DISCLAIMER: I do not own

A/N: This is an omegle RP.

Me: Sherlock

Omegle stranger: John

Warnings: Mentions of torture, rape, and pretty graphic wounds on our dear detective. Oh and swearing.

He's not dead. - (Unknown number)

I'll be polite once, but if you text me again, I won't. I've gotten enough of these texts over the years to have very little patience left. It's not funny, or clever. Please don't contact me again. JW

Sherlock Holmes is not dead. It is the truth. And this situation is in no way funny, I agree. -(Unknown number)

Right. Proof, or fuck off. JW

How shall I prove it, John? - (Unknown number)

Don't use my name. Photos of Sherlock with something indicating the date will suffice. JW

Sherlock sighed heavily and thumbled with his phone to take a picture, being careful to keep his injuries out of the picture, before pressing the send button.

Proof enough? - (Unknown number)

[no reply]

John? Please don't ignore me. I hate it when I'm ignored. - (Unknown number)

Yeah? I hate it when my best friend kills himself in front of me and I can't fucking stop him. JW

He did not die, John. It was an act. A sacrifice on his part if you like. - (Unknown number)

Good for him. JW

Moriarty had three bullets prepared. One for you, and another two for Mrs Hudson and D.I Lestrade. If Sherlock Holmes didn't jump then all three of you would be dead. - (Unknown number)

Stop with the fucking third person already. First person. JW

I really don't know what you're talking about. - (Unknown number)

I seriously doubt Sherlock would allow 'you' to text me if he's near enough to you to be photographed. Therefore, you must be Sherlock. Stop talking like you aren't. JW

Your deduction skills have gotten quicker, I see. -(Unknown number)

I had bullets too, you know. JW

Excuse me? -(Unknown number)

I had bullets too. Until Mycroft took my gun. What you did, it was good for Greg and Mrs Hudson. They're important to me, too, and I wouldn't want anything to happen to them. But as for me, you shouldn't have bothered. JW

John Watson I thought you knew better than to do something so ... rash. And all over my life? My life is not of importance. - (Unknown number)

Fuck you. JW

Listen, John. I meant to come back to you. To let you in the know. But things got ... complicated. I don't suppose Mycroft's told you about Sebastian Moran? - (Unknown number)

No. JW

Sebastian Moran was James Moriarty's right hand man. In the knowledge that his boss killed himself he came for me. I was on the run for a while. I couldn't come back because I did not want his attention to turn on you. But I slipped up, made a mistake. All of which led to by capture. - (Unknown number)

Are you okay? JW

I've been better. - (Unknown number)

Specifics. JW

I was interrogated for a while. Sebastian Moran used a numerous amount of techniques to try and get me to talk. I would really rather not delve deeper than that. - (Unknown number)

Honestly, I don't really care what you'd rather do. I took your pulse, Sherlock. You were dead. So yeah, I have an interest in how you're doing right now. You don't have to tell me what they did, but you do have to tell me how you are physically right now. JW

In all honesty I am not good. Not good at all. I am sporting a various amount of injuries along with scars. Some of which I am fairly sure are either infected or are on their way there. I am now currently in hiding. I cannot tell you my location. - (Unknown number)

Why not? JW

Moran is looking for me. I do not wish him to come after you. Despite the complete dick you probably think I am I do still care for you. Yes, John. I shall not repeat myself. You read that correctly. - (Unknown number)

God, you arse, I never thought you didn't. JW

Tell me where you are. JW

[No reply]

Tell me where the fuck you are, Sherlock. JW

{Delayed reply.] I am currently in a ware house near central London.

Which one. Now. I can forgive a lot of things, Sherlock, but if you don't tell me where you are I'm not sure I'll be able to forgive that. JW

I don't know which one, John. There are a lot of warehouses. I entered this one on a whim and I have not come out for two days. Or at least I think it's been two days. Could be longer. I haven't had any time to explore my surroundings. - (Unknown number)

You're a genius. Figure out which one. I'm on my way to the area, and you better text me with some sort of identifying characteristic. Have Mycroft trace your phone. JW

No. Not Mycroft. He isn't to know that I'm alive. The idiot was the one who put me in this position in the first place. And as much as a genius I am there's only so much I can tell from boxes and crates. I can't go outside currently. I have a sprained ankle. I hope it is sprained and not broken. That would be a hinder indeed. - (Unknown number)

Any of the boxes or crates have words on them? JW

{Delayed response} Yes. Delta heavy. Sorry for the delayed response. It's rather dark in here. Hard to see my own hands let alone what's written on a crate. - (Unknown number)

Fine. Fine, give me a few minutes, yeah? JW

John, you can't come. Please don't come. Not only will you be in danger but I don't want you seeing me like this. - (Unknown number)

[Delayed response] Fuck that. I think I figured out where you are. JW

John struggled with how to get into the warehouse, but eventually found a broken window that he enlarged by wrapping his elbow in his jacket and hitting it. He tossed his medical bag in and climbed in after it. "Where are you?" he said, his voice echoing into the darkness.

Sherlock lay behind a pile of heavily stacked boxes. He was bloody; his clothes were caked in months of dirt, sweat and other vile bodily fluids. He had lacerations cutting deep into his pale flesh, both new and old scarring. His ankle was red and swollen. His curls were overgrown and matted and his body was thinner that it had ever been. He was almost a skeleton like figure. He snapped alert when he heard his friend's voice. God it felt good to hear that voice. And yet it terrified him at the same time. "John," He rasped, his voice small and broken.

John immediately ran over to the sound, kneeling beside Sherlock. "Fuck," he muttered, his eyes raking over Sherlock's body. "Okay. Okay, right." He scrubbed his hands over his face, focused only on patching Sherlock up, and opened his kit. Carefully, he fit his hand on Sherlock's forehead, feeling a bit the tell-tale signs of a fever. "We really need to get you somewhere else, Sherlock."

Sherlock flinched away from John's hand and whimpered. The touch had been gentle and the words kind. But for the past three years Sherlock had not experienced anything gentle or kind. He had been beaten, tortured, mocked, enslaved, violated and trapped

John frowned at Sherlock's reaction. "Okay, here for now," he said, gently. He picked up Sherlock's hand and pinched the skin on the back of it, checking for dehydration and scowling at the results. "Right. First, I'm going to give you an injection of broad spectrum antibiotics." He rolled up Sherlock's dirty sleeve and swabbed his arm with alcohol.

Sherlock shivered but did not move. He kept on telling himself that this was John. John was his friend. John wasn't going to hurt him like the other bad men had. He let his eyes fall close as he tried to hold years of pain back. Tears threatened to make an appearance but he managed to stop them in their tracks, for now.

John prepared the injection and administered it as quickly as he could. "That should help with your fever, and the infections," he said, his voice warm. "I need to take a look at you, properly," he said, putting his hand back on Sherlock's forehead and petting the space between his eyebrows with his thumb. "Can I take your shirt off? I know you're cold. You can have my jumper once I take a look at you."

Sherlock opened his eyes and gazed at John wearily. The last man that had tried to take his shirt off had ... Never mind. Don't think of that now. Even with the knowledge that John wouldn't use him in the same way as others had there were still the scars that lay beneath his tatty shirt. They were somewhat worse than the ones that were currently visible. They were deep and raw and gruesome, and Sherlock hated the fact John was going to see him as weak and breakable.

John returned Sherlock's gaze steadily, and when no reply came, began to unbutton Sherlock's shirt. Underneath, Sherlock was painfully thin, and there were scars littering his skin. Nasty, ugly, and brutal scars. John sucked in his breath through his teeth. "Some of these look bad, Sherlock," he said, pulling out antibiotic cream and alcohol. "I need to clean them. This will hurt, and I'm sorry," He said.

"I'm - " Sherlock began, his voice only a faint ghost of the man he used to be. "the one who should be sorry." He finally finished. His body tensed as he waited for John to clean his scars and for the pain that would likely come with it.

John shook his head. He carefully but quickly began cleaning Sherlock's injuries, salving them and covering each with gauze as he finished. When all the injuries he could see were patched, he pulled off his own shirt and jumper, leaving him in a tee. "Let's get you dressed, yeah? Warm you up a bit?"

Sherlock smiled weakly and nodded, his face contorting a little in pain as his scars stung painfully. "Almost forgotten what it feels like to be warm." He mumbled weakly.

John fumbled a bit, but eventually got Sherlock into his shirt and jumper. "Okay," He said, settling Sherlock back down and running a hand over his dirty hair. "Ankle next," He said, shifting down to Sherlock's feet. "I need to take off your shoe, okay?"

Sherlock bit his lip and grimaced. "Ok." He replied gently. In that moment he was as vulnerable as a new born babe. He was still eyeing John with caution. He was almost prepared for all of this to be a trap. For this to be a trick his feverish mind was playing on him. He couldn't quite believe that John was here.

John unlaced his shoe and worked it off, carefully, before pulling off the sock. Sherlock's ankle was swollen and purple, but it wasn't obviously broken that he could see. "Wiggle your toes, please," he said his hand warm and reassuring on Sherlock's calf.

Sherlock's brow pinched together in concentration as he willed his toes to wiggle. After a long while he managed to will them into moving. He moved a hand to where John's hand lay and delicately removed it, more painful memories coming to light.

John frowned but focused on Sherlock's ankle. "Have to feel it a bit," he said, before feeling along the bones of his ankle. "It might still be fractured, but the bones are still in place," he said, pulling out a temporary brace and wrapping Sherlock's foot in it. When he was done, he shifted back a bit and looked at Sherlock. "What else?" he asked.

Sherlock hummed and ran his fingertips down both his thighs. There under his trousers lay two initials on each thigh, carved in big bubble righting. J.M. and S.M.

"Your legs?" John asked, moving to sit by Sherlock's side again. "We'll need to either get your trousers off you or cut them off. Which will be easier?"

Sherlock shrugged and swallowed. "John - I - " He shifted nervously where he lay. "I'm not exactly wearing anything under these." He blushed a deep red as shame washed over him. "They took my boxers from me. It made it easier for them to get what they wanted."

John struggled to keep his face neutral and voice warm, but mostly succeeded. "Not a problem," he said. "Now. You want to take them off, or shall I?"

" It may be easier if you were the one to do it." Sherlock whispered, face falling almost brokenly.

John nodded tightly and swiftly undid Sherlock's trousers, pulling them down to his ankles. Without commenting, he cleaned and dressed Sherlock's injuries and then draped his jacket over him. "Okay. Honestly, I'm a bit concerned about putting your trousers back on; they're not exactly clean and you have a lot of cuts. Okay if I give you mine instead?"

"What will you wear?" Sherlock asked worriedly, still blushing a deep red from his mortification.

"Boxers for now," John answered, already unbuckling his belt. "It's not important. You're dehydrated, feverish, you need to stay warm." He pulled off his trousers and his socks and started dressing Sherlock. "I need to get you somewhere clean, Sherlock. 221B?"

"You - you want me home?" Sherlock stammered nervously. "I'm not sure that that is a good idea. Besides I'm sure you've gotten yourself a new flatmate. Maybe a woman?"

John shook his head. "No. No one else. Of course I want you home." He took in his dim surroundings and debated the best way to get them out of there. "I don't suppose you can walk, can you?" he asked, his hand on Sherlock's head again.

"Tried that. It doesn't end well." Sherlock sighed tiredly. "I guess I'll have to lean on you."

John nodded and carefully lifted Sherlock's body up, supporting the detective's weight on himself. "It'll be ok, Sherlock. Shh." He hushed as a sharp sound emitted from the man's lips. "We'll get you home and everything will be ok."

Sherlock hummed, concentrating on not collapsing into a pained heap on the floor. "Maybe."

"No, not maybe." John corrected. "Things will be alright. No matter what happens next we have each other, and I never plan on letting you go again."

Sherlock pressed himself into John's side, for the first time in years feeling the company of a human being that wasn't going to try and beat him to death or violate him. He felt safe. He felt at home. "I never plan on leaving again." He whispered.

He could have been mistaken but Sherlock was certain he felt John's lips press against his forehead for a brief moment. He smiled and sighed softly.

"I love you too, John."

He thought to himself.

"I love you too."

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