Johnlock + Casefic murder mystery with cannon typical violence. Duck out now if that's not your thing.
Chapter 1: Tapestry of Bone
They had come to kill him.
John was going to die.
"Shoot it!"
He felt the bullet leave him. Springing from his hand in a flurry of pain and sound.
"Look at it."
He was deep underwater. Light filtered through the reeds and fog. Mud filled his lungs.
"Look Henry."
He could hear the fear, feel it rasping against his skull. Tapping in time with his heart.
"Look at it!"
Sherlock was screaming. Had he shot him?
"God this case! Thank you Henry, it's been brilliant!"
He twisted in the mud. Sherlock was laughing, laughing and screaming and he had just shot someone. Who did he shoot?
Inappropriate to laugh at a crime scene.
"Timing Sherlock, timing!"
The enemy was running. There were trees in the Afghan desert. John was going to vomit, tasted death and bile.
Sherlock wouldn't let him die.
The world exploded in a ball of heat. IED blast. They were hit.
Colors bled white and the ground lifted to meet John in a wave of moss and dirt. Sherlock's face floated above him, framed by a halo of fire.
He was crying.
"John?"
Christ, they were in Baskerville.
"Fear and stimulus."
Sherlock closed his eyes and slumped against the wall of the room. They were in the Baskerville bedroom, the dark pine of the ceiling slanting down against the light, tilted towards John's face in a river of black and shadow.
"God, that was brilliant!"
John swayed against the entrance. He looked like a car stripped at a junkyard, form and polish ripped away to reveal a rusted frame, brittle and bare, sanded down to the bone.
"You should have joined the army." John licked his lips. "Your taste for adrenaline is endless."
"You would know." Sherlock rasped.
John trailed his fingers along the entry dresser, feeling the prick of phantom splinters.
"Yes." John cracked a smile. "I would, wouldn't I?"
Sherlock staggered over to the sink and splashed water against his face.
"Are you hurt?" The detective's eyes were hooded beneath the blue fluorescents, pupils impossibly tiny and dark.
John swallowed. "No."
Yes.
"You smell of powder burn…."
Sherlock's hands were trembling as he gripped the sink. His fingers white, splintered against the porcelain basin like brittle cracks in the finish.
"I'm not hurt."
Sherlock cocked his head, considering. "Yes, the smell. In my head. Obviously."
"How long until the gas wears off?"
"Difficult to say. We were down in the hollow for at least 15 minutes…"
Sherlock's voice was rapid now, predicting a brittle night that John couldn't swallow.
Shouldn't have to.
"…Our second dosing, double both our original exposure times, administered before our bodies have had a chance to expel the remnants of the last exposure..."
"Will one exacerbate the other?"
John could feel the sand between the pines in his mind already, smell the smolder of rubble and shit.
"Hard to say."
"How long did you feel…" John's voice drifted off. "…last night?"
Sherlock looked up, his pupils so large his eyes looked black.
"All night."
John nodded.
Of course.
"Did you sleep? You never came back in."
Sherlock shook his head with distain.
"Of course not. I can never sleep when I need answers."
"Well you got those in bloody spades tonight." John sank into his bed. "And we have a long drive tomorrow."
The implication hung there, wings spread like a bloody phantom. Smothering John in this.
This choking sense of what should have been long gone.
Sherlock nodded and slowly stripped down to his briefs, not bothering with a shirt or trousers. John was too tired to feel awkward. Sherlock could be naked and on fire for all he cared.
Run.
It thrummed against his spine the moment he closed his eyes. The sensation of being watched, that something was coming, sinking behind him. He felt breath against his ear. His throat seized up.
He had to stay awake.
"Do you think Henry will recover?" His voice was high and cheerful. The opposite of how he felt.
"Irrelevant."
"Not to me."
John could feel his heart hammering to escape. Fear. Fear and stimulus.
"So, will he?"
Sherlock grunted in annoyance.
"Don't be a prat. This poor kid's life was ruined."
"Yes, and his brain was probably ruined too. Punched full of chemical holes like Swiss cheese."
"Glad to know you care."
"I don't."
"At least he has closure now."
"John, shut up and go to sleep."
"I am too hyped up on adrenaline to sleep."
Liar.
"Then go outside and chat up women at the pub. Don't bother me."
"I'm not getting dressed again."
Liar.
Sherlock turned over and faced John, his backlit skin starker than a corpse in the dark, his hands fisted in the sheets.
"The adrenaline will fade." Sherlock's voice was suddenly tired and thin. "The fight or flight reflex cannot be maintained indefinitely, even with chemicals."
"Yes." John choked out. "Potent stuff. Hell of a weapon."
"Perfect for the battlefield, really." Sherlock chuckled darkly. "I can see why Dr. Franklin couldn't leave it well alone."
"You're brother would have a field day with the stuff." John could help in the attempt at levity.
"God yes." A smile twisted. "If only it would punch holes in his brain, utter bastard. I should send him some for Christmas."
Their laughter rang out, shrill and reedy, before dispersing into the black.
The silence stretch thick like mud. John could feel the dark water creeping back around his senses, tugging his feet into the void.
"Sherlock…"
"Go to sleep." The hollow in his eyes pierced John. "It's just the gas."
There was nothing left to say.
John closed his eyes and let the water take him.
Everything was green.
The world existed in night vision, moving shadows and glowing eyes, like a cheap sex tape. John picked his way through the alley, over heaps of rubble and crumbled stone. Branches arched overhead, tangled in broken satellites and fraying clothesline.
"We need a med evac."
It was just up ahead. Flickering like a bad connection. Suicide bombing, rubble and bodies. Men down. John clutched the blood bag. They had to move fast.
It was leaking.
"They are dead by now."
Sherlock's face twisted behind John. Skin hung from his jaw like torn saran wrap, jagged and thin. Hound attack. John would have to patch that up later.
"You won't make it, John. You will fail them."
His fingers were slippery from the blood bag. He shouldn't have ditched his pack in the firefight.
"Don't say that. I know you care." John tried to turn to scold Sherlock, but his collarbone was broken
Sherlock's grin grew, splitting his lips into his cheeks, the tear growing and growing, ripping skin apart like wet paper.
"Will caring about them help me work Johnny boy?"
IV's draped the canopy, needles twinkling like Christmas lights. The blood bag was catching on the tree limbs, the tears getting larger and larger.
"No?" Sherlock leaned in. "Then I chose not to care."
The dirt was turning to sand, sinking and pooling around John's knee as he pulled forward. John felt hands on his ankles, clawing his calves, pulling him under.
"Oh doctor!" Sherlock was circling him now, singing softly. "Your patients care. They want you to save them."
Hands were grasping out of the howling sand. Faces, cut and torn, shrapnel embedded in their teeth. John was being pulled under, gasping and choking.
"Help." If Sherlock would only pull him to safety.
"You didn't save them, doctor."
Turning to Sherlock, vertebrae snapping like bubble wrap, John was retching, reaching, screaming.
"Help me."
Sherlock's grin was getting larger, splitting across his skull in in trenches of black and red. Black and bone.
"No John." Sherlock grabbed his flailing wrist, pushing him further in their clawing arms.
The wolves were circling now, red eyes rising from the mist of rag and dust.
"No, John. You save me."
The sand was up to John's neck, the suction of blood and rubble. Sherlock's sternum cracked open with a scream and light poured forth.
Inside, beating, snarling and twisted where the heart should have been, was a mass of semtex.
"John." Sherlock's voice was howling now. "Doctor, the pacemaker didn't work. You can't save my life."
His fingers twisted in John's hair, voice scraping his skull.
"You can't moderate my heart."
John woke up screaming.
His shoulder was caught in a vice, a tangle of limbs and shadows looming above him, fingers searching for a bullet. It was all dark and ridged, too close. Too fucking close. His body thrashed, arms snapping forward.
"Stop." His wrist were pinned, eyes flashing above him.
His throat seized up. He was seven again, thrashing under thugs on the playground. Spread like an insect on the fence, waiting for the blow.
"It's just me."
His knees jerked up in a punishing blow, bone meeting thigh muscle. He had missed.
"Wake up!"
Elbow shot into a rib and he twisted to pin the darkness, tangling against sheet and flesh. It was too black. Too hot.
"Bloody hell!"
They were rolling over cotton dunes and then he was on top of a writhing mass of shadow, fingers seeking the pale flesh of an open throat. Something hissed and then he was flipped, pinned beneath bones and iron fingers. He was trapped. Helpless.
"John!"
They knew his name. Hissed threats to 'stay still'. Hot air crackled in his lungs. His wrists burned from the pressure. Still feeling then. Good. Not helpless. Not dead.
"Freeze! That's an order captain!"
Captain.
The command cracked through his brain, turning white and hot and then everything was gone.
John went boneless. Sherlock loomed above him, chest heaving as he swore darkly.
Sherlock.
John's eyes glanced around the room. Shadowy figures still moved in the periphery, they were closing in. His body tensed to spring. He had to protect Sherlock.
"Don't move!" Sherlock's grip tightened. "Your bloody nightmare is bleeding through. The drug John. It's the drug!"
No. Sherlock couldn't see them, they were closing in. They had just been attacked and he had to save them.
"The hound John. Baskerville. We are in an inn in England." Sherlock was hurting him, nails digging into his wrists, pain lancing through the fog. "Focus John!"
Baskerville.
"Sherlock…I see-"
"It's the drug John." Sherlock leaned forward, head pressed against John's neck, his lips brushing buzzed hair and goosebumps. "Fear and stimulant."
John shuddered and closed his eyes with a gasp.
Sherlock had sunk into him. The weight was comforting, like the press of his Kevlar vest, a shield against the world. He should say something, move, but embarrassment made the words sticky and thick.
"Sherlock…"
John felt breath against his neck, the move of lips, but didn't hear anything. Fear pooled beneath his belly in a warm throb.
"Did I hurt-"
"No." The response was strained.
"That's good."
John struggled for sound. Every breath felt loud and slow.
"How long?"
"Thrashing for twenty minutes." Sherlock stiffened. "Screaming for one."
"Ah." John shifted at the implication. "Did I wake you then?"
"No."
John tensed against the buzzing warmth. Sherlock hadn't slept. He always slept after cases.
"How long until dawn?"
"Four hours."
"Long drive tomorrow." He should say it. "We should go back to sleep."
Sherlock shifted to the left, rolling his body off John, legs still intertwined he twisting against his side in an attempt to untangle the knot of sheets and flesh.
The air rushed in between them, empty and cold. John reached out, fingers brushing Sherlock's elbow, the jagged rasp of a 'thank you' lodged in his throat.
Sherlock stilled.
John lay silent. He could still feel the paralyzing fear. The warmth tightened beneath his skin, alert to every sensation, sparking electricity in his blood.
Sherlock shifted and then lay still.
Immobile next to John's side.
In the same bed.
"Your next one…"
Sherlock's voice was deliberate, slicing each syllable with pregnant silence.
"I will wake you before it accelerates...to that."
John turned to face him on the bed. Sherlock was on his back, shaking fingers clenched beneath his chin. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, pale chest rising in ragged breathes.
John's hand was still cradled in the crook of Sherlock's arm. Their legs still tangled together.
Safe.
John had learned in the army, comfort could take many forms. Need did not always require a label.
Sherlock was shaking. Shaking like the boy he saw in front of the fire two nights ago, vicious and desperate.
John reached out, arm wrapping around rib and bone, and rested against him.
Two soldiers. No label.
Sherlock would wake him.
He closed his eyes and waited for sleep to take him.
Real men did not need to talk.
John woke alone in the morning. He did not mention the indentation in his pillow, the space next to him where his bed was still warm. He showered and dressed with ruthless efficiency. Snapping towels, folding clothes, turning down the bed.
Everything was recognizable in daylight.
"You used up all the hot water!"
Recognizable and cold.
"Obviously."
"How is that even possible? We are at an inn?"
"Simple matter. Taking the number of rooms in the inn and the average industrial boiler size-"
"Why?" John huffed out of the bathroom in a storm of goosebumps and haphazard linens. "What possible purpose could you have to deprive me of hot water?!"
"I'm hungry." Sherlock looked annoyed. "You weren't getting ready fast enough."
"Then go eat by yourself!"
Something flickered across the detectives face. "Dull."
Sherlock's favorite excuse lacked conviction. John cocked his head. Sherlock's eyes were sunken and bloodshot, his shoulders drawn forward at a harsh angle.
"Fine." He chuckled, the implications warm in his belly.
They would get breakfast together then.
John liked the atmosphere of the inn. The paneled ceilings and plaid pillows that smelt of tobacco and commercial detergent. But after demon hounds and nightmares oak and brick just wasn't chipper enough. He wanted to eat outside in the sunlight, wanted to hear the birds. Sherlock readily acquiesced, even though it would be cheery and quite possibly social.
The detective's compliance should have been the first sign.
Sherlock sat on the table and picked through the menu aimlessly, scowling at the breakfast puns printed in bright font. John smiled at his black mood. Sherlock wouldn't eat anything and would force John to drive back, all the while categorizing road kill and criticizing John's conservative driving.
It would be normal. And John would love it for being normal.
So when Sherlock brought him his coffee alarm bells should have gone off. Sherlock getting coffee should have been the second sign.
"So they didn't have it put down then," Sherlock handed John his mug, sugar free this time. "The dog."
"Obviously," Breakfast smelled delicious. "They just couldn't bring themselves to do it."
"I see." Sherlock gave a forced nod and furrowed his brow.
John held back laughter. "No you don't."
"No, I don't." Sherlock agreed readily. "Sentiment?"
The way he said sentiment, spat it like a curse and an apology, should have been the third warning.
"Sentiment." John ignored the itch that something was off. "Listen, what happened to me in the lab…"
Sherlock's breath hitched and his eyes shuttered. Warning four.
"I hadn't been to the hollow, so how come I heard those things in there…"
Sherlock was dodging the question. Leaky pipes, ketchup, train's to London. The subterfuge was appallingly obvious for a man who could cry on command and brutalize witnesses.
"It was you." John's stomach twisted. Suddenly the day was too bright. "You locked me in that bloody lab!"
"I had to." Was that relief on his face? "It was an experiment."
"An experiment!" He was shouting now, Sherlock shushing him like child. "I was terrified Sherlock, I was scared to death!"
John felt a rush of shame and hate. He attempted to drug him, watched him like a lab rat and then had the audacity to hold him last night. How dare he witness that, how dare he pin him vulnerable, frightened and open because he had tried to drug him.
He had woken him several times in the night, warm and soothing. John had whispered about Afghanistan, whispered about his brothers, lost in sand and demons. And Sherlock had been there, silent, fingers smoothing over hair and skin.
"You got it wrong." He was spiting now, each word a rupturing like a blister on his tongue.
"A bit." Sherlock seemed perturbed, upset that this could matter.
"You got it wrong. It wasn't in the sugar." He got everything wrong. Every word, every touch. "You. Were. Wrong."
Last night. Wrong.
"It won't happen again."
And that was it. No apology. No admission of wrongdoing, of how fucking sick this was. No admission that Sherlock had shaken in his arms, that he had entered John's nightmares, felt the fear and shared with him…
That if he didn't understand before, didn't know better, he should know now.
And the ride stretched long before him, the flat large and empty, the nights endless and dark.
"Any long term effects."
And he would let it go.
"Not at all."
He would burry it, because Sherlock simply was. And all he could do is shut down. Change the subject and move on.
Because real men didn't need to talk.