Wings of the Damned
Author: Howlynn
Realm: Sherlock
Story Title: Wings of the Damned
Summary: This started as a kink fill – the prompt was-BDSM Sherlock non-con John. But the more I thought about it – the more I wanted to do it with some twists – Oh yes there is an event –there will be shots fired and there will be a fall. But this is not going to go the way most of the reunions go. I will play with your heart, play with the motives, and you won't like my games. If you are trigger happy, don't read. That's all the warning you get.
Character/Relationships: John, Sherlock, Lesrtade, Mycroft - slashy – John/Sherlock lots of pain.
I Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Chapter 1 - forethought
James Moriarty – "If you don't stop prying, I will burn you. I will burn the heart…right out of you."
That promise had been long ago, and Sherlock had been thus vigilant, accordingly protective of John, subsequently patient with his obtuse determination to misinterpret each gesture of overture. John would die for him without a second thought, yet he remained faithful to his delusions of what he thought life should be, unable to see that denial by denial, he is slowly killing Sherlock.
"I am not actually gay," John repeated to someone at least once a week. Everyone saw, except for John.
'That' had become the enemy. It's not like 'that' between Sherlock and I. We are not 'That' kind of partners. We are not 'that' way. 'That' doesn't mean we are a couple.
Perhaps 'that' is the one thing that hurts the most. He did love Sherlock. Sherlock could not doubt that one true, one absolute thing. John is attracted to men, though it obviously exists outside his conscious comfort zone. Sometimes a look passes between John and Lestrade that quite assures Sherlock of this fact. John found men attractive. John did not want people to know he sometimes looked at men with the same lusty eyes he reserved for almost every female with a pulse, unless they were excluded as patients, too young, too old, too far out of his league or in need of emergency bariatric surgery. But, John's vast spectrum of taste did not include his flat-mate. John did not find Sherlock Holmes attractive.
It is beyond his comprehension how John could be so easily flirtatious with the Detective Inspector, so comfortable with their easy banter, yet miss how hard Sherlock tries to impress him. Sherlock can understand the disconnection between love and sexual attraction. He is often sexually attracted to people he dislikes or feels nothing for. It is true he has a hard time with love. It has never paid for Sherlock to love anyone, not once. It is nothing but pain. He tries to stay away from anyone who might tempt his heart. He planned to never feel that emotion again. Of course, that isn't the way it works. Some people sneak up on him.
But, once he loved someone outside of familial relationships, they automatically were attractive. He normally pushed people he loved out the door as rudely as possible. John had not been especially pretty when they first met, but as Sherlock's heart and mind had become infatuated, so had the damned transport.
Sherlock would have given up long ago, if he were not so certain that John did love him. John could not deny that he loved Sherlock deeply. That was written all over him by gesture and phrase and indulgence. John passed each test Sherlock ever placed before him. He proved his heart was bound to his wayward, incorrigible flat mate as he feigned anger, but still dashed to Tesco for the milk. He put up with him, and his brother, and his many traits designed specifically to distance himself from the rabble.
John did love him, but he could not make the leap of faith it took to honestly say that he was in love with Sherlock. John was stubborn in his proclamation that he was not attracted to men. Of course, the 'not a couple' routine, in fact, wounded Sherlock to his core, but he had accepted John's barbed comments with the same fortitude he accepted Donovan's 'Freak' label.
Coming from John, those words were, in fact, a sort of label. It declared to Sherlock's mind that John found him as repulsive as he found the thought of physical relations with most people he met day to day. People were too much trouble. Sex didn't have to be surrounded by messy obligations and all the useless data required to seduce a willing partner into the conventional ramifications of life smearing boredom. Other means were so much cleaner for long term gratification without professed commitment.
That had always been his experience, until he met John Watson. For John, Sherlock could see the lure of the pair bond. He would move all outdated data for a chance to hand his whole world to the man who had swept all his truth away. He had not been diligent with John and now he is trapped.
The choice is, to tell him, and lose something almost perfect. That can no longer be considered an option. His other choice, is not painless. He can continue to pretend, and keep his foolish hope to himself, and be content to wait for John to change his mind. He knows it may never be all that he wants with John. He would rather spend a lifetime, loved by this man, than another day in the world without him. He hopes and yes it hurts him, but some of John's heart is enough.
Life began after John. Before, he existed with all things he believed catalogued in black and white. John brought greens and yellows and greys to the world. But, he is stuck. He couldn't lose John, but he couldn't quite have him either. John didn't want him. John was not dazzled and charmed by any open desire for tall men with wild hair and the pale skin of an exsanguinated corpse. He is not able to win John's physical desire and it was labor for him to not give in to his own darker abilities. John is too important to be tricked. John must be won on a far different level then Sherlock has ever attempted, or not at all. He had come to understand that the doctor must find him physically vile to have turned his head away without a blink each time Sherlock tried to let a flirty look or comment hang without response.
Not everyone found him hideous of course; there is Molly, with her glassy worshipful eyes and her easily manipulated hopeful heart on her sleeve.
Molly is not unattractive or even stupid, but she is also not someone who he could reasonably date with any kindness. He cares for her. Wouldn't she jump for joy at the truth, if not the reasoning? He thinks too highly of her to ever torture her soft sweet little heart with the reality of the bitter minefield of devious controlling mind games he would bring to the table. No, Molly would be broken, consumed and spit out unrecognizable if he were cruel enough to do her the unmitigated disservice of giving in to her diminutive fantasy. She only saw him at his best and spent at least half of their interactions playing the crushed flower. Good Lord, he is actually being considerate by not subjecting her to his attentions. She could manage his quiet and perhaps even his cruelty, to some degree, but she didn't have the fortitude of spirit to survive his darkness.
No one did.
John is a survivor. Maybe it is that instinct that shies him away from any physical expression. So this left Sherlock in an eternally frustrated and perfectly counterbalanced conundrum. Either John had found some physical detail or routine of Sherlock's to be repellent or he instinctively fears letting a sociopath see his heart. He is brave with his life, but not brave with his heart?
No, he askes women out all the time. He slept with them and the second one dumped him on his head, he had the next one on his arm before the sheets were laundered. The doctor dealt with rejection, poor hygiene, annoying perfumes and cats. John would shag a polar bear if it could refrain from chewing on him for three minutes and the smell of polar bear was singularly offensive.
Her name had been Margaret or Madge perhaps. The polar bear, with bleached white hair, a whiny growl of a voice, and no perfume could hide that offensive toxin she produced as a personal scent. When she sweat, she reeked of zoo. John only admitted to noticing, once she'd put an end to the shagging. Sherlock smiled at how easily she'd been driven away.
He tried to solve any imagined flaw John had come to associate with his personal hygiene.
Sherlock has taken his grooming habits to new levels around John, except when he is three days in despair and sawing his pain into his violin. Since John had arrived, his black moods didn't last as long as they once had, but unfortunately, his flat-mate failed to realize he had become a catalyst to the frequency. John could rip his heart out with a look; his words could send him off a cliff into bleak water. John had yet to put together cause and effect or maybe he really didn't care.
Sherlock has never tried so hard to reach out to anyone, not in an honest way at least. He could have had Dr. Watson in the sack within an hour if he exercised his usual tactics. Of course he would lose John after the third or fourth shag. That was usually when his glamor wore thin, and the victims of his fake emotional mimicry began to see the vampire behind the pretty teeth. He had been called that on several occasions. Oh he didn't slurp up blood or live in some delusion of immortality, but he wasn't so sure they were very far off in the assessment either.
One had kindly taken the time to explain as he'd put on his trousers and tearfully made his exit. Emotional vampire, he'd clarified, "You suck the life out of everyone around you! You take and use and discard, and think your great brain will make up for what a fucking tosser you are? Good luck with that. What good is that glorious mass of gunk between your ears if it can't stop you from ending up alone? Not so smart after all are you, Genius?"
Alone worked. Alone was perfect.
Except when it wasn't.
John is his exception. Alone would now be a heinous existence. He isn't above telling fate, "No, thank you."
He isn't any sort of virgin, has no idea why The Woman had played that card, other than the fact he'd rejected her. It wasn't a matter of inexperience, but simple preference. He did not require a dominatrix. He detested the thought of being mastered. Of course, nobody knew of their history. They had both had to play that one carefully. They had been dancing around on different resonate octaves for several years now. She had tried to seduce him, he her, yet there was always, always some roadblock and walking in on one of her scenes three years ago had brought Sherlock to a gut wrenching full stop. No. Thank you, hell no.
Where did everyone suppose he got the damned riding crop? Idiots. The woman, now she was pure danger. Adler. Last time it had been Drakon. Before that Arach. The Adder is the only poisonous snake in England. Irene, Lillian, whatever she would be hailed the next time they met, well, he deserved someone like her.
His emergency trip down to Karachi, Pakistan had finally sealed that something quiet and true had slipped between them. He had surprised her, impressed her, and revealed his hand. Win, lose, win, the woman of countless games. He deserved a twisted cold viper. She is all desire and risk and power tournaments and the fact he can both triumph and fail in the same play is fascinating. The fact he has never crumbled, affects her. She is used to being unchallenged. He is exotic food to a fellow snake. Important, but not really love.
If he asked her, would she know what he's done to defeat himself with John? She had been so certain he and John were something meant to be, a fairytale kind of meeting. Could she be so wrong? It was so predictable that he'd somehow made total pants of the situation. The real question would be, even after saving her life, would she bother to save his, or toy with him because it amused her. Pakistan had been horrendously hot. If he held his breath, he could hear her. She had expected to find disappointment in his bed. Who could guess if she would sabotage or help him?
Sherlock and John return to the flat after dinner one night. It was one of those dates in which John volunteered to strangers that they 'are not on a date' so by the end of it, Sherlock is close to vomiting it hurts so much and he smiles and hums at John's merciless light banter. Eventually he catches on that Sherlock is on his way to one of his roaring black falls.
"I guess there is no avoiding it, is there?"
Sherlock cocks his head with interest, wondering if John is finally going to address their long overdue discussion. "No. Not really." Sherlock says, eyes shining just a little and heart pounding in hope.
"I could prescribe you something."
"Really? Like a date rape drug?"
John stops walking toward the kitchen. When he turns back, Sherlock winks. John laughs and curses then fumbles about in the kitchen for a few moments.
Sherlock steeples his fingers and remains silent, waiting to see if John will return a flirtatious remark.
"I was actually being serious, you know." John continues with a small smile, setting a mug of tea before Sherlock and rubbing his eyes as if he has the beginning flutters of a headache.
"You have no idea if it would be of any benefit. " Sherlock looks confused. "I am not dysfunctional John. Selective, but…"
"Is that what you call it? Selective? " John's voice is so very stern.
Sherlock lifts his chin, wondering if John could have the gall to have figured out and disapprove of the fact he finds cash transactions less complex than dredging into people's lives on false pretenses. "Just because I don't parade my personal life before the world, doesn't mean I am incapable of having one," Sherlock explains. Is that what has stopped John? He's made some leap of certainty that Sherlock cannot maintain or perhaps achieve erection?
"Is that personal life affecting your health? Yes, it is. It is easy for me to watch? It terrifies me…"
"And you think a few pills will make me what, good enough for you?"
"It's not about me, you bloody arse…"
"Well nobody else has complained, thank you. I don't know what it matters to you anyway, what I do or don't do; it isn't as if you have been inclined to admit that you have any interest. Who do you think you are? Judging me, when you bring one tramp after another into our home expecting me to be jolly pleased to meet them."
John's forehead crumples into rows and ridges. "First, who I bring home has no bearing whatsoever on you erratic mood swings. Second, I will date who I damned well please and you do not call them horrible names any more. To their face or in my presence, because your view on women is…"
"Is what? Irrelevant? Thank you for making that perfectly clear. Don't bother to wait up, John. My cock may not be your cup of tea, but I can assure you, it doesn't require your assistance or chemical enhancement to function. I am certain I can find less discerning company to lower themselves to my mediocre standards."
"What? Sherlock, where are you? I don't. Fine," he growls as Sherlock slams the door.
Sherlock doesn't look back toward the window, but he pauses to put on his gloves and watches a car window. In the reflection he sees the curtain part and John standing there watching him. Sherlock keeps his face aloof, giving no hint how the injury screams inside. It is nothing. I don't exist. It doesn't matter.
Mycroft's calm voice of long ago sooths him, strengthens him. "Never give anyone the satisfaction of your tears, my brother. They will always hate you. Hate them back, for cool calculated anger is strength. Life is not fair but patient avarice always wins. If you beat them, they must supplicate. Winners tell the tales. Sentiment is failure. You will always win, so nothing they say matters. Normal is the shame of the masses and you should never strive to be like them. Their rage is your friend though they are not. Spark their rage, never showing your own, and the battle is over."
His back stiffens as his soul exudes its will to detach from the pain and he steps into the street to hail a cab. He has no location in mind at first, but John doesn't get to know that. For all he knows, Sherlock is off to a high class den of inequity. He actually knows where to go for such entertainment, and just in case John bothers to follow, he will see Sherlock dropped off at one.
He pays the driver and ducks into a shop for cigarettes. Sure enough, he spots John lurking in the shadows across the street. He must check his phone to see if his brave tin soldier has taken steps to track him. So apparent John, you never could have followed me. He lights a cigarette and blows the smoke upward, pretending not to notice his observer. He paces as he smokes, then stamps out the cigarette and enters the rather unremarkable looking club, swinging the door wider than necessary, so John will be sure to see what sort of establishment this is.
Sherlock shows his card and informs the clerk that he is expecting a guest.
John waits twenty minutes before slipping in the door. He is stopped and Sherlock watches him crumple in disgust as he's handed a guest pass bearing his flat-mate's name and under that simply 'John'. Sherlock maneuvers in the shadows as John searches for his face and gets his bearings.
He settles himself at the end of the bar and orders something, eyes darting uncomfortably but he is also amazed. His attention is like a laser right now, and that power in John always makes Sherlock's stomach flutter. John is scanning the main floor orgy, the voyeur rooms. The reek of sex in the air and his mouth keeps hanging open. This place makes John both recoil in shock and eagerly attentive. Sherlock is amused by the jumbled thoughts and reactions of the supposedly open-minded, seen-it-all Doctor.
John wants to know more about this place far more than he wants to leave. John's forehead glistens with sweat and Sherlock covers his grin with his fingers. Finally found something that makes you afraid. John keeps trying to focus on his search, but his eyes keep locking back to the writhing mass of human bodies down in the Mosh Pit. John tugs at his jumper, shakes his head slightly and finally lets himself get swept away in pure astonishment. Sherlock waits until John's focus is drawn away from his hiding place then slides up behind him silently.
When John spins around, he reacts to the familiar face being so close, and Sherlock's quick reflexes are all that saves John's drink from tumbling into his olive-drab jumper. "Hoping to drum up a few patients for your Sildenafil citrate sideline or are you really just hoping to catch me having a dodgy shag. I can't quite decide whether I should be insulted, flattered, invite you to have a go or punch you. This is an upscale establishment. Really John, do you think your boring little jumper and your rampant prescription offerings will win over this crowd? I'd lose the jumper and wave the pads. So, anything catch your fancy? I will be happy to make introductions."
"Jesus, Sherlock. Is this where you go for.."
"Sex, John. Yes. One of the places. I daresay I require the frustrated shower wank on a far smaller percentage than you. " Sherlock smirks in satisfaction at the flush display of embarrassment but continues as fast as he can speak, " I don't spend weeks on promises and hope, I simply get laid while you get lead up the garden path. I don't have to buy them flowers, or remember the names of their cats. I don't even have to drink their damned tea or put up with their tiny judgmental minds. It is a physical act, kept entirely in perspective and therefore I can remain unconsumed by the complications. There, now you know. It's been such fun, sweetheart. Stay, enjoy yourself. At least give it a go before you condemn me on your pathetic deductions. Still think my lad is so…"
"Dammit, I wasn't offering you pills for erectile difficulties, you idiot. I was offering you anti-depressants, so I wouldn't come home to find you with a bloody needle in your arm or… I don't know, wake up to Lestrade having to call me to pop down to the morgue and identify the bloated corpse that floated under the Tower Bridge. Do you even care what that would do to me?"
Sherlock leans in and studies John. "Anti-depressants? Pills designed to alter brain chemistry. Let me think. Pass. Legal does not equal safe. And I am not altogether sure that I do care right this second, John. Funny how you mention that. I am an oblivious moron? Again, your opinions on insignificant details. The results. The outcome rather than the motive. Try harder."
"Sherlock, what is happening here? I don't even know why you are so angry with me."
"Ah. That's all sorted then, nothing more to go on about. I do recommend the offerings on the third floor. Put it on my tab." Sherlock sets his own drink on the bar so hard, John flinches.
Sherlock turns and leaves. He is out the door and gone in the night before any more damage can be calibrated to his hearts coordinates. He wanders. It is long past time for John to have gone to work before he returns. In the shower he silently sobs. He hates that he is so weak and so he forces it away, refuses to dress or eat or acknowledge the sound of the cannon when his fusilier returns home. He fades from the room as surely as hope ebbs from him.
John is angry. He blathers on about something for some time, but it is just sound. Shutting down is Sherlock's safety. He is not doing this to John, but for his own preservation. In this frame of mind, if he continues to function, he gets self-destructive. He hides under the water, refusing to engage the world. The world is far better armed and his mind so easily consumes him, it is almost like a fugue form of vacation. He whispers snips of his internal passage and sometimes he lets the violin scream for him, cry for him and over and over his bow shouts and begs for John to give him one single chance.
Patches soothe him. Keep him submerged as he plays deeper and deeper into the waves. His hand aches and his neck shrieks as he sways and nearly can smell and taste each note. Bitter. Sweet. Salty.
John doesn't understand how clearly he speaks, how much he has to tell him, because he expects words. He cannot hear Sherlock's true voice, and nothing will matter until John listens. Time glitches and lurches. John is there, and then not, and then there again. It is the fourth day when Sherlock gives up the instrument and collapses. John finds him late in the evening. He did not come straight home. Instead he'd gone out. There is beer and bangers on his breath and he reeks of some coital odor.
The sun is up. Johns hand on his throat, feeling for a pulse, slithers him into reality. It is dehydration, not food that has led to him looking up into blue eyes, hard and firm. He feels sticky and horrible. John smells just of John again.
"You have 134 text messages, Mrs. Hudson needs the rent and if you don't eat every bite and drink the whole pot of tea, I am packing."
Sherlock looks up at his tormentor. He rolls his eyes, and hunkers his shoulders in protest. "What day is it?"
"It's Tuesday. What did you take?" John's voice is calm.
"No idea. Couldn't make it stop. It's over there." Sherlock waves vaguely towards his dresser.
"Sherlock, for God's sake, these were prescribed for a toothache four years ago."
"Well good. It isn't hurting at all, they worked," Sherlock says obtusely watching John's reaction out of the corner of his eye while sipping the steaming, oversweet tea.
"You are saying you had a toothache?" John glares at him incredulously.
"Obviously. It was ghastly. Feels fine now though." He slides his tongue along his cheek for effect.
John shoves his hands in his pocket and looks to the ceiling. He sighs and shakes his head, "Unbelievable."
Sherlock bites his toast defiantly.
"You wish me to believe that you suffered a toothache for the last six days and didn't bother to say a single word."
"I don't wish. Not for anything of importance, " Sherlock mumbles the last part. "If I eat this, are you going to leave anyway?'
"Does it matter? To You?" John asks head cocked eyes squinting, arms folded.
"Certainly. If you are leaving me one way or another, there is no reason for me to attempt to keep this down."
"If I prescribe you something, to help you cope with…this. Will you…"
"mmmmmm , No. Cocaine has fewer side effects and considering my history, I doubt that mood crash if I forget to take them would be particularly survivable. I will forget to take them. I am not actually suicidal you know. Do you wish me to be?"
"Don't be ridiculous. What is this, do you think? "
Sherlock slugs down his tea like it is medicine. "Wrong question. Pay attention to what it isn't. That's the good part. I am having a shower. Join me if it will make you feel better." Sherlock stands and stretches. John eyes his plate and looks at Sherlock, then just nods and sighs.
"I will finish it after. Unless you insist on forcing me to vomit all day. And who has been here?"
"Nobody." John shrugs.
"Repairman? Friend? Someone has been in this flat. Things are moved and I can smell them." Sherlock sniffed and frowned.
John's eyebrows rise. "Nobody has been here."
It takes a week before they are speaking to each other normally.
Going through John's computer while he saves the fallen wretches and concussed idiots; normal. Porn on John's computer; open.
Embedded, locked, folder layers and layers down. Interesting.
The hardest password ever used by flat-mate? Invitation.
Sherlock grins. John and his little secrets. Oh jackpot, it is a journal. A hidden journal.
Sherlock reads with all his focus after the first line makes him choke on his tepid tea.
I never believed in love at first sight until I met Sherlock Holmes.
next chapter up soon - be warned - the journal is very dark - reviews equal faster service