Hello! This is my first Sherlock story (been obsessed for months now - the fandom has taken over my life) and it appears I've decided to jump in at the deep end. Best not to do these things by halves I feel!
Just a few warnings before you decide to read on: I'm not entirely sure what constitutes as a "trigger warning" but there is a rape scene in this. It's nothing too explicit but it's very clear what's going on. So if that makes you uncomfortable in any way I suggest you hit the back button now. Other than that, I hope you enjoy (if that's even the right word to use) and I'd appreciate a few reviews telling me what I'm doing right and wrong :)
Pairings: John/Seb, brief John/Sherlock, one-sided Jim/Seb
When John enters 221b, he can immediately tell that someone else has invaded the space. He hadn't moved much round in the flat, despite the fact it had been nearly a year – still couldn't bring himself too, because it was like replacing his heart with a pigs liver and still expecting the blood to pump around his body. Seeing the books that Sherlock had dumped on the coffee table had been rearranged, his housecoat gone from the back of the couch and the pillows plumped up made the dust settle in a less erratic way than he was used to – and John could not live in a place that was trying to erase the memory of Sherlock Holmes ever existing within it – Could not function without Sherlock's ghost both soothing and torturing his every waking moment.
Letting the Tesco bag drop onto the floor without a care for the eggs he hears cracking and no doubt leaking onto the carpet – they'll fit in better now than anything whole and new – he stumbles into the kitchen and switches on the kettle. Takes in deep breaths to the rhythm of the boiling water and tries to ignore the image of rushing air crashing down on his chest and pushing the breath out of his lungs –
"I thought you were in the army?" the deep, quiet voice isn't entirely unexpected, but John jumps all the same, then berates himself internally. He keeps his voice calm and his hand steady as he absentmindedly pulls out two cups.
"I was."
"This place is a fucking mess. Plus you hardly noticed I was here – it's be so easy for someone to break in and…well, I'll leave that to your imagination."
Sebastian is smirking when he turns, so sure of himself. The burning ceramic of the cup against his skin feels like salvation and as he hands it over, there is a weighted look behind his eyes that John wants to push. For six months he's been standing in the middle of the scales and before he breaks completely, he wants to fall either way – down into the flaming living grave he's dug for himself or into the soft familiarity of ice. If John Watson could endure sitting on the fence, he wouldn't have chosen to be a soldier. He wonders how Sebastian can bare to live the same.
"You'd be surprised – He taught me a lot", and he flinches, barely disguised by a sip of tea. They don't mention names when they do this. Sebastian may veer wildly between claiming life and death by actually verbalising "Sherlock" or "Jim" is like sacrilege; their names float like bubbles and increase the tension as they soar higher, popping and crawling across the walls like brain matter – stark reminders of just what it is John and Sebastian have lost. What the world has lost.
Strange, how John hated Moriarty – hates Sebastian when he's not here – but now that it's all over and Sebastian is standing in his kitchen, all he can see is a complete reflection of himself and Sherlock. And the heart wrenching pain is enough to overcome the hate.
John dwells on this fact – thinks about how he still buys custard creams because they were Sherlock's favourite – and so does not see the look of disgust on Sebastian's face as he pulls the cup away from his lips, the snapping of his back as he watches the beige liquid crash against the edge and overflow, dripping down fingers shaking with barely repressed anger.
"What the fuck is this? – Watson, you – Did you put sugar in my tea?"
"That's how you like it – "
John doesn't see the fist coming, though if past experience was anything to go by, he really should have. The leather of Sebastian's gloves adds an extra sting to his skin and the impact has hum biting down hard on his bottom lip, blood gushing into his mouth. It's enough to make John start laughing hysterically – because of course he'd let his guard down around a cold blooded assassin who had idolised an utter psychopath. First Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, self-diagnosed sociopath and now this. John Watson: trust issues. His therapist really didn't know what she was talking about. The next blow is to his stomach and winds John so badly he has to rely on Sebastian to hold him up. The other man strokes his back in a deceptively comforting way.
"No, John," Sebastian whispers, syrupy and dangerous as John chokes on the metallic taste in the back of his throat, "Sherlock Holmes liked sugar in his tea. I do. Not. Like. Sugar. In my tea. How long have we been friends now John? And you still haven't realised that yet?"
With what little strength he can regain, John savagely bites at the strip of exposed skin that peaks out of Sebastian's turtle neck and is rewarded with a tackle to the ground, his skull making a sickening cracking sound as it hits the hard kitchen tiles. The weight of their bodies rattles the table and makes something smash and fizz. Sebastian wastes no time in re-marking all of John's weak spots. In vain, John attempts to use his own army training to flip the positions and get out of Sebastian's – no, Moran's – iron grip, but SAS training wins out as there's a blow to the face, screw of the arm, elbow to the shoulder.
In truth, John feels like he needs this. Every kick, every punch to the cheek and slam to the chest is the only thing he can feel – the only thing that anchors him to reality any more. Because sometimes, it feels as though he deserves it. Feels as though Moran deserves it – God knows he's been told it so many times he probably recites it in his sleep. But he doesn't deserve it for the reasons Moran cites. Not for simply being John Watson.
John deserves it because he let Sherlock fall. He hadn't been there in time to save him, like Sherlock had been in time to save him at the pool – to reassure him that really, everything was fine. Those last words between them, "you machine", haunt him and sometimes he feels like a murderer – because how could Sherlock be anything less than human? Of all he'd learnt of the man – of all the arguments and the laughs – why would Sherlock try to make him think he'd told a lie if he'd had been a genuine sociopath?
And John deserves it because he has turned Moran into himself – a lost, confused, sick, tired and pathetic man. Sometimes, when he turns up drunk, hair dishevelled and gloves ripped, he will scream, "Richard Brook was real God damn you," and John will lie down without a fight. Because if it were true, Sebastian would have no problem sitting him down and repeating, "Moriarty was a lie", completely sober, like he had done, only once, when all this began. Moriarty may have been a diabolical human being, but he gave Sebastian Moran's life meaning, just as Sherlock's existence had done the same for him.
Besides, Sherlock always solved Moriarty's crimes in the end. And what was a bit of collateral damage – a stalemate – if both of them were still alive today? Maybe they would have been, if John had read Sherlock's signs right. He was supposed to be his best friend. He should have known. And now he'd never have the chance to tell him what seemed so unimportant at the time, but means everything now. Sometimes, John wonders if Sebastian is him in this way as well.
"What was so fucking special about him John? Tell me. He was nothing – nothing compared to – clever maybe, but not clever enough to compete with – just some stuck up Tory prick – "
"He didn't like politics – didn't even know who the prime minister was, actually, can you believe that?"
That earns him another punch to the ribs and Moran pins his arms tightly above his head, crushing his wrists together so the bones grind against each other. John resolutely does not wince. Brings up a knee sharply that catches Moran in the gut, but not hard enough to move him.
"And yet he always seemed so – so content with you. Attention always on you and what you were doing. So why – why couldn't – "
Moran took in a breath, his eyes as disjointed as his speech. John knows he has lost him to the beast and his brain fills in the blanks. But Moran is wrong. Because Sherlock must not have been content with him to throw himself off the top of a building. John's whole life – Sebastian's whole life – destroyed in seconds because he'd been so selfish and hurtful and, oh, what wouldn't he give to rewind back to that day and throw himself at the detectives feet, begging for forgiveness? He was so grateful top the man. Owed him so much. His life was so empty without chasing down dark alleys, the swish of that dramatic coat that made him look the hero he was always so determined not to be, the mile a minute deductions coming from that deep, rich voice, the dinner for two, complete with candle, at Angelo's, the closeness they shared that meant that one glance told exactly what the other was thinking. The feel of skin as they brushed against each other. His smell – he smelt of London. Those damn cheekbones. John feels his lip quirk upwards. The guilt he feels is much worse than what is to come, as he answers,
"Why couldn't you be enough for Moriarty?"
So many things flash through Moran's eyes that are impossible to identify, but when they make contact with John's – blue on green-grey – the fury and anguish are clear. In a split second, Moran is wrestling clothes off himself and John, and John is only half-heartedly fighting him off. When he's exposed in all his black and blue glory, Moran sneers down, everything about him looming and threatening.
"Do you think you'd be good enough for perfect little Sherlock Holmes now, you slut? You're used and damaged and if he were to walk through this door right now, he probably wouldn't be able to stand the sight of you and leave me to do whatever the hell I liked. Would probably deduce that you get off on it and go find some other normal doctor bloke because of how screwed up you've become. Or maybe run off with that Adler woman."
John's eyes widen at that and Moran smirks victoriously.
"You'd be alone John. Only this time, there's no one to save you. And whose fault is that?"
It's brutal and savage and Moran attacks John's body like he's at war. Every molecule in John's body begs him to get away, to reject the poison that enters him with every bite and thrust; but if John had always obeyed his body's instincts, he wouldn't have saved young Mikey from Taliban fire back in Helmand. Wouldn't have gotten a bullet to the shoulder. Wouldn't have met Sherlock. So John stays and endures, allows his body to be bent and mutilated for Moran's pleasure. Tries to pretend he isn't crying as a hand pulls at his hair and yanks his head back harshly, as something tears within him that isn't exactly his soul but very well could be.
It's over soon, but not fast enough. Sweat and blood and come mingles together in pools around them as Moran pulls out, glaring as he says, "You disgust me," in a way that suggests he could be saying it to either John or himself. Or the both of them. John stays in his place on the floor as Sebastian pulls himself up to get dressed, silently agreeing. He counts the markings on the ceiling, despite the number springing to the front of his mind the moment he starts, and tries to blank out the clicking of Cuban heels against wood and the way the sound echoes around the flat as if to reinforce its emptiness. In a twisted way, John almost wishes Sebastian would stay.
The noise comes back, and something, a flash of green, is thrown down onto the floor next to John's prone form that shakes and clunks and clanks.
"Get yourself cleaned up, Doctor."
3…2…1…The door slams shut with an air of finality.
Eventually, John will crawl weakly to the bottom cupboard and prop himself up like a broken ragdoll against its door, opening the first aid kit Sebastian has so kindly left for him, sterilising himself. Until then, he stays in position, like a body at a crime scene, basking in the warmth of the cesspit that reminds him some sort of retribution has been done for the death of the best and wisest man John ever had the privilege of knowing.
That night, Sherlock returns. He looks just like John remembers him – unruly hair, too-pale skin and spectre-grey eyes. He stares at John with a carefully blank face from the shadows of his room, fingers steepled and resting against his lips. Briefly, a shot of terror runs down John's spine because – what if this is Sherlock's ghost, come to assert everything Sebastian said, and what John secretly suspects? But then he remembers that this is just a hallucination – and it's all too fresh after the hurt he's experienced today. After the change the flat has experienced today. Sometimes, even the nightmares are better than this.
"You need to leave, Sherlock. Please, he'll know – he'll know and I can't lose you – this is all I have left of you – "
"It's just a dream, John. He can't know."
Slowly – and isn't it something, that John can still feel the aching of his bones even in his dreams – he sits up in bed, striped jumper falling off a skinny shoulder to reveal a purple bite mark. Sherlock's eyes immediately dart to it and then away. John's breath hitches.
"Please look at me Sherlock," he whispers, hoarsely, "Please don't say I – " and he can't finish the sentence.
Swallowing hard, Sherlock unfolds himself from his position in the corner and briefly melts with the shadows before steeping out into the open. He makes it to John's bed in three swift moves and softly perches on the edge.
"No, John. You could never disgust me," he replies, deep voice washing over John and allowing him to relax back into his cushioned headboard.
They are silent, simply staring at each other for a few minutes before Sherlock speaks again. There is an angry quiver in his voice and his elegant nose and mouth jerks upwards into a sneer, eyes blazing as he leans forward.
"Sebastian Moran will pay John. I can promise you that. I will make him suffer for every time he has had the audacity to touch what is mine."
John releases a puff of air that's not quite a laugh. Shaking, he reaches out a hand to push through Sherlock's curls, surprised at how real and dry they feel, when he always imagined them to be soft. Sherlock's eyes shutter a fraction.
"Even now, I'm still so selfish, aren't I? After everything I put you through and I still can't let you go to be at peace. And here I am, having you say things that you never would have said if you were really here. You'd probably think I deserve it just as much as…well, as I think I deserve it myself."
With a shudder that turns into a sob, John lets his hand leave Sherlock's hair and can only make out the outline of the detectives head, vigorously shaking from side to side. A long, cold hand encircles his wrist and gently pushes him down.
"Perhaps you deserve to be selfish," Sherlock says, clambering over him delicately, wiping away tears. John suddenly finds himself too exhausted to argue. Seeing this, Sherlock slips under the covers and tugs John close.
"Tell me you're mine, John," he whispers, hand ghosting down his spine. It's suddenly hard to breathe. The air is too heavy. Gripping his chin, Sherlock jolts John's head up so they are staring into each other's eyes intently. "Tell me," he repeats.
Winding his arms around the taller man's neck to tug him closer, John sighs softly against his lips, "I am yours completely, Sherlock", and allows the words and his mouth to linger. Sherlock makes a small noise and closes his eyes.
"I wish you could stay. I wish that I could open my eyes tomorrow and you'd be there, solid in front of me. I'd do anything."
Sherlock grips him harder, tucks his head under his chin and does no open his eyes again.
"So would I," he murmurs in a strange tone, "So would I. Sleep."
And John does.
That same night, Sebastian Moran sits alone in a sparsely lit room. Jim does not return. Only his portrait – and doesn't that say something, that the only thing Sebastian has left of the man is a questionable painting, not even a photograph – remains. The artist hasn't quite managed to capture the mischievous and genius glint in his large brown eyes, the self-assured posture that came with being the criminal mastermind in charge of a vast empire. A half full tumbler of whiskey lies untouched on the table next to him as he glares up at it, trying with all his might to despise the creature and failing considerably.
There is a rip in the corner of the canvas, where Sebastian had gotten so drunk and furious that he'd taken a ceremonial knife to the picture, to rid himself of the heavy burden Jim had left on his shoulders and chest ever since he'd found him on that rooftop, bullet to the head. He'd quickly sobered up and turned the knife on himself. The wounds on his wrists still rubbed against the cotton of his jumper. He wonders where Jim is now, whether he is laughing at the pain and devastation he has caused and the guilt and disgust he feels every time he spends a night with John Watson – whether Sherlock Holmes is still the only thing that matters to him and if he's writhing in his grave at the fact the man is still alive and roaming the earth like Vengeance personified, cutting down every string of his web one by one and eluding Sebastian's every move.
Because as much as it kills him to admit, John was right. Sebastian was never enough for Jim Moriarty. Could never be the distraction he needed. But Sebastian could accept that, if Sherlock had stayed as dead as Jim – or if they'd both survived. Could handle being second best so long as he could be ordered about by Jim and be in his presence just one more time. As it was, only John had been allowed to keep his genius and that wasn't fair at all. So he had resorted to the underhand tactics that had gotten him dishonourably discharged from the army in the first place and had hit Sherlock Holmes were it would hurt the most. For now, that had to be enough. Until the day Sebastian came face to face with the man himself and was sent back where he belonged – Jim's side, whether he liked it or not.
Knocking back the whiskey with one gulp, Sebastian skulked out the room and set about trying to make that day arrive just a little bit faster.