Fic for radialarch: Full View, 2/4

[holmesticemods]

Sherlock wakes slowly, the dawn light creeping around the edges of his vision and making his head ache with disorientation. His mouth is dry and his eyes seem glued shut, but memories of last night begin reforming and solidifying, and he can feel a quiet smile begin curling up the edges of his lips. He rolls to the side, intending to smother John in as many limbs as he’s able, but the bed is empty beside him, sheets cool and wrinkled. Sherlock forces his eyes open, gummy moisture ripping a few lashes out as he blinks at the twisted cotton. He can feel the panic begin to seep forward and his heart begins to pound even as he registers sounds of movement from the kitchen.

The door creaks open softly and John pads his way through, fully dressed and obviously showered; the tips of his hair still damp and clumping together in endearing little spikes. The relief is crippling, and Sherlock forces his pulse to slow down as John creeps into the room, clearly trying to be quiet and failing miserably. He makes his way to the bedside table and locates his wallet, slipping it into his pocket and turning back as though to leave again. Sherlock smiles and rolls towards him, allowing the sheet to slide down over his shoulder.

“Oh,” John says softly, as though he hadn’t expected Sherlock to be waiting for him in bed, naked and pliant and still mussed from the previous evening’s activities. “I’m sorry, I--” he cuts himself off, looking embarrassed and oddly guilty. It’s the guilt that makes Sherlock pause, self-consciousness and embarrassment coloring his own cheeks. He pulls the sheet up his chest as surreptitiously as he can, suddenly and acutely aware of how naked he is beneath the flimsy cotton.

John blushes again and averts his eyes, shifting his weight uncomfortably and rubbing at the back of his neck in a clearly lost gesture that makes something hard and cold sink into Sherlock’s gut.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” John says finally, his voice still too soft and too contrite and too unbearably wrong.

“You’re leaving,” Sherlock says, his voice flat and cold even to his own ears. John raises his face finally and catches Sherlock’s eye, all stammering apology and deeply-etched regret, and Sherlock feels the warm, tentative hope in his chest shrivel and freeze.

“Yeah,” John says then bites his bottom lip absently. There’s a dark bruise poking out just past the barrier of John’s shirt collar that’s the exact imprint of Sherlock’s teeth, and he suddenly feels wrenched apart. “I’ve got to get back,” John continues, gesturing vaguely towards the hall, his shoes just visible beyond the door. “I just wanted to check on you and make sure you’re, y’know, alright,” he falters, his cheeks deepening to a dark and unflattering pink.

“Back,” Sherlock echoes, his voice hollow and blank. John shifts again, the fingers of his left hand clenching systematically. He looks as though he wants nothing more than for the floor to open up and swallow him whole, and Sherlock briefly wonders if this is what dying feels like.

“Mary’s texted,” John says by way of explanation, and her very name in this room feels like a death knoll.

“You’re going back,” Sherlock repeats, as though if he says it enough times, it might make the slightest bit of sense. Visions of last night are chasing through his brain: John stretched out on top of him, hungry and wanting, telling him with words and actions that he belongs here, with Sherlock, that John is his. Why then is he leaving now to go back to her?

“Sherlock,” John sighs, and he finally edges closer to the bed, sitting down on the side of the mattress and hitching his knee up. Sherlock can feel the blankets shifting, sheets pulling and straining across his body where John’s weight pins them down. It feels suddenly claustrophobic and constricting and he struggles against them for a moment before he finally rips himself free, launching himself over the side of the bed and shivering as the cool air stings along his skin.

“Christ,” John murmurs, and averts his gaze again; away from Sherlock’s naked form, a ridiculous blush staining his ears crimson. Sherlock feels as though John’s punched him in the chest, all the air whooshing from his lungs in one great rush, rejection clawing through his ribs and causing him to tremble where he stands, entirely bare in the harsh morning light.

“John,” he grates out in as reasonable a tone as he can muster, refusing to feel self-conscious in his own bedroom with his lover who can’t even seem to look him in the eye. John just clears his throat awkwardly and stands, weight shifting again as he fidgets.

“Look, I have to go,” he says eventually, his voice taking on a decidedly hard quality that Sherlock doesn’t like at all. He steps forward, but freezes instantly as John backs quickly away, holding his arm out to the side as though warding Sherlock off. “I’ll text you later, yeah?” And he’s out the door.

Sherlock can hear him shuffling his shoes on, quick and even footsteps cascading down the stairs and out into the city, carrying him as far away from Sherlock as fast as he can go. Sherlock’s knees give way and he sinks to the floor, all the strength and tentative happiness sucked out of him as the door gently snicks shut.

He’s honestly not sure how long he lets himself stay there: knelt on the floor and dumbstruck, rejection and despair slicing through him like tiny, icy knives. How could he have let himself fall this far without any indication of a soft landing? What good is his deductive prowess if he can’t even sort out his own fruitless emotions?

Forcing himself steady, Sherlock eventually stands and makes his way to the bath, intending to wash away any and all evidence of John’s apparently hollow affections. He scrubs harshly at his skin, imagining the layers of cells and DNA scraping away. He feels like he’s peeling back muscle and tendon, every area where John had touched him hot and damning; every filthy stain a condemnation, every bruise an odium.

It takes an unhealthy amount of time for the water to run clear, and even longer before Sherlock finally admits that he will likely never feel clean again.

: :

Sherlock takes a drag of the almost spent fag and watches as the smoke billows out into the wind; twining and curling into shapes and figures before drifting out over London, adding to the residual haze that seems to hang like a shroud over his once-beloved city.

There’s a persistent ache that seems to intensify every time Sherlock allows his thoughts to bend in one particular direction, his fingers twitching even as he flicks the ash off the end of his cigarette. There’s a tic in his brain that refuses to allow him to move forward, his entire mind shying away from the unwelcome and unfamiliar feelings that will not be deleted, no matter how hard he tries. It’s a constant and almost physical presence now: this swallowing chasm that seems to ebb and flow beneath his ribs every time he thinks of John.

John Watson: the impossible man who was never meant to be, escaping from death on Afghanistan sand only to drift into Sherlock’s life with a false limp and military precision, rearranging entire wings of Sherlock’s mind palace without even a backward glance, and making Sherlock suddenly yearn for things he’s never had the time for in the past. It was never meant to be like this, and Sherlock feels the harsh knot of spite and resentment grow unchallenged in his gut.

The cigarette burns down to the filter and Sherlock lights another, hanging out the familiar window of 221B, his dressing gown trailing off of one shoulder as he breathes in the smoke and carcinogens. He stoutly refuses to miss John. It’s his own fault for letting this situation get so horrendously out of control, and he intends to keep John firmly at arm’s length until the entire atrocity blows over. The ache in his chest redoubles and he feels the tightness closing in; suppressed memories of torture and stubborn endurance raging up through his mind. He had kept himself going, kept himself alive and fighting for two solid years away because he knew when he got back, John would be here to help pick up his pieces, as he always had in the past.

Never had he anticipated John moving on; effectively forgetting him like yesterday’s rubbish. It hurts in ways Sherlock hadn’t expected and now he only has to look around the empty flat and his whole chest feels like it’s caving in. Sherlock sucks hard on the end of the cigarette, watching as the paper flares red for a moment before he feels the acrid smoke fill his lungs, every delicious mouthful killing him far too slowly to matter.

He needs to put a stop to this madness, to cut himself off entirely and cauterize the wound before it infects any more of his life. If John doesn’t want him, he has no reason to keep pining after the man like a lovesick teenager. He only has to hold on for one more week. Seven days, and then he can let John go.

: :

The wedding is lovely. Everyone applauds Sherlock’s careful and meticulous planning; praising everything from the flower arrangements to the best man speech and Sherlock feels utterly sick. He makes a tragically plebeian mistake and allows his attention to wander–gets caught up in the way John looks at him with soft affection and warm regard and feels as though everything might possibly turn out alright. But then there is an attempted murder and a victim and Sherlock is brilliant and clever and John looks at him with want and possessiveness and Sherlock feels as though he is drowning. John moves towards him, all heat and pride and Sherlock can feel himself sway forward, the enormous pull of John’s will overriding his own for a split second. Mary intercepts them, casually slipping her hand into John’s and tugging him away, all the while regarding Sherlock with a knowing and dangerous eye.

Sherlock feels his hands trembling as he steps away from the scene, Major Sholto’s injury pulling all the focus from him and allowing him to slink silently down the hall. He pushes his way out the back doors of the building, feeling like he’s suffocating and desperate for some space. He finds Janine leaning casually over the balcony, thumbing something on her phone, her dark hair blowing gently in the light breeze and he thinks she might be beautiful. He sidles up to her and leans over the railing himself, digging in his pocket for the emergency cigarettes he had the brilliant forethought to bring.

“Those things’ll kill you, y’know,” Janine says lightly, eyeing him with far too much perception.

Sherlock huffs out a humorless laugh and holds the pack out to her. She studies it carefully before extracting a slim white stick and placing it delicately between her lips. Sherlock cups his hand and flicks his lighter, waiting for her deep inhalation before pulling the flame away and lighting his own. Janine turns and leans one hip against the banister, crossing her arms over her chest and taking a luxurious drag, exhaling the smoke in a steady stream as she contemplates him intently.

“You’re an interesting man, Sherlock Holmes,” she says eventually, sucking on the end of her fag and tilting her head knowingly. Sherlock sighs and flicks the ash off the end of his own, inhaling deeply and revelling in the burn. He glances towards her and exhales slowly, allowing the smoke to curl through the air and wrap around them both like a cloud of secrecy.

“And what, pray tell, is so interesting about me?” he asks dully, his voice tired and resigned.

“Oh, lots of things,” she says with a smirk, dragging her thumb nail across her bottom lip in a move clearly designed to play to his baser instincts–if his baser instincts were inclined in that direction, that is. Her flirtatious look falls away abruptly and she gazes at him with cool confidence, the giggly, coy persona melting away to reveal someone much more interesting.

“You’re in love with him,” she says coolly, the sure, matter-of-fact quality taking him utterly by surprise. He’s so startled he forgets to school his face, his usual defenses already weakened by the stress of the day. Instead he sighs and takes another drag, watching the way she’s studying him out of his peripheral vision.

“Oh Sherl,” she tuts, tapping the end of her cigarette and turning to lean on the banister next to him, nudging him with her shoulder and smiling sadly at him through her lashes. “That’s a lost cause, I’m afraid.”

“’Sherl’?” he says derisively, ignoring her pointed look and snorting as he takes another drag. She laughs softly; a tinkling, merry little sound that has the corners of his lips quirking up before he can stop them. She gazes at him steadily for a few beats before tossing the end of her spent fag over the edge of the banister, watching as it hits the pavement below and bursts into millions of tiny sparks.

“Well, as I see it you’ve two options,” she says, suddenly business like and professional, and Sherlock finds himself intrigued despite himself. “One: you go on as you are, pining and frankly pathetic.” She ignores Sherlock’s glare and raises her eyebrow pointedly at him. He concedes her point with a shrug, flinging his own cigarette off the edge of the balcony.

“And the second option?” he asks finally, fully turning towards her and regarding her with unexpected respect.

The gleam in her eye is decidedly predatory, and he finds himself unaccountably nervous. “You fight.”

He blinks at her, calculating and sure and feels the edge of despair retreat a fraction. She nods and smiles slowly, her face softening into graceful lines and beautiful angles, and Sherlock finds himself wishing for the first time in his life that he was somewhat normal.

“But first,” she continues, brushing her hair back over her shoulder and shooting him a winning smile. “First, we dance.” The silence stretches between them, comfortable and oddly companionable, and Sherlock finally shakes himself out of his uncharacteristic melancholy. He favors her with a real smile and extends his arm with perfect manners. She takes his elbow with a delighted laugh, tucking her hand delicately against his forearm and steering him through the French doors.

“Oh, you’re going to be a handful, you are,” she sighs and rests her head on his shoulder, matching his long stride with practiced ease.

“I could say the same about you,” Sherlock murmurs, deliberately brushing his lips against her ear and grinning wickedly at the involuntary shiver that chases its way across her shoulders.

“You can count on that, Mr Holmes.”

: :

John is gone for an entire fortnight, and when he comes back, Sherlock tries desperately not to notice how silent his mobile is. He finds his hand straying to his pocket reflexively, infuriatingly imagining the vibrations that would hail an incoming text. It remains stubbornly silent and after two more weeks of endless tension and self-destruction, Sherlock finally admits to himself that John just might have moved on permanently.

There is only so much nicotine can do, and Sherlock feels himself slipping deeper and deeper into a depression so thorough he can’t even find it in himself to move. He watches as the sunlight travels across the sitting room ceiling, ignoring Mrs Hudson’s incessant tutting and Mycroft’s disapproving insistences, and he vaguely notices that he keeps rubbing at the crook of his left elbow.

This is worse that boredom, worse than torture; it is all-consuming, solitary desolation and Sherlock finds he’s lost the will to fight. Sitting up on the sofa only makes his head spin and he briefly wonders when the last time was he ate anything, finding the answer distressingly unclear. He stumbles his way to the kitchen, noting with disgust the way his tee shirt clings to the sweat on his back, the creaking in his joints as he finally collapses into a kitchen chair, his shaking legs refusing to hold him anymore. He finds his mobile on the table, red light indicating his battery is almost completely dead.

Sherlock musters enough strength to hobble feebly towards the refrigerator, wincing at the smell that rises out of the appliance when he pries the door open. He shuts it with a snap, retching slightly and turning towards the cabinets instead. He finds a half-empty packet of Hobnobs and wolfs the stale biscuits down in record time, washing the whole affair down with a stone-cold cup of over brewed tea. His stomach clenches, and his head pounds as his blood sugar spikes uncomfortably, but he makes his way to his bed, plugging in his mobile on the way and mentally calculating his bank account.

If he sends Mrs Hudson to Tesco with his card, he can have her withdraw £60 without raising suspicion, and replenish his food stores in the same trip. That should make her happy at least. Then it will be one more trip to the cash point, a quick text to an old acquaintance, and he can sink into blissful oblivion.

Sherlock’s phone buzzes on his nightstand and he realizes his heart is pounding, hand shaking as he reaches for it. He glances at the display and feels his stomach drop. Mycroft.

Don’t even think about it, brother dear.

Sherlock scowls and thrusts the mobile back onto the little table, his mind already calculating ways in which he can get around Mycroft’s security. It will take some planning, but Sherlock apparently has nothing but time on his hands, and the thrill of an unsolved puzzle is helping ease the perpetual ache in his chest as he shies away from thinking about the one person who keeps consuming his thoughts.

The Hobnobs seem to be helping, Sherlock’s mind beginning to clear as he formulates his plan, acutely aware of how his body is fighting the ingestion of food. All he wants to do is sleep, but every time he closes his eyes, John appears before him either pulling him closer and whispering half-formed fantasies into his ear, or pushing him away, telling him he’s second best, that Sherlock could never give him what John wants more than anything in the world: a family. He’s honestly not sure which is worse, so he squeezes his eyes shut and wills away the exhaustion, knowing that he can sink into blessed indifference in maybe two days’ time.

He pulls himself to the edge of the bed and forces his legs to stand, carrying him to the unforgiving spray of the shower as he washes away the grime of what appears to be at least five days’ worth of inactivity. He shudders as the scalding water cascades over his shoulders, feeling each sore muscle like an open wound, fingers subconsciously rubbing over bruises long faded.

He closes his eyes and John’s image immediately presents itself: John hot and hard, pushing into him and claiming him, telling Sherlock he loved him and he wanted him. The pressure in his chest redoubles and he gasps as his eyes snap open, telling himself that the water on his cheeks is just spray from the showerhead.

A thought occurs to him and he pauses in the act of rinsing his hair, a plan formulating in his head even as he feels his stomach begin to produce unacceptable quantities of ghrelin. He towels himself dry quickly, moving towards his bedroom and pulling his mobile from the table again. He scans his contacts quickly and hones in on the one name that might just be able to assist him with what he actually needs right now.

Janine.

: :

Sherlock sighs and sinks into a blissful haze; the melting, warm-blanket sensation spreading from the needle outwards as he eases the drug into his veins. He’s grateful for his old connections, still running strong in the dilapidated, forgotten parts of London. He’s paid a little extra, but the purity is definitely worth it. He can feel all of his cares slide gently from his shoulders; the now-familiar churning, sick feeling of regret fading into distant memory, and he wonders vaguely why he ever bothered to stop.

This is brilliant. This is wonderful. This is Christmas and warm jumpers and aged whiskey and curling up in front of the fire with a brand new triple homicide and it isn’t–it absolutely isn’t–John bloody Watson.

Sherlock’s sluggish mind recoils at the thought, knowing intrinsically that if John ever finds out about this, there will be no returning from the hell he will put Sherlock through. There’s a niggling voice at the back of his mind that keeps insisting that he’s better than this, that falling into old habits is not the way to deal with a broken heart, no matter how good it feels right now.

And Jesus Christ it feels good.

Sherlock falls heavily onto the bare mattress in the corner, his brain pleasantly fuzzy and numb, his limbs suddenly too heavy to remain upright. He leans back and stares at the ceiling, wondering how long it will take before the heroin wipes out John Watson entirely. Surely it should have happened by now, but he is still there: warm and soft and so very, very kissable. Sherlock knows it’s an illusion, that John is not in fact here, in the middle of bumfuck nowhere among the world’s rejected children, but he smiles regardless. All he feels is pleasurable satisfaction, the endorphin rush not unlike orgasm as he lays down fully, his body heavy and sated and so unbelievably comfortable.

If he cannot have John, at least he can have this. It’s almost as good, the euphoria swelling and releasing with each slowly indrawn breath.

Coward John’s voice taunts in his ear, and Sherlock’s hand comes up to swipe at nothing as he feels the bliss retreat a little. Junkie comes from the other side, and Sherlock rolls onto his stomach, burying his face in his arms as he tries to drown out the words. Stupid, Heartless, Freak echo through his skull and Sherlock fists his fingers into his own hair to release the pressure there, his stomach clenching as the bile rushes up the back of his throat; his body rejecting the drug even as he heaves himself to the side, the dizzying, spinning feeling of nausea his only warning before he’s vomiting violently onto the floor.

He’s shaking and retching, too many words stuck in the corners of his mouth, too many years between injections, too many thoughts swirling through his bloodstream, too many feelings unrequited, not enough reciprocation. He retches again, the stink of stomach acid mixing with the slight taste of vinegar and causing his head to spin dangerously. He falls back onto the mattress, wiping at the corner of his mouth and grimacing when his sleeve comes away wet.

He sinks back into unconsciousness, his mind kicking feebly at the constraints of the lingering drug, but he can feel the blackness rising, swallowing him down into a sea of uncertainty and despair.


The second hit is nothing like the first. He rides the high briefly, but the resulting crash is far worse than he remembers from ages past. He scratches at his arm, knowing the marks there will be impossible to hide if he keeps at it, but the itching is unbearable. He stops himself just as he feels the skin breaking, layers of cells yielding to his incessant fingernails.

His head pounds with the residual haze and he feels as though his limbs have been filled with lead. He tries to rise from the mattress, only to find he’s lost control of his spine, each vertebra contorting in new and painful ways that leave him writhing in a messy heap on the flimsy polyfill. He can feel John’s presence in the back of his head again, radiating nothing but disappointment and anger, telling Sherlock that he ought to know better than to believe in the illusion of euphoria, that he should know when to stop chasing after an impossibility. Sherlock feels as though his chest is being torn open from the inside, all of the spiteful, wrenching pain ripping up out of his ribs as he heaves in a tortured breath through paralyzed lungs.

The ringing in his ears grows deafeningly loud, but he can still hear John’s words echoing through the cacophony: telling him he’s a lost cause, that nobody could ever love him, that he’s a freak who will never deserve anything more than emptiness and pain. Sherlock can hear someone screaming, and he wants to tell that person to stop; that it’s not helping, that John will never understand, will never want him in the way Sherlock craves.

It’s a long, long time before his body calms and he falls back into blackness.


The buzz of his mobile is entirely unwelcome, and Sherlock rouses himself groggily from the lingering cloud of oblivion. He checks the message fleetingly, noting with mild satisfaction that Janine is safely ensconced in 221B, but still completely oblivious of his actual location and purpose. If all goes according to plan, John will find her in his bed when he comes round tomorrow for the debriefing on Magnussen. By that time, word should have spread that Sherlock’s drug habit isn’t entirely in the past and he can play his angle nicely. Lady Smallwood had been a blessing in disguise: providing him with the perfect excuse for his backslide, though she would never know it.

He sighs and rolls onto his side, pulling the hood of his filthy sweatshirt up over his head to block out the early morning light. He can just make out the sound of John’s steady, military-sharp footfalls on the hardwood floor and wonders exactly how long his conscience is planning on torturing him this time. He can feel the presence of someone moving next to him, the boy on his left shifting suddenly into awareness, and he buries himself further into his overly large clothing. The only person he wants to see right now is far away in the suburbs, happily moving on with his life and not giving a single damn about Sherlock’s current whereabouts.

But then John’s voice cuts through the haze, visceral and unmistakable and real.

There is emptiness, and there is disappointment, and there is John.

: :

Janine is a motherfucking genius, and Sherlock finds himself begrudgingly impressed with her overwhelmingly convincing performance. He can just see John out of the corner of his eye: red-faced and clearly livid as Janine draws Sherlock forward for a brief, but seemingly heated kiss.

“Solve me a crime, Sherlock Holmes,” she murmurs, all dark chocolate and spiced honey and Sherlock feels his mouth stretch into an honest smile at the conspiratorial glint in her eye.

He follows her just out the door, lingering long enough to give her a cheeky, encouraging grin before shutting the door and allowing the mask to fall for one brief moment. He steadies himself and turns back to John, tamping down on the instinct to celebrate at the look of incredulous, ugly envy stretched thinly across John’s face.

Sherlock begins to explain the significance of the case, trying to focus beyond the venomous, vicious glee that takes up residence in his chest as John doesn’t even attempt to pay attention, his thoughts clearly stuck on Sherlock’s supposed relationship and the alleged easy romance that has just passed between himself and Janine. It’s a small triumph, but Sherlock will take anything he can get at the moment, and he feels his spite twist further as John angrily agrees to discuss the case instead, his eyes livid and dangerous as he watches Sherlock like a hawk.

Once Magnussen arrives in person, however, Sherlock’s thoughts are momentarily derailed; all of his focus honing in directly on the admittedly far more interesting case than he’d originally thought. Magnussen is dangerous in a way James Moriarty was not: he isn’t trying to take down the world by burning it to cinders and dancing among the ashes. He’s smarter and wiser, choosing information as his weapon over brute force and fancy pyrotechnics. He isn’t a master villain; he’s merely a businessman with a penchant for blackmail, and that makes him a much more dangerous adversary than Sherlock could ever have anticipated.

He can feel his concentration wavering; thoughts splitting between the truly threatening man who just sailed out of his flat like the world’s most chilling supervillain, and the bristling man beside him, all spluttering indignities and barely-controlled rage.

“Did you notice the one extraordinary thing he did?” Sherlock says, his mind already slotting all the information into place, racing ahead of his mouth as he automatically formulates a new plan. John’s agitation seems to intensify and he gestures towards the soiled fireplace. Sherlock dismisses it quickly, his brain four steps ahead to the jeweler’s shop manager who owes him a favor. If he can get there in the next hour, he can have this entire case wrapped up by midnight, and hopefully by then John will have swallowed the whole Janine story like a lamb to the slaughter. Then Sherlock can have his revenge as well as the pleasure of seeing when John realizes his feelings are not as simple as he’d like to believe. They will have to discuss the baby situation, of course, but Sherlock is confident that John will come back to him regardless, as long as he can properly convince John that he wants Sherlock more than he wants his wife.

Sherlock becomes aware that his mouth has kept on talking, and abruptly stills himself long enough to remember what exactly it is he’s saying.

“Right,” he murmurs quickly, “I’ll see you tonight. I’ve got some shopping to do.”

He’s halfway out the door when John calls after him: “What’s tonight?” Sherlock smiles to himself and feels the incredible sense of triumph in his very blood. John is walking right into this like the blind idiot Sherlock likes to pretend he is, and he feels his own pulse speed at the thought.

“I’ll text you the details,” he calls back, making his way out the door and deciding if he wants to take a taxi to the jeweler’s or if it’s nice enough out to walk.

“Yeah, I’ll text you if I’m available,” John shouts back, exasperation and honest, still-simmering anger evident in his voice.

“You are. I checked,” Sherlock says absently, and he’s halfway down the first set of stairs when he feels a tight pressure at the back of his collar.

“What the fuck is going on?” John demands, wrenching his fist back and pulling Sherlock with him, back up the few stairs and throwing him bodily through the sitting room door. Sherlock stumbles backwards, hand instinctively rising to his neck where he can already feel his skin beginning to bruise. “What do you mean you checked?” John seethes, advancing on Sherlock with a look like thunder.

Sherlock hesitates for a brief moment before straightening to his full height, indignation and challenge radiating off of him in waves. He can feel his own heart begin to pound, adrenaline and fury racing through his veins and making everything seem sharper, harsher, more urgent.

“I consulted your wife,” Sherlock spits out, all the carefully tamped-down feelings raging suddenly out of control. He’s still coming down from his high, mild withdrawal making him tetchy and even more abrasive than usual. “Obviously,” he adds with an imperious drawl, watching with malevolent satisfaction as John’s jaw clenches, his entire body stilling into almost unnatural calm, lips thinning into the dangerous smile that precedes gunfire and razor wire.

“So now you two are all chummy-chummy and I’m what? Passed between you like some sort of shared pet?” Sherlock feels his face heat, John’s description a bit too close to his own feelings for comfort, but John is advancing on him, all barely-controlled power and intense ire. “You’re supposed to be my friend, you complete arsehole. Mine, do you understand me?”

Sherlock’s knees hit the arm of the sofa and he barely catches himself before he topples over, keeping himself steady by sheer will alone. He hates the thrill of arousal John’s words have sparked, and he can feel his own anger fading at such clear possessiveness, but he strongly reminds himself that this is exactly what he’d hoped for: John getting a taste of his own medicine for once.

“I’m not your property, John,” Sherlock grinds out, teeth clenched against his body’s instinct to sway forward into John’s heat.

“No, I’m just meant to be yours,” John growls and fists two hands in the lapels of Sherlock’s jacket, bringing him forward with a tight jerk, Sherlock’s neck nearly snapping backwards with the impact. John’s mouth is hot and hard, his tongue demanding and dangerous as he forces Sherlock’s lips apart. Sherlock gasps and cannot help the way his body arches instinctively forward, realizing his mistake the moment John’s grunts in triumph. He pulls back with a muffled cry, trying to pry himself away, but John shoves at his shoulders, sending him splaying backwards across the sofa, his long legs flailing uselessly in the air for a moment before they are pinned down by John’s weight as he launches himself right after.

“You are such an infuriating, arrogant, shit sometimes,” John growls into his neck, dexterous fingers tugging and yanking at Sherlock’s zip until he has a hand in between them, Sherlock’s body betraying him even as he tries to squirm away. John’s smile is all teeth and threat and he curls his fingers tightly around the hard length of Sherlock’s cock, pulling and jerking until Sherlock stops struggling and arches into it; all of his reactions confusing and jarring as his brain shuts down into pure panic mode.

This is bad. This is worse than bad; this is disastrous, and Sherlock tries to communicate to his body that this isn’t what he wants at all, that John is not like this: this brutal, primal, grunting beast that doesn’t seem to understand that a line has been crossed somewhere between want and take.

“John,” he gasps, cringing away from the way John’s teeth are tearing into his collarbone. “John stop.”

“Is this what you wanted, Sherlock?” John grunts, fingers squeezing tightly around Sherlock’s foreskin and snapping it back with too much friction. Sherlock’s breath rushes out in a mortifying whimper, but he shakes his head emphatically, feeling his erection begin to wilt. “Say it,” John demands with a rough twist of his wrist.

“No,” Sherlock bites out, desperately trying to hold rein on a world that seems to be spinning so far out of his control, he’s not even sure which way is north. “No, John. Stop. Please. Not like this.”

“Good,” John says, his movements gentling immediately. He smoothes his lips over the no doubt vivid purple bruise now adorning Sherlock’s clavicle. “I don’t want to be like this with you. Not you,” he murmurs again, his fingers unclenching to rub apologetic little circles over the reddened skin of his penis.

Sherlock’s brain seems to stick on John’s words: something niggling at the edges of theory and evidence. “What do you mean ‘with me’?” he asks slowly, his body gradually relaxing as John’s movements remain soft and tender. John shakes his head and presses his lips to the hinge of Sherlock’s jaw.

“It doesn’t matter,” he mumbles.

“John,” Sherlock says, pushing him back a little to stare up at him, though John is frustratingly avoiding his gaze. A dawning horror is beginning to take shape in the pit of Sherlock’s stomach, and he resists John’s attempts to distract him. “When you say–does Mary–?”

John cuts him off with a kiss, effectively stopping all conversation as he clearly tries to make up for his roughness with the sensual slide of his tongue. Sherlock allows it for the moment, filing the question away for later and simply glorying in John’s attention. His half-hard penis is still curled protectively in John’s hand and as the kiss becomes steadily more heated, John starts sliding his palm across the shaft. Sherlock arches unthinkingly, his body’s confusion nothing in comparison to his mind. He knows he shouldn’t be doing this, especially after John’s violent outburst, but John is warm and soft and everything Sherlock has ever wanted. He dimly recalls that there is still a considerable amount of heroin swimming merrily through his veins, though its effects have melted down into the occasional twinge of discomfort, but John is moving against him now, whispering nonsense into the bruised skin of his throat and Sherlock wants nothing more than to fall into this again.

He hesitates on the precipice, knowing that if he allows John to take him apart again, he’ll likely never find the scattered pieces of his broken heart, but he remembers all those nights of wanting John and not having him, and he feels himself falling before he even makes a conscious decision.

“God, Sherlock,” John whispers against his tongue. “A whole fucking month. I can’t do this without you.”

And it’s not fair; it’s so unfair, and Sherlock fights his body’s instincts to curl closer, his spine already twisting as John’s tongue trails a clean line down to his pulse point. “You were gone,” Sherlock rumbles, his voice dropping into the velvety register he only has when he’s with John. “You were on your sex holiday,” he points out, and he can’t help the touch of jealous hurt that infuses the tone.

“Shh,” John says, the susurrus chasing along Sherlock’s skin and into his very bones. “It wasn’t–we didn’t–” John trails off, his eyes closing with a pained expression before he’s back at Sherlock’s mouth, sucking a kiss right out of him and circling his fist at the same moment. Sherlock’s brain seems to split in two completely different directions: one half of him rocking against John’s now damp palm, the other stuck on the idea that John and Mary apparently didn’t have sex on their honeymoon. It’s a very interesting bit of information, and he opens his mouth to ask for clarification, but John’s tongue curls around his and he is lost to sensation.

“Christ, I want you,” John says, nipping the pointed end of Sherlock’s chin as he begins to shift himself downwards. Sherlock’s fingers bury themselves in John’s hair, his entire body a riot of conflicting emotions. John nuzzles the soft skin of his belly, pushing up on the rumpled silk of Sherlock’s shirt and dipping his tongue into the crease of his navel. Sherlock’s brain seems to short-circuit, every nerve in his body suddenly throbbing with arousal. He barely registers the movement as John gently grips him behind the knees and swings them both sideways, Sherlock now effectively sitting on the sofa with John on the floor between his spread thighs.

He realizes what’s about to happen a split second before John moves, and he feels the tenuous threads of his control snap entirely as John shoots him a small, encouraging smile. He feels the tug of John’s fingers on his trousers, arches his hips up to allow John’s clever hands to ease between his pants and his skin, knows that there is no chance now of stopping this even if he somehow wanted to.

The first brush of John’s tongue across the exposed glans of his cock is like a jolt of electricity. Sherlock’s entire body bows forward, his fingers fisting tightly where they still grip John’s short hair. John hums against his prick and slides the first few inches into the wet cavity of his mouth, and Sherlock feels every millimeter throb with intense pleasure. John’s eyes flick up to his face and he smiles a little, his mouth contorted and gorgeous and Sherlock is not going to last long at all.

Sherlock shuts his eyes tight, trying to close down some sensory data to stave off his embarrassingly quick orgasm, but it only makes the sensation of John’s hot, wet mouth all the more acute. John’s tongue begins rubbing little circles against Sherlock’s frenulum and Sherlock feels his hips arch up of their own volition, John’s mouth tightening as his gag reflex kicks in. He coughs a little and pulls back, licking at the head until his breathing evens back out and he plunges his mouth down again. Sherlock feels his muscles coiling, all the remaining blood in his body rushing to the surface as John’s perfect, tight mouth clamps down on him.

“John,” he gasps, teetering on the edge of bliss until John’s clever fingers reach down, stroking a firm knuckle over the skin of his perineum and pushing. Sherlock’s breath rushes out of him as he comes, John’s greedy mouth swallowing him down as Sherlock jerks and twitches, endorphins seeping into his veins and making everything hazy and bright for a moment.

John is still suckling him a minute later when Sherlock pushes at his head, over sensitivity making him cringe away. John lets Sherlock’s cock slide out of his mouth with an obscene slick noise, running a thumb along the edge of his bottom lip where a bit of semen seems to have seeped out. Sherlock tries to calm his racing heart, chest heaving with labored breath as he takes in John’s dark, possessive gaze.

“Come here,” Sherlock pants, forcing his trembling limbs to coordinate enough to tug John up, licking into his mouth with lazy contentment. John growls against his lips, the hot, hard length of him pressing domineeringly into Sherlock as he rests his weight forward. Sherlock catches him and pulls him in tighter, feeling the thick ridge of John’s cock as it slides against the exposed, sensitive skin of his groin.

“You,” John pants into his throat, hips rocking in a mindless rhythm as he chases his own orgasm. “You’re perfect.” Sherlock groans and forces his body into compliance, gathering enough coordination to slide down the sofa, landing in a cramped heap on the floor between John’s legs. It’s an uncomfortable position, but Sherlock can’t care about that now; not with the prospect of tasting John, of consuming him in the basest of ways. John gasps above him, eyes wild and frantic as he shuffles backwards a little, bracing his hands on the back of the sofa for balance as Sherlock’s deft fingers tug at his trousers.

Sherlock feels the power shift entirely, and he doesn’t even bother to repress his dirty smirk as he finally wrestles John’s denims down, taking his pants as well with dexterous and determined thumbs. John’s prick is red and wet, pearly fluid leaking from the tip, and Sherlock suddenly wants it more than anything: to taste the very essence of John Watson, to feel him go to pieces at Sherlock’s hand, to swallow him down and imprint his DNA so every newly generated cell of Sherlock’s body is irrevocably entwined with John. He can still feel the seductive pull of orgasmic lethargy, can still feel the slightly dizzy feeling of the drug in his veins, but he wants so badly that his body’s aching limitations don’t even register.

He presses forward and finally, finally puts his mouth on John’s cock. The noise echoes through the flat as twin groans of pleasure release into the air, John’s knees buckling a little as Sherlock sinks his mouth down as far as he can. The angle is wrong; Sherlock’s neck arching too far to accommodate the sofa behind him, but he can finally feel the way John’s cock swells against his tongue, the salty-bitter-slick taste of semen bursting across his palette with every shivery thrust of John’s hips.

“Christ, your fucking mouth,” John gasps above him, one hand coming down off the sofa to bury itself in Sherlock’s curls. It feels incredible and Sherlock moans around his mouthful, pushing his head up into the contact and sucking harder to convey his approval. John lets loose a desperate, breathless chuckle and tightens his fingers, tugging a little as Sherlock establishes a brutal pace.

He makes the mistake of glancing up and nearly chokes as the erotic image above him imprints itself to his retinas for all eternity. John is staring down at him: eyes bright and fevered, his wonderful, worn face flushed as pleasure courses through him, teeth clamped harshly down on his bottom lip as if to muffle the ragged, desperate moans that are falling from his mouth like rain.

Sherlock’s neck is beginning to cramp painfully, his back twisted and tight where he’s squished up against the sofa, but he can feel the way John’s muscles are tightening, feel the frantic, galloping pace of John’s pulse as he nears orgasm. Sherlock runs a shaking hand across John’s thigh, fingers inching into the space between his legs where his bollocks hang heavy and tight. He glances up at John again and receives confirmation with a jerky nod, pulling his mouth off John’s prick with an undignified, wet slurp for a moment. He wets his fingers generously, using the abundantly thick saliva of arousal to coat them thoroughly before sliding his lips over the head of John’s cock again. John jumps a little, but pushes into Sherlock’s mouth, hips stuttering as Sherlock’s fingers run lazy circles over the stretched skin of his perineum.

The desire to push into him, to have some part of himself held within John’s body is too much. Sherlock reaches with long fingers until he can feel the wrinkled skin of John’s anus against the pad of his index. He rubs at the tight muscle for a moment, feeling the way John’s thighs clench, tasting the thick bead of pre-come that eases out against his tongue, and he thinks this might be what drowning feels like. Sherlock sucks hard, hollowing his cheeks and pushing relentlessly until the very tip of his finger slips into John just to the first knuckle.

John’s orgasm is violent and sudden, taking them both by surprise. Sherlock’s mouth floods with the bitter, slippery taste of come and he chokes a little, feeling as excess liquid seeps out of the corners of his mouth, dripping down his chin even as he swallows convulsively. John is shaking; muscles trembling wildly and Sherlock just manages to catch him before he collapses entirely, twisting them both so John lands sprawled across the sofa with Sherlock’s forehead pressed into his thigh.

“Jesus,” John finally pants, lifting a shaking hand and running his fingers gently through Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock hums in pleasure, content to just lay here forever; sore, sated and entirely covered in John’s come. The thought causes an odd twinge of discomfort in his chest and he raises his head slowly, taking in John’s completely wrecked form. John smiles down at him lazily, the post-orgasmic endorphin rush causing his face to glow with hormones and affection.

Sherlock wants to bask in it; wants to roll himself in the chemical soup seeping through his blood, but there’s a niggling thought prickling at the edges of his consciousness.

“John,” he finally says softly, his voice hoarse and cracked with overuse. John’s smile turns a bit cheeky and he shifts forward to run the pad of his thumb along Sherlock’s chin, gathering the slick mixture of semen and saliva that is still clinging there. Sherlock shudders and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth; absurd pride and mild disgust warring for dominance.

He tries again: “John, what you said before—about Mary–”

John’s entire body tenses and the calm, satiated expression drops from his face like a velvet curtain.

“Leave it,” John says sharply, sitting up and starting to tug at his clothing, straightening up enough to dislodge Sherlock from his perch and pull up his trousers. His entire demeanor is ringed in frigid hostility and Sherlock feels the rejection sink pitifully through his spine, landing to pool cold and aching in the base of his abdomen.

“John,” he tries, his voice an embarrassing mixture of plea and misery.

“For god’s sake!” John erupts, standing and jerking forcefully away, zipping his trousers with a decisiveness that Sherlock feels right down to his core. “Why can’t you just leave well enough alone for one sodding minute? Not everything is about you.”

Sherlock is utterly taken aback, the verbal explosion completely unexpected; John’s vitriol unfurling between them like a poisonous cloud. He feels his own anger rising to the forefront, prominent and unstoppable as his defenses start snapping back into place with almost audible clicks. He stands gracefully, smoothing his own clothing back into something that resembles normality.

“No,” he agrees, the cold, hard edge of steel to his tone. “Nothing of this is about me at all, is it, John?” John’s gaze snaps up to him, rage and pain and a small hint of fear. It makes Sherlock’s vision blur. “You just want a comfortable place to vent your frustration. Someone to hold you through the night when your wife gets to be too much. That’s all I am to you now: a tool for revenge against your chosen boring life. A convenient fuck.”

The obscenity crashes between them with horrible finality. There is a terrible, ugly feeling creeping over Sherlock’s skin as every recent encounter with John rushes back in stark contrast; reality ruthlessly pushing through the thick haze of Sherlock’s own romanticized memory. John gapes at him before his fists clench tightly at his sides, his face turning a blotchy, angry red.

“This was a mistake,” John says, and his voice is flat and cold and Sherlock cannot, cannot do this again.

“John,” he rumbles. It’s anger and bitter resentment and the mortifying edge of despair, but John’s jaw is starting to take on that hard, stubborn edge that Sherlock knows will get him nowhere very quickly.

“I thought this could work,” John continues. “I thought that you of all people would understand the difference between emotional attachment and just a healthy shag.” The words hit Sherlock like a slap to the face, his anger receding as he realizes what is happening.

The tension stretches between them like an elastic band and Sherlock is not sure what the snapping point will be. He’s tempted to push the issue, knowing the outcome could fluctuate either way, but John is beginning to sink into that dangerously calm expression that precedes imminent irrationality and Sherlock is frankly sick of the churning well of emotion he seems to have taken over his unstable sanity of late.

He bites back a million scathing retorts and clenches his jaw, feeling as the very air seems to vibrate with the strain of regret.

“Are you coming tonight or not?” Sherlock finally asks stiffly. John stares hard at him for another moment before jerking his head in a tight nod. Sherlock releases the breath that he’d been holding and gathers his discarded coat, pulling the familiar wool around his shoulders like armor. He can still make it to the jeweler’s shop if he hurries, and he secretly relishes the thought of the look on John’s face when Sherlock will propose to Janine.

A little malicious flame begins to rekindle at the back of his mind.

: :

Magnussen’s office is not what Sherlock had expected. His plan had seemed bullet-proof, and yet Janine is laying prone on the floor in a pool of her own blood, and somewhere in the back of Sherlock’s brain he feels pity for her. She had played her part perfectly, and Sherlock silently revelled in the obvious jealousy that stamped itself across John’s face plain as day, but to see her unconscious on the carpeting is doing funny things to Sherlock’s brain. He smells the distinctive scent of perfume and traces it to the source, finding Magnussen’s chair still warm and wondering where in his calculations he went so completely wrong.

He races up the stairs, vaguely aware of John hanging back with Janine and the security guard, doing his doctorly duty and leaving Sherlock to the action. His first hint of error should have been the Claire-de-la-Lune, but he has to admit, even to himself, that when Mary turns to him, gun poised, he is completely blindsided.

He registers the triumphant look in her eye for a split second before his mind seems to completely stall out: shock overriding every other sense as his brain tries to recalibrate around this new information. The look she gives him is jealousy and spite mixed with a heavy dose of superiority and Sherlock can feel his grip slipping the longer she points that damned gun in his face. He makes a snap decision, following his base instincts for once, refusing to believe that the woman married to his John could possibly be this much of a miscalculation.

Everything goes spectacularly wrong.

: :

Comments

[ruth0007.livejournal.com]

"But first,” she continues, brushing her hair back over her shoulder and shooting him a winning smile. “First, we dance.”

Your Janine voice is terrific.

“I thought this could work,” John continues. “I thought that you of all people would understand the difference between emotional attachment and just a healthy shag.”

*blinks* John? How could you treat Sherlock like this?