Oh my, I don't even know how this story happened. I remember reading something really *cough* inappropriate *cough* and for some reason decided to write some smut of my own. Yep, this is a story of a quite hard Sherlock/Moriarty smut and angsty Johnlocky feels because there's never enough of that.
Also, bit off topic, but if you put some effort into looking at the cover image, you'll see it's a picture of Moriarty smoking and the smoke of his cigarette creates a picture of Sherlock. Technically in this story it's reversed, but I really wanted to use this image for i love it. Don't know who it belongs to though, sorry.
Sherlock Holmes was not a junkie. He had done drugs in his life, sure, but who has not? One shot never killed anybody; Sherlock had seen enough living proofs to support this theory. So it was not something reckless or stupid to take LSD, right? John couldn't say a word against that; Sherlock was an adult and he was responsible for his own actions, he could do whatever he wanted, including drugs. There was no need to feel bad because John wouldn't approve.
Nevertheless, it was pointless to think of it now because he had already taken the drug and now he felt it was starting to affect him. He sat down into his chair and stared in front of himself. He had never done LSD before and he knew little about how it worked and what to expect. The reason why he didn't take cocaine or simply cigarettes as usual was that he hoped he might imagine things he couldn't get in real life. Sherlock closed his eyes and shut this thought in the back of his mind. He had forbidden himself to think of John that way because John was married and was soon to be a father.
But still it was there and Sherlock hoped the drug might allow him to forget the reality at least for once. He hoped to see John in his illusions – if they were to come.
"Did you miss me?"
Sherlock raised his head and couldn't believe his eyes. This man was not what he expected or wished to see. But as Sherlock had learnt, the things we want the most will rarely come to us no matter the effort. And also, it is extraordinary how often people get what they don't want. Moriarty was leaning against the wall between hall and kitchen and looked just like Sherlock had seen him the last time.
"What are you doing here?" Sherlock mumbled and frowned at him, "I don't want you here."
"That is not a very warm welcome," Moriarty smiled genuinely and shrugged.
"Wasn't meant to be." Sherlock opposed. "Get out."
"You'd have to dismiss me at first, Sherlock," Jim pointed out, "and you're not gonna do it."
"Why do you think? I don't want you here. I'm not even thinking of you. Why are you still here?" Sherlock's voice was gruff.
"Because you want me," Moriarty walked towards Sherlock slowly, "because you need me. Because you are so similar to me."
"I've done quite fine without you, thanks for your care, and now disappear." Sherlock didn't make a single move, he kept watching Moriarty's lean figure. "You're not even real."
"Whoa, that was rude, Sherly," Jim gasped, "you should be nicer. It suits you better. Yes, it's so sweet when you're nice. Why aren't you lovely to me?"
"You're an illusion, a phantom. Why should I be nice to you?" Sherlock asked and smirked mockingly.
"You weren't nice to me when I was alive and solid. And now you refuse to like me as a creation of your imagination. What do you want, Sherlock?" Moriarty looked straight into Sherlock's eyes during the last sentence.
"Why you?" Sherlock asked; he didn't bother himself with answering Moriarty's questions.
"Because you love dancing and I can dance." Moriarty smiled and came so close to Sherlock their knees were touching. Sherlock was feeling vulnerable and it felt even more wrong than he'd thought it would. "You've wanted to dance for so long."
"But why you? Why you in particular? It could have been anybody who is good at dancing." Sherlock opposed.
"Do you know anybody as good as me?" Moriarty questioned him with a self-confident smirk upon his lips as if he knew the answer before it was given to him.
"I'm sure I do," Sherlock swallowed audibly.
"But you can't recall anybody in the moment. That's why I am here." Moriarty bent down, placed one knee beside Sherlock's hip on the chair and played with the first button of Holmes's shirt. "So what are you waiting for? Shall I ask you for your first dance?"
Sherlock didn't know what to do. He had forgotten he was picturing Moriarty and only considered what John was going to say when he found out Sherlock was dancing with Moriarty. Moriarty, who was his arch nemesis and made him pretend he was dead for three years. But Moriarty was right; Sherlock was dying for a dance with somebody of his class.
"Should I dance the female role?" he asked and looked into Moriarty's eyes passionately.
"Of course. You're better at it than I am," Moriarty lowered his face so their noses were touching.
"Then you'll have to lead me," Sherlock breathed out, "will you manage to do so?"
"Let's see," Moriarty replied, stood up and pulled Sherlock on his feet. Sherlock's memory didn't alter their heights so Sherlock was still a bit taller but it didn't seem to be a problem. Moriarty pulled him close, placed a firm hand on Sherlock's back and bent his knees a bit to lower them. Sherlock accustomed to the position of a woman in the classical dances, turned his head onto left and waited. His drugged brain provided them with music and Sherlock's mind didn't at once wonder how it was possible his favourite waltz music played. He just let himself dwell in the marvellous sounds and Moriarty to lead him.
He had really chosen the best dancer he knew because Moriarty was flawless, passionate and yet remote and noble as a gentleman dancing waltz should be. They flew round the room and Sherlock soon thought they were in some huge ballroom, all alone and had the dancing floor only for themselves. Moriarty was spinning him around, bending him backwards so that he almost reached the ground and Sherlock's head was spinning from the sensation. Soon, the deserted ballroom turned into a meadow with short green grass. They were barefoot; Sherlock felt the fresh vegetation bellow his feet and the pace of the dance changed a bit, it was slower and romantic rather than passionate. Moriarty adjusted the style to it a bit. Sherlock kept spinning on the spot and when he opened his eyes again, it was pouring with rain. Soon enough they were soaked to the skin but neither of them cared.
They danced for what felt like hours; they tried various styles of dancing and Sherlock was sure he had never enjoyed dancing salsa like he did with Moriarty who was as keen on dancing as he was. And as the time went by, they were looking at the conventions less and less, removing their jackets and shirt for they felt hot and the clothes were hindering them. Meanwhile it had stopped raining and Sherlock felt warm rays of sun on his bare torso. They were just dancing rumba and Sherlock had Moriarty's arm wrapped around his waist with his fingers a bit too down for it to be appropriate.
And Sherlock didn't withdraw. Yes, he felt it was a bit weird, but he was drugged – he was doing what he wanted to do. And in that moment Moriarty's body pressed against his felt right and logical to take. Once Sherlock thought this, Moriarty smirked and put Sherlock's right hand on his own neck and brought them even closer. Suddenly they stopped dancing and the music disappeared; instead Sherlock only heard his heartbeat and the rush of his blood in his ears. They looked at each other and Sherlock didn't wait any longer. He bridged the distance between his and Moriarty's lips and kissed the shadow of a man.
He had never thought he would feel so good while kissing his enemy but maybe that was it. Moriarty had expressed it by words – he would do anything to not be bored. And for that, he needed Moriarty. Sherlock pulled away a bit and he stared into Moriarty's eyes. They watched each other for a little while and without any warning, Moriarty took Sherlock's face into his hands and kissed him so hungrily Sherlock thought he would never be kissed this way in normal life. It was not possible to kiss so gently and yet so passionately.
Sherlock pulled Moriarty closer, so close it almost hurt, but it still wasn't enough. Sherlock had no idea where such desire came from in his body, but he assumed he had not relieved his sexual needs sufficiently in the past years and that was why he couldn't stop himself from burning with such an ardour. Moriarty just smirked laid them on the ground gently. Sherlock had never realised how pleasant lying on his back was.
"Do I really want to have sex with you?" Sherlock asked in surprise. Moriarty laughed and Sherlock thought he had never heard something so dirty and animally alluring.
"You have to answer that yourself. It is your question." Moriarty pointed out and pulled up on his knees. He placed his hands on Sherlock's hipbones, his fingers fit perfectly into the holes beside them. "Do you want to have sex with me?"
Sherlock watched Moriarty's face, he was analysing everything about it. His brain was really trying to function, but it was difficult with Moriarty's fingers on his abdomen. They burnt like a red-hot piece of iron and Sherlock knew he was fighting a lost battle when he tried to choose between what he clearly wanted as his pants were getting really small and what was quite probably right but maybe not. When he considered it, why shouldn't he sleep with Moriarty? There was nothing about relationship so why couldn't he get the relief he wanted when he was given it? Who cared that Moriarty had been his greatest enemy? He didn't hate him, after all; in fact he admired him a bit, he certainly intrigued the detective and moreover – why shouldn't Sherlock admit it – he was attractive. Sherlock didn't care about morals if he didn't want to and 'Don't sleep with your enemy' wasn't high on his list of things to do and not to do.
"I do," Sherlock whispered solemnly and closed his eyes so he didn't see Moriarty's triumphant smile. But he felt his trousers were being unbuttoned as he didn't feel so confined. He moaned a bit as Moriarty pulled the trousers down his legs. For a while he didn't feel Moriarty's hands on himself and opened his eyes to search for him. The villain had taken his own trousers off as well and smirked at Sherlock.
"Shh, don't be so impatient," he purred and slowly returned to his previous position on Sherlock's lap. If there was something that was turning Sherlock on more than Moriarty's laughter, it was the proximity of their cocks. Well, obviously.
"I want you," Sherlock groaned and Moriarty laughed again.
"You're so adorable, Sherlock. I can only wonder what it is like to be a virgin at your age... How did you even survive? You must be terribly frustrated." After saying this, Moriarty lay down on Sherlock's chest and began nipping at his ear.
"I've got a well-trained right hand," Sherlock replied and involuntarily bent his back in attempt to brush his throbbing erection against Moriarty's.
"Well, I wanted to take it nice and easy since you are a virgin, but whatever you wish, honey," Moriarty murmured into Sherlock ear and bit his earlobe once more. Then he reached for Sherlock's mouth and kissed him hungrily as if the whole world depended on it. Sherlock didn't know what to do with his hands.
"You're really such a beginner, Sherlock," Moriarty chuckled, took Sherlock's hands into his and placed them on his own butt. Sherlock didn't do anything at first, but then he slipped his fingers under the hem of Moriarty's briefs, quite shyly. Moriarty stopped kissing Sherlock on the mouth and instead decided to mark Sherlock's neck as his property. That encouraged Holmes a bit so he moved his fingers over Moriarty's skin and slowly removed his underwear, inch by inch. His fingers trailed closer to Moriarty's hardened penis and stopped there. Sherlock hesitated a bit before he pulled Moriarty's briefs away completely.
His fingers dwelled on the spot on Moriarty's abdomen where his smooth skin met the hair of his groin. Sherlock's heart was pounding in his chest and he had no idea if he was bold enough to do something more. He wanted to, his proximity to the other man was overwhelming, but he was afraid. He had never done it with somebody else and he was worried he might mess something up.
"Don't worry, I'll lead you," Moriarty whispered and trailed light kissed down Sherlock's stomach, nipped at Sherlock's bellybutton and made few slow circles around it. Sherlock shivered in anticipation and tried to find Moriarty with his hands again, having lost contact. Moriarty pulled away and blew some cold air on the wet spot he had left on Sherlock's skin. Holmes quivered again. As he threw his head aback, he realised he didn't want to submit to Moriarty, he was not submissive.
"There's no need for that," he growled, even though he had no idea what he was replying to. His mind told him he should say that so he said it. At the same time, he sat up and faced Moriarty. He did not realise their surroundings changed again, but they were lying on a huge king-size bed with bright white clothing. He also noticed a bottle of lubricant on a bedside table; his consciousness was thinking of everything.
"I'm not gonna submit," Sherlock hissed as Moriarty sat up as well. They were facing each other, their bodies were covered in sweat and their cheeks were flushed.
"You," Sherlock pointed at Moriarty, "are going to obey. You will listen to me."
"I always wondered why you didn't fall for Irene. I thought it was because you're gay, but that's not it, right? You just hate being bossed."Moriarty smirked.
"You will not talk unless I give you permission," Sherlock's voice whizzed like a whip, "understood?"
"Yes," Moriarty replied, "sir."
"Now lie down, on your back." Sherlock commanded and as he looked sideways, he noticed a pair of handcuffs beside the lube. He smirked for himself. Moriarty did what he was told, his naked form lying widespread on the sheets. For a blink of an eye Sherlock felt repulsion; was he really willing to have sex with Moriarty? It was not what he wanted, he wanted John, the sweet, innocent John who had no idea what a monster Sherlock was inside. But he would never hurt John; he would not give in to his needs and carnal instincts as much as to hurt John whom he loved. But this was Moriarty and Sherlock didn't care if he hurt this man or not. Maybe that was why he came instead of John; Sherlock needed to relieve his appetites in a purely physical way.
"I'm gonna tie you up. You have no word in this, so don't say anything," he informed Moriarty in a distant, cold voice. The latter didn't respond and the corners of Sherlock's lips turned up a bit. He reached for the cuffs and pulled Moriarty's arms up roughly without any care. It might have hurt but Moriarty showed no sign of emotion. Sherlock locked one of Moriarty's wrists in the cuff, pulled the chain through the poles in the bedpost and a snap informed Moriarty his other hand was locked as well. Sherlock watched his work with appreciation.
"I'm sure you did not expect this," he said, removed his briefs and knelt up with his knees on either side of Moriarty's pelvis. The fun was just about to begin.
"I did not, sir," Moriarty said obediently. Sherlock slapped his face hard. It was certain to come; Sherlock wanted to slap the handsome cunning face and nothing was going to stop him.
"Did I ask you any question?!" he yelled, "look at me, you filthy slut."
Moriarty's eyes found Sherlock's and before he could understand what was going on, Sherlock slapped him again.
"Now I did ask you!" Sherlock hissed and watched Moriarty's reddening cheeks with great satisfaction. Also he felt tension in his crotch and that ignited another idea in his mind. Now a riding crop appeared right in his hand. He suspected it was the one Irene had beaten him with so many years before. Or maybe it was his own which he used for beating dead corpses. What did it matter?
"Do you know who you are?" he asked his victim in a bit gentler voice. That should calm the latter down despite the whip in Sherlock's hand.
"My name's-" Moriarty began and that was all Sherlock needed. He flicked the whip, listened to the sound of it with satisfaction and stroked his cock with his free hand to intensify the sensation from Moriarty's moan of pain. Sherlock looked down and noticed Moriarty had a split on his left cheekbone that was now oozing with blood.
"Don't lie!" Sherlock hissed and a clothes pin appeared in his free hand. He clasped Moriarty's right nipple in it and watched him gasp in pain with pleasure. "And now again. Who are you?"
"I'm nothing," Moriarty mumbled. Sherlock hit him with the whip again, but now with less strength and only across the chest. It hurt, but it was much better than the previous hit.
"That's quite right," Sherlock smiled, "but you will talk aloud enough when you are asked something. Am I clear?"
"Yes," Moriarty answered, now in a full voice. Sherlock realised he liked Moriarty's voice.
"Yes, sir" Holmes growled, "I thought you understood that."
"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir," Moriarty babbled.
"I haven't asked for your apology!" Sherlock snapped and removed the pin from Moriarty's nipple struck it with the whip which inflicted Moriarty's surprised scream of pain.
"Shut up! I haven't given you a permission to talk," Sherlock muttered angrily, leant down and moved a bit lower on Moriarty's thighs to get a better access to the already hurting nipple. Sherlock smirked awfully at Moriarty who watched him with frightened eyes and bit the sensitive skin. He didn't nip at it or lick it, he bit as if he wanted to really hurt Moriarty what he might have really wanted. Moriarty bit his lip not to cry and tears rose into his eyes.
"Does it hurt?" Sherlock asked as he sat up again, his erection laid out before him on Moriarty's abdomen. He didn't return the pin back to its place; instead he watched it bruise. Moriarty was considering his answer, this was a dangerous question.
"Answer me! You're not on a children's vacation!" Sherlock shouted and rewarded himself with a satisfyingly violent and rude slap to Moriarty's already injured cheek. He was keeping the pain in the same places so Moriarty would feel them even more strongly.
"Of course, sir. I know, sir." Moriarty struggled to get the words out of his mouth because he was fighting sobs. "It doesn't hurt, sir."
"I thought it didn't," Sherlock said in thoughts and there was a sign of panic in Moriarty's eyes before he realised there was not a right answer to that question. Whatever he said would be used against him. And he was right in his assumption. Sherlock watched him and considered various things before he clasped the ruptured skin of Moriarty's cheek into the pin. Moriarty moaned a bit.
"I'm sure you'd welcome some serious pain, not just the tiny one I have given you. Am I wrong?" Sherlock asked and his eyes glistened with a bright vile spark.
"No, you are not wrong, sir," Moriarty almost whispered. Sherlock slashed him with the whip again.
"I said you would talk aloud." His voice was calm, cold and unattached. It scared Moriarty more than if he shouted. "Have I not made myself clear?"
"You did make yourself clear, sir."
"I've got to admit you're learning quite fast," Sherlock murmured thoughtfully, "but I expected a bit more from the big James Moriarty."
Moriarty didn't reply as he was not asked and Sherlock decided it would be idiotic to beat him now when he didn't break any rule. Instead, he chose something less painful but more humiliating. He bent forward and levelled his face with Moriarty's. His arch enemy was watching his with frightened eyes. Slowly, Sherlock opened his mouth and licked Moriarty's nose, up and down a few times. That was a relief for the bottoming man as he felt no pain from that. It stopped being that pleasant when Sherlock removed the pin from his face and licked his wound; it burnt and Sherlock seemed to put more of his saliva into it. He continued on licking Moriarty's face, covering in with his saliva mixed with Moriarty's blood. His rough, hot tongue circled around Moriarty's eye; closer and closer until Moriarty had to close it otherwise Sherlock would lick his eyeball. Then the detective bit the injured cheek and sat up again. He watched Moriarty and his cock was getting harder.
"You are so nicely damp, so lubricious, so wet," Sherlock purred, "you're like a big cock." He laughed. Moriarty kept staring at him, his normally bright eyes dull and boring.
"You don't find it funny?!" Sherlock hissed.
"I – uh-" Moriarty tried to respond but he didn't get to it. Sherlock hit the other side of his face with his riding crop and Moriarty knew it was not good; so far Holmes was controlled but then he lost himself.
"What a shame indeed." Sherlock said as if he was really regretting it. "I thought I would at least use the lubricant on my cock so you would not have it that difficult to live after that. What a shame you lost your chance."
With these words, Sherlock grabbed the jar with the lubricant, opened it and dug two fingers into it. When he coated them sufficiently, he threw the jar on the ground with such a force it shattered.
"That's your fault," Sherlock informed Moriarty.
"Yes, sir." Moriarty acknowledged.
"Well, it can happen, we all make mistakes." Sherlock smiled indulgently. "I forgive you. And because I forgive you, you won't be denied the pleasure to blow my whistle."
Sherlock spread the lube on Moriarty's lips and rubbed the rest off in Moriarty's hair.
"You ungrateful little piece of shit!" He shouted and hit both Moriarty's arms with the whip.
"I am grateful, sir." Moriarty cried.
"Now it's too late. You mustn't have spoken." Sherlock whipped both Moriarty's nipples.
"Of course, sir,"
"I'm so tired of your stupid remarks!" Sherlock shouted. "Shut up!"
With that, he moved and before Moriarty could comprehend the situation, he had the whole Holmes's erection in his mouth. And there was not little of it. He gagged and felt the insides of his stomach threatening to rise up his throat. He panicked; Sherlock would beat him even more if he puked on his cock. But he couldn't help it, Sherlock's tip was irritating the back of his mouth, it was unbearable, it hurt, he felt like he would burn, vomit and choke to death at once; he needed to cough but it was impossible.
Fortunately for him, Sherlock removed his cock from his mouth and Moriarty gasped for air. He made few gagging noises but managed to calm his oesophagus down. Sherlock laughed at him.
"You lost your chance. I see there's no fun with you. I'm sorry, I wanted to at least attempt for vanilla, but you gave me no option." Sherlock said and rolled Moriarty on his stomach. The chain of the handcuffs rattled and Moriarty groaned as the metal cuffs dug into his flesh. Sherlock just smirked and took the whip into his hand again.
"A bit of foreplay has never killed anybody," he almost sang and placed a first slash of the whip between Moriarty's blades.
"Are you a Christian?" Sherlock asked.
"No, sir," Moriarty replied as soon as he could swallow tears.
"What a shame. You wouldn't have needed to get whipped if you were, Jesus has already taken them for you." Sherlock hit Moriarty a few more times. Moriarty killed a protest in his brain. Of course Sherlock would say something about the need to whip Moriarty the forty hits just as Jesus.
Fortunately for Moriarty, Sherlock was too eager to finally put his cock into Moriarty's body to really hit him forty times. He spread Moriarty's legs wide, so wide it hurt and hit the tip of Moriarty's cock with the whip. Moriarty cried in pain but Sherlock didn't listen. He put the whip aside, took his briefs into his hand again and after a short hesitation pressed it into Moriarty's mouth. It was moist with Sherlock's pre-cum and it made Moriarty gag once more. Sherlock looked at him for one last time before he pulled Moriarty's arse up.
Moriarty gritted his teeth as Sherlock forced him up on his knees but held his head down, pressed into the mattress. His wrists burnt as if the handcuffs were made of solid fire and he was frightened.
"Don't you dare to raise your head, you whore." Sherlock hissed and let go of Moriarty's hair. He moved his hands on Moriarty's ass, pulled his cheeks apart and after a one last inhale thrust hard into Moriarty. The bottoming man screamed in pain and the fabric in his mouth couldn't muffle it. Sherlock on the other side was even more turned on as he heard it, removed his underwear from Moriarty's mouth and threw it aside. He removed his erection from Moriarty completely, dug his nails into the skin of Moriarty's ass to intensify his turmoil. He thrust and immediately withdrew again; he repeated it many times because he knew it hurt more when he was pressing his penis in repeatedly. Moriarty was crying, begging and weeping and it made Sherlock even more furious.
He sped up and didn't bother himself with pulling out. Instead, he grabbed Moriarty's cock and pumped it as if they were in real relationship and he wanted the other man to enjoy it as well. He was rough and violent and it only hurt Moriarty more; it was humiliating and hurtful at once. When Sherlock reached his orgasm, he let his semen spill into Moriarty. Not only would he be unable to sit down or walk, he would also see the proof Sherlock was there, inside of his body. With one last thrust he removed his cock from the other man's ass and stood up. He rolled Moriarty on his back again.
"I have not finished with you. You. Owe. Me." Sherlock smirked as he remembered Moriarty's own words. He climbed up on the bed and released Moriarty's hands, there was no use in keeping him tied. As he was returning back to stand, he noticed a small pool of blood mixed with semen under Moriarty.
"And you're gonna wash this sheet. No, you'll lick it clean!" Sherlock laughed and went to a bathroom to wash himself. He had no idea how he knew where the bathroom is.
"Sherlock, you idiot, can't you pick up your bloody phone when I call you?!" John shouted into the flat. He noticed Sherlock's mobile phone on the table in the living room; it was flashing with the message of all the missed calls. There was no sign of Sherlock though. John knew Sherlock had not gone outside for a case, it was highly improbable he would go without the phone. No, Sherlock was somewhere in the flat and for some reason decided to hide.
Fine, two could play the game. John went to search the bathroom, but Sherlock wasn't there, just like he wasn't in his room. John almost gave up when he heard some noise from his previous bedroom. That was weird. He thought Sherlock had deserted it, that he was even planning to get somebody to live there.
John went there, prepared for a lot of things but certainly not for what he did actually see. On his old bed, there was Sherlock, outstretched to all sides and completely naked. John realised that the clothes he had seen on his way there were not left there because of weeks of Sherlock's reluctant opinion on tidying up. Sherlock had for some reason been stripping himself to the point when he lay down on the bed and...
Yes, John saw the white liquid dripping down Sherlock's fingers. But why would Sherlock be so... dramatic? It was weird. John considered leaving and pretending he had never been there. He knew he could not erase that sight from his memory but he didn't have to make Sherlock feel embarrassed. Hell, he felt embarrassed himself. Not that he thought Sherlock never... he was a man after all... but to actually see it was a very different story.
But when he was about to turn around and flee, probably to wait for Sherlock to come down into the living room, the detective opened his eyes and he flushed the darkest shade of red his skin was able to produce. John noticed Sherlock's movements were a bit slower and his sight was blurred, as if he couldn't really focus on what he was seeing. Then it hit him. It was obvious really. Sherlock was baked as a cake.
The first emotion that ran through John's mind was worry. Of course the first thing he thought about was Sherlock's health. But when he made sure Sherlock wasn't injured he was angry. Sherlock had promised to never do this again! But he clearly did drugs that day. How many times had he done it since the fateful day in Magnussen's house? True, John hadn't dropped by very often, but wasn't Sherlock a grown-up after all? Did he really need to be supervised every waking moment?
The detective woke from his trance enough to recognise the man he loved and he burst into tears when he saw John's frowning face.
"I'm sorry, John, I didn't want to sleep with him. I don't want him, he made me do it. Please, believe me, I love you!" Sherlock cried and tried to stand up. He obviously didn't realise he was naked and covered in his own semen or maybe he just didn't care.
"Sherlock, have you gone mad?" John asked, his face showing worry again.
"I'm sorry, John, I love you and you only. He doesn't mean anything to me!" Sherlock went on, oblivious to what John was saying. John on the contrary was sure there was nothing to do but wait until Sherlock sobers up, but he was trying anyway.
"I believe you, Sherlock, but now you have to calm down, okay? Eat something or have a cup of tea or whatever. Please." John said and looked at Sherlock as if he saw him for the first time. And then it hit him. This was the first time. He'd never seen Sherlock completely naked. He swallowed audibly and tore his eyes off Sherlock's figure. Every time he thought he had got over the feelings he had for the detective, they appeared again.
"I'll be wherever you will go," Sherlock babbled and gave John a dreamy sigh.
"That's really nice," John looked away, "now, I'm heading for a bathroom and you're gonna wash yourself."
"Oh," Sherlock said and he felt really stupid.
John didn't make any further comment on it and rather chose to really go out of the room. He heard Sherlock was following him and he couldn't stop his heart from beating. Not in this moment! He thought. This moment out of all.
Sherlock didn't say a word when he went into the bathroom and closed the door behind himself. He rubbed his temples and noticed his hair was wet with sweat and now also the sperm that covered his fingers. He shut his eyes and tried to shield his mind from the memories of past few hours. What was he doing? He knew he'd taken the drug in the night and now it was a bright day. What was he doing?
It didn't matter that much anyway, because he'd done drugs and John saw him. And not only saw him high, he also saw him naked with only one explanation. Sherlock had never felt this ashamed of himself and only on few occasions he despised himself as much as in that moment in front of the mirror.
He stared at his razor and considered opening his old wounds, those he had caused to himself when he was a teenager. Nobody had ever seen them and he hoped that John in his embarrassment didn't inspect Sherlock's upper thighs to see the scars. However the need for injuring himself was strong, he could not do it when John was waiting for him. He had to stand the terrible mental turmoil and actually look into John's eyes.
He sighed and followed John's advice as he stepped into the bathtub, sat down and turned the water on. It was too hot, but he didn't care. He couldn't cut himself, but he could suffer because the water was too hot. He began rubbing his skin and he wasn't gentle to himself at all. He even used nails to scratch the metaphorical dirt off his skin. Once he was finished, his skin was crimson and sensitive and he was almost as sore on the outside as he was in his soul. He wrapped himself in a dressing gown he had left on a hook on the door and finally opened the door. He noticed a cloud of steam follow him out of the bathroom.
John was sitting in his old armchair and stared into a cup of tea in his hands as if he could find answers to all his questions in it. Sherlock noticed there was another cup on the table and that some of his things were on places where he wouldn't put them. John was tidying up again. It must have been a terrible mess here. Sherlock deduced and felt even worse. He walked slowly towards his own chair, fell into it, crossed his legs under himself and took the tea into his hands. It was hot but he held it in his hands boldly.
"I'm sorry, I couldn't find any food in here," John said and he looked at Sherlock who finished the sentence for him. And I didn't want to leave you here alone.
"John, I'm sorry for everything." Sherlock murmured and lowered his eyes towards his lap.
"You know I know you're an adult, right? I get that it's absolutely none of my business to tell you what to do." John sighed and looked over at Sherlock. "But I begged you. I begged you, Sherlock, to not do drugs. Not for yourself because it's been some time since I realised you have little respect for your own life. But for me. I hoped that if I asked you not to do it, you wouldn't."
Sherlock felt as if John took a knife and stabbed him. He couldn't use better words, better voice or better expression if he wanted to make Sherlock suffer. And maybe he didn't. Sherlock bit his lip.
"I tried. This was the first time since... you know. But I couldn't stand it, I was so sad, bored and tired of the whole world. I was so lonely and I wanted to be somewhere else if only for a while. I know I used to be happy alone but I can no longer pretend I'm okay with it. For those years I've been away, I kept reminding myself I was doing it for you and therefore it made sense. I expected to once come back and find you here, waiting for me." Sherlock made a pause to stifle a sob that hid in his chest. "But you weren't waiting. And since then, nothing made sense. For a while I hoped I could get you back. I knew I was being selfish for praying for you to leave Mary but I couldn't help it. And then I made sure she would be alright and you'll be happy and I tried to convince myself I'm happy because you are happy. But I am not because I love you, and I've loved you for so many years. And you've slipped through my fingers, I lost you and yesterday I couldn't stand it any longer."
John stared at Sherlock in bewilderment. He had never expected such an outburst of real emotion from Sherlock. And certainly not emotions towards himself. Of course, there had been those rumours and jokes but he was genuinely convinced Sherlock was just asexual. And now he was finding out it wasn't true.
"Sherlock..." John sighed and stood up. He walked over to the detective, took the cup of his hands and knelt down in front of him.
Sherlock avoided his sight.
"I don't know what to say, actually. But I... thought I lost you forever. I was hopeless, depressed when I thought you were dead. I could spend hours at your grave talking and when I closed my eyes I could believe you were there, because you often didn't respond to me. But then I opened my eyes and I had to face the world without you again. And then I met Mary and she was an angel, at least I thought she was. And she wasn't you, nobody could ever be you but it was better than nothing. And even if I realised it wasn't you, sometimes I imagined you sent her to me to save me." John placed his hands on Sherlock's knees, which finally caught the detective's attention.
"There's no need for you to try to make me feel better," Sherlock said coldly but then he looked into John's eyes and he fell silent again, but the emotion in John's eyes wasn't pity. It was love, regret and remorse.
"I'm not and don't you dare interrupt me again, Sherlock." John snapped. "The point is that I feel that it has always been you. And Mary knows it as well and that's the worst. I can't abandon her now, she knows I will always love you more than her and you'll still be lonely. It's like some stupid soap opera."
Sherlock didn't say absolutely anything. He stared at John just as he did back then when John asked him to be his best man. He was trying to process all the information he had received, but his brain threatened to give in to his heart. He struggled with his emotions until finally he drew a conclusion.
"John, you're the person I've loved the most in my life. I will always be there waiting for you in case you changed your life. I must say that logically, I must object to your doing so; but my feelings wouldn't let me do it. I have killed a man for you so don't think I'll give up." He said and searched for assurance in John's eyes that he said the right thing.
"I killed for you the day we met," John replied and stood up. He knew that if he kept touching Sherlock, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from cheating on Mary and he wasn't going to do that. At least not that day.
Sherlock understood what John was trying to say. I love you but we've missed our chance. Sherlock sighed and reached for his tea again. He sipped some of it before some thoughts that had been circulating through his mind got shape.
"Why did you come anyway? Don't tell me you felt I needed you," he asked John.
The doctor turned around and with a sad smile responded: "I wish I did. Mary has just given birth to our girl. I thought you'd want to know."