"THE ANSWER TO YOUR FEARS"
Hello everyone! This is my first fanfic (multi chapter fanfic, YAY!), and I'm trying my best. I've never done this (and with this I mean writing fanfiction and writing a little bit smut) but I wanted to put in words all the ideas I had in my mind about this wonderful series (There will be more smut scenes along the story, I swear.)I promise I will get better in this through the time. Fanfic inspired in a song that will appear soon in this story. Hope you like it! Review and tell me all the things you like or disliked! I'll be glad of hearing them. If you've got any question or suggestion, just tell me.
I don't own Sherlock, I wish I could, but it's the masterpiece of Godtiss and Moffat (of course, the original one belongs to Conan Doyle).
Chapter 1
A silent and confident nod. One look, a gun pointing at the only exit.
"Probably my answer has crossed yours"
Then silence. And waiting. Waiting for the unknown. For the unexpected. Trying not to think of all the things that could possibly happen when the trigger is pulled. Trying not to think of all the things they could lose.
.oOoOo.
Neither of them speak in the taxi taking them home. Words seem inappropriate, even absurd when they have been so near to death. The Semtex didn't explode. Moriarty wasn't going to put himself close to such a danger. He was clever, brilliant even. A brilliant psychopath. Mycroft's men hadn't been fast enough; they were outplayed and Moriarty had escaped.
The living room has a warm light, making the flat cosy and welcoming. Tonight it is shrouded in silence.
Sherlock lies on the couch, his eyes closed and his fingers interlaced below his chin, thinking rapidly, replaying the evening's events. John sits upright in his chair, his hands clasped tightly on the armrests, his eyes open but looking blankly at the wall, tired, and… is that confusion?
Sherlock takes another glance and sits up suddenly to look directly at John.
"You all right?"
No answer.
"John, are you listening?"
The eyes of the ex-soldier widen a little, and John turns to fix his gaze in Sherlock, with a neutral face.
"Yeah. Fine, everything's fine" His voice is lower than normal, hoarse, without life.
"I'm not sure about that" says Sherlock softly. "You seem tired." Trying to show that he isn't worried about the strange behaviour of his flatmate, the detective adds, "You… you should go and have a warm bath and get some sleep. It's been a long night."
"Yes, yes, you're right, John replies distantly. "I'm just… I'm going to do just that" And he gets up slowly. The bathroom door closes and the silence falls again.
Sherlock is left looking at John's empty chair. This isn't normal. He can always tell what John thinks, what he is worried about, why is he happy, or sad, or angry. His face tells him, like an open book. But not this time. Maybe it's just tiredness the detective thinks to himself. Maybe he's in shock. He needs a good rest. Tomorrow he will be the same John he was a few hours before all this happened.
Sherlock feels the frustration of not knowing. He is a consulting detective, he has an answer for everything. He has to have the answer to catch Moriarty and help John. He has to do everything to achieve that last thing, at least. He needs to discover what is in Doctor John Watson's mind.
.oOoOo.
The white lights of the bathroom invade the small room and make him see himself reflected in the mirror. His face is emotionless, his eyes empty, surrounded by deep purple circles. His mind feels foggy and sluggish. Like an automaton, he strips off his clothing and turns the taps. He will have a bath, just as Sherlock suggested.
Sherlock… with that word, he sees himself again in the mirror, observing the spots where the Semtex has been situated, pressing hard into tender flesh. Shakily, his fingers try to trace over the faint marks on his chest and shoulders, the bruising already forming from the too tight straps. But his hands drop away. He doesn't want to remember, he doesn't want to remember the mix of feelings he had the moment he saw Sherlock enter the swimming pool. Or when he saw the red points in his flatmate's chest.
The tub is full now and the doctor gets in, sighing, and letting the hot water work in his body, relaxing, trying to comfort him, trying to make his bad thoughts disappear. His head leans back against the tub edge, watching the ceiling, attempting to banish the feeling of emptiness and fear he has because… because of what? Only he knows. That's the problem. Only he knows.
With eyes still open, his hand moves slowly down his chest, passing across his belly and touching lightly his cock. His hand is warm and firm as he starts teasing his growing length while his other hand strokes across his chest, carefully avoiding the Semtex bruising. His fingertips play with his left nipple, making it flush and harden. His breath becomes irregular and his manhood bigger now. His eyes are still on the ceiling, with the same expression, lost in his thoughts. His erect cock is tight in his hand, and he starts to move, using his thumb on the head of his erection, making him moan low. The other hand continues to glide across his chest, teasing his well-built abdominals, making waves of pleasure go through his body. The grip and velocity of his other hand has increased, his breathing is completely irregular now. His thoughts are still invading his mind. Moriarty. Bomb. Gun. Danger. Fear. Sherlock. Sherlock…
"S-Sherlock!" he moans softly when he comes, his heart beating wildly. His eyes more open than before, still looking up.
A sigh. His hands free now. He feels the same. The brief rush of pleasure hasn't done anything, hasn't made his mind switch off.
So he continues watching the ceiling for a while. Minutes, maybe hours. Then, with no expression in his face, gets up and abandons the tub. His steps are silent, the sound of his bedroom door closing behind him is inaudible. The only noise he can hear is in his mind.