Fic: Read our futures in the rising steam 3/3
See masterpost for full heading
Part One
Part Two
Sherlock is first on the scene because he knows London better than he knows his own body and he is furious and frightened, long legs eating up the distance. His breath rattles in his chest, calves and abdomen burning with lactic acid.
The interconnected block of office buildings loom up, the grounds studded with construction vehicles and one sad-looking crane. He knows this place through his homeless network, knows which of the buildings are too cut into to be safe places to sleep, which ones are occupied, which ones are too-well closed off to get into. He gasps for more air and presses on, making a circuit around one of the office blocks people have been leaving alone.
It’s night now, low hanging-clouds practically sitting atop the roofs of London, a damp fog rolling through the streets. If it was some other man Sherlock was trying to find, John at his heels, the blog entry would likely read like some Victorian dime-novel, all lurid metaphor. But John isn’t there and Sherlock coughs in the damp. He feels light-headed, heart thundering against his ribs. There’s an open window on the second floor. Probably not how the murderer - Sherlock has seen his name but he just can’t remember now. Unimportant - gets in and out. It would be very difficult to lever an unconscious body up without aid and there are no signs of an accomplice or a lift of any kind.
He’s not sure how long it will take Lestrade and his extraction team to catch up, now that Mycroft is out of the game (unless Mycroft has sent in his own team; would he? it's too public, he knows they’ll get there, Sherlock doesn’t have time to wonder…). Sherlock could waste valuable time waiting for the police and their dogs to blunder around and if the killer catches wind of them, likely he’ll just murder John and have done with it.
Sherlock shins up the drainpipe four windows down from the one he can get into and clings to the brick with his fingertips, stretching from one thin ledge to another. His coat catches in the wind and threatens to drag him down but he throws himself ungracefully the last few feet and grabs hold of the windowsill before he can fall. Sherlock hauls himself into the building, a touch night-blind from the streetlights, and presses on. It’s a standard office-complex, gutted down to the concrete. Dirty rolls of carpeting clog up doorways and broken work-cell dividers are scattered and trampled on the floor. The wiring has been torn from the walls, stripped by industrious scavengers.
He creeps down the first set of stairs, silent as the grave. Even the emergency lighting is out but he doesn’t dare use his phone as a flashlight. The slightest mistake could give him away. He can hear his own pulse: too loud. Sherlock forces himself to breathe quietly. Shoes the barest scuff of noise on the dirty floor. He is invisible in the shadows with his dark hair, dark coat, dark scarf pulled up over the pale of his skin. There is the sound of a door opening and shutting, far off he can hear the too-loud voice of someone having a drunken row. Sherlock carries on, down the next flight of stairs towards the basement. The door to the ground floor offices is locked or jammed, no escape there, on the way out. The stairs down are just as dark and grotty, but Sherlock can see light from underneath one of the closed doors at the bottom. He can’t hear anything, no one in the room as far as he can tell (which is rather far) so he pushes the door open, a groan rising from the hinges that he could do without.
Murder scenes are very rarely what the general public seems to think they are. Most of the bodies Sherlock has investigated are either dumped unceremoniously or found in their own homes. It’s never the intricate set-up that the films John has forced upon him outline.
This basement room is cold with a touch of the damp. There are water stains on the walls and evidence that rats have been. There’s a broken photocopy machine tipped over in the corner and garbage strewn about and wedged in the space behind the door. A few creative young souls have graffiti-ed what appears to be a cock, a topless woman, and the phrase, ‘fuck the police’ on various surfaces. It smells vaguely of spilled cider and cheap cigarettes. Or rather, it smells like that under the heavy reek of sweat, blood, and evacuated bowels. Absolutely people have died in this dingy little basement.
While there aren’t any satanic altars or hanging sheets of plastic, (why are there so many hanging sheets of plastic in horror films?) and the ambiance is as grotty as usual, someone has gone to pains to set their mediocre stage as well as possible. There’s a stained wooden operating table under blindingly bright lights, a mortuary body block on the floor. Thick leather straps dangle from the sides of the table, their rough edges bloodied; some of it old, some of it fresh. There is a tray of surgical instruments beside it. One wall is plastered with grainy CCTV footage of John, newspaper clippings; a veritable shrine. And then the polaroids. Obviously taken within the last few hours.
Sherlock feels something that he thinks might be horror. They’re autopsy photos, external examination procedure (if one were to find the bare bones of such a procedure from the internet) cataloging every inch of John in preparation to the internal examination.
John strapped down to the table, chest arched up from the body block under his back, John unconscious, John awake, John cut and bleeding…
Sherlock has just enough time to see all this, to think, ‘I’m too late,’ before his knees are taken out and he’s tackled to the ground. The skin of his throat is already nicked by the deadly sharp edge of a scalpel before his assailant stops.
“Sherlock!” John exclaims, pressing a shaking hand to the shallow cut on Sherlock’s neck. The scalpel clatters to the cold floor. “I could have killed you.” His voice is slurred and he’s holding all his weight up on his arms, legs crumpled uselessly under him: He’s been drugged.
Sherlock rolls them over so John is on his back. “Are you hurt?” he demands. “John, are you hurt?”
It’s a stupid question. There’s a vicious Y-shaped pattern of self-done sutures holding closed a deep cut from shoulders to pubic bone that is still oozing blood. Staggering to his feet, Sherlock pulls his coat off but then hesitates. Probably John should lay still; several of the sutures are already tearing. He can’t get the coat around John without hurting him but John is already moving and Sherlock has to drop to his knees to help him, getting a shoulder under John’s right arm, draping the coat over as much of John as he can manage.
“Cocaine?” John says, as though he’d answered the door at Harry’s and the last few hours hadn’t happened at all. It’s a wildly inappropriate tangent considering their situation. Shock then. “What sort of idiotic, half-witted, self-destructive…”
John’s legs won’t support him. His feet twitch as the drugs wear off (not permanent damage, Sherlock wasn’t too late, he wasn’t too late) but Sherlock’s basically carrying him. “Where is he?” Sherlock asks. “Is he coming back?”
John shakes his head, but it’s not a ‘no.’ “Said he’d give me a rest, before we went on,” John says. “Managed to work the body block out from under me. Gave me enough leeway to get a cuff undone. I think he went for a wank, actually. I only woke up a few hours ago and he wanted me awake. So. How long have I been here?”
Sherlock can see it, how the escape went. The scrapes on John’s back, the deep bite of the cuffs on his ankles, the strained muscles in his right arm and the dislocated thumb from pulling to the left; the teeth marks in the left-hand leather cuff. He couldn’t have done a better job himself and he’s practiced a little escapology - useful to know with his profession. And then John had closed up his own vivisection wound, crawled off the table, and hidden, ready to kill his attacker. Army doctor. What a marvel, what a marvelous contradiction.
“The others are on their way,” Sherlock promises.
John manages to drag a leg forward, scraping his foot on the floor. He’s leaving a trail of blood behind them. “I want to go home,” he says, shaking all over.
Sherlock’s body is exhausted from his run, crashing with relief and the stale wash of adrenaline, his heart is still hammering in his chest and John is heavy. Sherlock gets a better grip on John, wishes he could put John in a fireman’s carry, and demands more from his transport. They can collapse later.
The stairs are a problem. John suggests Sherlock take him under the arms and drag him up, which is so stupid that Sherlock doesn’t deign to answer. Instead he gets his other arm under John’s knees and picks him up. His own legs very nearly go out from under him and he staggers alarmingly. Each step is painful and his thigh muscles shake. He’s drenched with sweat by the time he gets them to the top and his knees do buckle then, slamming hard into the floor. He doesn’t quite drop John, but it’s close. They can’t stay where they are, out in the open. Staying in that horrible little torture chamber, waiting to get the drop on the killer wasn’t an option. John needs a doctor.
John is pale, skin cold and seeming bloodless. “It helps me focus,” Sherlock says as John struggles to keep his eyes open. “The cocaine.”
Indignation wars on John’s face with exhaustion. “It does not,” he says. “It destroys your health. It nearly killed you, you utter twat.”
Sherlock drags them both upright. “I can control it,” he says, goading.
“You had a heart-attack,” John says. “You tried to seduce me and then you had a fucking heart-attack. That’s not control, that’s…”
“What?” Sherlock prompts. All the doors and first-floor windows in this section are locked or bolted. It’s a fortress and he can get them out, but only through the second-floor window. He’s a genius, he’ll deal with it when he gets them there. God, more stairs.
John’s head rolls against his shoulder. Sherlock tightens his grip. “I took it so we could have intercourse,” he says, loudly, in John’s ear.
John jerks his head up. “What? Why?” he asks. He can’t get his right foot under him anymore and the top is scraping against the floor. Sherlock isn’t carrying his weight anymore, he’s dragging it, but he doesn’t dare stop. Lestrade’s people could be anywhere, they could be miles behind.
Sherlock stops them at the foot of the stairs and wants to scream. The landing seems too far to manage, and that’s only the halfway point.
“You’ll have to drag me,” John says wearily. So Sherlock does, wincing at the way John’s legs thud on each riser. John tries to help, but he’s bleeding profusely from his torn stitches, must have lost at least a pint by now, maybe closer to two.
They’re making too much noise. John’s got his teeth gritted so hard the tendons in his neck are standing out, but he can’t suppress the wounded-animal sounds escaping him and Sherlock is gasping for air now. Sherlock hears another door slam. Angry shouting. They’ve been made. There are footsteps racing up the stairs after them. They won’t make it out of here.
“Fuck,” John says, struggling again to get his feet underneath him and nearly causing Sherlock to lose his grip. “Oh, fuck, Sherlock.”
Sherlock’s hands hurt from how hard he’s gripping the fabric of his coat around John’s naked body but he relaxes one hand enough to change their position, getting his shoulder back under John’s arm and heaving him upright with a burst of energy he knows comes entirely from fear. John needs a hospital and soon, they don’t have time for a fight. Sherlock doesn’t have the energy or skill to fight off someone who managed to subdue John so retreat continues to be the most sensible plan.
John jerks his weight around so they’re facing up the stairs, grabs hold of the bannister with his right hand - not his dominant one, but stronger, steadier - and pulls out three stitches in his shoulder, hauling himself upwards. They’re fucked now, utterly fucked, so Sherlock ducks down and gets John in a fireman’s carry after all. John moans and Sherlock’s shirt feels damp with more than just his own sweat; he can smell the thick copper of John’s blood. Sherlock can hear footsteps coming up the stairs, doors opening and shutting, and gets them to the second floor moments before the murderer hits the landing.
“Put him down,” the man says. White, early 30s, a bland, boring little man whose face Sherlock will remember despite his best efforts to delete it. He has a Taser in his hand and blood under his fingernails. The risk of him using his weapon on Sherlock is high and he’d rather not drop John. Sherlock eases John down, slowly, slowly. He thinks maybe if he can stall this maniac long enough Lestrade and his dogs might arrive in time to save them.
“Now step away,” the man says, motioning with the Taser like it’s a handgun.
“No,” Sherlock says. “No I don’t think I will. But I will let you leave here. The police are on their way, your only option is to flee, and as I am far more concerned with other matters, I won’t chase you.”
The man - Michael, that was his name - takes two steps up towards them. At such close range it is very unlikely he will miss when he fires on Sherlock. “Step away from him.”
“It’s fine,” John says. “Sherlock, it’s fine. He’s right.” Not what Sherlock was expecting to hear. “I understand. We…” He holds out a hand for Sherlock to help him up and Sherlock honestly has no idea what to do. “We’re meant for this, he and I.”
“Shut up,” Sherlock says. “You’re in shock.”
John keeps trying to get up on his own and failing. “I mean, better him than you. He understands. He understands me, all of it.”
“I will,” Michael promises fervently. He’s flushed with wanting. Sherlock feels ill, though that might be from all the running and lifting.
The dark little stairwell is beginning to lighten with a hint of pre-dawn and Sherlock can see the dirty floors and the chipped paint on the bannister. He can see cigarette butts and a crumpled up bit of newspaper from two months ago. He can see the pale wash of John’s skin and the blood dripping onto the floor. He can’t see a way out.
“Do something for me, for once in your life, Sherlock,” John says. “Help me up, and take me back. You dragged me out you can bloody well take me back.”
Michael lowers the Taser fractionally, and smiles with relief. “I knew you wouldn’t try to leave me,” he says.
“Sherlock,” John says, and Sherlock doesn’t understand what’s happening, this is insanity. “We’re going to have to coordinate.”
Oh. Oh! Wonderful, brilliant, clever John Watson.
Sherlock slowly wrangles John upright from the left, even though John’s shoulder must be an absolute knot of pain. John is breathing heavily, panting almost, but other than that he’s silent. “No funny business,” Michael says, watching him, not John, suspiciously. He has the Taser still pointed at Sherlock but finger off the trigger to avoid accidentally shooting John with it.
“If I could just ask one thing,” Sherlock says, watching as Michael’s attention focuses in on him completely.
Michael sits on his arse all day watching security tapes and stalking people. It’s one thing to use a Taser on someone who isn’t expecting it; it’s another to be quick on the draw.
John reaches into the pocket of Sherlock’s coat, pulls out the Sig and shoots Michael.
The report of the gun is deafening in the enclosed stairwell and Sherlock’s ears are ringing to the point of pain. John mouths something that looks like ‘check him’ but Sherlock can’t be sure. He does so anyway, propping John up against the wall in a sitting position. He peers down the stairs and sees the Taser has slipped from Michael’s grip and is far enough away that he can risk getting closer.
“You missed,” he calls up to John, snatching up the Taser. “You only got him in the gut.” He’s sure John can hear Michael groaning, but then, John is in shock and Sherlock can’t even hear the sound of his own voice right now. Sherlock toes at Michael with distaste, prompting him to writhe where he’s crumpled at the foot of the stairs.
Sherlock, satisfied he’s not going anywhere soon, hurries back up to John. He strips off his jacket, bundles it up and presses it over the incision as best he can. “I think I might pass out now,” John says apologetically, which Sherlock half-hears, half-understands through lip-reading.
“You missed,” Sherlock repeats. “You only got him in the gut.”
“I’m down two pints of blood,” John says. “I wasn’t going to try for a head shot.”
“You could finish him off now,” Sherlock says, sparing a quick glance to make sure that the gut wound is continuing to keep Michael lying down, noisily dying. There’s a crash from downstairs as someone breaks down a door. Hurrah for backup.
“Finish you off for taking cocaine,” John mutters, and then passes out.
X X X
We’ve got them
L
There was never a doubt
in my mind
MH
Yeah right, but thanks
Johns in hospital if you
want 2 see him
L
X X X
Donovan is coming out of John’s room when Sherlock finally gets away from DI Jenison and his insistence on getting an official statement. They face off warily. Sally’s about ready to crash; her hands are unsteady from the amount of caffeine she’s consumed recently. Sherlock is wearing hospital scrubs and is dragging around an IV because some triage nurse took one look at his vitals and got him a chair and fluids; he’s managed to lose the nurse and the chair but he can concede the merits of the fluids. Both he and Sally look like shit.
“They sent you to ask if he’s been raped,” Sherlock says, hating everything.
Donovan puts her hands in her pockets and doesn’t deny it. She’s wearing trainers that don’t match her skirt; what she wears to and from the office but it’s been such a long day she can’t bear her professional heels any longer. Sally Donovan and her trainers and her shaky hands know what happened to John and she’s not allowed to tell him, the doctors aren’t allowed to tell him, and Sherlock doesn’t think he can stand to go into the room and look at John. He doesn’t want to deduce this. “He wasn’t,” Donovan says, and Sherlock jerks like he’s been slapped. Rarely do people surprise him.
She still thinks he’s capable of terrible things and she’s more right than anyone but the dead will ever know. Sally knows they were lucky to find John alive and in (more or less) one piece because of what Sherlock might have done in retaliation, and she doesn’t even have the slightest inkling of what he did to Moriarty’s circle. He doesn’t try to put a hand on her shoulder, or move towards her at all.
“Thank you,” he says, and it’s her turn to look surprised. “For…for being right.”
“Well,” Sally says, colour rising in her cheeks. “We can’t be imbeciles all the time.” She steps out of Sherlock’s way and begins her journey home.
“Anderson’s still a blistering idiot,” Sherlock calls after her. “You can do better.”
She gives him the bow-fingers over her head. “Don’t ruin it, Freak,” she says with what might even be a touch of fondness.
Sherlock drags his IV stand into John’s room. There’s a teenager with a broken leg and a concussion (drunken spill) in the next bed, texting furiously. No doubt Mycroft offered to get John a room to himself, but it seems equally likely that John, knowing the lack of beds and keenly feeling the sad plight of others, refused special treatment. Annoying, but Sherlock is good at ignoring people.
“Who’re you?” the teenager asks. She’s going to have a wicked hangover in the morning if she’s still this drunk after having her leg set.
“I escaped from the nuthouse,” Sherlock says. “I firmly believe that the Elder Gods are going to rise out of the depths of the Channel and the only way to save humanity is to eat the brains of irritating children.”
“Wanker,” the girl says, going back to her phone.
Sherlock brushes a hand over John’s hair. “Lestrade would like to congratulate you on your excellent marksmanship,” he says, “and for not killing him so he can put the bastard in jail.” For his part, Sherlock is rather disappointed the doctors managed to patch Michael up, but you can’t have everything.
He’s dying to see what sort of ham-handed job the surgeons made of John’s stitches but he doesn’t think it would be a good idea to ask. Instead, Sherlock tugs the blankets off John and slips into the bed next to him. John is solid and broad-shouldered, but Sherlock doesn’t take up much space when he lies on his side. He is careful not to jostle John’s injuries.
John is half-asleep, soaring on the gentle wings of morphine but he lifts a hand, bandages around his wrist, and paws at Sherlock’s hair in something that might be a caress. “Y’all right?” John mumbles.
Sherlock is crashing hard. He aches all over. Even his hair hurts but John is warm against Sherlock’s cold feet and he even grumbles half-heartedly when Sherlock presses them between his calves. “Now,” he says, awkward suddenly because he’s not the one whose chest is stitched together. He’s the idiot who OD’d. “Yes, thank you.” Eventually John will want to talk about the Incident with John and the Cocaine (as Sherlock is referring to it in his head now - not to be mistaken with the Incident with the Tainted Cocaine, the Incident with the Morphine, or the Incident with the Cocaine and Mycroft) but Sherlock is hopeful it won’t be now.
“Gay,” the teenager in the bed over drawls out.
“By the time you get that cast off,” John slurs out, “your leg will be partially atrophied, about five shades paler than the other leg, and won’t match your other one - the other leg - at all. Just in time for summer hols.”
Her mouth snaps shut with an audible sound.
“Leg,” John says, still petting Sherlock’s hair, like he’s forgotten he’s doing it. “Leg. Who invented that word? It’s weird.”
Sherlock presses a hand over his mouth so he doesn’t wake up the entire ward with his laughing. “Go to sleep, John,” he manages, tugging the shoulder of John’s hospital gown down, just a little, so he can see one of the arms of the Y incision and the very neat stitches running along it. Another scar for John to carry then.
“I’ll show you later,” John says. “Glad you’re okay.” He immediately starts snoring the snores of the heavily medicated.
The girl in the bed over makes a sound like she’s going to be sick and mutters, “Gay,” again but Sherlock is warm and John is safe and Mycroft isn’t texting him so he only says, “If I were you I wouldn’t taunt a crack-shot army captain and his sociopathic partner,” yawns, and lets it alone.
He can’t sleep, not with the cocaine withdrawal, but he dozes a little, listening to the steady beat of John’s heart and the quiet whirring of the machines he’s hooked up to. When John surfaces out of the morphine haze, seven hours later, Sherlock feels oddly rested.
X X X
Please inform JW I’m glad
he’s alright.
MH
Tell him yourself
SH
If you think he would be receptive
to such a thing
MH
Read S’s txt. Thanks, Mycroft.
JW
Lunch at Diogenes once you’re
fully recovered?
MH
Sure. I’ll txt you?
JW
I look forwards to it
MH
X X X
The day John’s stitches come out is the day they can no longer pretend there isn’t something they need to discuss. John takes them out himself in the bathroom and when he emerges, he’s still shirtless. The raised Y-shaped scar is pink and tender and Sherlock desperately wants to touch it in the same way he still wants to touch the bullet wound on John’s shoulder. That John is letting him see without being asked means something. Sherlock has no idea what though.
“Right,” John says, and then pulls a t-shirt on. “Start talking.”
“The cocaine was a mistake,” Sherlock allows. He’s still clean. He’s finally able to sleep again as tedious as that is, and he’s managed to put on a few needed pounds. “When I was…I started using when I was… I planned on quitting when I came back.”
John sits down on the sofa next to Sherlock. “Okay,” he says.
Sherlock stares out the window because he can’t try and deduce what John is thinking when he’s trying to explain this. “One day I’ll tell you what I did then,” he says. He means, what I became, but John has fought wars and probably understands. He also understands addiction. Sherlock gets up and starts pacing because sitting still is intolerable. “I won’t pretend I know why you’re interested in me. Your sexual preferences make it clear that you shouldn’t be. That said, all other evidence points to the contrary, and as far as I feel such things, you should know it is reciprocated.”
“What does that mean?” John asks. Sherlock sneaks a glance at his face and sees patience. John is waiting until he has all the facts before he reacts. He doesn’t let himself look any further.
“It means I wouldn’t be averse to adding a physical element to our relationship, which I’m sure we both agree, does rather strain the traditional boundaries of friendship.” Sherlock rearranges some of his papers while he talks. He has no idea what new order they’ve gone into; he’s making a mess of his own system. “For me, cocaine stimulates my sex drive. It seemed like a good time to see if we would be compatible. Another mistake, I will admit.”
John rubs his face. “You’re mental,” he says. “You know that, right?”
Sherlock decides he has nothing to lose. He sets two documents down on the table in front of John and fetches his laptop, opening it to a file he’s prepared specially for this discussion.
John looks at the proffered computer with raised eyebrows. “What’s-?” he starts then realizes what’s on the paper.
Sherlock took the liberty of procuring STD panels for both of them so John will be satisfied neither of them is at risk. Condoms sound tedious and moderately disgusting to Sherlock. Better to eliminate the entire discussion. John doesn’t bother with stupid questions, just turns to the computer.
“A list of things I find irritating, from least so to most,” Sherlock says. He wants to fidget, how pedestrian. “I would like to try again, if you are still interested, but without the cocaine it will be…difficult. Of course, my active participation and enjoyment isn’t vital, but if it’s an exercise you wish to-”
John’s scanning the document, eyes wide. It’s a long list. “Oh,” he says, getting the picture. “Oh!” Then he just looks insulted. “Participation and enjoyment isn’t vital?” he says. “Christ you’re stupid sometimes.” He hums low in his throat and scrolls down a little. “But you can?”
“I can try,” is as much as Sherlock can promise. It’s not a romantic moment, he knows that. And John can be so dull when it comes to the traditional aspects of courtsh- Sherlock realizes that John is hard. Reading the list of things Sherlock doesn’t want to do. That’s…
John catches him looking and pinkens. “Sorry,” he says. “It’s just, this leaves a lot of room for a lot of stuff and…” He avoids Sherlock’s gaze by scrolling through the list a little more. “I, uh.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Reading this is making me feel very creative.”
Sherlock can feel himself starting to smile, just a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth. Creative is good. “I doubt very much I’ll be able to sustain an erection sufficient for penetration, if that’s something you were thinking about getting creative about,” Sherlock says, examining his fingernails for minor nicks and tears. “It’s not medical, I just have trouble focusing on something as mundane as physical sensation for prolonged periods of time.”
“Alright,” John says, voice mild, though he is blushing furiously.
Sherlock reconsiders his previous trepidation. John might, in fact, be reassured by that piece of information. Less of a threat to his status as a heterosexual if there is no danger of Sherlock being the dominant partner. Sherlock sits down on the sofa and starts to laugh. “We,” he announces, “are very bad at this.” He is relieved when John starts to giggle.
X X X
If you don’t wish to be
irrevocably scarred for life
I suggest you cease monitoring
the flat
SH
Can it be? Is today the day
you at last become a man?
MH
Fuck off Mycroft
SH
X X X
They have sex in John’s room so Sherlock can leave if the whole endeavour goes badly.
John pushes into him with little stretching and a lot of lube. He moves slow, rocking in inch by careful inch while Sherlock pants and squirms, his body clenching down and relaxing without his say so. It’s hard to move with John’s full weight on him, he tries to get his knees underneath himself, but John pushes them firmly apart again and holds them there when Sherlock struggles, only managing to force more of John’s cock inside him.
“Oh,” Sherlock says, tensing, shaking with it. John, wonderful, careful, well-trained John Watson, finds his leverage and pushes in the rest of the way. Sherlock makes small, choked sounds.
“Relax,” John says, grinding in, sliding out just a little, and shoving back in again. It’s an effort, but there’s enough lube that the only friction is Sherlock’s body giving way. And it does. John is solid against him, forcing him open, forcing him still.
Sherlock’s eyes are screwed shut and he’s panting open-mouthed. He can’t relax. He can’t even uncurl his toes, or un-clench his stomach muscles, his thighs, his cramping calves.
John is rocking into him gently now, little tiny shifts of pressure. “You can,” John says, leaning over Sherlock.
John’s chest is tacky with sweat where he’s pressed against Sherlock’s back and Sherlock winces away when their skin peels apart and sticks back together. His skin is crawling now and he can abruptly relax but now he’s uncomfortably full, he can’t breathe…
“Sorry,” John says, snagging a corner of the sheet. He drags it between their bodies, draping it over Sherlock’s back, smoothing it down with one rough hand so it’s not a wisp of sensation, not an itch Sherlock will need to scrub his nails over until his skin is red and sore.
Sherlock flicks the head of his cock, which has gone mostly flaccid now. It’s shocking and painful and draws his attention away from any of the other sensations crawling over his body. He does it again, a moment before John pinches the base of his cock, which, oh, that’s interesting. He can feel John’s smile against his shoulder, through the sheet, but John is cupping his testicles in his hand and pulling them back, skin drawn tight. Sherlock starts to tense up again and John continues grinding into him, damn near shoving Sherlock up the mattress.
“Better,” Sherlock manages; his cock is hardening again, sluggish arousal. He gets a hand on himself with a tight grip, letting John’s movements push his cock though his fist. “I can…Just, just give me a minute.”
John doesn’t listen because he’s brilliant. Instead, he gets a handful of Sherlock’s hair and pulls. Firm, steady pressure. Sherlock wants to write sonatas to John’s soldier hands, to his surgeon hands. It makes it harder to breathe, and so much easier. His face isn’t pressed into the too-warm pillow anymore, and his chest is tight from the strain on his throat that the angle of his spine is causing.
He moans. Almost silently, almost caught behind his tongue, pressed to his bottom teeth. Making noise is abhorrent. He can’t stand the sound of himself like this, and John is breathing hard and fast and Sherlock wants to hear that.
“Relax,” John says again, rough and low in his ear, hand slipping from his hair to press on Sherlock’s throat.
Sherlock struggles, more against himself than against John. He manages to release the tension in his body, but only for a moment, and then everything tightens again. John’s breath punches out of him. “Again,” he says, pinching identical bruises onto the inside of Sherlock’s thighs.
Sherlock does, body strung out under John’s hands. A thick string of precome wells out of his cock and smears onto the bedding under him. He starts pulling off in earnest and barely notices when John moves the sheet from between them. They’re both sweating enough that they don’t stick, they slide - which is acceptable - and John sits back on his heels. His damaged shoulder is starting to give, and Sherlock goes with him, settling down over John, knees spread wide. John sucks on his neck, thick and still inside Sherlock, despite the trembling in his thighs that give away his desire to start thrusting.
“Some time we’re at a crime scene,” John says, “one of those dingy little flats we end up in, I’m going to fuck you in the next room, bend you over and have you right there.” He’s moving, ever so slightly now, small pulses of his hips that drag his cock over Sherlock’s prostate, hands on Sherlock’s thighs, on his chest, tangling in his hair again so John has as much access to Sherlock’s throat as he likes.
Sherlock rather enjoys listening to John’s voice when it’s dropped a third of an octave, and hearing him rattling off filth is unexpectedly delightful. It’s amusing to pretend. It makes Sherlock feel almost normal, without any of the usual distain he reserves for such a notion. John is much better at spinning fantasies than he is.
“Won’t get you off,” John says, and there’s a split second of hesitation in his voice, a momentary falter, before he surges on. “Won’t let you, even if you beg. Just going to come in you and we’ll go back out there, in front of Lestrade, and Donovan, and Anderson, and all those people, everyone you’ve called an idiot, and see how well you can deduce when you’ve got my come leaking out of you.”
Sherlock’s head tips back against John’s shoulder. John pinches his nipples and Sherlock comes. It hurts. Does it hurt? He can’t tell if it’s pain or not, and he stops stroking himself and just cups his prick against his belly, nerves firing all wrong. He can’t help the noises he makes then. Aborted and bitten off as they are.
“I know,” John says. “I’ve got you.”
He puts his arms around Sherlock’s chest but his hips angle back and his cock slips out of Sherlock. John bears him back down to the mattress, cock pressing between Sherlock’s thighs, still slick with lube, sliding over the bruises that are forming there, clever bastard.
Sherlock presses his thighs together and stretches out, tired. John hooks his arms under Sherlock and breathes hot and damp against his shoulders. “God,” he says, “you’re brilliant. Fuck. Sherlock.” John’s come is warm and thick between Sherlock’s legs.
He rolls off Sherlock and flops onto his back. “One to ten?” John asks, as Sherlock cleans himself off with a corner of the sheet and then tucks a clean portion over John before curling up against him.
Sherlock considers it. “Six,” he says. “Four?” One is unbearable, five is indifference, ten is fantastic. It’s a woefully imprecise scale. “I cannot properly assess my reactions with such a-”
“We’re not making a chart, or graph, or questionnaire,” John says. He laughs, bright and delighted, and remembers to use firm pressure against Sherlock’s skin, and not light, teasing touches.
“It was…fine,” Sherlock says, stretching. He feels settled in his body like he does after a particularly exciting case. “Except the end.”
John scratches a hand through Sherlock’s hair. “Right,” he says. “Good except the orgasm.”
“It happens sometimes,” Sherlock says, unconcerned. Orgasms are boring, ordinary. There are far more curious things to explore. “What about you?”
“I like orgasms just fine,” John says.
Sherlock sighs. “I mean, this, with a man.”
John is quiet for long enough that Sherlock starts to worry. He doesn’t want to go back to being friends and flatmates. He wants permission to put his hands on John and the thought of having sex once in a while doesn’t turn his stomach as much as he assumed it would. Unless John hated it.
“Different,” John says at last. “Always figured it’d be easy for two blokes, same equipment you know?”
“Yes, yes,” Sherlock says. “I know I’m difficult, that isn’t news. Did you enjoy it?”
“Yeah,” John says, and then more certain, “yeah, actually, I did. Christ, I’m never going to hear the end of it from Harry.”
“Tell me more about this idea of yours,” Sherlock says, because he has no desire to discuss John’s sister while he’s naked.
John is pitifully slow after orgasm. “I…what?” he says.
“Your idea,” Sherlock repeats. “The one where you fuck me at a crime scene.”
John stops petting Sherlock, and when Sherlock makes an annoyed sound, he starts it up again, but stilted. “It didn’t mean anything,” he says.
“I know that,” Sherlock says. He drums his fingers on John’s chest. It’s not his area, but John’s foray into dirty talk has given him an idea; he’s sure there are plenty of things they can do that don’t involve quite so much participation on his end that would be enjoyable for all parties. If there’s one thing he learned from the Woman, it’s that there is a lot of sex happening that doesn’t involve actual sex. So much new data to catalogue.
“Do I even want to know what you’re thinking?” John asks.
Sherlock grins against his shoulder. “I doubt it,” he says, reaching for his mobile.
“I’m going to sleep,” John says, turning the side lamp off. For a moment Sherlock thinks John is asking him to leave, but John doesn’t move his arm from around Sherlock’s waist, so perhaps not. “You don’t have to stay if you get bored.”
Sherlock kisses him, because he can and it’s unexpectedly nice, and goes back to his research.
X X X
You might not want to monitor
my phone for a while either
SH
Yes, that had come to my attention
MH
That’s what you get for snooping
SH
How do you feel about bondage
specifically sensory deprivation?
SH
I’m at work! Don’t send me
porn at work
JW
It’s not porn, it was a question
SH
How do you feel about sexting?
SH
Oh my god I’ve created a monster
JW
[img]
SH
Thanks, now I have a hardon
at work
JW
X X X
Sally Donavan comes by the flat while John is lunching with Mycroft, presumably burying hatchets and such. She gets two steps through the door before Sherlock can’t resist breaking the news himself.
“Promotion, Detective Inspector Donovan?” Sherlock drawls from where he’s sprawled unhappily in his chair, contemplating the unending tedium of life without work, as she sits down in John’s chair without being invited to.
“Yeah,” she says and Sherlock takes a closer look at her.
“And no more affair,” he says. “Wise choice. He hasn’t got the spine to leave his wife.”
Sally crosses her legs at the ankle and leans back, comfortable. “Not going to insult the police force for promoting me?” She looks better than the last few times he saw her, slept a few decent nights. She’s had her hair done, more expensive than usual. No, rather a whole spa day, either to celebrate the promotion or as a getting over it cleansing of her relationship with Anderson. Most likely the latter.
Sherlock cocks his head. “You’ve been passed over for promotion three times already. They said it was because of your age, or someone else’s skills, but obviously it was down to your gender and race. I don’t need to insult your professional organization because they made Dimmock a DI before you,” he points out. “They’ve already insulted themselves. He’s so difficult to work with. I’m hoping we’ll have a less fraught relationship since you are exponentially less stupid than he is, and clearly getting smarter.”
Sally takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly. “Right,” she says. “So your brother didn’t pull any strings? Because I want the promotion on my own terms.”
“My brother wouldn’t bestir himself for something so trivial,” he says and then remembers he was trying not to antagonize her because doubtless she will have interesting cases he will want to see at some later date. “You don’t want his attention anyway,” he says, trying to backtrack.
Sally only rolls her eyes at him, and she’s pleased. The slight hesitation in her is gone now. “Obviously neither of us likes the other, but I think we can work together. I’ll let you in on the weird cases and if you manage not to be a total prick about it, I’ll solve a few mysteries you have about women. We’re not aliens, Freak, we’re no stupider or smarter as a collective, and you’re doing us and your own profession a disservice by not knowing a fucking thing about us.”
It is a fair trade. And she won’t ask him to work with Anderson. “Very well,” Sherlock says. They shake on it and then she pulls out a manila folder and passes it to him. There are three dismembered bodies, four sets of limbs, a locked door, and a bafflingly incoherent manifesto left pinned to one of the torsos. He beams at her, leaping up to pin the information over the mantelpiece. “Detective Inspector Donovan,” he says, delighted, “tell Lestrade he’s no longer my favourite.”
He hears the front door open and raises his voice so John can hear him as he comes up the stairs. “John! Cancel your plans, we have a new case!”
John, clearing the doorway, nods politely at Sally. “I don’t have any plans,” he says, brushing a hand over Sherlock’s back as he passes on the way to the kitchen. The look on Sally’s face as she puts two and two together and perceives their relationship is well worth the momentary distraction.
END.
Part One
Part Two
Sherlock is first on the scene because he knows London better than he knows his own body and he is furious and frightened, long legs eating up the distance. His breath rattles in his chest, calves and abdomen burning with lactic acid.
The interconnected block of office buildings loom up, the grounds studded with construction vehicles and one sad-looking crane. He knows this place through his homeless network, knows which of the buildings are too cut into to be safe places to sleep, which ones are occupied, which ones are too-well closed off to get into. He gasps for more air and presses on, making a circuit around one of the office blocks people have been leaving alone.
It’s night now, low hanging-clouds practically sitting atop the roofs of London, a damp fog rolling through the streets. If it was some other man Sherlock was trying to find, John at his heels, the blog entry would likely read like some Victorian dime-novel, all lurid metaphor. But John isn’t there and Sherlock coughs in the damp. He feels light-headed, heart thundering against his ribs. There’s an open window on the second floor. Probably not how the murderer - Sherlock has seen his name but he just can’t remember now. Unimportant - gets in and out. It would be very difficult to lever an unconscious body up without aid and there are no signs of an accomplice or a lift of any kind.
He’s not sure how long it will take Lestrade and his extraction team to catch up, now that Mycroft is out of the game (unless Mycroft has sent in his own team; would he? it's too public, he knows they’ll get there, Sherlock doesn’t have time to wonder…). Sherlock could waste valuable time waiting for the police and their dogs to blunder around and if the killer catches wind of them, likely he’ll just murder John and have done with it.
Sherlock shins up the drainpipe four windows down from the one he can get into and clings to the brick with his fingertips, stretching from one thin ledge to another. His coat catches in the wind and threatens to drag him down but he throws himself ungracefully the last few feet and grabs hold of the windowsill before he can fall. Sherlock hauls himself into the building, a touch night-blind from the streetlights, and presses on. It’s a standard office-complex, gutted down to the concrete. Dirty rolls of carpeting clog up doorways and broken work-cell dividers are scattered and trampled on the floor. The wiring has been torn from the walls, stripped by industrious scavengers.
He creeps down the first set of stairs, silent as the grave. Even the emergency lighting is out but he doesn’t dare use his phone as a flashlight. The slightest mistake could give him away. He can hear his own pulse: too loud. Sherlock forces himself to breathe quietly. Shoes the barest scuff of noise on the dirty floor. He is invisible in the shadows with his dark hair, dark coat, dark scarf pulled up over the pale of his skin. There is the sound of a door opening and shutting, far off he can hear the too-loud voice of someone having a drunken row. Sherlock carries on, down the next flight of stairs towards the basement. The door to the ground floor offices is locked or jammed, no escape there, on the way out. The stairs down are just as dark and grotty, but Sherlock can see light from underneath one of the closed doors at the bottom. He can’t hear anything, no one in the room as far as he can tell (which is rather far) so he pushes the door open, a groan rising from the hinges that he could do without.
Murder scenes are very rarely what the general public seems to think they are. Most of the bodies Sherlock has investigated are either dumped unceremoniously or found in their own homes. It’s never the intricate set-up that the films John has forced upon him outline.
This basement room is cold with a touch of the damp. There are water stains on the walls and evidence that rats have been. There’s a broken photocopy machine tipped over in the corner and garbage strewn about and wedged in the space behind the door. A few creative young souls have graffiti-ed what appears to be a cock, a topless woman, and the phrase, ‘fuck the police’ on various surfaces. It smells vaguely of spilled cider and cheap cigarettes. Or rather, it smells like that under the heavy reek of sweat, blood, and evacuated bowels. Absolutely people have died in this dingy little basement.
While there aren’t any satanic altars or hanging sheets of plastic, (why are there so many hanging sheets of plastic in horror films?) and the ambiance is as grotty as usual, someone has gone to pains to set their mediocre stage as well as possible. There’s a stained wooden operating table under blindingly bright lights, a mortuary body block on the floor. Thick leather straps dangle from the sides of the table, their rough edges bloodied; some of it old, some of it fresh. There is a tray of surgical instruments beside it. One wall is plastered with grainy CCTV footage of John, newspaper clippings; a veritable shrine. And then the polaroids. Obviously taken within the last few hours.
Sherlock feels something that he thinks might be horror. They’re autopsy photos, external examination procedure (if one were to find the bare bones of such a procedure from the internet) cataloging every inch of John in preparation to the internal examination.
John strapped down to the table, chest arched up from the body block under his back, John unconscious, John awake, John cut and bleeding…
Sherlock has just enough time to see all this, to think, ‘I’m too late,’ before his knees are taken out and he’s tackled to the ground. The skin of his throat is already nicked by the deadly sharp edge of a scalpel before his assailant stops.
“Sherlock!” John exclaims, pressing a shaking hand to the shallow cut on Sherlock’s neck. The scalpel clatters to the cold floor. “I could have killed you.” His voice is slurred and he’s holding all his weight up on his arms, legs crumpled uselessly under him: He’s been drugged.
Sherlock rolls them over so John is on his back. “Are you hurt?” he demands. “John, are you hurt?”
It’s a stupid question. There’s a vicious Y-shaped pattern of self-done sutures holding closed a deep cut from shoulders to pubic bone that is still oozing blood. Staggering to his feet, Sherlock pulls his coat off but then hesitates. Probably John should lay still; several of the sutures are already tearing. He can’t get the coat around John without hurting him but John is already moving and Sherlock has to drop to his knees to help him, getting a shoulder under John’s right arm, draping the coat over as much of John as he can manage.
“Cocaine?” John says, as though he’d answered the door at Harry’s and the last few hours hadn’t happened at all. It’s a wildly inappropriate tangent considering their situation. Shock then. “What sort of idiotic, half-witted, self-destructive…”
John’s legs won’t support him. His feet twitch as the drugs wear off (not permanent damage, Sherlock wasn’t too late, he wasn’t too late) but Sherlock’s basically carrying him. “Where is he?” Sherlock asks. “Is he coming back?”
John shakes his head, but it’s not a ‘no.’ “Said he’d give me a rest, before we went on,” John says. “Managed to work the body block out from under me. Gave me enough leeway to get a cuff undone. I think he went for a wank, actually. I only woke up a few hours ago and he wanted me awake. So. How long have I been here?”
Sherlock can see it, how the escape went. The scrapes on John’s back, the deep bite of the cuffs on his ankles, the strained muscles in his right arm and the dislocated thumb from pulling to the left; the teeth marks in the left-hand leather cuff. He couldn’t have done a better job himself and he’s practiced a little escapology - useful to know with his profession. And then John had closed up his own vivisection wound, crawled off the table, and hidden, ready to kill his attacker. Army doctor. What a marvel, what a marvelous contradiction.
“The others are on their way,” Sherlock promises.
John manages to drag a leg forward, scraping his foot on the floor. He’s leaving a trail of blood behind them. “I want to go home,” he says, shaking all over.
Sherlock’s body is exhausted from his run, crashing with relief and the stale wash of adrenaline, his heart is still hammering in his chest and John is heavy. Sherlock gets a better grip on John, wishes he could put John in a fireman’s carry, and demands more from his transport. They can collapse later.
The stairs are a problem. John suggests Sherlock take him under the arms and drag him up, which is so stupid that Sherlock doesn’t deign to answer. Instead he gets his other arm under John’s knees and picks him up. His own legs very nearly go out from under him and he staggers alarmingly. Each step is painful and his thigh muscles shake. He’s drenched with sweat by the time he gets them to the top and his knees do buckle then, slamming hard into the floor. He doesn’t quite drop John, but it’s close. They can’t stay where they are, out in the open. Staying in that horrible little torture chamber, waiting to get the drop on the killer wasn’t an option. John needs a doctor.
John is pale, skin cold and seeming bloodless. “It helps me focus,” Sherlock says as John struggles to keep his eyes open. “The cocaine.”
Indignation wars on John’s face with exhaustion. “It does not,” he says. “It destroys your health. It nearly killed you, you utter twat.”
Sherlock drags them both upright. “I can control it,” he says, goading.
“You had a heart-attack,” John says. “You tried to seduce me and then you had a fucking heart-attack. That’s not control, that’s…”
“What?” Sherlock prompts. All the doors and first-floor windows in this section are locked or bolted. It’s a fortress and he can get them out, but only through the second-floor window. He’s a genius, he’ll deal with it when he gets them there. God, more stairs.
John’s head rolls against his shoulder. Sherlock tightens his grip. “I took it so we could have intercourse,” he says, loudly, in John’s ear.
John jerks his head up. “What? Why?” he asks. He can’t get his right foot under him anymore and the top is scraping against the floor. Sherlock isn’t carrying his weight anymore, he’s dragging it, but he doesn’t dare stop. Lestrade’s people could be anywhere, they could be miles behind.
Sherlock stops them at the foot of the stairs and wants to scream. The landing seems too far to manage, and that’s only the halfway point.
“You’ll have to drag me,” John says wearily. So Sherlock does, wincing at the way John’s legs thud on each riser. John tries to help, but he’s bleeding profusely from his torn stitches, must have lost at least a pint by now, maybe closer to two.
They’re making too much noise. John’s got his teeth gritted so hard the tendons in his neck are standing out, but he can’t suppress the wounded-animal sounds escaping him and Sherlock is gasping for air now. Sherlock hears another door slam. Angry shouting. They’ve been made. There are footsteps racing up the stairs after them. They won’t make it out of here.
“Fuck,” John says, struggling again to get his feet underneath him and nearly causing Sherlock to lose his grip. “Oh, fuck, Sherlock.”
Sherlock’s hands hurt from how hard he’s gripping the fabric of his coat around John’s naked body but he relaxes one hand enough to change their position, getting his shoulder back under John’s arm and heaving him upright with a burst of energy he knows comes entirely from fear. John needs a hospital and soon, they don’t have time for a fight. Sherlock doesn’t have the energy or skill to fight off someone who managed to subdue John so retreat continues to be the most sensible plan.
John jerks his weight around so they’re facing up the stairs, grabs hold of the bannister with his right hand - not his dominant one, but stronger, steadier - and pulls out three stitches in his shoulder, hauling himself upwards. They’re fucked now, utterly fucked, so Sherlock ducks down and gets John in a fireman’s carry after all. John moans and Sherlock’s shirt feels damp with more than just his own sweat; he can smell the thick copper of John’s blood. Sherlock can hear footsteps coming up the stairs, doors opening and shutting, and gets them to the second floor moments before the murderer hits the landing.
“Put him down,” the man says. White, early 30s, a bland, boring little man whose face Sherlock will remember despite his best efforts to delete it. He has a Taser in his hand and blood under his fingernails. The risk of him using his weapon on Sherlock is high and he’d rather not drop John. Sherlock eases John down, slowly, slowly. He thinks maybe if he can stall this maniac long enough Lestrade and his dogs might arrive in time to save them.
“Now step away,” the man says, motioning with the Taser like it’s a handgun.
“No,” Sherlock says. “No I don’t think I will. But I will let you leave here. The police are on their way, your only option is to flee, and as I am far more concerned with other matters, I won’t chase you.”
The man - Michael, that was his name - takes two steps up towards them. At such close range it is very unlikely he will miss when he fires on Sherlock. “Step away from him.”
“It’s fine,” John says. “Sherlock, it’s fine. He’s right.” Not what Sherlock was expecting to hear. “I understand. We…” He holds out a hand for Sherlock to help him up and Sherlock honestly has no idea what to do. “We’re meant for this, he and I.”
“Shut up,” Sherlock says. “You’re in shock.”
John keeps trying to get up on his own and failing. “I mean, better him than you. He understands. He understands me, all of it.”
“I will,” Michael promises fervently. He’s flushed with wanting. Sherlock feels ill, though that might be from all the running and lifting.
The dark little stairwell is beginning to lighten with a hint of pre-dawn and Sherlock can see the dirty floors and the chipped paint on the bannister. He can see cigarette butts and a crumpled up bit of newspaper from two months ago. He can see the pale wash of John’s skin and the blood dripping onto the floor. He can’t see a way out.
“Do something for me, for once in your life, Sherlock,” John says. “Help me up, and take me back. You dragged me out you can bloody well take me back.”
Michael lowers the Taser fractionally, and smiles with relief. “I knew you wouldn’t try to leave me,” he says.
“Sherlock,” John says, and Sherlock doesn’t understand what’s happening, this is insanity. “We’re going to have to coordinate.”
Oh. Oh! Wonderful, brilliant, clever John Watson.
Sherlock slowly wrangles John upright from the left, even though John’s shoulder must be an absolute knot of pain. John is breathing heavily, panting almost, but other than that he’s silent. “No funny business,” Michael says, watching him, not John, suspiciously. He has the Taser still pointed at Sherlock but finger off the trigger to avoid accidentally shooting John with it.
“If I could just ask one thing,” Sherlock says, watching as Michael’s attention focuses in on him completely.
Michael sits on his arse all day watching security tapes and stalking people. It’s one thing to use a Taser on someone who isn’t expecting it; it’s another to be quick on the draw.
John reaches into the pocket of Sherlock’s coat, pulls out the Sig and shoots Michael.
The report of the gun is deafening in the enclosed stairwell and Sherlock’s ears are ringing to the point of pain. John mouths something that looks like ‘check him’ but Sherlock can’t be sure. He does so anyway, propping John up against the wall in a sitting position. He peers down the stairs and sees the Taser has slipped from Michael’s grip and is far enough away that he can risk getting closer.
“You missed,” he calls up to John, snatching up the Taser. “You only got him in the gut.” He’s sure John can hear Michael groaning, but then, John is in shock and Sherlock can’t even hear the sound of his own voice right now. Sherlock toes at Michael with distaste, prompting him to writhe where he’s crumpled at the foot of the stairs.
Sherlock, satisfied he’s not going anywhere soon, hurries back up to John. He strips off his jacket, bundles it up and presses it over the incision as best he can. “I think I might pass out now,” John says apologetically, which Sherlock half-hears, half-understands through lip-reading.
“You missed,” Sherlock repeats. “You only got him in the gut.”
“I’m down two pints of blood,” John says. “I wasn’t going to try for a head shot.”
“You could finish him off now,” Sherlock says, sparing a quick glance to make sure that the gut wound is continuing to keep Michael lying down, noisily dying. There’s a crash from downstairs as someone breaks down a door. Hurrah for backup.
“Finish you off for taking cocaine,” John mutters, and then passes out.
X X X
We’ve got them
L
There was never a doubt
in my mind
MH
Yeah right, but thanks
Johns in hospital if you
want 2 see him
L
X X X
Donovan is coming out of John’s room when Sherlock finally gets away from DI Jenison and his insistence on getting an official statement. They face off warily. Sally’s about ready to crash; her hands are unsteady from the amount of caffeine she’s consumed recently. Sherlock is wearing hospital scrubs and is dragging around an IV because some triage nurse took one look at his vitals and got him a chair and fluids; he’s managed to lose the nurse and the chair but he can concede the merits of the fluids. Both he and Sally look like shit.
“They sent you to ask if he’s been raped,” Sherlock says, hating everything.
Donovan puts her hands in her pockets and doesn’t deny it. She’s wearing trainers that don’t match her skirt; what she wears to and from the office but it’s been such a long day she can’t bear her professional heels any longer. Sally Donovan and her trainers and her shaky hands know what happened to John and she’s not allowed to tell him, the doctors aren’t allowed to tell him, and Sherlock doesn’t think he can stand to go into the room and look at John. He doesn’t want to deduce this. “He wasn’t,” Donovan says, and Sherlock jerks like he’s been slapped. Rarely do people surprise him.
She still thinks he’s capable of terrible things and she’s more right than anyone but the dead will ever know. Sally knows they were lucky to find John alive and in (more or less) one piece because of what Sherlock might have done in retaliation, and she doesn’t even have the slightest inkling of what he did to Moriarty’s circle. He doesn’t try to put a hand on her shoulder, or move towards her at all.
“Thank you,” he says, and it’s her turn to look surprised. “For…for being right.”
“Well,” Sally says, colour rising in her cheeks. “We can’t be imbeciles all the time.” She steps out of Sherlock’s way and begins her journey home.
“Anderson’s still a blistering idiot,” Sherlock calls after her. “You can do better.”
She gives him the bow-fingers over her head. “Don’t ruin it, Freak,” she says with what might even be a touch of fondness.
Sherlock drags his IV stand into John’s room. There’s a teenager with a broken leg and a concussion (drunken spill) in the next bed, texting furiously. No doubt Mycroft offered to get John a room to himself, but it seems equally likely that John, knowing the lack of beds and keenly feeling the sad plight of others, refused special treatment. Annoying, but Sherlock is good at ignoring people.
“Who’re you?” the teenager asks. She’s going to have a wicked hangover in the morning if she’s still this drunk after having her leg set.
“I escaped from the nuthouse,” Sherlock says. “I firmly believe that the Elder Gods are going to rise out of the depths of the Channel and the only way to save humanity is to eat the brains of irritating children.”
“Wanker,” the girl says, going back to her phone.
Sherlock brushes a hand over John’s hair. “Lestrade would like to congratulate you on your excellent marksmanship,” he says, “and for not killing him so he can put the bastard in jail.” For his part, Sherlock is rather disappointed the doctors managed to patch Michael up, but you can’t have everything.
He’s dying to see what sort of ham-handed job the surgeons made of John’s stitches but he doesn’t think it would be a good idea to ask. Instead, Sherlock tugs the blankets off John and slips into the bed next to him. John is solid and broad-shouldered, but Sherlock doesn’t take up much space when he lies on his side. He is careful not to jostle John’s injuries.
John is half-asleep, soaring on the gentle wings of morphine but he lifts a hand, bandages around his wrist, and paws at Sherlock’s hair in something that might be a caress. “Y’all right?” John mumbles.
Sherlock is crashing hard. He aches all over. Even his hair hurts but John is warm against Sherlock’s cold feet and he even grumbles half-heartedly when Sherlock presses them between his calves. “Now,” he says, awkward suddenly because he’s not the one whose chest is stitched together. He’s the idiot who OD’d. “Yes, thank you.” Eventually John will want to talk about the Incident with John and the Cocaine (as Sherlock is referring to it in his head now - not to be mistaken with the Incident with the Tainted Cocaine, the Incident with the Morphine, or the Incident with the Cocaine and Mycroft) but Sherlock is hopeful it won’t be now.
“Gay,” the teenager in the bed over drawls out.
“By the time you get that cast off,” John slurs out, “your leg will be partially atrophied, about five shades paler than the other leg, and won’t match your other one - the other leg - at all. Just in time for summer hols.”
Her mouth snaps shut with an audible sound.
“Leg,” John says, still petting Sherlock’s hair, like he’s forgotten he’s doing it. “Leg. Who invented that word? It’s weird.”
Sherlock presses a hand over his mouth so he doesn’t wake up the entire ward with his laughing. “Go to sleep, John,” he manages, tugging the shoulder of John’s hospital gown down, just a little, so he can see one of the arms of the Y incision and the very neat stitches running along it. Another scar for John to carry then.
“I’ll show you later,” John says. “Glad you’re okay.” He immediately starts snoring the snores of the heavily medicated.
The girl in the bed over makes a sound like she’s going to be sick and mutters, “Gay,” again but Sherlock is warm and John is safe and Mycroft isn’t texting him so he only says, “If I were you I wouldn’t taunt a crack-shot army captain and his sociopathic partner,” yawns, and lets it alone.
He can’t sleep, not with the cocaine withdrawal, but he dozes a little, listening to the steady beat of John’s heart and the quiet whirring of the machines he’s hooked up to. When John surfaces out of the morphine haze, seven hours later, Sherlock feels oddly rested.
X X X
Please inform JW I’m glad
he’s alright.
MH
Tell him yourself
SH
If you think he would be receptive
to such a thing
MH
Read S’s txt. Thanks, Mycroft.
JW
Lunch at Diogenes once you’re
fully recovered?
MH
Sure. I’ll txt you?
JW
I look forwards to it
MH
X X X
The day John’s stitches come out is the day they can no longer pretend there isn’t something they need to discuss. John takes them out himself in the bathroom and when he emerges, he’s still shirtless. The raised Y-shaped scar is pink and tender and Sherlock desperately wants to touch it in the same way he still wants to touch the bullet wound on John’s shoulder. That John is letting him see without being asked means something. Sherlock has no idea what though.
“Right,” John says, and then pulls a t-shirt on. “Start talking.”
“The cocaine was a mistake,” Sherlock allows. He’s still clean. He’s finally able to sleep again as tedious as that is, and he’s managed to put on a few needed pounds. “When I was…I started using when I was… I planned on quitting when I came back.”
John sits down on the sofa next to Sherlock. “Okay,” he says.
Sherlock stares out the window because he can’t try and deduce what John is thinking when he’s trying to explain this. “One day I’ll tell you what I did then,” he says. He means, what I became, but John has fought wars and probably understands. He also understands addiction. Sherlock gets up and starts pacing because sitting still is intolerable. “I won’t pretend I know why you’re interested in me. Your sexual preferences make it clear that you shouldn’t be. That said, all other evidence points to the contrary, and as far as I feel such things, you should know it is reciprocated.”
“What does that mean?” John asks. Sherlock sneaks a glance at his face and sees patience. John is waiting until he has all the facts before he reacts. He doesn’t let himself look any further.
“It means I wouldn’t be averse to adding a physical element to our relationship, which I’m sure we both agree, does rather strain the traditional boundaries of friendship.” Sherlock rearranges some of his papers while he talks. He has no idea what new order they’ve gone into; he’s making a mess of his own system. “For me, cocaine stimulates my sex drive. It seemed like a good time to see if we would be compatible. Another mistake, I will admit.”
John rubs his face. “You’re mental,” he says. “You know that, right?”
Sherlock decides he has nothing to lose. He sets two documents down on the table in front of John and fetches his laptop, opening it to a file he’s prepared specially for this discussion.
John looks at the proffered computer with raised eyebrows. “What’s-?” he starts then realizes what’s on the paper.
Sherlock took the liberty of procuring STD panels for both of them so John will be satisfied neither of them is at risk. Condoms sound tedious and moderately disgusting to Sherlock. Better to eliminate the entire discussion. John doesn’t bother with stupid questions, just turns to the computer.
“A list of things I find irritating, from least so to most,” Sherlock says. He wants to fidget, how pedestrian. “I would like to try again, if you are still interested, but without the cocaine it will be…difficult. Of course, my active participation and enjoyment isn’t vital, but if it’s an exercise you wish to-”
John’s scanning the document, eyes wide. It’s a long list. “Oh,” he says, getting the picture. “Oh!” Then he just looks insulted. “Participation and enjoyment isn’t vital?” he says. “Christ you’re stupid sometimes.” He hums low in his throat and scrolls down a little. “But you can?”
“I can try,” is as much as Sherlock can promise. It’s not a romantic moment, he knows that. And John can be so dull when it comes to the traditional aspects of courtsh- Sherlock realizes that John is hard. Reading the list of things Sherlock doesn’t want to do. That’s…
John catches him looking and pinkens. “Sorry,” he says. “It’s just, this leaves a lot of room for a lot of stuff and…” He avoids Sherlock’s gaze by scrolling through the list a little more. “I, uh.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Reading this is making me feel very creative.”
Sherlock can feel himself starting to smile, just a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth. Creative is good. “I doubt very much I’ll be able to sustain an erection sufficient for penetration, if that’s something you were thinking about getting creative about,” Sherlock says, examining his fingernails for minor nicks and tears. “It’s not medical, I just have trouble focusing on something as mundane as physical sensation for prolonged periods of time.”
“Alright,” John says, voice mild, though he is blushing furiously.
Sherlock reconsiders his previous trepidation. John might, in fact, be reassured by that piece of information. Less of a threat to his status as a heterosexual if there is no danger of Sherlock being the dominant partner. Sherlock sits down on the sofa and starts to laugh. “We,” he announces, “are very bad at this.” He is relieved when John starts to giggle.
X X X
If you don’t wish to be
irrevocably scarred for life
I suggest you cease monitoring
the flat
SH
Can it be? Is today the day
you at last become a man?
MH
Fuck off Mycroft
SH
X X X
They have sex in John’s room so Sherlock can leave if the whole endeavour goes badly.
John pushes into him with little stretching and a lot of lube. He moves slow, rocking in inch by careful inch while Sherlock pants and squirms, his body clenching down and relaxing without his say so. It’s hard to move with John’s full weight on him, he tries to get his knees underneath himself, but John pushes them firmly apart again and holds them there when Sherlock struggles, only managing to force more of John’s cock inside him.
“Oh,” Sherlock says, tensing, shaking with it. John, wonderful, careful, well-trained John Watson, finds his leverage and pushes in the rest of the way. Sherlock makes small, choked sounds.
“Relax,” John says, grinding in, sliding out just a little, and shoving back in again. It’s an effort, but there’s enough lube that the only friction is Sherlock’s body giving way. And it does. John is solid against him, forcing him open, forcing him still.
Sherlock’s eyes are screwed shut and he’s panting open-mouthed. He can’t relax. He can’t even uncurl his toes, or un-clench his stomach muscles, his thighs, his cramping calves.
John is rocking into him gently now, little tiny shifts of pressure. “You can,” John says, leaning over Sherlock.
John’s chest is tacky with sweat where he’s pressed against Sherlock’s back and Sherlock winces away when their skin peels apart and sticks back together. His skin is crawling now and he can abruptly relax but now he’s uncomfortably full, he can’t breathe…
“Sorry,” John says, snagging a corner of the sheet. He drags it between their bodies, draping it over Sherlock’s back, smoothing it down with one rough hand so it’s not a wisp of sensation, not an itch Sherlock will need to scrub his nails over until his skin is red and sore.
Sherlock flicks the head of his cock, which has gone mostly flaccid now. It’s shocking and painful and draws his attention away from any of the other sensations crawling over his body. He does it again, a moment before John pinches the base of his cock, which, oh, that’s interesting. He can feel John’s smile against his shoulder, through the sheet, but John is cupping his testicles in his hand and pulling them back, skin drawn tight. Sherlock starts to tense up again and John continues grinding into him, damn near shoving Sherlock up the mattress.
“Better,” Sherlock manages; his cock is hardening again, sluggish arousal. He gets a hand on himself with a tight grip, letting John’s movements push his cock though his fist. “I can…Just, just give me a minute.”
John doesn’t listen because he’s brilliant. Instead, he gets a handful of Sherlock’s hair and pulls. Firm, steady pressure. Sherlock wants to write sonatas to John’s soldier hands, to his surgeon hands. It makes it harder to breathe, and so much easier. His face isn’t pressed into the too-warm pillow anymore, and his chest is tight from the strain on his throat that the angle of his spine is causing.
He moans. Almost silently, almost caught behind his tongue, pressed to his bottom teeth. Making noise is abhorrent. He can’t stand the sound of himself like this, and John is breathing hard and fast and Sherlock wants to hear that.
“Relax,” John says again, rough and low in his ear, hand slipping from his hair to press on Sherlock’s throat.
Sherlock struggles, more against himself than against John. He manages to release the tension in his body, but only for a moment, and then everything tightens again. John’s breath punches out of him. “Again,” he says, pinching identical bruises onto the inside of Sherlock’s thighs.
Sherlock does, body strung out under John’s hands. A thick string of precome wells out of his cock and smears onto the bedding under him. He starts pulling off in earnest and barely notices when John moves the sheet from between them. They’re both sweating enough that they don’t stick, they slide - which is acceptable - and John sits back on his heels. His damaged shoulder is starting to give, and Sherlock goes with him, settling down over John, knees spread wide. John sucks on his neck, thick and still inside Sherlock, despite the trembling in his thighs that give away his desire to start thrusting.
“Some time we’re at a crime scene,” John says, “one of those dingy little flats we end up in, I’m going to fuck you in the next room, bend you over and have you right there.” He’s moving, ever so slightly now, small pulses of his hips that drag his cock over Sherlock’s prostate, hands on Sherlock’s thighs, on his chest, tangling in his hair again so John has as much access to Sherlock’s throat as he likes.
Sherlock rather enjoys listening to John’s voice when it’s dropped a third of an octave, and hearing him rattling off filth is unexpectedly delightful. It’s amusing to pretend. It makes Sherlock feel almost normal, without any of the usual distain he reserves for such a notion. John is much better at spinning fantasies than he is.
“Won’t get you off,” John says, and there’s a split second of hesitation in his voice, a momentary falter, before he surges on. “Won’t let you, even if you beg. Just going to come in you and we’ll go back out there, in front of Lestrade, and Donovan, and Anderson, and all those people, everyone you’ve called an idiot, and see how well you can deduce when you’ve got my come leaking out of you.”
Sherlock’s head tips back against John’s shoulder. John pinches his nipples and Sherlock comes. It hurts. Does it hurt? He can’t tell if it’s pain or not, and he stops stroking himself and just cups his prick against his belly, nerves firing all wrong. He can’t help the noises he makes then. Aborted and bitten off as they are.
“I know,” John says. “I’ve got you.”
He puts his arms around Sherlock’s chest but his hips angle back and his cock slips out of Sherlock. John bears him back down to the mattress, cock pressing between Sherlock’s thighs, still slick with lube, sliding over the bruises that are forming there, clever bastard.
Sherlock presses his thighs together and stretches out, tired. John hooks his arms under Sherlock and breathes hot and damp against his shoulders. “God,” he says, “you’re brilliant. Fuck. Sherlock.” John’s come is warm and thick between Sherlock’s legs.
He rolls off Sherlock and flops onto his back. “One to ten?” John asks, as Sherlock cleans himself off with a corner of the sheet and then tucks a clean portion over John before curling up against him.
Sherlock considers it. “Six,” he says. “Four?” One is unbearable, five is indifference, ten is fantastic. It’s a woefully imprecise scale. “I cannot properly assess my reactions with such a-”
“We’re not making a chart, or graph, or questionnaire,” John says. He laughs, bright and delighted, and remembers to use firm pressure against Sherlock’s skin, and not light, teasing touches.
“It was…fine,” Sherlock says, stretching. He feels settled in his body like he does after a particularly exciting case. “Except the end.”
John scratches a hand through Sherlock’s hair. “Right,” he says. “Good except the orgasm.”
“It happens sometimes,” Sherlock says, unconcerned. Orgasms are boring, ordinary. There are far more curious things to explore. “What about you?”
“I like orgasms just fine,” John says.
Sherlock sighs. “I mean, this, with a man.”
John is quiet for long enough that Sherlock starts to worry. He doesn’t want to go back to being friends and flatmates. He wants permission to put his hands on John and the thought of having sex once in a while doesn’t turn his stomach as much as he assumed it would. Unless John hated it.
“Different,” John says at last. “Always figured it’d be easy for two blokes, same equipment you know?”
“Yes, yes,” Sherlock says. “I know I’m difficult, that isn’t news. Did you enjoy it?”
“Yeah,” John says, and then more certain, “yeah, actually, I did. Christ, I’m never going to hear the end of it from Harry.”
“Tell me more about this idea of yours,” Sherlock says, because he has no desire to discuss John’s sister while he’s naked.
John is pitifully slow after orgasm. “I…what?” he says.
“Your idea,” Sherlock repeats. “The one where you fuck me at a crime scene.”
John stops petting Sherlock, and when Sherlock makes an annoyed sound, he starts it up again, but stilted. “It didn’t mean anything,” he says.
“I know that,” Sherlock says. He drums his fingers on John’s chest. It’s not his area, but John’s foray into dirty talk has given him an idea; he’s sure there are plenty of things they can do that don’t involve quite so much participation on his end that would be enjoyable for all parties. If there’s one thing he learned from the Woman, it’s that there is a lot of sex happening that doesn’t involve actual sex. So much new data to catalogue.
“Do I even want to know what you’re thinking?” John asks.
Sherlock grins against his shoulder. “I doubt it,” he says, reaching for his mobile.
“I’m going to sleep,” John says, turning the side lamp off. For a moment Sherlock thinks John is asking him to leave, but John doesn’t move his arm from around Sherlock’s waist, so perhaps not. “You don’t have to stay if you get bored.”
Sherlock kisses him, because he can and it’s unexpectedly nice, and goes back to his research.
X X X
You might not want to monitor
my phone for a while either
SH
Yes, that had come to my attention
MH
That’s what you get for snooping
SH
How do you feel about bondage
specifically sensory deprivation?
SH
I’m at work! Don’t send me
porn at work
JW
It’s not porn, it was a question
SH
How do you feel about sexting?
SH
Oh my god I’ve created a monster
JW
[img]
SH
Thanks, now I have a hardon
at work
JW
X X X
Sally Donavan comes by the flat while John is lunching with Mycroft, presumably burying hatchets and such. She gets two steps through the door before Sherlock can’t resist breaking the news himself.
“Promotion, Detective Inspector Donovan?” Sherlock drawls from where he’s sprawled unhappily in his chair, contemplating the unending tedium of life without work, as she sits down in John’s chair without being invited to.
“Yeah,” she says and Sherlock takes a closer look at her.
“And no more affair,” he says. “Wise choice. He hasn’t got the spine to leave his wife.”
Sally crosses her legs at the ankle and leans back, comfortable. “Not going to insult the police force for promoting me?” She looks better than the last few times he saw her, slept a few decent nights. She’s had her hair done, more expensive than usual. No, rather a whole spa day, either to celebrate the promotion or as a getting over it cleansing of her relationship with Anderson. Most likely the latter.
Sherlock cocks his head. “You’ve been passed over for promotion three times already. They said it was because of your age, or someone else’s skills, but obviously it was down to your gender and race. I don’t need to insult your professional organization because they made Dimmock a DI before you,” he points out. “They’ve already insulted themselves. He’s so difficult to work with. I’m hoping we’ll have a less fraught relationship since you are exponentially less stupid than he is, and clearly getting smarter.”
Sally takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly. “Right,” she says. “So your brother didn’t pull any strings? Because I want the promotion on my own terms.”
“My brother wouldn’t bestir himself for something so trivial,” he says and then remembers he was trying not to antagonize her because doubtless she will have interesting cases he will want to see at some later date. “You don’t want his attention anyway,” he says, trying to backtrack.
Sally only rolls her eyes at him, and she’s pleased. The slight hesitation in her is gone now. “Obviously neither of us likes the other, but I think we can work together. I’ll let you in on the weird cases and if you manage not to be a total prick about it, I’ll solve a few mysteries you have about women. We’re not aliens, Freak, we’re no stupider or smarter as a collective, and you’re doing us and your own profession a disservice by not knowing a fucking thing about us.”
It is a fair trade. And she won’t ask him to work with Anderson. “Very well,” Sherlock says. They shake on it and then she pulls out a manila folder and passes it to him. There are three dismembered bodies, four sets of limbs, a locked door, and a bafflingly incoherent manifesto left pinned to one of the torsos. He beams at her, leaping up to pin the information over the mantelpiece. “Detective Inspector Donovan,” he says, delighted, “tell Lestrade he’s no longer my favourite.”
He hears the front door open and raises his voice so John can hear him as he comes up the stairs. “John! Cancel your plans, we have a new case!”
John, clearing the doorway, nods politely at Sally. “I don’t have any plans,” he says, brushing a hand over Sherlock’s back as he passes on the way to the kitchen. The look on Sally’s face as she puts two and two together and perceives their relationship is well worth the momentary distraction.
END.