TW: This chapter includes mentions of sexual assault and abuse. Please skip if these topics make you uncomfortable.
Sherlock, John, and I sit in the living room, discussing their case. Sherlock wanted to go back out in fear that the man would attack another woman. John and I had both agreed. It's only been an hour since his last attack, so it won't be long before he attacks again.
"I match his type, I think we should use me as bait."
John looks at me in shock, "Absolutely not."
"I can defend myself, and you two can follow me from afar. The only way we're gonna catch him is if we play his game."
"No."
I look at Sherlock, "This is our only chance."
"I won't let you do something so dangerous," he snaps.
"Sherlock-"
He interrupts me, "You've already been fucking kidnapped because of me, there is absolutely no way in Hell that I'm letting you do this!"
"You're a man, Sherlock. You don't know what it feels like to be in fear every second of every day. You don't know the panic a woman feels every time she walks by a man," I reply.
I tighten my belt, and make sure my daggers are in place. "I'm willing to risk my safety to make sure that this man gets locked away."
"We can't stop you, can we?" John asks.
"No."
He nods and slides his coat on, "Then I'll follow you. Are you coming with Sherlock?"
Sherlock sighs but nods. And the three of us make our way outside, making sure to keep a distance between us.
~~°°••°°~~
I walk down the street, my arms wrapped around my torso, every now and then I flinch. Monsters prey on the ones they think are weak. It's been around thirty minutes since we left the apartment, I haven't seen Sherlock or John. A small part of me worries that they left, but I know they would never do that.
"Would you like a drink?" A man slurs.
I jump away from his stumbling body and bump into someone else. The man I bumped into grabs my arms, "Whoa, don't need you knocking me down."
His voice is smooth, and his accent is unfamiliar. Is he from Australia? I look up to see that he's tall, and has blond hair. My stomach drops. His lips pull upwards into a cocky smile, "You look like you've seen a ghost."
His hand covers my mouth as he drags me away, I try to kick, but my feet keep sliding out from underneath me. He forces me to the ground and straddles me. That cocky smile never leaving his face.
He holds my wrists down above me, "You're the one I've been looking for."
I jerk my knees up into his back, but he doesn't budge.
"Be quiet, or I'll slit your throat," he says, slowly removing his hand from my mouth.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a knife. The blade shines under the moonlight, causing my blood to run cold. I try to break free, but he holds the blade to my neck, "Stop moving."
He runs the blade down my chest, cutting along the front of my shirt. I hold my breath in fear that the blade would cut my skin. He moves the knife to my stomach, and I can feel him cutting my skin. Like he's carving into me. This is it. This is how I die. I just hope someone catches him before he leaves the alley. His hands move up and down my chest
"Stop crying. I hate it when you all cry."
I stare up at him, the tears still falling from my eyes. If tears make him feel guilty, then I'll cry until my eyes dry. I'll do anything to make him feel any amount of guilt.
"(Y/n)?!"
My tears stop at the familiar voice. I take a deep breath and yell as loud as I can, "Sherlock!"
The man above me looks to the entrance of the alley, terror in his eyes. He's pulled off of me and thrown to the wall. John runs over to me, "Are you okay?"
I don't answer, I'm too focused on the fight in front of us. Sherlock is punching the man, and a loud crunch echoes as he punches him in the nose. The man swings at him, his fist makes contact with Sherlock. And I realize that it was the hand holding the knife.
I jump to my feet as Sherlock stumbles back. I stalk towards the man, pulling the dagger from my boot. He continues to swing the knife at Sherlock, but I run up behind him and stab him in the shoulder. His knife falls to the ground as he reaches back to hold his shoulder.
I run to Sherlock, "He stabbed you! We need to get you to a hospital."
Sherlock grabs my face with his hands, "I'm fine. You're the one I'm worried about."
His gaze moves down to my chest, his eyes full of rage. I cover myself, "I told you it was tied too tight."
"He cut you."
I look down at my stomach. There are bloody lines carved into me. Deep enough to scar, but not deep enough to kill me. Sherlock wraps his coat around me, buttoning it up all the way. I pull the sleeves up as much as I can, so that I can use my hands.
"I'm never letting you out of my sight."
He wipes the tears from my face, "And you will never do something like this ever again."
"Okay," I mutter.
He pulls me into a hug, "I shouldn't even let you out of the flat."
"Well done!" Lestrade clears his throat, "Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt your moment."
I pull away from Sherlock and look at Lestrade, "Will he be locked up now?"
"Yes, he will never see the outside world again."
Sherlock watches as they load the man up in a carriage, "I should've killed the son of a bitch."
"Death would be the easy way out. I think you and Ms. (L/n) did enough damage to make him suffer for a while," says Lestrade.
John joins us now, "I think the two of you should see the medics."
They seat Sherlock away from me, I watch them nervously as they lift his shirt up. I can't see much from here, but I don't think the stab wound is very deep. A male medic grabs at my jacket, "I need to see your wounds."
I pull away from him in fear, shoving his hands away from me. "Don't fucking touch me."
He reaches for me again, "I just need to remove your jacket."
I shove him away from me and walk over to Sherlock, ignoring the man's yelling. I can feel myself shutting down. Everything around me sounds louder, and the lights are brighter. My breaths come out choppy as the beginning stages of a panic attack take over.
Sherlock buttons his shirt back up and wraps an arm around me, "Just breathe."
John makes his way over to us. "I'll finish up here, you two get home."
I nod in response, allowing Sherlock to pull me with him. My eyes stay on the ground the whole walk home. My heart rate has settled down since we left, but I still feel absolutely terrified.
When we're inside the apartment I kick my shoes off, "Can I take a bath?"
"I'll get the tub ready for you."
I sit on the couch and begin to unbutton the coat. After a few minutes Sherlock returns, "The water is ready. You can go ahead and get in the tub while I find you some clothes to sleep in."
My feet carry me to the bathroom, I shut the door behind me and immediately take my clothes off. I sink into the tub, hissing as the hot water hits the cuts on my stomach. Once I'm fully in the tub I lean my head back and stare at the ceiling above.
My whole body shakes, as the trauma of what happened finally settles in. But I don't regret it. I'm the lucky one that got away with just a few scrapes, and I helped put that man away forever. I'm willing to live with the scars, both mental and physical.
A knock on the door startles me, followed by Sherlock's comforting voice. "I've found you some sleeping clothes. Can I bring them in?"
"Yes," I answer.
I pull my knees to my chest and the door opens. Sherlock walks in, shielding his eyes. He reaches out to set the clothes on the sink. "Is there anything else you need?"
I bite my lip as I think. Would he think I was weird if I asked him to stay?
"Can you stay with me? You can face the door, I just don't want to be alone."
He shuts the door softly and sits in front of it, his back facing me. I sink down further into the water and sigh. "I feel dirty. Like, no amount of soap could wash his touch off of me."
"I should've been there sooner-"
"Don't you dare blame yourself, Sherlock Holmes. This was my decision, I knew what I was getting myself into."
"But it's not your fault either," he says.
It's silent for a couple of minutes. I dip my head back to get my hair wet and sit back up. I pull my knees to my chest and look at him. He's still facing the door, like the gentleman he is. I continue washing my hair and body, occasionally glancing over at Sherlock. He doesn't look back at me, not even a small glance.
"Shit," I mumble, reaching for my back.
An intense pain goes down my spine, causing me to grit my teeth.
"Are you okay?"
"My back's starting to hurt, I think I've been in here for too long," I reply.
Sherlock stands up, "I'll wait for you in the living room."
When he shuts the door I step out of the tub and dry myself off. I slip my undergarments on and examine the outfit he gave me. It's a men's pajama set, much bigger than the size I wear. I smile to myself and turn my back to the mirror. Large bruises cover most of my back.
"Fuck."
I pull the shirt on and fold my old clothes up, setting them back on the sink. When I step out of the bathroom, Sherlock immediately rushes to me.
"I need to treat the cuts on your stomach."
I look down to see that his stab wound is bleeding through his shirt again, "Did you even let them wrap you up?"
He leads me over to the dining table and taps the top of it. "Sit."
I sit on the table and he sets a first aid kit down next to me. He reaches for the bottom of my shirt but stops himself, "Do you feel comfortable with me bandaging your stomach?"
"I appreciate you asking me for my consent. But do you not remember having your hands up my shirt just the other day?"
He sighs and I let out a laugh, pulling the shirt up. He rubs ointment on the cuts, and it burns like a bitch. But I suffer through it because I can't help but love how close he is to me. He puts a bandage on my stomach, and I drop my shirt.
"Would you feel comfortable with me wrapping your stab wound?" I ask.
He unbuttons his shirt, taking it off completely. I blush as I begin to wrap the gauze around him. He seems to notice my nervousness and teases me. "Enjoying the view?"
"More than anything," I reply.
I step away from him to see that he's staring at me. His gaze is intense, he looks like he's spaced out. I let out a yawn, my back muscles stretch, and I wince. He gives me a look of concern, "What's wrong?"
"My back is bruised, I'm assuming from when he knocked me down. But it's alright, just a little sore."
He frowns, "Let me see it."
I turn around and pull the back of my shirt up. He sighs as his fingertips graze over the bruises gently. "I'll go get some pain medicine in the morning."
I pull the shirt back down, "There's no need for that."
I yawn again, and he smiles. "I think you should get some sleep."
I follow him to his bedroom, and he pulls the covers back for me. I crawl in the bed and frown, "Aren't you going to lay down with me?"
"I thought it'd be best for you to be alone after what happened."
"I feel safer when I'm with you."
He smiles, "Let me get a shirt to wear."
"You don't have to if you don't want to," I reply, trying to hide my amused smile.
He lays down next to me, and kisses me softly. "I love you."
I scoot as close to him as I can and he wraps his arms around me. "I love you too."