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holmesticeTitle: I have been one acquainted with the night
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
venturous1
Author:neurotoxia
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: ~12,000
Warnings: substance abuse, oral, handjobs, underage, dubcon, angst, self-harm, bdsm themes (riding crops, knifeplay, bloodplay)
Author’s Note: Happy Holmestice,venturous1! I hope you enjoy :)
Summary: Sherlock leaps from one addiction to the next, always circling back to one until it almost kills him. Staying sober isn’t easy and when he can’t have his new addiction John Watson anymore, his old vice is lurking in the shadows.
He nearly had him. He came so close. So very close. Sherlock lies in a bathtub filled with tepid water in the tiny but expensive (and they say prices in London are ridiculous) one-bedroom flat in Luxembourg. He must have been lying here for at least an hour, maybe longer -- if he cared, he could deduce it from the wrinkles on his fingertips. But he doesn’t care.
Four months. He wasted four months to get close enough to the last pillar of Moriarty’s empire. Four months to tear it down and then triumphantly walk home through the rubble. But the pillar skipped away into the sunset right before his eyes. Sebastian Moran. Colonel Sebastian Moran. Jim Moriarty’s second, his right hand, his favourite lapdog (more of a Doberman than a Chihuahua though). Intelligent, skilled, and downright dangerous. You have to be well-trained to fly under Sherlock’s and Mycroft’s radar for almost two years. Moran was a whisper at first, almost as elusive as Moriarty -- Sherlock was almost convinced Moran was a straw man (or woman). But the whispers persisted, and Mycroft’s team uncovered a first name somehow. It took months to turn the man into a tangible concept. Unlike Jim Moriarty, he wants to remain hidden, doesn’t have his boss’ rampant narcissistic streak.
When finally attached a face to the name, Sherlock vibrated with tension. Only this man stood between him and London, 221B and John.
Sherlock studied the file he received from Mycroft religiously. Colonel Sebastian Moran, formerly of the British Army. Dishonourably discharged in 2004 (reasons blacked out). Excellent marksman, trained sniper, ruthless commander. No known relatives. Completely disappeared from the face of the earth in 2006. Sherlock spent hours staring at the photograph attached: an official army photo from late 2003. Green eyes, blonde hair cut extremely short, prominent jaw with darker blonde stubble. A scar runs through his left eyebrow. By Sherlock’s estimate he is at least six foot three tall, possibly even six five.
Once Sherlock had a lead on him, he felt like Christmas came early. Word had it that Moran was planning a trip to Luxembourg to secure some financial matters. A country well known for its banking services catering to wealthy clientele but lower on the radar than Switzerland, Liechtenstein or the Cayman Islands. Less suspicious. A clever choice.
Sherlock hopped onto a plane in Budapest and arrived at the country’s only international airport. He posed as a Frenchman working in the capital. He could have used his German identity, too but while his French is fluent and accent-free, his German isn’t. Might be suspicious in a country where German is an official language.
He had an estimated forty-two hours before Moran would arrive and hopefully walk straight into his demise. Success was within his reach; he could almost taste it. For the first time in over a year, Sherlock bought himself a treat -- a piece of Quetschentaart at a boulangerie on Rue de Bonnevoie and enjoyed it with a dollop of whipped cream and a sprinkle of sugar in his temporary quarters. Just to taunt Mycroft, Sherlock emailed him a picture of the cake. It’s childish, but he hadn’t been able to properly tease Mycroft for far too long.
Sometime after that, everything went wrong.
Moran entered the country much sooner than expected, passing through undetected even with Mycroft’s staff watching. Sherlock had chosen to scour the bank Moran is supposed to have dealings with, feigning interest in seeking to hide his earnings from the French tax office.
As luck had it, Moran was crossing the lobby when Sherlock exited the lift. He immediately spotted the colonel, but couldn’t get back into the lift before Moran saw him as well; the man’s instincts were in excellent shape. Moran didn’t waste time,. He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, spun around on his heel and strode back towards the doors without appearing too hurried to the bystanders. He stopped at the entrance and leaned towards the security guards, saying something to them that made them look at Sherlock who was half hidden behind the fountain in the foyer. The bulky men approached Sherlock, Moran vanishing behind them out the door. The guards held Sherlock back for some reason he can’t remember now. They were talking to him in Luxembourgish, French, German and English but Sherlock doesn’t hear a word. It all blends together from the point when he saw Moran in the flesh for the first time. Sherlock can only remember the cold clenching at his heart after he managed to escape the security guards’ clutches to discover that Moran used the time to disappear.
Since then, he's been awake for two days, conducting a frantic search, but Sebastian Moran is nowhere to be found. Chances are that he has long since left the country (easy when the whole country is only 300 square miles bigger than Greater London).
Sherlock takes the razor from the edge of the bathtub. Its edge gleams in the low bathroom lights. Disappointment, anger and homesickness gnaw at his heart. So stupid. So careless. Moran is aware now that Sherlock is alive and hunting him and Sherlock is back to square one. How long now before he can go home? If he ever could.
The chances of him dying -- most likely at Moran’s hand -- have risen by forty-three in the last forty-eight hours. Almost three years of hunting could be undone by a stupid mistake. Almost three years since Lestrade last patted his shoulder, Mrs Hudson gave him a hug or John touched his bare skin.
Sherlock has no idea what or how John is doing. After he allowed himself that last glance at the cemetery, Sherlock hasn’t inquired after him. Mycroft is only allowed to give him news if anything grave happens. No news amounts to good news. Fear nags at Sherlock’s mind. What if John isn’t in 221B, not in London, anymore? What if he’s married some nice, boring woman and has two point five children? What if he’s forgotten about Sherlock, who’s supposed to be little more than a skeleton by now? He surely feels like one.
No. No. Sherlock refuses to think about that. John is his. He promised and John doesn’t break promises. If there was one truth in the universe, it was John Watson’s.
Sherlock hardly feels the splitting of flesh on the underside of his upper arm -- the blade is extremely sharp. He watches the blood in rapt fascination, running down in a sluggish scarlet trickle, away from the cut. It’s not superficial, but not deep enough to be worrisome. Seconds or minutes later, Sherlock can’t recall how long, he stares at his work. He has carved a “J” into his arm and can’t remember doing it or making the decision to.
More blood trickles down, collects at the lowest point before dripping into the water and forming a tiny cloud of red. Sherlock continues to stare at the letter, maybe two inches long. The cut burns just a little, almost the same pleasant way as when John does it. John with his medical knowledge, who knows enough about bloodflow and tissue to end Sherlock’s life in seconds. Sherlock finds being at John’s mercy exhilarating. He inclines his head and lets his tongue trail the edges of the, the metallic tang on his tongue urging him to close his eyes and enjoy. John’s blood is better but his own from the cut made for John is all he has at the moment.
Sherlock continues to lie still in the tub, gaze following the slowing trickle from the bleeding “J”, turning the sharp letter into a blurred shape in deep red. The cut will heal in a few days; it might leave a faint scar -- hopefully. It’s the closest he can get to a permanent imprint of John, one he can take to the grave if push comes to shove.
Maybe John will let him cut an “S” into his body once he comes home. If he comes home.
The last week before his return is a blur. Mycroft’s lackeys manage to find a picture of Moran entering the UK. On the flight back home. Sherlock thinks that Sebastian Moran didn't so much get caught on camera as he let himself be caught. The colonel is much too elusive to make a mistake like that, considering it took them months to find out he was real at all. He is sending Sherlock a message. Or rather a final warning: Sherlock doesn’t have any evidence but Moran is likely one of the snipers who were set on John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade.
The disaster in Luxembourg was weeks ago; Sherlock fell into a slump of combined apathy and cocaine high, tacking the walls with Morans previous movements and pictures. Sherlock didn’t do much more than stare at it, no new clues to be gained. Only Mycroft’s call with the words “He entered the United Kingdom via Glasgow six hours ago” makes him move. Sherlock knows it’s a trap. Moran is trying to lure him out by reviving the threat. Years ago, Sherlock would have refused to take such obvious bait, but he can’t be bothered to care about a clever delivery. His friends’ lives are at stake. John’s life is at stake.
A world without John Watson in it is not an option.
He is tired of playing cat and mouse and has no idea anymore whether he is the hunter or the prey.
The first time he sees John after he’s returned is a heady mixture of anger and adrenaline. John is so shocked upon seeing Sherlock, he goes white as a sheet and nearly vomits into Mrs Hudson’s umbrella stand by the door. He staggers back to sit on the stairs, Sherlock follows him inside, for once not saying anything. Sherlock is desperate to touch John, his John, but doesn’t dare. John regains the ability to stand and whispers Sherlock’s name, the most painful and yet most beautiful sound Sherlock has ever heard.
He can read the upcoming punch in the tension in John’s body and doesn’t try to stop it. If he has ever earned a punch, this one would be it. A faint trail of blood runs from Sherlock’s nose as he picks himself up, just in time to catch John in his arms like a marionette cut from its strings. The anger was apparently the only thing keeping him upright. For several minutes, they cling to each other.
They come close to dying at Moran’s hands, the only thing saving Sherlock from a bullet to the brain being John’s steady hand and the team of policemen Mycroft had dispatched. Lestrade looks as if he’s ready to have a heart attack when he sees Sherlock. For a second, Sherlock thinks Lestrade is going to punch him as well, before he’s enveloped in a crushing hug (Sherlock would have found a punch much easier to deal with) and treated to a string of Lestrade’s favourite cuss words for him. Sherlock pets Lestrade’s shoulder, feeling awkward and watching John, who looks exhausted (mentally more than physically), but has a small smile playing at his lips.
Lestrade only lets them go with a promise to see him first thing in the morning and then they’re back at Baker Street, the flat silent and too tidy for Sherlock’s taste. John has been staying but not living there -- it looks like a cleaned-up shrine to Sherlock. His chemistry equipment is missing, but his insect collections are now mounted on the wall over the mantle. The skull still rests on it (now wearing the hideous hat, but the framed picture next to it is new -- a photograph of Sherlock in what John once dubbed his ‘thinking pose’: reclined on the sofa, fingers steepled under his chin and his gaze fixed on the windows (judging from the angle). Sherlock didn’t even know the picture existed. He can feel John’s eyes boring into his back.
“John...” Sherlock starts but doesn’t finish because he is propelled into the wall by John’s body.
“You utter bastard,” John hisses and crushes his lips against Sherlock’s.
It’s desperate and not gentle, which is the last thing Sherlock would be able to take at the moment. He needs John; he needs John to be angry with him because Sherlock doesn’t have the power to be angry at himself anymore. Sherlock needs John to wipe his mind clean, format the hard drive and reinstall the operating system that is currently riddled with viruses and fragmented beyond saving.
When Sherlock begs John for the pain, John hesitates. He wants it as much as Sherlock, but knows that he shouldn’t do it with so much anger bottled up inside. Sherlock continues to wear John’s reluctance down, knowing that John would never ignore a safeword, no matter how angry he was.
Once he finally caves, he orders Sherlock to the upstairs bedroom to undress himself and wait. Sherlock is strung as tightly as his violin bow, can’t get out of his clothing fast enough. Three years without touching John -- three years of not knowing whether he would ever get to do it again. The thought alone makes his cock strain against his pants. Sherlock removes the final piece of clothing in haste and gets on the bed before John enters, riding crop and old army knife in his left hand. The air sticks in Sherlock’s throat, anticipation ready to burst out of him, but he doesn’t say a word out of fear that if he says the wrong thing, John might remember how ill-advised this encounter is.
And if John stops, Sherlock doesn't know what he'd do -- he doesn't think he'd survive it.
Sherlock expects to be bound, but John wants an exercise in discipline and orders him to hold onto the headboard and not let go. He scurries to comply, licking his lips in anticipation and grabbing the wood above him until his fingers hurt. The headboard is the only thing anchoring him to earth. That and watching John strip off his jumper, but not more. In the last three years, John has gained a few pounds (lack of exercise) but is still in much better shape than most of his age group. As he looks at Sherlock on his bed (and Sherlock feels stripped much more than just to his skin), his eyes are still hard and angry, though his anger is controlled and hopefully soon channelled into quick flicks with a crop and the slither of a blade against pale skin. He asks for the safewords and Sherlock has to find his voice again before he can answer (yellow and red -- the former for ‘dangerous’ and the latter for ‘stop’ -- John prefers his safewords to be easy and precise).
John steps forward to the foot of the bed, riding crop in hand and Sherlock’s world narrows down to exquisite pain: his partner’s knowledge of anatomy helps him keep the pain just this side of ‘bearable’ and he never strikes hard enough to draw blood. That is going to be the blade’s duty.
A moan erupts from Sherlock’s mouth when the crop leaves a welt across his inner thigh and he almost lets go of the headboard.
Every strike with the crop makes the hard drive in his mind skip for a blinding moment of pain dissolving into pleasure. John speaks words but Sherlock can’t seem to string them together into sentences. It doesn’t matter, the sound of John’s voice is enough.
When John casts aside the crop, Sherlock’s chest is heaving from the thrum of arousal and the effort to follow John’s instructions. A faint sheen of sweat sends goosebumps across his body and makes locks of hair stick to his forehead and neck. John nudges Sherlock’s legs apart and kneels between his thighs and unclasps the knife. The light of the evening sun falling in through the window dyes the blade a vibrant orange and Sherlock can’t help but lick his lips. He still hasn’t dared to break his silence, afraid to undo the spell. If John decides to stop now, Sherlock would probably empty a syringe into his bloodstream within the next ten minutes to reach oblivion.
Luckily, John seems to need it as much as he does and throws caution out the window. Just as well that he doesn’t ask whether Sherlock contracted an illness during his abscence; at this stage, Sherlock would lie without hesitation. He is reasonably sure he hasn’t picked up any strange viruses or other illnesses -- he had all kinds of vaccinations before his trips and he was never stupid enough to use needles twice or share them. Safe and sane still doesn’t apply to what he and John are doing right now, but Sherlock considers these words to be synonyms of “boring” anyway.
Cold steel presses against his throat, not enough to cut, but it would if Sherlock moved. His heart hammers in his chest, instinctual need for survival setting in, even with the knowledge that John has no plans to kill him. Sherlock’s erection grows, the tip glistening with the first signs of pre-ejaculate. John drags a finger along the shaft, almost making Sherlock flinch.
“John,” Sherlock whispers, unable to remain mute any longer.
John removes the blade from Sherlock’s throat and for a second, Sherlock thinks John is going to stop -- fear welling up before he feels the sharp burn of a blade being drawn through the skin of his biceps. Just enough to make the crimson of his blood appear at the surface. The instant it happens, Sherlock’s mind goes blank, his mind becomes a vast, empty space.
It’s a high not even cocaine can produce.
A moan escapes him upon the second cut, a few inches below the first. Sherlock wants to fist the sheets, but he hasn’t been given permission to let go. He breathes in John’s scent, a combination of tea leaves, laundry detergent and aftershave (Diesel’s Only the Brave, present from Harry). He blanks out with the next cut and descends into a state of mind where he can only focus on pain, pleasure and John.
When he surfaces again, his upper arms, chest and thighs are striped with thin ribbons of blood, a delicious burn and ache deep in his bones. Sherlock is panting and the erection between his legs is begging for attention. The muscles in his arms start to protest against holding onto the headboard for so long -- he can’t remember the last time he felt this good.
“John, please,” he whispers, voice hoarse. He needs release. Needs to go higher, faster, harder.
The wait only takes seconds, but feels like hours.
Sherlock hears the sound of a bottle cap being opened. There are slick fingers at his entrance, pressing into him. The stretch and burn is almost like a new experience after so long. John avoids all the places and movements that would get him off -- Sherlock is already teetering on the edge. John doesn’t take long; the fingers withdraw fast to work on John getting ready, judging by the sound of more lubricant being squeezed out of the bottle and the rustle of fabric and a zipper.
“Turn around. On your knees,” John commands and Sherlock snaps out of his haze long enough to scramble into position.
The cuts on his arms and thighs stretch and start to burn anew -- Sherlock bites his lower lip to contain the sounds that threaten to escape him. John wraps an arm around his waist and drags him back until he’s sitting in John’s lap, his naked back against John’s soft shirt. John nuzzles at Sherlock’s vertebrae and enters him without much preamble. Throwing his head back against John’s shoulder, Sherlock bares his throat and groans. He won’t last very long -- not with John’s hand closed around his prick and his mouth biting at the column of Sherlock’s throat. Only now does he truly realise how much he missed John, how incomplete he has been for the last three years.
“I...” he whimpers, hitching breath matching John’s thrusts.
Picking up speed, John grabs Sherlock’s jaw and draws his head back again, licking at one of the small cuts he left on the throat. He has the one last thought -- John, taking in his blood, a bit of Sherlock now in John’s system -- before his mind whites out into complete silence and he comes into John’s hand.
Sherlock sags against John, his mind caught up in white noise and nothing else. John finishes shortly after, Sherlock’s name on his lips and holds him against his chest for a few more seconds before he guides Sherlock down to the mattress.
Sherlock is covered in blood, sweat and semen and he couldn’t care less. John moves around on the mattress, preparing to get up. He catches John’s wrist in a vice grip -- he can’t leave, not when Sherlock has just come back --
“I’m just going to get some antiseptic and a towel. Then we’ll talk,” John murmurs and presses a kiss to Sherlock’s lips. His anger hasn’t dissipated, that’s obvious from his body language. But as long as John’s not going to leave, he will talk as much as John needs to. Later.
Sherlock lets go of John’s wrist and sinks back into the pillows closing his eyes. In the background, his brain comes back online, hard drive formatted and recovering bit by bit.
“Sherlock, I just want to help. You can’t keep doing this. How do you think John will react?”
Lestrade shows all the signs of discomfort. He twists the phantom of his wedding band with the thumb and index finger of his right hand. A stubborn frown as he leans back in his chair. One of his better dress shirts; he’s taking Molly out for dinner. Sherlock hopes the relationship with Lestrade will finally rid Molly of her infatuation with Sherlock. She’s made remarkable progress in the last three and a half years, doesn’t let Sherlock walk all over her anymore. It makes her harder to manipulate, but Sherlock respects Molly now. Lestrade knows she isn’t completely over Sherlock, but is hoping she will get there eventually.
Sherlock doesn’t tell Lestrade there is a seventy-eight percent chance she will abandon her hopes for Sherlock in the next three months. Ninety-four percent in the next five months. Lestrade doesn’t deserve good news for his meddling.
“John doesn’t know,” Sherlock murmurs and keeps reading the weather reports for Bristol on his phone.
“Yeah, how long do you think it will stay that way? He’s just still too glad that you’re not dead to notice there is something wrong.” Lestrade abandons twisting his fingers in favour of crossing his arms.
“If you keep your mouth shut--” Sherlock starts, glaring at Lestrade before being cut off.
“No,” Lestrade says and shakes his head. “I am not watching you go down that road again. You’re not as bad off as last time and that’s the only reason John hasn’t picked up on it.”
It’s a disadvantage that Lestrade knows exactly what Sherlock is like when he’s on drugs. Too much experience with it to miss the subtle signs not even Sherlock can cover up. Of all the things Lestrade could be perceptive about, he has to make it Sherlock.
“Mind your own business,” Sherlock hisses and gets up. In his head, he gears up a litany about Lestrade’s self-consciousness, the ongoing fight with his ex-wife over custody, the illness of his father.
Lestrade sighs, looking defeated. “Sherlock, you are my business. It became my business when you almost died on me from that overdose. And I’m telling you to stop so you don’t lose everything you give a toss about. John won’t stay if you don’t stop. I’m giving you a last chance to get clean before I have to ban you from crime scenes again.”
“What?”
“No crime scenes when you’re using. That rule hasn’t changed.”
Sherlock knows that tone -- it always comes out when Lestrade is being particularly hard-headed. Most of the time, the man is putty in his hands: too set on solving cases to stop Sherlock from walking all over him. With the drugs, there’s never been room for negotiation. Bloody morals.
“You need me,” Sherlock tries, crossing his arms and standing in the doorway.
“We solved crimes for three years without you and we can do it again. Consider yourself lucky I’m not arresting you on the spot.”
Sherlock has enough of this farce and leaves Lestrade’s office in the most dramatic manner he can conjure up without slamming the door.
He walks to St James Park close by and sinks onto a bench a good distance from the water where dense clusters of tourists and Londoners are feeding the ducks. The weather is good for the time of the year: cold but the sun is shining and has lured people outdoors. Sherlock hopes for an increase in crime. Other than Christmas, winter is a bit dire when it comes to interesting cases. Not that he’ll profit from more crimes if Lestrade doesn’t call him in -- and the man is stubborn enough to stick to his word. He didn’t budge last time, which was part of the reason Sherlock stopped the cocaine. If Lestrade doesn’t call, John will notice and become suspicious. And if John isn’t in a state of blissful ignorance, he is going to pick up on the signs. Idiot he may be sometimes, but he is a very good doctor.
He has to tell him. Before Lestrade sweeps in and takes matters into his own hands. John tolerates a lot from Sherlock but he’s not sure if John will forgive another large-scale deceit. For the time being, Sherlock only indulges occasionally, but it’s increasing. The old life in London with its regular cases isn’t as adrenalin-fuelled as hunting after a web of criminals all over the world. The need to seek stimulation for his brain is bigger in London. Sherlock knows it’s a dangerous gamble.
He conceals it well, doesn’t leave any drug paraphernalia lying around and the signs of agitation that set in when he hasn’t taken anything for a week or so don’t differ much from the way he usually expresses his frustration. Sherlock even moves the injection sites around: one day it’s the groin, the next time a foot or his hand. John may be closely acquaintanced with every square inch of Sherlock’s body, but small, healed-over pricks where a needle once breached skin are hard to find if one isn’t looking for them.
Unfortunately, Lestrade has experience. Ever since the overdose, Sherlock can feel Lestrade scanning him for signs of a relapse. The fabricated drug busts for withheld evidence also serve to bring peace to the detective inspector’s mind. Not that Sherlock wouldn’t be able to hide his drugs from the police -- if Lestrade combed the flat (with drugs in it) today, he wouldn’t find anything.
Mycroft not knowing is sheer luck. Since Moran’s “elimination”, Sherlock’s surveillance has been downgraded and his brother has been out of the country for weeks (probably cleaning up after Sherlock’s operations with his diplomatic chess games). He has no illusions about being able to fool Mycroft. If his brother looked properly, he would know within seconds (bloody irritating, that). And if Lestrade called Mycroft, an intervention would be guaranteed.
It is impossible to just wait and sit it out this time. If John finds out from anyone other than Sherlock himself, he will leave. John is still working on conquering his anger over the fake death. The only reason he hasn’t packed his things and left is because Moriarty blackmailed Sherlock with his, Lestrade’s and Mrs Hudson’s life. But making him see the necessity of Sherlock turning to cocaine to focus his mind would be impossible. John refuses the premise of the theory. Sherlock has to concede that no one with an average mind would be able to understand his logic -- even Mycroft only grasps it in an abstract sense.
He is at a crossroads. It seems simple, deciding which direction to go, but it isn’t.
Sherlock doesn’t exactly talk to John about the cocaine. He leaves his syringes, the tourniquet and the vial with the rest of his supply on the kitchen table and waits for John to find it in the morning. Right now, it’s four a.m. and John won’t be up for another three hours at least. He sleeps less when Sherlock isn’t in bed with him.
Sherlock has banked the fire and sits in his chair, fiddling with the sash of his robe. Reruns of the afternoon programmes are running on the telly but he doesn’t feel like deducing the women and men in the talk show. He would like to play his violin but doesn’t. Normally, he has no qualms about waking John with his playing, but he feels strangely torn between wanting John to wake up immediately and hoping he’ll sleep another twelve hours.
Sherlock is vibrating with tension, tempted to relieve it with the remnants of the cocaine. Greeting John with his drug utensils while high might be a bad idea though. Cigarettes, maybe.
Sherlock jumps out of his chair and fishes the packet of tobacco out of his coat pocket. It’s empty. Frustrated, Sherlock hurls the empty pouch into the small bin next to the coat rack and strides into the kitchen. Tea then. He needs some sort of stimulant.
Mug (check if it’s actually clean), tea bag (PG Tips), hot water, leave to steep for a few minutes, milk (the one he’s not cultivating bacteria in), sugar (not to be mistaken with the barium nitrate in the other container), stir and back to the armchair. He grabs his laptop and proceeds to find the vilest documentary available about decomposition. This at least proves interesting enough that he doesn’t notice the passage of time until the bedroom door opens with its usual low creaking. John, clad in boxer briefs and an old t-shirt, emerges, rubbing his eyes.
“Did you sleep at all?” he murmurs and rubs his hands through his hair.
Sherlock doesn’t answer, keeps staring at the screen where the body of a middle-aged man is being devoured by an array of maggots. His stomach feels about the same.
He hears John halting on his way to the kettle. The following silence is dense and heavy. Sherlock can visualise all the emotions crossing John’s face -- it’s so expressive that he still hasn’t catalogued them all. The likely order being puzzlement, suspicion, realisation, confusion and disappointment.
“Sherlock...” John starts, but doesn’t finish.
Sherlock closes his eyes for a second, pauses the video and looks at John -- disappointment, as expected. Lips pressed together, the lines around his eyes deepened, arms crossed.
“The answers to your questions are yes. But I’m not back to habitual use.” He leaves the yet unspoken.
“How long?” John’s voice sounds detached, bare of emotion. The tone unsettles Sherlock because it’s so unlike John.
“Twelve months.” Sherlock traces the inside of his lower lip with his tongue. A nervous habit of his.
“So, when you were...”, John replaces the end of the sentence with a gesture. He has trouble giving Sherlock’s absence a name, even after six months.
Sherlock nods. Words are failing him, choked by the fear of John leaving forever and taking Sherlock’s heart with him. He watches John release a breath, his left hand scrubbing over his face.
“Right. I’ll just--” John says and turns back to the door.
“John.” For once, Sherlock doesn’t know how to explain himself. He hears the impending panic in his own voice and snaps his jaw shut. He wouldn’t beg. Digging his fingers into the armrests, he wills himself to stay put. Neither he nor John would appreciate an undignified display of weakness and fear.
John turns back around, having apparently noticed the panicked tone and lets his eyes rest on Sherlock. Realisation sweeps over him, showing in a widening of the eyes and a barely mouthed ‘oh’.
“Sherlock, I’m not leaving,” he says and walks over to Sherlock’s chair. John’s callused fingers cover the side of Sherlock’s throat. “I won’t tolerate you taking cocaine, but if you really want to quit, we can work this out.”
John’s hand tightens lightly around Sherlock’s throat, restricting his airflow enough to be noticeable. Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed, his heartbeat stopping for a second before picking up its elevated rate again -- excitement, not panic.
“Yes,” he whispers.
With John, he can do this. With John, he won’t crash and burn. That’s how it has always worked: Sherlock has his foot on the accelerator and John his hands on the wheel.
Recipient:
venturous1Author:
neurotoxiaCharacters/Pairings: John/Sherlock
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: ~12,000
Warnings: substance abuse, oral, handjobs, underage, dubcon, angst, self-harm, bdsm themes (riding crops, knifeplay, bloodplay)
Author’s Note: Happy Holmestice,
venturous1! I hope you enjoy :)Summary: Sherlock leaps from one addiction to the next, always circling back to one until it almost kills him. Staying sober isn’t easy and when he can’t have his new addiction John Watson anymore, his old vice is lurking in the shadows.
He nearly had him. He came so close. So very close. Sherlock lies in a bathtub filled with tepid water in the tiny but expensive (and they say prices in London are ridiculous) one-bedroom flat in Luxembourg. He must have been lying here for at least an hour, maybe longer -- if he cared, he could deduce it from the wrinkles on his fingertips. But he doesn’t care.
Four months. He wasted four months to get close enough to the last pillar of Moriarty’s empire. Four months to tear it down and then triumphantly walk home through the rubble. But the pillar skipped away into the sunset right before his eyes. Sebastian Moran. Colonel Sebastian Moran. Jim Moriarty’s second, his right hand, his favourite lapdog (more of a Doberman than a Chihuahua though). Intelligent, skilled, and downright dangerous. You have to be well-trained to fly under Sherlock’s and Mycroft’s radar for almost two years. Moran was a whisper at first, almost as elusive as Moriarty -- Sherlock was almost convinced Moran was a straw man (or woman). But the whispers persisted, and Mycroft’s team uncovered a first name somehow. It took months to turn the man into a tangible concept. Unlike Jim Moriarty, he wants to remain hidden, doesn’t have his boss’ rampant narcissistic streak.
When finally attached a face to the name, Sherlock vibrated with tension. Only this man stood between him and London, 221B and John.
Sherlock studied the file he received from Mycroft religiously. Colonel Sebastian Moran, formerly of the British Army. Dishonourably discharged in 2004 (reasons blacked out). Excellent marksman, trained sniper, ruthless commander. No known relatives. Completely disappeared from the face of the earth in 2006. Sherlock spent hours staring at the photograph attached: an official army photo from late 2003. Green eyes, blonde hair cut extremely short, prominent jaw with darker blonde stubble. A scar runs through his left eyebrow. By Sherlock’s estimate he is at least six foot three tall, possibly even six five.
Once Sherlock had a lead on him, he felt like Christmas came early. Word had it that Moran was planning a trip to Luxembourg to secure some financial matters. A country well known for its banking services catering to wealthy clientele but lower on the radar than Switzerland, Liechtenstein or the Cayman Islands. Less suspicious. A clever choice.
Sherlock hopped onto a plane in Budapest and arrived at the country’s only international airport. He posed as a Frenchman working in the capital. He could have used his German identity, too but while his French is fluent and accent-free, his German isn’t. Might be suspicious in a country where German is an official language.
He had an estimated forty-two hours before Moran would arrive and hopefully walk straight into his demise. Success was within his reach; he could almost taste it. For the first time in over a year, Sherlock bought himself a treat -- a piece of Quetschentaart at a boulangerie on Rue de Bonnevoie and enjoyed it with a dollop of whipped cream and a sprinkle of sugar in his temporary quarters. Just to taunt Mycroft, Sherlock emailed him a picture of the cake. It’s childish, but he hadn’t been able to properly tease Mycroft for far too long.
Sometime after that, everything went wrong.
Moran entered the country much sooner than expected, passing through undetected even with Mycroft’s staff watching. Sherlock had chosen to scour the bank Moran is supposed to have dealings with, feigning interest in seeking to hide his earnings from the French tax office.
As luck had it, Moran was crossing the lobby when Sherlock exited the lift. He immediately spotted the colonel, but couldn’t get back into the lift before Moran saw him as well; the man’s instincts were in excellent shape. Moran didn’t waste time,. He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, spun around on his heel and strode back towards the doors without appearing too hurried to the bystanders. He stopped at the entrance and leaned towards the security guards, saying something to them that made them look at Sherlock who was half hidden behind the fountain in the foyer. The bulky men approached Sherlock, Moran vanishing behind them out the door. The guards held Sherlock back for some reason he can’t remember now. They were talking to him in Luxembourgish, French, German and English but Sherlock doesn’t hear a word. It all blends together from the point when he saw Moran in the flesh for the first time. Sherlock can only remember the cold clenching at his heart after he managed to escape the security guards’ clutches to discover that Moran used the time to disappear.
Since then, he's been awake for two days, conducting a frantic search, but Sebastian Moran is nowhere to be found. Chances are that he has long since left the country (easy when the whole country is only 300 square miles bigger than Greater London).
Sherlock takes the razor from the edge of the bathtub. Its edge gleams in the low bathroom lights. Disappointment, anger and homesickness gnaw at his heart. So stupid. So careless. Moran is aware now that Sherlock is alive and hunting him and Sherlock is back to square one. How long now before he can go home? If he ever could.
The chances of him dying -- most likely at Moran’s hand -- have risen by forty-three in the last forty-eight hours. Almost three years of hunting could be undone by a stupid mistake. Almost three years since Lestrade last patted his shoulder, Mrs Hudson gave him a hug or John touched his bare skin.
Sherlock has no idea what or how John is doing. After he allowed himself that last glance at the cemetery, Sherlock hasn’t inquired after him. Mycroft is only allowed to give him news if anything grave happens. No news amounts to good news. Fear nags at Sherlock’s mind. What if John isn’t in 221B, not in London, anymore? What if he’s married some nice, boring woman and has two point five children? What if he’s forgotten about Sherlock, who’s supposed to be little more than a skeleton by now? He surely feels like one.
No. No. Sherlock refuses to think about that. John is his. He promised and John doesn’t break promises. If there was one truth in the universe, it was John Watson’s.
Sherlock hardly feels the splitting of flesh on the underside of his upper arm -- the blade is extremely sharp. He watches the blood in rapt fascination, running down in a sluggish scarlet trickle, away from the cut. It’s not superficial, but not deep enough to be worrisome. Seconds or minutes later, Sherlock can’t recall how long, he stares at his work. He has carved a “J” into his arm and can’t remember doing it or making the decision to.
More blood trickles down, collects at the lowest point before dripping into the water and forming a tiny cloud of red. Sherlock continues to stare at the letter, maybe two inches long. The cut burns just a little, almost the same pleasant way as when John does it. John with his medical knowledge, who knows enough about bloodflow and tissue to end Sherlock’s life in seconds. Sherlock finds being at John’s mercy exhilarating. He inclines his head and lets his tongue trail the edges of the, the metallic tang on his tongue urging him to close his eyes and enjoy. John’s blood is better but his own from the cut made for John is all he has at the moment.
Sherlock continues to lie still in the tub, gaze following the slowing trickle from the bleeding “J”, turning the sharp letter into a blurred shape in deep red. The cut will heal in a few days; it might leave a faint scar -- hopefully. It’s the closest he can get to a permanent imprint of John, one he can take to the grave if push comes to shove.
Maybe John will let him cut an “S” into his body once he comes home. If he comes home.
The last week before his return is a blur. Mycroft’s lackeys manage to find a picture of Moran entering the UK. On the flight back home. Sherlock thinks that Sebastian Moran didn't so much get caught on camera as he let himself be caught. The colonel is much too elusive to make a mistake like that, considering it took them months to find out he was real at all. He is sending Sherlock a message. Or rather a final warning: Sherlock doesn’t have any evidence but Moran is likely one of the snipers who were set on John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade.
The disaster in Luxembourg was weeks ago; Sherlock fell into a slump of combined apathy and cocaine high, tacking the walls with Morans previous movements and pictures. Sherlock didn’t do much more than stare at it, no new clues to be gained. Only Mycroft’s call with the words “He entered the United Kingdom via Glasgow six hours ago” makes him move. Sherlock knows it’s a trap. Moran is trying to lure him out by reviving the threat. Years ago, Sherlock would have refused to take such obvious bait, but he can’t be bothered to care about a clever delivery. His friends’ lives are at stake. John’s life is at stake.
A world without John Watson in it is not an option.
He is tired of playing cat and mouse and has no idea anymore whether he is the hunter or the prey.
The first time he sees John after he’s returned is a heady mixture of anger and adrenaline. John is so shocked upon seeing Sherlock, he goes white as a sheet and nearly vomits into Mrs Hudson’s umbrella stand by the door. He staggers back to sit on the stairs, Sherlock follows him inside, for once not saying anything. Sherlock is desperate to touch John, his John, but doesn’t dare. John regains the ability to stand and whispers Sherlock’s name, the most painful and yet most beautiful sound Sherlock has ever heard.
He can read the upcoming punch in the tension in John’s body and doesn’t try to stop it. If he has ever earned a punch, this one would be it. A faint trail of blood runs from Sherlock’s nose as he picks himself up, just in time to catch John in his arms like a marionette cut from its strings. The anger was apparently the only thing keeping him upright. For several minutes, they cling to each other.
They come close to dying at Moran’s hands, the only thing saving Sherlock from a bullet to the brain being John’s steady hand and the team of policemen Mycroft had dispatched. Lestrade looks as if he’s ready to have a heart attack when he sees Sherlock. For a second, Sherlock thinks Lestrade is going to punch him as well, before he’s enveloped in a crushing hug (Sherlock would have found a punch much easier to deal with) and treated to a string of Lestrade’s favourite cuss words for him. Sherlock pets Lestrade’s shoulder, feeling awkward and watching John, who looks exhausted (mentally more than physically), but has a small smile playing at his lips.
Lestrade only lets them go with a promise to see him first thing in the morning and then they’re back at Baker Street, the flat silent and too tidy for Sherlock’s taste. John has been staying but not living there -- it looks like a cleaned-up shrine to Sherlock. His chemistry equipment is missing, but his insect collections are now mounted on the wall over the mantle. The skull still rests on it (now wearing the hideous hat, but the framed picture next to it is new -- a photograph of Sherlock in what John once dubbed his ‘thinking pose’: reclined on the sofa, fingers steepled under his chin and his gaze fixed on the windows (judging from the angle). Sherlock didn’t even know the picture existed. He can feel John’s eyes boring into his back.
“John...” Sherlock starts but doesn’t finish because he is propelled into the wall by John’s body.
“You utter bastard,” John hisses and crushes his lips against Sherlock’s.
It’s desperate and not gentle, which is the last thing Sherlock would be able to take at the moment. He needs John; he needs John to be angry with him because Sherlock doesn’t have the power to be angry at himself anymore. Sherlock needs John to wipe his mind clean, format the hard drive and reinstall the operating system that is currently riddled with viruses and fragmented beyond saving.
When Sherlock begs John for the pain, John hesitates. He wants it as much as Sherlock, but knows that he shouldn’t do it with so much anger bottled up inside. Sherlock continues to wear John’s reluctance down, knowing that John would never ignore a safeword, no matter how angry he was.
Once he finally caves, he orders Sherlock to the upstairs bedroom to undress himself and wait. Sherlock is strung as tightly as his violin bow, can’t get out of his clothing fast enough. Three years without touching John -- three years of not knowing whether he would ever get to do it again. The thought alone makes his cock strain against his pants. Sherlock removes the final piece of clothing in haste and gets on the bed before John enters, riding crop and old army knife in his left hand. The air sticks in Sherlock’s throat, anticipation ready to burst out of him, but he doesn’t say a word out of fear that if he says the wrong thing, John might remember how ill-advised this encounter is.
And if John stops, Sherlock doesn't know what he'd do -- he doesn't think he'd survive it.
Sherlock expects to be bound, but John wants an exercise in discipline and orders him to hold onto the headboard and not let go. He scurries to comply, licking his lips in anticipation and grabbing the wood above him until his fingers hurt. The headboard is the only thing anchoring him to earth. That and watching John strip off his jumper, but not more. In the last three years, John has gained a few pounds (lack of exercise) but is still in much better shape than most of his age group. As he looks at Sherlock on his bed (and Sherlock feels stripped much more than just to his skin), his eyes are still hard and angry, though his anger is controlled and hopefully soon channelled into quick flicks with a crop and the slither of a blade against pale skin. He asks for the safewords and Sherlock has to find his voice again before he can answer (yellow and red -- the former for ‘dangerous’ and the latter for ‘stop’ -- John prefers his safewords to be easy and precise).
John steps forward to the foot of the bed, riding crop in hand and Sherlock’s world narrows down to exquisite pain: his partner’s knowledge of anatomy helps him keep the pain just this side of ‘bearable’ and he never strikes hard enough to draw blood. That is going to be the blade’s duty.
A moan erupts from Sherlock’s mouth when the crop leaves a welt across his inner thigh and he almost lets go of the headboard.
Every strike with the crop makes the hard drive in his mind skip for a blinding moment of pain dissolving into pleasure. John speaks words but Sherlock can’t seem to string them together into sentences. It doesn’t matter, the sound of John’s voice is enough.
When John casts aside the crop, Sherlock’s chest is heaving from the thrum of arousal and the effort to follow John’s instructions. A faint sheen of sweat sends goosebumps across his body and makes locks of hair stick to his forehead and neck. John nudges Sherlock’s legs apart and kneels between his thighs and unclasps the knife. The light of the evening sun falling in through the window dyes the blade a vibrant orange and Sherlock can’t help but lick his lips. He still hasn’t dared to break his silence, afraid to undo the spell. If John decides to stop now, Sherlock would probably empty a syringe into his bloodstream within the next ten minutes to reach oblivion.
Luckily, John seems to need it as much as he does and throws caution out the window. Just as well that he doesn’t ask whether Sherlock contracted an illness during his abscence; at this stage, Sherlock would lie without hesitation. He is reasonably sure he hasn’t picked up any strange viruses or other illnesses -- he had all kinds of vaccinations before his trips and he was never stupid enough to use needles twice or share them. Safe and sane still doesn’t apply to what he and John are doing right now, but Sherlock considers these words to be synonyms of “boring” anyway.
Cold steel presses against his throat, not enough to cut, but it would if Sherlock moved. His heart hammers in his chest, instinctual need for survival setting in, even with the knowledge that John has no plans to kill him. Sherlock’s erection grows, the tip glistening with the first signs of pre-ejaculate. John drags a finger along the shaft, almost making Sherlock flinch.
“John,” Sherlock whispers, unable to remain mute any longer.
John removes the blade from Sherlock’s throat and for a second, Sherlock thinks John is going to stop -- fear welling up before he feels the sharp burn of a blade being drawn through the skin of his biceps. Just enough to make the crimson of his blood appear at the surface. The instant it happens, Sherlock’s mind goes blank, his mind becomes a vast, empty space.
It’s a high not even cocaine can produce.
A moan escapes him upon the second cut, a few inches below the first. Sherlock wants to fist the sheets, but he hasn’t been given permission to let go. He breathes in John’s scent, a combination of tea leaves, laundry detergent and aftershave (Diesel’s Only the Brave, present from Harry). He blanks out with the next cut and descends into a state of mind where he can only focus on pain, pleasure and John.
When he surfaces again, his upper arms, chest and thighs are striped with thin ribbons of blood, a delicious burn and ache deep in his bones. Sherlock is panting and the erection between his legs is begging for attention. The muscles in his arms start to protest against holding onto the headboard for so long -- he can’t remember the last time he felt this good.
“John, please,” he whispers, voice hoarse. He needs release. Needs to go higher, faster, harder.
The wait only takes seconds, but feels like hours.
Sherlock hears the sound of a bottle cap being opened. There are slick fingers at his entrance, pressing into him. The stretch and burn is almost like a new experience after so long. John avoids all the places and movements that would get him off -- Sherlock is already teetering on the edge. John doesn’t take long; the fingers withdraw fast to work on John getting ready, judging by the sound of more lubricant being squeezed out of the bottle and the rustle of fabric and a zipper.
“Turn around. On your knees,” John commands and Sherlock snaps out of his haze long enough to scramble into position.
The cuts on his arms and thighs stretch and start to burn anew -- Sherlock bites his lower lip to contain the sounds that threaten to escape him. John wraps an arm around his waist and drags him back until he’s sitting in John’s lap, his naked back against John’s soft shirt. John nuzzles at Sherlock’s vertebrae and enters him without much preamble. Throwing his head back against John’s shoulder, Sherlock bares his throat and groans. He won’t last very long -- not with John’s hand closed around his prick and his mouth biting at the column of Sherlock’s throat. Only now does he truly realise how much he missed John, how incomplete he has been for the last three years.
“I...” he whimpers, hitching breath matching John’s thrusts.
Picking up speed, John grabs Sherlock’s jaw and draws his head back again, licking at one of the small cuts he left on the throat. He has the one last thought -- John, taking in his blood, a bit of Sherlock now in John’s system -- before his mind whites out into complete silence and he comes into John’s hand.
Sherlock sags against John, his mind caught up in white noise and nothing else. John finishes shortly after, Sherlock’s name on his lips and holds him against his chest for a few more seconds before he guides Sherlock down to the mattress.
Sherlock is covered in blood, sweat and semen and he couldn’t care less. John moves around on the mattress, preparing to get up. He catches John’s wrist in a vice grip -- he can’t leave, not when Sherlock has just come back --
“I’m just going to get some antiseptic and a towel. Then we’ll talk,” John murmurs and presses a kiss to Sherlock’s lips. His anger hasn’t dissipated, that’s obvious from his body language. But as long as John’s not going to leave, he will talk as much as John needs to. Later.
Sherlock lets go of John’s wrist and sinks back into the pillows closing his eyes. In the background, his brain comes back online, hard drive formatted and recovering bit by bit.
“Sherlock, I just want to help. You can’t keep doing this. How do you think John will react?”
Lestrade shows all the signs of discomfort. He twists the phantom of his wedding band with the thumb and index finger of his right hand. A stubborn frown as he leans back in his chair. One of his better dress shirts; he’s taking Molly out for dinner. Sherlock hopes the relationship with Lestrade will finally rid Molly of her infatuation with Sherlock. She’s made remarkable progress in the last three and a half years, doesn’t let Sherlock walk all over her anymore. It makes her harder to manipulate, but Sherlock respects Molly now. Lestrade knows she isn’t completely over Sherlock, but is hoping she will get there eventually.
Sherlock doesn’t tell Lestrade there is a seventy-eight percent chance she will abandon her hopes for Sherlock in the next three months. Ninety-four percent in the next five months. Lestrade doesn’t deserve good news for his meddling.
“John doesn’t know,” Sherlock murmurs and keeps reading the weather reports for Bristol on his phone.
“Yeah, how long do you think it will stay that way? He’s just still too glad that you’re not dead to notice there is something wrong.” Lestrade abandons twisting his fingers in favour of crossing his arms.
“If you keep your mouth shut--” Sherlock starts, glaring at Lestrade before being cut off.
“No,” Lestrade says and shakes his head. “I am not watching you go down that road again. You’re not as bad off as last time and that’s the only reason John hasn’t picked up on it.”
It’s a disadvantage that Lestrade knows exactly what Sherlock is like when he’s on drugs. Too much experience with it to miss the subtle signs not even Sherlock can cover up. Of all the things Lestrade could be perceptive about, he has to make it Sherlock.
“Mind your own business,” Sherlock hisses and gets up. In his head, he gears up a litany about Lestrade’s self-consciousness, the ongoing fight with his ex-wife over custody, the illness of his father.
Lestrade sighs, looking defeated. “Sherlock, you are my business. It became my business when you almost died on me from that overdose. And I’m telling you to stop so you don’t lose everything you give a toss about. John won’t stay if you don’t stop. I’m giving you a last chance to get clean before I have to ban you from crime scenes again.”
“What?”
“No crime scenes when you’re using. That rule hasn’t changed.”
Sherlock knows that tone -- it always comes out when Lestrade is being particularly hard-headed. Most of the time, the man is putty in his hands: too set on solving cases to stop Sherlock from walking all over him. With the drugs, there’s never been room for negotiation. Bloody morals.
“You need me,” Sherlock tries, crossing his arms and standing in the doorway.
“We solved crimes for three years without you and we can do it again. Consider yourself lucky I’m not arresting you on the spot.”
Sherlock has enough of this farce and leaves Lestrade’s office in the most dramatic manner he can conjure up without slamming the door.
He walks to St James Park close by and sinks onto a bench a good distance from the water where dense clusters of tourists and Londoners are feeding the ducks. The weather is good for the time of the year: cold but the sun is shining and has lured people outdoors. Sherlock hopes for an increase in crime. Other than Christmas, winter is a bit dire when it comes to interesting cases. Not that he’ll profit from more crimes if Lestrade doesn’t call him in -- and the man is stubborn enough to stick to his word. He didn’t budge last time, which was part of the reason Sherlock stopped the cocaine. If Lestrade doesn’t call, John will notice and become suspicious. And if John isn’t in a state of blissful ignorance, he is going to pick up on the signs. Idiot he may be sometimes, but he is a very good doctor.
He has to tell him. Before Lestrade sweeps in and takes matters into his own hands. John tolerates a lot from Sherlock but he’s not sure if John will forgive another large-scale deceit. For the time being, Sherlock only indulges occasionally, but it’s increasing. The old life in London with its regular cases isn’t as adrenalin-fuelled as hunting after a web of criminals all over the world. The need to seek stimulation for his brain is bigger in London. Sherlock knows it’s a dangerous gamble.
He conceals it well, doesn’t leave any drug paraphernalia lying around and the signs of agitation that set in when he hasn’t taken anything for a week or so don’t differ much from the way he usually expresses his frustration. Sherlock even moves the injection sites around: one day it’s the groin, the next time a foot or his hand. John may be closely acquaintanced with every square inch of Sherlock’s body, but small, healed-over pricks where a needle once breached skin are hard to find if one isn’t looking for them.
Unfortunately, Lestrade has experience. Ever since the overdose, Sherlock can feel Lestrade scanning him for signs of a relapse. The fabricated drug busts for withheld evidence also serve to bring peace to the detective inspector’s mind. Not that Sherlock wouldn’t be able to hide his drugs from the police -- if Lestrade combed the flat (with drugs in it) today, he wouldn’t find anything.
Mycroft not knowing is sheer luck. Since Moran’s “elimination”, Sherlock’s surveillance has been downgraded and his brother has been out of the country for weeks (probably cleaning up after Sherlock’s operations with his diplomatic chess games). He has no illusions about being able to fool Mycroft. If his brother looked properly, he would know within seconds (bloody irritating, that). And if Lestrade called Mycroft, an intervention would be guaranteed.
It is impossible to just wait and sit it out this time. If John finds out from anyone other than Sherlock himself, he will leave. John is still working on conquering his anger over the fake death. The only reason he hasn’t packed his things and left is because Moriarty blackmailed Sherlock with his, Lestrade’s and Mrs Hudson’s life. But making him see the necessity of Sherlock turning to cocaine to focus his mind would be impossible. John refuses the premise of the theory. Sherlock has to concede that no one with an average mind would be able to understand his logic -- even Mycroft only grasps it in an abstract sense.
He is at a crossroads. It seems simple, deciding which direction to go, but it isn’t.
Sherlock doesn’t exactly talk to John about the cocaine. He leaves his syringes, the tourniquet and the vial with the rest of his supply on the kitchen table and waits for John to find it in the morning. Right now, it’s four a.m. and John won’t be up for another three hours at least. He sleeps less when Sherlock isn’t in bed with him.
Sherlock has banked the fire and sits in his chair, fiddling with the sash of his robe. Reruns of the afternoon programmes are running on the telly but he doesn’t feel like deducing the women and men in the talk show. He would like to play his violin but doesn’t. Normally, he has no qualms about waking John with his playing, but he feels strangely torn between wanting John to wake up immediately and hoping he’ll sleep another twelve hours.
Sherlock is vibrating with tension, tempted to relieve it with the remnants of the cocaine. Greeting John with his drug utensils while high might be a bad idea though. Cigarettes, maybe.
Sherlock jumps out of his chair and fishes the packet of tobacco out of his coat pocket. It’s empty. Frustrated, Sherlock hurls the empty pouch into the small bin next to the coat rack and strides into the kitchen. Tea then. He needs some sort of stimulant.
Mug (check if it’s actually clean), tea bag (PG Tips), hot water, leave to steep for a few minutes, milk (the one he’s not cultivating bacteria in), sugar (not to be mistaken with the barium nitrate in the other container), stir and back to the armchair. He grabs his laptop and proceeds to find the vilest documentary available about decomposition. This at least proves interesting enough that he doesn’t notice the passage of time until the bedroom door opens with its usual low creaking. John, clad in boxer briefs and an old t-shirt, emerges, rubbing his eyes.
“Did you sleep at all?” he murmurs and rubs his hands through his hair.
Sherlock doesn’t answer, keeps staring at the screen where the body of a middle-aged man is being devoured by an array of maggots. His stomach feels about the same.
He hears John halting on his way to the kettle. The following silence is dense and heavy. Sherlock can visualise all the emotions crossing John’s face -- it’s so expressive that he still hasn’t catalogued them all. The likely order being puzzlement, suspicion, realisation, confusion and disappointment.
“Sherlock...” John starts, but doesn’t finish.
Sherlock closes his eyes for a second, pauses the video and looks at John -- disappointment, as expected. Lips pressed together, the lines around his eyes deepened, arms crossed.
“The answers to your questions are yes. But I’m not back to habitual use.” He leaves the yet unspoken.
“How long?” John’s voice sounds detached, bare of emotion. The tone unsettles Sherlock because it’s so unlike John.
“Twelve months.” Sherlock traces the inside of his lower lip with his tongue. A nervous habit of his.
“So, when you were...”, John replaces the end of the sentence with a gesture. He has trouble giving Sherlock’s absence a name, even after six months.
Sherlock nods. Words are failing him, choked by the fear of John leaving forever and taking Sherlock’s heart with him. He watches John release a breath, his left hand scrubbing over his face.
“Right. I’ll just--” John says and turns back to the door.
“John.” For once, Sherlock doesn’t know how to explain himself. He hears the impending panic in his own voice and snaps his jaw shut. He wouldn’t beg. Digging his fingers into the armrests, he wills himself to stay put. Neither he nor John would appreciate an undignified display of weakness and fear.
John turns back around, having apparently noticed the panicked tone and lets his eyes rest on Sherlock. Realisation sweeps over him, showing in a widening of the eyes and a barely mouthed ‘oh’.
“Sherlock, I’m not leaving,” he says and walks over to Sherlock’s chair. John’s callused fingers cover the side of Sherlock’s throat. “I won’t tolerate you taking cocaine, but if you really want to quit, we can work this out.”
John’s hand tightens lightly around Sherlock’s throat, restricting his airflow enough to be noticeable. Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed, his heartbeat stopping for a second before picking up its elevated rate again -- excitement, not panic.
“Yes,” he whispers.
With John, he can do this. With John, he won’t crash and burn. That’s how it has always worked: Sherlock has his foot on the accelerator and John his hands on the wheel.
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Date: 2013-06-15 05:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-03 08:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-15 04:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-03 08:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-23 10:08 pm (UTC)Thank you!
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Date: 2013-07-03 08:30 am (UTC)Thanks so much!
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Date: 2013-07-02 08:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-03 08:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-06 02:46 am (UTC)There is that dark intensity in so many places in this fic: Sherlock's despair at failing to catch Moran, toying with the blade in the bathtub. His fierce stubborn possession of John, the idea that he clings to. Their reunion! awesome, concisely written, and powerful. Anf the sex, nngh... angry possessive dominant John is amazing, and Sherlock seeking absolution is just .... agh, no words.
I love the last line!
thanks again, and sorry for the long delay in responding.
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Date: 2013-07-11 02:17 pm (UTC)I prefer my Sherlock and John a little on the dark side and I'm relieved it worked for you as well.
Thank you so much for the kind words!
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Date: 2013-07-09 01:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-11 02:11 pm (UTC)