Absolution
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any other of the characters.
Genre: Hurt/Comfort
Rating: R for BDSM and slash. You've been warned.
Summary: Sherlock seeks domination. John seeks answers. Will they find absolution in the end?
Author's Note: Written under the influence of the song "1000 Ships Underworld No Choir" from Two Steps From Hell.
Chapter One: Answers
"I wouldn't call him a slave. I don't whip him when he does something wrong. Just when he does something good." (Shannon Elizabeth)
They are using the whip again. The man he brought with him today is like all the others before. Bully, tall, with glassy, distracted eyes. I suspect he picks them up at the stations, between two shots of heroin, chooses the one with the lowest emotional affection.
He doesn't say anything anymore when they come up. He just looks at me with his blue eyes, his expression neutral and unemotional, and I follow his unspoken order and leave for my room.
I remember how it started, just the night after we escaped the death trap at the pool.
"I am going out", he had said, matter-of-factly. "I am going to bring company with me when I come home. I suggest you leave for your room, then. And I advise you to stay in there, no matter what you might hear."
I remember how I looked at him, astonished. I had spent some time with him until that day and he had never seemed sexually interested in anyone or anything until that evening. And then he was standing there, saying lightly he would bring someone with him, as if he just needed to go down the streets and catch someone. Well, that was actually what he did, but I wasn't aware of that in this moment.
"Okay", I said, still perplex, but he made no explanation. I wish he would have. But he just took his coat and went off, his steps determined.
It took him only an hour to come back. I looked at the guy who was following him on feet and was totally irritated. Not that he brought a guy with him; I had always suspected him to be more into men then women, for he used to treat every woman either as if she was hollow, or dumb.
But the outward appearance of the man he had chosen was so… different to his. He was tall and bully, his clothes a mess, smelling almost like he had taken them from a garbage can. It took me several seconds to understand, took me some time to realise his trembling hands, the dull and impassive eyes.
By that time, Sherlock had already set his eyes onto me, telling me wordlessly to leave. And I did. I didn't ask any questions. Maybe I should have done it. Maybe if I had stopped him at the first time (though I am not quite sure if I would have been able to), I wouldn't have had all those sleepless nights in the last time.
But I didn't. It seems there are lots of things I should have done, but never did.
He screams. I can hear the screams, though they are muffled. I wonder what they use to silence the screams. Or maybe I don't want to know. But the screams aren't the reason I lay awake. I can handle screams. I have heard a lot of them, desperate screams, helpless screams, hurt screams, down at war. The reason I lay awake is the sound of the whip hitting his flesh.
The walls are thin.
I imagine the end of the black whip matching his porcelain flesh, ripping it open. It must be a dark artistic contrast, the black whip, the pale skin and the blood.
It almost hurts me physically to think about it. He never asks me to help him, though. Next morning, when the man is gone, he will come for breakfast, sit down at the chair (paying attention not to touch the back of it) and eat silently. He will not ask me to have a look at his back, or even ask me to suggest him an ointment.
He will sit there, silently, like a statue and first start talking to me again when it's afternoon. Only I won't be there by afternoon. I will sit there, at the table and have breakfast and glare at him, waiting for an answer, an explanation, just something. And when I realise I don't get any of it, I will stand up wordlessly, take my jacket and walk over to Sarah, cursing him all the way, still cursing him when I enter her house.
And I will ask her all the questions I want to ask him and my voice will change from angry, to desperate, to whiny.
Sarah knows everything.
I had sex with Sarah once, only two weeks after I met her. I remember me above her, my hands tight at her shoulders, my eyes closed. And I remember how he appeared in my mind, all of a sudden, just as I had reached climax. The images were so strong, so colourful, so nailed before my eyes that I called out his name.
I opened my eyes quickly, right after that, and found Sarah's eyes, focusing me. She wasn't surprised.
I don't know which shocked me more; the fact that I was imagine sleeping with him or the fact that Sarah showed no surprise. But I got out of the bed, grabbed my clothes and dashed out of the house at once.
I ran around whole London that day, trying to persuade myself it wasn't true. Trying to persuade myself that I had been hallucinating, that there was a complete logical explanation for it.
It took me some time to understand that there really was a logical explanation – I love him.
Sarah has been a blast, afterwards. She's my ally in this. So when the whipping started, there was no one else I could go to. She endures it all. All my shouts, my complains, my desperation… She endures it and tenderly tries to convince me that this is leading me to nowhere. That every day, every hour, every minute I spend with him is ripping me more and more apart. That I am whipped myself.
As if I didn't know.
The whipping has stopped. Obviously, they have taken it to the next step, which would obviously be that the man he brought with him takes him. Probably on his knees.
I shouldn't think about it, but I find no way out of it. Though I cannot hear anything anymore, the images are burnt into my mind.
What I'd give to end this. I have thought about it. I have thought about waiting until the other man leaves, then go into his room (he never locks the door, just like I don't) and care for him. I will care for the wounds, at first, and then I will care for his soul and mine. I will touch and kiss each healthy millimetre of his soft skin, loose myself into these astonishing eyes while I kiss his lips.
Those eyes… They are always the last thing I wonder about before I fall asleep.
I sit at the table and glare. I haven't even touched my breakfast. His lip is swollen and still a little bit bloody. This is different. I have never before seen any physical wound at him. This is new. And it's driving me mad.
"It's getting a little bit out of control, don't you think?" I ask. It's the first time I speak with him after a night like that and I have trouble to control my voice.
He doesn't look up, but he speaks. He really speaks.
"We had a clash of opinion as it came to the paying terms", he says smoothly. "Nothing to worry about."
My hand hits the table. The cutlery on the plates rattles.
"God damnit, Sherlock, this has to stop", I say loudly.
"Why? Does it bother your sleep?" he asks calmly.
"I know exactly why you do this", I say, my teeth clenched.
"So, do you?" Sherlock asks, not sounding very interested.
"Yes, I do."
"I suppose you'll find it unavoidable to tell me, will you?"
"Moriarty", I say.
He raises an eyebrow and looks at me. "Moriarty?"
"You imagine them to be him."
"Why would I do that?"
Because he wants him. I have seen it, in both of them, at the pool. The tension between them was far more than just intellectual. The way they narrowed each other… For a second, I believed they'd do it right there, jump at each other, fight, struggle and fuck right there under my eyes.
"Domination", I say.
"Interesting, John, really, but totally wrong, as always", he says, taking the newspaper.
The anger burns me, eats me up from inside. I cannot bear this anymore. Sarah is right. It's ripping me apart. I wave my hand over the table and the plates and glasses fall down onto the floor.
"Fuck you", I say as I stand up and storm out of the room. I almost run against Misses Hudson, who came up, alarmed by the noise.
"What are you two doing again?" she asks, but I don't answer. I storm out of the house, into the rain, seeking for an absolution which I cannot receive. My absolution is him.