named said recently. I refuse to change it. Like many other things, he is wrong about this.
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 or on AO3
You can't keep him from going back to consulting work for long, so you try to at least steer him from the more dangerous cases. This doesn't prove all that difficult as he is more hesitant and takes fewer risks than he used to. He also still doesn't stray far from the flat without you, though he would deny this if you mentioned it.
The first time you venture back into the field you carry your pistol. It is more for your peace of mind than anything and you hope you don't find reason to draw it. Everyone treats Sherlock like he's made of glass at first. Donovan even offers to fetch tea for him. By the end of your first real case, though, they have all relaxed and fallen back into something resembling their old routines.
It's the second case where your slackened vigilance catches up to you.
It is all so easy. The criminal walks straight into your trap like a mouse going after a bit of cheese. And that's when Sherlock gets over confident, drawing the confession out of the suspect with all the delighted flair of a showman, gloating as he points out all the mistakes the killer made that made his guilt so very OBVIOUS. Suddenly, there is a knife in the desperate man's fist and - heedless of the police officers surrounding him, or perhaps simply uncaring - he lunges for Sherlock.
You react quickly, disarming the suspect and pinning him to the nearest wall, unsure if the officers shouting commands are telling you or the killer to "stand down". It doesn't matter. You hold him immobile until Lestrade can take over and cuff him.
"I've got 'im," he mutters. "See to Sherlock."
You turn to Sherlock, adrenaline still buzzing through you, and find him frozen, staring numbly at his bloodied hand. Your training takes over and you paw at his clothing in search of the source of the blood while you try to get his attention.
"Sherlock? Stay with me. Where are you hurt? Sherlock! Look at me!"
His eyes focus on your face, wild and terrified, in full panic. He struggles to say your name between breaths so uneven and forceful that he is nearly choking on them. His body is beginning to shake. If he keeps this up, it won't be long before he passes out.
You abandon your search and cradle his head in your hands. "Look at me, Sherlock. Slow it down. Deep breaths. Look at me!"
His eyes can't stay focused, frantically searching for the danger that has already been neutralized. You feel it when his body starts to collapse, his knees giving out, and you catch him, slowing his fall.
You sit behind him on the pavement, pulling him up against your chest, and speak directly in his ear. "Breathe with me, love. Just close your eyes and breathe. I've got you." You take deep, forced breaths yourself until he begins to unconsciously match your rhythm. "That's it," you murmur as he sags in your arms. "That's good, Sherlock. You've got it. Nice and steady."
You finally located the source of the blood - a slash along his side that is deep but not serious, his coat having deflected most of the blow. You pull his scarf from his neck and use it to stop the bleeding, murmuring reassurances when he issues a soft, broken whimper in response.
Lestrade squats beside you, eyeing Sherlock worriedly. You're not sure Sherlock even registers his presence, so focused is he on you to the exclusion of all other input, his eyes tightly closed.
"I'll call an ambulance," Lestrade offers, reaching for his mobile.
"Noooo," Sherlock moans, his hands scrabbling at your supporting arms. "No hospital. Please..."
You understand this, even if you would prefer to let somebody else treat his wound. He doesn't want to be surrounded by people right now. He needs calm and quiet and gentle reassurances. He needs the comfort and safety of home.
"No." You make sure to keep your voice low and calm. "Just call a cab. I can take care of him back at the flat."
Lestrade looks at your hand pressing the scarf to Sherlock's side. "Sure?"
"It's nearly stopped bleeding. Just needs a few stitches. I can handle it."
He nods, trusting your judgment. "I'll drive you."
He goes to hand the suspect off to Donovan. You don't hear what they say, but you see her bend the suspects arm just a little too far, drawing a yelp from him.
"'m sorry," Sherlock mumbles.
"Shh...just keep breathing. It's fine."
"No," he moans softly and draws his knees up, hands fumbling for the edges of his coat. You mistake this as an instinctively seeking of warmth and abandon your efforts to put pressure on the cut so you can wrap the coat tighter around him and rub his arms.
It isn't until Lestrade returns to help Sherlock into the back seat of the car that you realize he was trying to hide the urine stain on the front of his trousers. He is shaking so badly he can barely stand and has to lean on you to walk, but he still looks away from you in shame when he catches you looking at this evidence of his fear. You wonder how many times your heart can break for him.
"It's fine," you assure him as you help him ease into the leather seat and climb in right after. "It's perfectly normal."
He remains silent the whole way home, staring blankly out the window, his hand clutching yours tightly.
He leaps from the car the second it rolls to a stop and runs into 221B. You follow as quickly as you can while still taking the time to thank Greg (promising to text him later) and reassure a startled Mrs. Hudson hovering at the bottom of the stairs.
You find him in the shower, hunched over, arms wrapped tightly around himself, shivering despite the heat of the water, which is turning slightly pink from the blood. You turn off the tap and wrap him in as many towels as you can get your hands on before settling him on the edge of the bath so you can stitch the wound.
"I can't stop shaking," he whispers when he finally breaks the silence.
"I know. It's okay." You keep your voice low and even, your touch careful as you finish the stitches. "I ever tell you...the first week I got back from Afghanistan...I was just walking out of Tesco when a car backfired. By the time I figured out what it was I was on the ground, reaching for my weapon, which, of course, I didn't have. I just sat staring at the box of cereal it had taken me twenty minutes to decide on spilling out onto the curb and I cried." You tie off the last stitch and cover the area with gauze, taping the edges down smoothly. "PTSD is normal. It doesn't make you weak. It makes you human."*
His hands are in your hair suddenly, pulling you into a frantic kiss. You don't fight it. After a minute he sags into your arms, his face buried in your neck, still trembling faintly.
"Let's get you to bed, yeah?" It's still early, but he could use some rest before considering dinner. You'll probably get takeout again if you get hungry. It wouldn't be the first time you've eaten in bed. You could use the rest yourself as you're pretty sure your own panic at the sight of him bleeding and terrified will kick in soon.
He nods, not lifting his head as he adds tentatively, hopefully, "your room?"
You both discovered that he sleeps better when he is in your bedroom upstairs. You don't know if that's because it's further from the front door of the flat or because he feels more secure crowded onto your smaller bed with you wrapped protectively around him. It doesn't matter. You will continue to do whatever it takes to make him feel safe.
You kiss his cheek softly. "Okay, love."
Pressed into the curve of your body beneath the thickest blankets you can find, with your breath warming the back of his neck, he finally stops shivering.
*I realized when I wrote this that it was a direct response to something He Who Shall Not Be Named said recently. I refuse to change it. Like many other things, he is wrong about this.
