Disclaimer: We do not own Sherlock, BBC's version or otherwise. However since redroses100 and I plan to take over the world some day, we'll see how long that lasts...
A/N: Welcome one and all to this little roleplay pet project turned story that I, Loreyulia, and my wonderful partner in crime redroses100 have put together. First and foremost we want to warn you that this story will contain graphic violence, rape, drug use, smut, and all that mature stuff in between. We are both completely unapologetic if this story is not your cup of tea, but there is fair warning that if any of the above things bother you, you might not want to read this. This WILL be an eventual Jim/John fic, so be patient if you're looking forward to that loves. And as always, enjoy and leave reviews to motivate us!
The Thinning Line
Chapter One: Psychological Warfare
John knows, somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach, that he will never feel safe again. Running around with Sherlock, he got used to the fact that danger was everywhere. But being snatched off of the street on his way to meet Sarah in broad DAYLIGHT... it just feels like a whole new level of low. Being strapped to a bomb, and meeting Jim Moriarty just makes things exponentially worse...
"John Watson." The criminal drawls his name, and John grits his teeth. He's looking straight ahead of himself, fervently refusing to look at the man who could be his murderer. "You are a stubborn one, aren't you John?" Moriarty smirks to himself, observing the good doctor closely.
"I'm sure by now you've guessed who I am, and why you're here." John doesn't even blink to acknowledge him.
Moriarty isn't really angered by John's behavior, but he is annoyed, and for him, that's close enough. He charges forward and grabs John's face in his hand, forcing the blond to look at him. When those blue eyes finally meet his, Moriarty grins and rubs his thumb in slow circles on John's jaw. "At first I didn't understand what Sherlock sees in you...but I think I'm starting to see it. His little pet, his little live in soldier." Moriarty coos, and the disgust on John's face makes him giggle.
"I'm not his pet." John sneers, finally breaking his silence, which only makes Moriarty happier.
"Oh but you are, my dear. Or do you really not see it?" Moriarty fades off, obviously trying to goad John into asking a question. After a few minutes it works and John growls before asking,
"See what?"
"Oh, I'm so glad you asked. You see, there's this very fine line that Sherlock walks, that we all walk in one way or another. His line happens to be the separation between harmless little sociopath and violent psychopath. And it's a thinning line, John. Any day now, it could just vanish and the Sherlock you know and love will go bye bye." Moriarty sounds far too happy about that prospect, and John fights the urge to strangle the man. The fact that his hands are cuffed behind his back is probably the only thing that really stops him at this point.
"You think you know Sherlock Holmes. But you don't." John hisses, furious on behalf of his friend.
"Oh I know more than you ever will, Johnny Boy. And I know just how to exploit it too. I'm telling you this as a friendly warning...if you have any kind of self preservation...you'll stay far away from Sherlock Holmes. He's not what you think he is, little soldier, and you'll only get hurt by staying." Moriarty grins, as John's eyes narrow further. It's pretty obvious that John doesn't believe him, but that's hardly Jim's problem. If John wants to let his blind faith be the end of him, that's his problem. "You poor oblivious fool." Moriarty murmurs, finally releasing John's face.
"I will never let you poison my mind against my friend." John bites out harshly.
"After all this is over, I'm sure you'll look back on this moment and regret that. I hope I get to see your face when you do." Moriarty sneers confidently. John opens his mouth to retort when Moriarty's mobile buzzes with a text message. "Oh, too bad, the fun's over for now. Sherlock's here, you see. Now, you're going to be a good little boy and say exactly what I tell you to." He taps the earpiece in John's ear with a smirk before walking off; a tall, and buff, blond man escorting John in the opposite direction.
The pool is quiet for a few minutes, and John fidgets in the handcuffs until the man takes them off. And then Sherlock arrives, and for a moment the consulting detective even believes that John is Moriarty. But then the real evil mastermind reveals himself and John can't help but want to punch the enthusiastic murderer in his smarmy, Irish face now that his hands are free. Moriarty has the calmest demeanor John Watson has ever witnessed, even with a gun pointed directly at his face. He strolls right on in, wearing nothing but the finest of suits, as if the whole world dances in the palm of his hand.
But, from what John has experienced of the criminal, Moriarty probably believes it does.
"I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see. Like you." Moriarty sounds proud of himself, and John is dismayed to see respect sparkle like cold fire in Sherlock's eyes as well.
"Dear Jim...please will you fix it for me...to get rid of my lover's nasty sister? Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me so I can disappear to South America?" Sherlock pantomimes, looking down his pointed nose at Jim. A mistake, John thinks to himself. Sherlock shouldn't underestimate Moriarty, even if John will never admit that out loud.
"Just so." Moriarty grins, a wicked gleam in his eyes.
"Consulting criminal. Brilliant." John closes his eyes, trying to pretend that Sherlock did not just compliment James Moriarty for his "work".
"Isn't it? No one ever gets to me. And no one ever will." Moriarty drawls, his voice getting less dramatic and more deadly as he speaks.
"I did." Sherlock replies, sounding self satisfied, as he cocks the gun resting in his steady hands. John wonders then, briefly of course, as being strapped to bomb was less that an ideal moment to think on things, if Sherlock has ever actually shot someone before. Or if this will be the first life his friend will ever take.
"You've come the closest." Moriarty narrows his eyes slightly. "And now you're in my way."
"Thank you." Sherlock replies quickly, and smugly.
"I didn't mean it as a compliment."
"Yes you did."
"Yeah, okay, I did." Moriarty sighs, seeming to merely placate Sherlock to shut him up. "But the flirting's over Sherlock, daddy's had enough now!" The Consulting Criminal speaks in a singsong voice that makes John cringe a little. "I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even 30 million quid, just to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning...my dear. Back off."
John clenches his hands into fists, because really, Moriarty has to know that Sherlock will never back off. Especially if commanded by a deranged psychopath to do so. He's just baiting the genius, basically saying, 'catch me if you can'. "Although I have loved this, this little game of ours. Playing Jim from IT, playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?"
"People have died." Sherlock cuts in icily, as soon as Moriarty stops talking.
"That's what people DO!" The Irishman shouts with unmasked glee. John shakes his head slightly, unable to help it. How can Moriarty be like this? He wonders, again letting his mind take over in a situation where he should be focused on getting free. What happened to this insane man to make him so completely off his rocker?
"I will stop you." Sherlock murmurs, and he looks so very determined.
"Sherlock don't be so naïve, it's not a good look for you darling. You won't stop me. In fact, I think you may join me. Bad IS always better." Moriarty purrs, and John scrunches up his nose in disgust.
Sherlock's brow raises almost imperceptibly and a sneer crosses his handsome face. "Come now, if you
believe that you can change me with paltry words of temptation, I regret to inform you that you shall be rather disappointed." Sherlock sounds so sure of himself, but Moriarty only chuckles.
"Surely there's something you've always wanted but have never been able to have." The mad man's eyes flick to John so briefly that the detective may have imagined it. "Something only being bad could bring you." Moriarty finishes, one eyebrow raised.
The Consulting Detective stiffens, watching Moriarty through a slitted glare as he leans against John. The physical contact has John looking lost, and distressed by the close proximity of his possible killer. "I am growing tired of you." Sherlock almost snaps, his patience growing thin in the face of Moriarty's brand of insanity.
Moriarty smirks dangerously, leaning further into John's personal space. He has the gall to sniff at him; a predatory smile on his pale face all the while. "I'm sure there are a lot of things you're tired of. Tired of waiting for..."
"I would advise you, to remove yourself from John's person..." Sherlock steps forward slowly, face full of cold fury. "I am tired of this."
"And I would advise you to pick your side carefully Sherlock. Maybe you just need some time to consider the benefits of the Dark Side." The deranged Irishman remarks in his playful and deadly voice. He strokes John's cheek once, looking at the ex-army doctor thoughtfully, before turning to walk away.
Sherlock sees John flinch slightly at Moriarty's touch, and something hot and possessive curls in his gut at the sight. He grits his teeth, willing the feeling to subside and covers up his discomfort by drawling, "I have no interest in becoming something so predictable."
The Consulting Criminal chuckles darkly, not even sparing his nemesis a glance over his shoulder. "I wonder if you will be so adamant after another week of staring at the thing you crave the most of all, without being able to have it. Ciao Sherlock."
The detective in question glanced discreetly at John one more time, and something clenches in his chest, as for a moment Sherlock entertains the notion of taking the one thing he has ever truly desired. But he banishes those thoughts as soon as they appear, because it terrifies him and he doesn't know how to handle that.
John waits until Moriarty is gone to lose the tension in his shoulders, but there is still a trace of it that lingers just below the surface, if you knew what to look for. "What in the bloody hell was that?" He exclaims, blue eyes swiveling from the spot where Moriarty once stood, and then to Sherlock. Then he looks down at himself, and remembers that he is still strapped to Semtex; and so with hands that are surprisingly still, John removes the explosively rigged jacket and sets it on the ground gingerly.
Sherlock looks away, confusion pinching his brow. "I don't know John..." Suddenly he turns back eying his only friend thoughtfully. After a few moments, Sherlock clears his throat and looks away stating blandly, "No matter. Come, we should not dally here."
John nods obediently, still somewhat dazed and not really sure about what just happened. He follows behind Sherlock as he walks away briskly, because what the hell else could he do after that whole debacle? "W-We should call Lestrade o-or Mycroft...or someone." There, sensible, in control John Watson was returning, even if he was still rather shaken.
Sherlock pauses briefly before replying, "...Yes, we should." He cocks his head to the side, noticing how his friend is shaking a bit in shock, so the detective whips out his cell instead of asking John to call Lestrade.
However, John does not miss the concern in Sherlock's eyes and rolls his own in fond exasperation. "I'll be fine in a few moments, I did survive Afghanistan after all." He quips dryly, smiling a tad at the absurdly dark sense of humor most people found off putting, but Sherlock always appreciated.
He merely frowns for a moment, before Lestrade picks up on the other end. Sherlock quickly fills him in on the situation, barking sharp and concise replies into the speaker. After a few minutes, he hangs up with a sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration.
"I think we could both use some tea. Come on."
The weary detective cocks his head to the side, but nods resolutely. "Yes...I think for once some tea could help...or something stronger." Sherlock adds wistfully as an after thought. Sure he personally meant Cocaine, but he knew John would interpret it as booze.
John forces a soft chuckle before replying, "I think I may agree."
A wane smile lifts Sherlock's shapely lips, but it disappears quickly as dark thoughts consume his mind again. Outwardly he seems fine. Cool. Calm. And collected. On the inside however, he is a maelstrom of conflicting emotions and ideals; and it's making him want to tear his hair out in frustration. Instead, he decides to focus on marching decisively to the closest diner.
John watches his friend warily, knowing he's not as composed as he appears. "Let's just go home Sherlock. I have some whiskey hidden away that we can drink."
An elegant eyebrow quirks upward at that, especially since Sherlock knows John doesn't like to drink very often. "Well...I would not object, if you are willing to indulge me."
John gives Sherlock a small smile in response. He was no detective, or criminal mastermind, but he had enough good sense in that head of his, to know that some thing was bugging his flatmate. "You know that you can talk to me if you're upset, right?" John leveled Sherlock with a concerned sort of smile.
The Consulting Detective smiles back indulgently. "John, you know me enough by now- at least I would like to think that you do- to know that I never need to talk about what you believe troubles me." John Watson is torn for a moment between being offended or just ignoring the detective's usual barbs, before he shrugs, and starts walking again.
Sherlock knows instantly that his words have upset John, but he's so distracted by these newly planted thoughts inside his head, that he chooses to ignore his friends feelings as they continue to march on in silence.
221b is dark inside but John doesn't turn on any lights, except the small one above the sink in the kitchen. Just enough light to make tea.
Sherlock trails in after him, and shucks off his Bellstaff at the door, hanging it on the peg. Then he unwinds his scarf, and drapes it over his coat. "I thought you said we were having something stronger?" The detective exclaims, tone dry and brittle.
John just glances at his flatmate over his shoulder and sighs. "Whiskey's in the sock drawer."
Sherlock nods, quick and succinct, before walking briskly towards John's room. He slides the door open a little reverently, for his flatmate rarely allow's him to enter his private domain; but, since this has been Sherlock's flat for years, he knows where the light switch is, so there is no fumbling blindly in the darkness before John's room is illuminated in the soft glow of florescent light. He makes his way over to John's drawer, and opens the top one, for the ex-army doctor was a creature of habit and Sherlock knows without knowing that this is his sock drawer. The bottle of whiskey, barely even touched, is easy to see among John's black dress, and fuzzy knit socks; but the detective hesitates for a moment when he catches sight of his friends underwear as well in the drawer. Most of them are regular white briefs, but there are some silky boxers and, tucked away in an obscure corner, a rather sexy red banana hammock.
Sherlock smiles at the absurdity of it, as well as the fact that it is shoved almost shamefully into a corner. Quickly the tiny smile turns dark and fierce upon his lips. The Consulting Detective is filled with a deep urge, and before he can really register what he's doing, he has the underwear pressed to his face, and inhales deeply.
John had taken the kettle off when it started steaming and poured two cups. Rather than yell to Sherlock, he picks up the cups and ascends the stairs, freezing in the doorway when he see's what his flatmate is doing. "...Sherlock?"
The man in question's shoulders immediately stiffen, back now ramrod straight when he hears John's voice in the doorway. Sherlock turns, trying to fight the horrifying flush that attempts to devour his face. Clearing his throat awkwardly, the detective looks to the underwear still in his hands, and then to his flatmate's rather shell shocked expression. "Sorry John...I uh, was- well your clothes smelled differently and I was wondering if you changed detergent." Sherlock supplies, knowing that it was a flimsy lie, but needing something to cover up the inexcusable act John just walked into.
The shorter of the two just gapes at Sherlock, the hot tea in his hands the only thing keeping him grounded for a few moments. His thoughts return to the scene back at the pool, to the sweet temptations Moriarty kept feeding his friend. Despite what every one thinks, John Watson is not stupid, and he knows exactly what Moriarty was suggesting. And at the moment, he is nervous that Sherlock is actually considering it. "No it's the same detergent."
Sherlock looks away and then, realizing that he's still clutching tightly (until his slender knuckles are white) to John's underwear, and drops them quickly back into the drawer. "Yes...well- my mistake." He murmurs distractedly. Then the detective grabs for the bottle of whiskey, and holds it out to his flatmate asking, "Shall we retire to the living room now?"
"Sherlock.. I think we need to talk..." John carefully puts down the cups of tea on his nightstand, before crossing his arms over his broad chest.
"About what?" Sherlock replies, voice almost border lining on hysteria, and that frightens him; because he is not supposed to feel such weak and ridiculous emotions. He was a high functioning Sociopath- and that entailed disconnecting from severe emotions; because there was a very fine line between killing some one through rational process, or because you enjoy it. Psychopath's felt too much, and that's why they kill in droves, instead of taking out the select few.
John sighs and gestures for his flatmate to sit. When he doesn't, the doctor sighs again. "We need to talk about what Moriarty said at the pool." Always leave it to John Watson to be blunt, and cut to the chase.
Sherlock's fingers twitch at his sides, John's words striking a chord in him. "There's nothing to talk about John, and the sooner you realize this, the sooner we can go downstairs, have some tea and drink some whiskey- and forget this night ever happened."
"Sherlock, I am not going to forget this! Moriarty is a sick bastard and if he's gotten into your head, we need to talk about it! I'm not as dim as you think I am and I know that something is not right with you!" John exclaimed, his voice rising in pitch and intensity the more he spoke. He was leveling his friend with his fiercest look of determined fortitude; the look he perfected from his army days.
The detective's eyes harden immediately, and for the first time he feels cold fury directed towards his flatmate and friend, well up in his chest. "I am not so weak, as to let some psychopath derail my integrity, with mere words and suggestions!" Sherlock bellows, and now his chest is heaving as he tries desperately to control this inexplicable rage inside himself. No, no... anger is bad, don't let it control you, you are above this!
John watches Sherlock warily, a bit scared by his violent reaction. "It's only helping to prove my point. Sherlock, I'm not saying that you're weak. But Moriarty is a master manipulator who really wants you to be on his side. It's completely justifiable that I'm hesitant about this whole situation!"
The Consulting Detective is visibly vibrating with anger now, all of his deepest and darkest thoughts- the things he kept buried because he knew it is beneath him to entertain such notions- swirling and coalescing into a crescendo in his mind, until he finally snaps. "What do you know John?" Sherlock barks coldly, his cool mask of indifference slipping, to be replaced by an arrogant sneer. "You know nothing of my mind! I will not be so easily corrupted, unlike you- feeble, and weak willed little thing your mind is!"
John's own anger starts to flare and he gives his friend a sharp glare, tightening his left hand into a fist. "So you're going to stand there, shaking with anger and insulting me, and then try to tell me that nothing is wrong?! You have never acted like this before, and I'm trying to talk to you and help you! But if you prefer it, I'll leave!"
'Give into the Dark Side.' Sherlock wants to vomit at the smooth, seductive quality those words possess; that singsong, lilting accent turning his skin cold and making him want to retch the sparse contents in his stomach. He looks to the bottle in his hands, the heavy cool texture of glass and assesses the weight as a sick thought rears its ugly head. The detective's gaze shifts to John, and he idly wonders how much force it would take to cave in his flatmate's skull, with just this bottle alone- and the sickness in him worsens, until he is a cold and clammy mess of anger, revulsion, and nerves...but, he stays silent, not trusting himself to open his mouth, without bile spilling forth.
"Sherlock, we are either going to talk or I am going to leave! You choose!"
Sherlock goes to open his mouth, but that little voice in his head (the one that now suspiciously sounds like Moriarty's instead of his own) interrupts once more. 'Isn't there anything you want? Something you desire? I can take anything that I want. Doesn't that sound appealing?'
A shiver wracks his spine, because there has only ever been one thing that Sherlock Holmes desired; and he was standing mere feet away from the detective, demanding him to speak or he will leave. And maybe that's what does it... the easy way John can abandon him, when Sherlock did not fit the ideal image of what a friend should be. The way his friend could just leave him behind, and never look back when things got dangerous. And so, without letting himself think about it, Sherlock is striding quickly forward- only hefting the heavy weight of a glass bottle full of whiskey, when it is too late for John to react.
John tries to escape Sherlock's first swing, which catches on his ear, the blunt edge of the bottom of the bottle chipping, leaving a scratch on his skin. A thin line of blood trails down John's temple, and when he backs up to avoid the next, he is met by the wall and can't even raise his hands before the edge of the bottle slams into the side of his face, knocking him to the ground.
Sherlock quickly slings his slender legs on either side of John's hips, straddling him with all of the weight that he possessed. He knows that John is much stronger than him, and so he brings the blunt edge of the bottom of the bottle crashing down against the side of his skull. The first blow knocks John's head to the side, and Sherlock smiles wickedly at the almost erotic sight- his friends head pressed demurely against the floor boards, and his beautiful neck fully exposed.
The second blow brings blood, thick and heady, trailing down John's temple and along his delicate ear. And finally the third blow silences his cries, as his blue eyes roll back, like he had reached the peak of pleasure, and darkness finally takes him. Sherlock knelt there, breathing heavily for a few moments as his heart thundered in his chest- and then, his smile widens, almost unhinging his jaw it seems because of the manic and gleeful sensation thrumming through his veins. It was then that Sherlock Holmes realized, without a single trace of doubt or fear, that he rather enjoyed the adrenaline pumping through his bloodstream, and the warm and firm body strewn out beneath him.
E/N: Hopefully we can get the next chapter up soon, but if it takes awhile we apologize. We both have ongoing chapter fan fictions to work on, and the RP needs to be finished. So, until next time we shall say farewell!