Life With A Sociopath
All day, John had watched Sherlock from across the flat.
He admired his roomate standing at the framed glass window as he quietly made tea or updated his blog. The detective had been silently holding his violin and bow loosely at his sides, unmoving like some stone statue for the last twelve hours... Staring off inside his mind palace somewhere. A day like this wasn't unusual for the Sherlock. But he'd not really spoken much in the last month or so.
John looked at the small, antique instrument held firmly in his friend's large hands.
He liked when Sherlock played. It was peaceful, and really quite beautiful. But for the last couple of days, in the dead of night while John laid in bed, he could hear sad music coming from downstairs. A beautiful, meloncholy composition that said it must have been a particularly grueling day for him. John would sometimes think of consoling the grim figure when he was feeling out of sorts but he was never one to impose, so he left the dark man to himself.
He did wonder though, if Sherlock played while thinking of cases and murders. Or if he ever just let himself get lost in the music. He'd imagine how dark it must be inside the detective's mind. All blood and bodies and insults. Numbers, code, notes, algorithms and strong urges to fight off substance abuse... Did he ever allow himself any free time to just enjoy something? Probably not. The man could be standing in front of God and be bored out of his skull.
John stood from the couch. He'd had enough of Sherlock's sulking. They haven't had a case in months so an attitude was understandable. But there's no reason for him to be acting like this stubborn a child... To be quite honest, John always felt a sense of abandonment when Sherlock went on a silence binge, not speaking for days, even weeks on end. Even though they'd only been living together for a year, it was the most joy he'd ever felt in life.
The only excitement the doctor ever felt now was from the passion that Sherlock carried with him. Whether he was high off a case, floating around crime scenes wearing that genuine, ignorant smile. Or just lazing around the flat in his pyjamas, drinking tea all day and putting more holes in the wall. John couldn't get enough of it. It was like Christmas living with him everyday. A new surprise would await him every morning and the thought of himself being excited like that made him blush.
But the best thing about life with Sherlock Holmes, was the rush.
The rush that came with escaping death and running for their lives. Seeing the man at work was like having a private artist share his deepest secrets. Unleashing an impossible skill that was intimate and extraordinary and unlike anything else.
One thing John did notice though, was that Sherlock lied.
The man claimed to know no sentiment, that emotions and physicalities were nothing but transport. He held himself like a high class machine and definitely maintained himself like one. But sometimes it surprised John. He had to remind himself that Sherlock was Human. He's bled, cried, he's been terrified, speechless. He's even cared. He pretends that he doesn't but he does.
And it's only begun to occur to John that, he desperately cares about him. He'd already killed for him, to save his life that first night with the cabbie. Sherlock would have taken that pill too just to prove to himself that he was right. But John couldn't let that happen again. Which he knew it would. He'd put his own life in danger every time if it meant saving Sherlock.
The lonely detective didn't know it, but he'd saved the soldier's life the day they met.
John had been ready to do himself in. Planned to lock himself in and put his gun to work one last time. Every day since he'd been discharged the nighmares had gotten worse. He'd hardly been eating enough to keep himself up.
Then, like a God send, this wonderfully intrusive, dark shadow of a man walks into his very mind, and changes it. John owed him his-
Sod this!
He's taking the brooding bastard out and that's final! Plus, he was sure Sherlock hadn't eaten in days. He needed food, as well as a bath. It was getting kind of late though. Just about fifteen til nine.
"Sherlock? Take a shower, we're going out."
Sherlock made no move. Only his steely grey eyes fell to the side as John closed the curtains.
"Did you hear me? I said we're-"
"I heard you, John." Sherlock said, swiftly turning away from the window.
"I always hear you."
They glanced at each other for a split second and John saw a flash of fear in his face. It didn't hold its usual deadpan expression, but instead was filled with a hysteric curiosity. There was something very wrong bothering him.
John couldn't tear his eyes away from Sherlock until the man had closed himself inside the bathroom. The door locked and the shower ran.
...The bloody hell was that about? He thought.
~About 30 Minutes Later~
The two men ended up at Angelo's a few blocks from their flat.
John mentioned to Sherlock about "Wanting something different tonight." But not one word had been shared between them since they'd left out.
Angelo suggested the new special and rang up two dishes.
They sat under the dim light in silence, letting the rest of the restaurant murmur on, droning incessantly.
John looked up at Sherlock every now and then and tried not to say anything as the detective finished off his fifth glass of red wine. They hadn't even been there for more than an hour and the only time Sherlock lifted his gaze off his now cold, untouched plate was when he signaled Angelo for a refill.
Why was he drinking? Inebreation was far off Sherlock's wall of neccessities so something must really be bothering him. John doesn't understand why he doesn't feel complete and utter concern. It's there, but it's backed up by far more pent up irritation. He was cross. He wouldn't stand to be ignored any longer. John Hamish Watson, respected Doctor and Captain of the former Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, was no a lap dog.
"Look." John whispers loudly, making sure only Sherlock could hear him.
"I know, there hasn't been a case in weeks. And I understand, that you're bored or upset or, whatever... But you usually go out and find your own cases, even if they're dull and pointless, but you haven't. You've hardly spoken a word to me about anything... You haven't eaten in a week, Sherlock. A week. What's wrong..?"
Sherlock stares into his nearly empty glass.
John sighs.
"I don't know what it is that's been bothering you. But I can't be much help if you won't speak to me."
Sherlock downs the rest of the drink then signals a seventh, which the tosser finishes off just as quickly. He sniffs and stares up at John who's concern looks like it's taken a turn towards frustration.
Sherlock didn't want to be treating John like this. He felt awful about it. Ignoring his best friend was the last thing he'd ever want to do. A funny thought swam slowly through his mind when he remembered a time when 'Friend' was not a word in his vocabulary. "We all hated him." As Seb had put it lovingly. He's automatically better than eveyone else because he knows more than the whole of population. Which, in a sense, wasn't too far from the truth. But everyone else was just as unconversant as he was. No one knew what life was like for him.
Thoughts of suicide crossed his mind a few times. Not because he was particularly depressed. No, there was a very fine and distinctive line between depression and boredom. No. In short, he was alone. A Freak, like Donovan loved to call him. It wasn't like he enjoyed mooning over corpses and muderers and cases. He genuinely had no interest in anything else. No one would talk to him outside The Yard. And if anyone did, they were only interested in sex. Which scared him more than anything...
He had no one to conversate with on an intelectual level. Lestrade was clueless. Mycroft, ugh. Now he wasn't human. And who else? There was no one else. No one who would put up with him at least. Mrs. Hudson? Bless her. She only put up with Sherlock because she'd always wanted children of her own. Not that her husband would've been any help. In great lengths, she'd treated Sherlock like her own son. Which Sherlock was incredibly greatful for.
But then, John Watson limped into his life. This small army doctor with tendencies similar to his. Alone, confused, bored and fed up with an unpleasing life. Sherlock was panicked when he came to the realization that they were perfect for each other.
The day they met at St. Barts, he knew, John wasn't like everyone else. He was confident, even for his size. And he held himself with such authority, Sherlock couldn't help but feed the submisive inside himself. Knowing that John was a man who knew exactly what he wanted and knew exactly how to get it. Even if he had to take it by force.
All these thoughts have been weaving their way inside Sherlock's head for months now and he can't control any of them, which is such a terrifying feeling because he always has control of his own mimd. Emotions, sentiment, lust for physical intamacy. Things that he'd tried to purge himself of, as they were only transport and not needed by his body... But fuck... were they wanted... Which is why he couldn't talk to or even look at John for the past few weeks. Anytime he did, he felt himself go warm all over. Which wasn't all together an unpleasent sensation, just new and strange... What if he couldn't help himself one night and came onto to John and made him feel uncomfortable? Risking their friendship was out of the question. What would he do if he lost John? He'd be so lost without his blogger.
That's why he had to numb himself up. Stop his functions from working properly so he had something else to pay mind to.
Coming back from his foggy mind to the dimly lit cavern table, Sherlock clears his throat and his glassy eyes involuntarily swim around before finally settling on John.
A small hic makes its way out of his chest.
"I... uhm..." He sniffs, eye lids heavy, head lolling and falling forward, drunk weight starting to pull him down.
John shakes his head, like he can't believe he's even tried to reason but then stops dead when he sees the first stray tear roll off Sherlock's cheek.
Idiotic timing. Crying, really? In public, in front of John? His sentiment was for shit. If he couldn't rid himself of it, and couldn't control it, what was his mind good for?
"I'am, sorry... John." His drunken voice shaking. "M'sorry for being so inhuman."
John's eyes can't register what he's seeing. Drunken tears and apologies? His concern grows ten fold.
"M'sorry forbeing such a cold man. Nd treating you like... an object at my disposal."
He lets out a harsh, octave sigh.
"Y'not an object, John. Y'my'best friend." His chest swells and to him, it looks like John wants to off out as fast as he can. But his best friend stays calm.
"Sherlock... I think we'd better get back ho-"
John stops dead mid sentence as Sherlock reaches his hand out across the table and lays it on top of John's. Which he then begins to trace with his long, lean fingers.
The doctor breaks apart inside as he watches Sherlock cry silently. His teeth gritted, tears running right after the other.
How was this happening? He's never been through a situation like this. Sherlock's always had himself so calm and collected. This could have been avoided surely. But John saw no harm in letting him drink.
After that thought's crossed his mind, he remembers the affects of alchohol on an extremely empty stomach.
John pays for their meal and frantically hails down a cab, supporting a hot and broken mess that was Sherlock Holmes on his bad shoulder.
~Back At 221B~
John's got Sherlock's impossibly long arm wrapped around himself as he carries him upstairs to the sitting room.
Sherlock's near dead weight but John's finally able to settle him down on the couch. At that moment, the doctor is grateful for his engaging upper body strength.
Heaved in a sopping pile, face down in the dark fabric, Sherlock pleads helplessly.
"Don't leave me, John..." He says attempting to fix himself upright.
John runs his hands through his hair, over his face, and across the back of his neck. He lets out a laborous sigh. What was he to do with his drunken mess? Suppose he'll just let Sherlock sleep it off out here in the living room and explain everything in the morning, if he asked.
All the while, Sherlock's fixed himself into a comfortable sitting position and his feelings of dismay have long since vanished. Now he was feeling quite, what was the right word? He curses himself for his lack of brain function. As much as he hated the affects of alcohol on the brain, he understands why so many people sucome to alcoholism. It stops you from feeling. From thinking which is what he wants, but he didn't want to become a mumbling idiot. Fragile was the word he was looking for. Weak but weighted. He feels like he might break apart and sink through the floorboards if John doesn't stay with him. So he makes a feeble attempt to keep John with him as long as he can. He doesn't want to, nor can he stand to be alone at this moment.
"Stay here..." He says looking up at the doctor, studying him through the dense fog flooding his field of vision.
He holds his pale right hand up and lets it linger for a few moments. When John takes it, Sherlock pulls him closer.
The detective smiles sadly and wipes his face messily with his free hand.
"I've. Been feelingso, cold, John." He breathes.
But just as composure begins to set in, he grabs onto John's other wrist and weeps into the soldier's open palms. He decides that emotions are too out of his control and just lets them ride him any way they wanted.
John's getting a bit light headed, he's never seen Sherlock look helpless before. He's never let himself be seen so vulnerable and that hits home. He takes the seat next to Sherlock on the couch and silently watches the big detective fight off the racking sobs running though his body.
Sherlock's breaths come hot and heavy and his sighs are deep and catch in his throat.
"Tell me what's wrong." John says, trying in vain to console his broken friend. Rubbing his back in small comforting cirlcles.
Sherlock struggles to breathe and gets the waterworks under control as he slowly wraps his arms around John.
John's body stiffens and immediately flushes at the tight, warm and much needed embrace.
Their arms wrap around each other and they hold on for dear life. John fears that if he lets go, Sherlock will slip away and lose himself inside his mind forever. Slow breaths escape their lips. Sherlock's cheek rests against John's temple, his nose buried deep in sandy blonde hair. While John's pressed against Sherlock's chest, listening to his loud, thudding heart beat.
Sherlock holds on for a long while before pulling back and taking a deep, shaky breath.
"I don't..." He chokes, his eyes still unfocused.
"I'm... not a machine... I'm'not a... freak." He says, breaths uneven.
He says these words, each one stabbing through him, calling him a liar. He is a machine. A freak. An object. A virgin... a complete loser.
John blinks a few times before any words find their way to his lips.
"That's right." He says, matter-o-factly.
"You're none of those things. You're perfect and you love your work and no one can blame you for-"
Sherlock groans with tight eyes and shakes his head angrily.
"I'MA FUCKING TOOL, JOHN, F'GODS SAKE!"
The words are flying out of Sherlock's mouth before he knows it and he regrets it instantly. There's no way this situation is going to get any better. He wishes the alcohol would just knock him out already. Or that alcohol poisoning would set in so that he might die and avoid this humiliation.
John flinches slightly at Sherlock's sudden outburst and says nothing. Their eyes stay downcast and it's quiet between them for a few moments.
"Why do you put up with me, John?" Sherlock asks softly, looking at the smaller man shrugged beside him on the couch.
John looks at him and gives the big sod a small, full hearted smile.
"Because you're my best friend you idiot. Besides, who else would take care of you?'
John gives him a nudge and playful smirk.
Sherlock grins pathetically and his sad gaze falls on John's lips. Those perfect, tanned, authoritative lips. He steals a sudden, unexpected kiss and pulls back quickly.
John stares back at him with wide eyes, unbelieveing.
Sherlock is drunk.
He's drunk and he just kissed him. He doesn't know how to react. He's not even had a single drink but he's tilting out of his head. Heat in his face is starting to burn and there's a swell in his chest that's about to crash over. He's aroused. Completely aroused. There's no mistaking the tingling sensation flowing through his body. This is wrong. This is completely and utterly wrong and he wants more.
Sherlock blinks a few times and tries to muster up quick, clumsy sobriety.
"P...please forgive me, John. I am so so-"
"Don't be." Is all John says before he shuts Sherlock up with a vigorous kiss.
The doctor absentmindedly straddles his lap and runs his hands through a thick, soft wave of dark curls. Bodily instinct takes over and Sherlock wraps his arms around John's waist. They can't help but press their bodies closer together. They kiss like their lives depend on it. Like the only air they'll ever need is the air being shared between them.
"J... John." Sherlock moans breathlessly, hardly breaking their lips apart.
"John, wait."
But John's no longer regestering words, just movements as he shoves his tongue into Sherlock's mouth and nibbles on his gorgeous upper lip. He rocks his hips into his best friend and quick thoughts race through his mind.
'OhBloodyHellJesusChrist. Wait,what am I doing? He tastes soo good... He's drunk. I don't care. Oh my god, I'm taking advantage.'
Sherlock can't stay awake. Black dots start to cloud his vision and he tries to warn John but his mouth can't find the strength to form any more words. He's slipping...
Before John even realises what's happening, Sherlock's hands slide off his waist and his head falls back against the couch, he's comepletely fallen asleep. Snoring and down for the count.
John slowly climbs off his flatmate's lap, only half caring about how that whole scene had been played out. He paces for a few moments and tries to even out his breathing and get his body to stop throbbing.
What the hell was to happen in the morning? Would Sherlock remember any of this?
John's heart is skipping. Sherlock's going to be so cross. He'll feel betrayed. And he'd kick John out. He'll never speak to him again. And they'd never see each other again...
John runs his hands through his hair before, with much effort, picking Sherlock up and carrying him to his room. He drops the large man into bed and Sherlock curls innocently into his sheets. Finally getting some much needed rest. He''ll feel sicker than a dog tomorrow morning but that'll be his own fault...
John helps him out of his shoes and jacket before turning out the lights and heading to the kitchen for a few stiff drinks of his own...
~The Day After~
John's woken from his stupor at twelve in the afternoon. A splitting headache causing every sound and light to bounce loudly off the walls inside his skull. He's only fully awake when he hears retching downstairs. He slowly makes his way to towards his room and searches out his detective.
The bathroom door's flung wide open and Sherlock's on his knees gripping at the porcelin rim, being sick and looking quite awful.
John rubs the sleep and hangover out of his eyes. Concern and panic setting in again.
"Sherlock?" John squints at him, even though the bedroom and bathroom lights are off.
Sherlock looks up at John with red, watery eyes.
"Oh... good, John, you're up-"
He stops quickly and is sick again. Heaving up dark red.
John's almost scared that it's blood, only before remembering that all Sherlock's had in his system is red wine.
"Christ Sherlock, I'm making you breakfast and I'm making you eat it." John says reeling.
The mention of food has both men gagging.
Sherlock swallows back disgust. "Ugghh, you needn't bother John. I'm fine."
"Like hell you are. You're going to eat or I'm taking you to the hospital."
Sherlock rolls his blood shot eyes and stands warily. He pouts out of his bedroom, shuffles into the sitting room and collapses onto his sofa.
"Just leave me here to die. I'll feel much better afterwords, I promise." He muffles face down in the cushions.
Sherlock can't remember for the life of him what happened over the last few days. Only that he was not well and felt like he'd gone to hell and was spat back up. How much had he drunk last night? Christ, what did he do? Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary, John was acting just fine. Like the gorgeous stiff he was.
Ughh, no...
These damn thoughts were still lingering inside his head. A part of him was glad he did drink. Another day not confessing his feelings to John was better than losing him. He was sure John was completely oblivious. Maybe he should act annoyed with the doctor. Just to thwart off any possible assumption that might break its way to the surface.
Sherlock turns his head to allow oxygen flow back into his lungs. Dull... With a tedious sigh he curls himself into a tighter ball.
John ingores the self loathing lump on the couch and goes on about making coffee and breakfast for the both of them. Over his shoulder he sees Sherlock grab at his phone on the coffee table and watches as he automatically jumps to his feet.
"Lestrade's left over two dozen messages! There's been Homicides and Suicides and Arsons. Thefts, Cult Work! Those are my favorite! John, get your things! We're going!"
Sherlock jumps around grabbing his coat and scarf, trying to shove his feet into his shoes at the same time. John doesn't move an inch from the stove.
"Sit down, now. I'm sure Lestrade has everything under control. If it were really that important he would've stopped by."
"Text sixteen implies he stopped by twice."
John huffs, walks over to Sherlock who's tying his shoes, grabs his phone, and just completely crushes it in his hands.
Sherlock looks up at him dumbfounded. He can't believe what John's just done.
"Shut up. I'll get you a new one. But you are not leaving this flat."
Sherlock shoots him a nasty scowl in substitution for "How THE HELL dare you?!"
He honestly can't believe that John just did that. He understands his concern for his well being, but that was uncalled for. Completely unneccesary. Well, at least he has a legitimate reason to be angry at him now.
He storms up to John who's walked back into the kitchen and just stares down at him. Knowing he won't really do anything to the combat trained killer. But his lack of physical input is made up for in intimidation with his size and stature. He stops and wonders if he'd be able over power the soldier using only his voice.
John turns around, sighs and looks up at him. Desperately trying to force last nights memories out of his head. The doctor's eyes were, after all, leveled at the tall mans lips and his eyes were hidden under a mess of unkempt curls, darker than he'd ever seen them. He must admit that breaking Sherlock's phone was a bit over kill, but he had no other choice. If Sherlock put himself under anymore physical or mental stress he'd capsize. Mental stability was already hardly a strong point of his. Sometimes John felt more like Sherlock's nanny than his friend...
John shakes his head.
"Sherlock, you're not well. You're sick right now and extemely weak. You need food and rest. As your-"
Sherlock decides to go for it and explodes.
"Don't you dare pull that with me, Watson! YOU"RE NOT MY DOCTOR! YOU'RE NOT MY FRIEND! AND I CAN DO AS I DAMN WELL PLEASE!" He screams so loudly his voice vibrates.
Bad idea.
Light erupts behind his eyes, blinding him momentarily. A sharp searing pain shoots through his jaw. He reaches out to steady himself but what he grabs onto is shouting incoherently and pushing him away. He stumbles back into the living room and collapses on the floor.
~Many Hours Later~
Sherlock groggily comes to, dizzy and disoriented, nausea practically knocking him over. He's thrown on the couch still dressed like he was prepared to go out which means John must have carried him after he blacked out. Did he black out?
No... John punched him...
Sudden rapid blood flow pulses through his cardio vascular system making it impossibly difficult to catch his breath. His heart's never beat this fast on its own before. It's as if there's not enough oxygen in the room, he finds himself gasping for air.
"J... John. John!" He calls out weakly, attempting to stand himself up. Immediately regretting it when he reels over.
He can feel that his mind has slowed and that most of his functions have all but shut down. Everything will be alright when John comes to him. He can't still be angry, he always forgave Sherlock. No matter how haneous his transgressions. John will feed him up and check his vitals and make sure he's okay. He sinks back into a ball on the couch and waits.
But John's footfalls down the stairs never come. Sherlock's alone in the empty flat.
Shuddering fear crashes over him in a way he's never felt before. He assesess this as a feeling of severe anxiety set off by chemical imbalances, hunger and dehydration. He tells himself he's alright, he just needs to breathe and get sustenance into his body.
So he slowly, shakily walks his way to the kitchen and looks around for the easiest thing he can eat. Peanut butter and bread.
Before he knows it, he's eaten the whole jar and seven peices of toast. Which has got him feeling, much, much better. And after a sixth bottle of water finally quenches his thirst, thoughts of John creep back into his mind. Where was he? It's already dark out, at least ten o'clock. What time had John left? How long had he been gone? It was only one thirty when they'd had that domestic earlier...
Ten hours... more or less? He hadn't assumed John would get physical...
Sherlock looks around for his phone to text him but remembers that it's in peices. Then he spies John's phone on the table next to his laptop. He left without it. What's going on? There had been no sign of a struggle when he woke up. Everything was fine. It was likely that John had just got out to run an errand. Yes. There was an emergency at the surgery and he'd gone to help...
No matter what he told himself, his mind couldn't help but shove around worst case scenarios. John could have answered the door to some stranger and been kidknapped. Or maybe his words earlier had driven the emotinal wreck to do something drastic...
Sherlock's concern for his doctor is overpowering over everything else. Rolling thoughts making him dizzy again. He needs to make sure John's okay. He's about off out when he hears the front door downstairs slam open. Relief washes over him when he recognizes the footsteps. It's John.
But his footfalls sound clumsy, heavy and misplaced as he makes his way up.
He's drunk. No deductions to tell that.
But he's fine. He's home, here with him. That's all that matters. Sherlock's got half a mind to throw his arms around him as soon as he's through the door. Only to remember that John's extremely cross and probably wouldn't mind knocking him out again...
It might be better to just stay back and let him saunter around the flat silently while he fumes. So he climbs back onto the couch and slowly evens out his breathing.
When John 'stummbles' into the living room, Sherlock's still asleep where he'd left him on the couch. He rolls his eyes angrily and sets into the kitchen to grab a glass and a bottle of Irish Rum.
More drink? Sherlock thinks.
The telly stays off as John sits himself in his recliner facing the window. He sighs sadly, takes a shot and bites back the warming burn slowly running through his chest.
John looks at Sherlock pretending to sleep on the couch and smirks, wondering if the brilliant man really thought him to be drunk. Sherlock's not the only one who can act around here. The detective likes playing mind games, so the soldier will play few of his own.
Bottle and glass in hands, he walks to the window where Sherlock spends most of his time thinking. He pours himself another drink and doesn't hesitate to 'bump into and knock over' Sherlock's music stand.
Everything clutters noisily, 'rousing Sherlock from his slumber.'
John pretends he doesn't notice Sherlock stiring awake and stretching out, so he turns on some drunk charm and his merriest voice.
"Mmm, I don't know how y'do it you gorgeous sod." He slurs.
Sherlock stops cold mid gesture and lays back down slowly , suddenly very interested.
Gorgeous? John called him Gorgeous...? Oh hell, listen to yourself, you twit, he's drunk...
He watches John from across the dark flat, straining his eyes to make out the dark outline of the short and broad figure standing in the moon light pouring in through the window.
John forces a hic and raises his glass to no one.
"The way you can dally around inside someone elses head like you were them."
He lingers for a second, evaluating the force of impact his next choice of words might cause. He gives a mental shrug.
"It's sad though, cos you don't even know y'self. Y'like a child." He laughs.
Sherlock's eyes fall to the floor. These were John's true thoughts about him. He wasn't surprised at the mention of himself being childish. But the way his friend said it... made him feel pathetic. Because it was true. He new strangers better than he knew himself.
John turns away from the window to walk back to his chair and fakes a trip, causing his glass to fall from his hand and shatter on the floor. But then his foot catches at the back of Sherlock's chair and he falls forward, landing palms first on the broken glass. He curses himself for being careless and it takes everything in him not to cry out but instead sit up collectedly and laugh at his bleeding, stinging hands.
Sherlock's fully alert now but he tries to play it off as cooly as possible. He grunts as he sits up, squinting in the darkness knowing quite well the situation.
"Jawn?" He yawns dumbly as he walks over to him.
"For gods sake John, what have you done to yourself now?" He says kneeling down.
Sherlock takes John's hands in his, a damn bloody mess. But John pulls his hands away quickly.
"Make a deduction genius." He huffs.
It stung like a bitch when Sherlock grabbed his hands. But he felt bad for pulling away because he knew his intentions were good...
"John, you must let me clean you up. You're injured and very intoxicated."
"Don't play Doctor with me, Holmes."
"John... you're losing a lot of blood."
"No shit, Sherlock."
Sherlock bites back frustration.
"Why are you drinking so heavily on a Tuesday night?"
He wants to rut himself for asking such obvious questions but it's the only way to get John to answer him. He knew he had drunk because of what he had been putting him through this last month. The tension between them had never been higher.
"You drank on a Monday night."
Sherlock's eyes swim around.
"I was within reason."
John laughs.
"This really musn't register on an emotional level. What would you know? You really are just a machine."
John's words strike a nerve so deep, Sherlock's breath catches and he can feel a hole being dug out of him. A painful sting settles in his hands and makes its way through to the center of his chest. This, couldn't be emotional pain from John's words. He feels physically ill.
The pain sets into John just as deep as he watches every emotion dance across Sherlock's face. He's struck a chord, anger and dispare. Now he's getting somewhere.
Sherlock watches sadly as John struggles to get on his feet, which he fails to do and falls right back down on his arse. He reaches out to steady John but pulls back quickly when he thinks better of it. So instead, he stands and turns to grab his coat left draped on the couch. John could stay on the floor mumbling to himself all night for all he cared...
Where was John's cell? He needed to stop thinking. He needed to phone an old friend.
He's grabbing his shoes when he hears John babble the word 'Kiss.' Sherlock turns around to see John reaching out with bloody hands for the bottle of Rum.
"What did you say just now?" He asks.
John grins and stares up at Sherlock.
"Figures. You only ever listen to yourself. Bastard."
Sherlock's gaze falls guiltily to his feet and he finds himself unable to speak. His throat getting tight.
"I- ... " He sighs pathetically.
"I'm sorry, John. For any pain or inconvienience I've ever caused. Hurting you was never my intention. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me and I ruined you. Like I ruin everything." He whispers.
He turns his back, sobs begining to make their way to the surface as he's about to walk downstairs, when he feels something soft connect with the back of his head.
At his feet lays the Union Jack pillow which was previously laying on his chair.
He turns around and looks at John who's staring back at him, with a very sober, half hearted frown.
"I said, you kissed me last night Sherlock. While you were drunk."
Sherlock's face pales and his eyes grow wide as he tries to comprehend the words that have just escaped John's mouth. Had he really done such a thing? Heat rises through his body and it settles embarrassingly bright in his cheeks. He opens his mouth to say something but his words catch at the back of his throat which is still slowly constricting. He tugs on his scarf to allow some breath back in his lungs and ultimately pulls it off.
John watches, satisfied and amused as he fumbles with it in his shaking hands. Now that he's got Sherlock right where he wants him. It's time to see how much control he really has in a situation like this. He pushes himself up from the floor and bores his eyes into Sherlock who's practically melting in the doorway.
In all seriousness, Sherlock is extremely nervous. John looks so angry. But he's letting off a sense of hunger as well. What would he do? Beat him? Ravage him? Both? He backs up a few steps but crashes into the closed door as John approaches him fiercly.
By the time they're standing mid section to chest, Sherlock's knows he's done for.
He knows that both men and women find him attractive and very often used it to his advantage. Sex had never crossed his mind since his early youth... all he knew was that he was utterly submissive. He felt that, what he couldn't make up with his body, he'd make up with his mind. The first time he saw John and deduced that he was a commanding officer, his mind had been made in that instant. One day, he'd give himself to the doctor. In any possible way he wanted.
John can see the gears turning in Sherlock's mind. But he wasn't deducing or calculating the situation. No, he was somewhere else. Memories? Fantasies? Was he thinking about what he'd like to have happen right now? Thinking of the easiest escape route? The soldier's finding it difficult to contain his body. Running his hands up and over that long, smooth neck and down that pale, sculpted chest, leaving bloody handprints... everywhere.
Sherlock Holmes looks like a crime scene.
"Look at you, shaking..." John whispers.
Sherlock swallows hard., breathing heavily through his nose.
"... I've never in my life experienced this level of intense physical-"
"Shut up." John growls, using the moment to push his hips into Sherlock's throbbing pelvis, pinning him against the door and eliciting a deep, hungry moan, making him feel all the more beastly. He places his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder and breathes him in.
"I could have you right here, y'know that."
Sherlock moans again as John's hand travels down his stomach, closer and closer to his hot zone.
"So h-have me then. " Sherlock trembles.
John doesn't need to be told twice. He grabs a handful of black curls and pulls the taller man's face towards him. Their lips crash and they devour each other. Lips tugging and parting, letting their teeth nip and nibble.
Sherlock feels his knees give way as John shoves his tongue into his mouth. He nearly falls into him, but the soldier holds him up, their bodies pinned to the wall.
When they break their kiss, they gasp for air.
John licks his bottom lip and tastes peanut butter... Sherlock tastes like peanut butter. He'll never be able to eat peanut butter without being aroused ever again...
"John."
A shaky breath escapes Sherlock's lips. "John, I... just... use me." He says falling to his knees and pulling at John's waist band.
John can't help but thrust hips into Sherlock's face, running his fingers through his hair but he stops himself, growing curious. 'Use me?' Why was he so submissive and quick to please in a situation in which he had no control?
He looks down and grabs Sherlock's hands, taking his attention away from fumbling with his pants. John pulls him up silently and they walk over to the couch.
"Sherlock." He says, cupping their hands together in his lap.
"I want to know... You know, about the drugs... your habit-"
Sherlock stiffens in palce. No. Why did John have to bring that up at this very moment? He needs out of here now. Does he run? His eyes dart around the room, searching for open doors and windows. He could make the jump off the balcony, they're only on the second- 'Wait, no. Calm down' he tells himslf. He takes a long deep breath and holds it. This is John, he's only curious. It was years ago, it's... over and done with.
John stamers and shakes his head.
"I mean... fuck, no. I just, sorry, I don't know why I as-"
"No, It's quite alright." Sherlock lets his breath out.
John goes quiet and nods as he watches the expressions dance across Sherlock's perfect marble features.
"It started at Uni. School had been easy at the begining. Class was dull, so were the students and staff. But my parents expectations were high. I'd already been signed up for every single AP class and Extracarricular activity on campus the summer before my first year. My resume had to be outstandingly flooded with achivements. Mummy wouldn't settle for anything less and my father paid for everything just to shut her up. Mycroft assured me that it wasn't going to be as tedious as it seemed. Me being the nieve younger brother, I believed him. I went through my first two years just fine. Acing every subject, my mind in it's prime. But after I turned eighteen and started my final year, I grew wary, tired and depressed. The work never ended, so my brain never had a chance to rest. I hardly slept, often forgot to eat. Those habits of course still cling to me... I confided in Mycroft who was already well into his current position. He promised me that what I was feeling was very normal and let me in on his secret to success. How he was able to make it through school and our parents unlrenting hector."
John lets out an exasperated sigh, finally understanding.
"Mycroft... was the-"
"He played a big part."
John lets his eyes fall to Sherlock's arms. Very faint track marks still lingering on the surface of his skin. He fights the urge to caress his scars and sits still to listen to rest of the dreadful story.
"One night, after a particularly long and empty day... only after I was able to wrestle my thoughts away from slitting my wrists in the dormitory bathrooms, did I call Mycroft. He gave me a name and number to an old roomate of his who was now working as a headmaster on campus. I was told that he could give me something that would clear away the monotony and help me through the day and something else that would help me sleep at night. So I went to see him right away. He was my brother's age, married with a three year old daughter. While in his office, we talked about Mycroft and my parents, his parents and his child, the university. Then he asked why I was having so much trouble with my work. I was sure that Mycroft had already explained everything, so I said nothing. He understood and quietly made his way around the room til he collected everything I needed. I was given, roughly, about three weeks worth of cocaine and an equal amount of heroin. He explained to me that I was to have one bump of cocain in the moring at breakfast, another at noon and a short line of heroin before bed."
John doesn't want to listen to the quiet words leaving Sherlock's mouth. He can't believe such a thing was allowed to happen. Mycroft of all people who granted access! He tightens his trembling hands into fists, clenching and unclenching as Sherlock continues.
"... I can remember that night like it was last night, John. When he shoved the drugs in my pocket and whispered, "Tonight it's on the house. But I suppose, in the future, we can figure out some sort of arangement..."
John looks at Sherlock who's swallowing back the disgusting memories and fighting tears.
"Stop, you don't need to tell me anym-."
Sherlock shakes his head.
"I knew what he meant, I've never been daft. I was thinking about telling Mycroft but decided aginst it. I was sure I'd have no need to go back. But I was hooked by the end of the month. Cocaine kept me alert, it helped me see things I would have normally paid no mind to. I was aware of everything around me, the people, the places and the sounds. I was heightened to a whole new level of perception. As for the heroin... it was beautiful, John... The way it can melt you from the inside out. It would stop my thoughts completely, everything would go silent and dark. Then time would basically stop and it was peaceful... being away from everything and myself... I fought hard against withdrawl the first few days after I'd run out. I got so sick I couldn't leave my dorm. When I had enough strength to make it out of bed one night, I went to go see the headmaster."
John breathes evenly and watches Sherlock sink into himself on the couch.
"I told him I just needed a little bit more, to get me to the end of the semester and I'd get him the money afterwords. But he wouldn't have it. He said my money was no good. I'd begun to cry right there in front of him, a deep fear had set into me, knowing that without a fix I'd probably not make it to see the sun rise the next day. I pleaded with him after he'd removed my coat. Made promises of money I knew I didn't have. When he held out a baggie of heroin I nearly fell apart, begging for it on my knees... like a starving child... He took a bump, then held one out for me, which I snorted eagerly from off his hand. I'd suddenly forgotten why I'd been so upset those few minutes ago."
He chokes back a sob and leans in to rest on John's chest. John doesn't touch him, which he's grateful for because he feels like he could break under the pressure.
"He ordered me to take off my jumper and shirt... I refused... and threatened to inform Mycroft and he laughed... He laughed and told me, Mycroft was the one who said I'd be good for it!"
Sherlock grabs hold of John's sweatshirt and cries into him.
"Shhh, shhhh, it's allright." John reassures, running a hand across his back.
"No it's not!" Sherlock shouts, sitting up angrily.
"My brother made me a WHORE, John! I was taken advantage of and I let it happen because I needed the drugs."
"I'm sorry, you're right. There's nothing acceptable about what's happened to you.."
Sherlock huffs and wipes his face, calm setting in.
"A few times, things got out of hand and I was rushed to the hospital."
John raises an eyebrow.
"The first time was an accident. He'd been explicitly rough and broke two of my ribs... I was nineteen and very glad for the morphine they fed me the three weeks I spent recovering."
John shakes his head, his jaw slack.
"... Jesus Christ, Sherlock..."
"The second time was no casualty. I'd already been graduated from the university for two years but kept in touch. One night, when I paid a visit, I refused to... service him... and he broke my right arm, then dislocated my left shoulder."
John wants to stand from the couch and pace. He's heard enough but he knows it's somewhat healthy for Sherlock to get it all off his chest.
"Mycroft began asking questions which I refused to answer. I couldn't forgive him and ignored any fleeting concern he dared express. Until I finally overdosed."
John's breathing hitches and he lets out a pathetic, breathy, "No..."
"I'd been home for the holiday, it was a few days after my twenty third birthday. I was at home locked inside my room with a weeks worth of black tar heroin. By this time I'd already learned how to shoot. It's the fastest way into the bloodstream and the high lasts longer. So there I was nested in bed, my concoction of paraphernillia strewn across the bed sheets. My belt doubled as a tourniquet tied around my arm as I shoved a needle full of stimulants into my veins. I didn't know how much I'd shot until I was seizing. Mycroft found me. Nearly dead, my body growing cold and blue. He phoned for an ambulance and craddled me in his arms, trying to keep me awake til the car got there. If I remember correctly, he cried the whole ride to the hospital... I died. Legally, for a few minutes before they were able to start my heart again."
They sit in silence for a long while, their eyes fixed on nothing in particular.
John slowly wraps his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and just holds him, letting his face rest against the broken man's arm.
"I'm sorry for punching you earlier." He mumbles into the dark coat.
Sherlock lets out a loud, bellowing laugh that nearly shakes the writer off. He laughs til there's tears in his eyes, baring his teeth with his nose scrunched up. John sits back and smiles, watching a real rarity.
"Oh John. I deserve much more than just a fist to the face."
"Yes, you bloody well do." John says leaning in for a soft, sweet peck on Sherlock's forehead.
They smile, hug out more fustration and breathe evenly until they fall asleep lazily against each other.