Author's Note: This fic that takes place in Xanthe's BDSM universe. I highly recommend her works, and suggest you read a few of her BDSM stories to get a feel for that universe. Her fiction can be found at www-xanthe-org (replace the dashes with dots). She is also in my favorite authors as Xanthe2 (a lot of good works even though none of her BDSM fics are here). She gave me permission to play in this particular sandbox a while ago. I hope you enjoy it!

Many thanks to my corrupter and best friend, Keara, for the title.

VERY basic summary of the BDSM universe: This is a universe where most people are either a "top" or a "submissive (sub)". There are few people who could be both called "switches". Fewer, still, are people who are neither called "non-dynamic". In this universe, it doesn't matter which gender you're with, although there are those who only prefer one gender, and those people are "monosexuals". If you get serious with someone, you might collar them and start sharing a plate. When you decide to marry, the top will get a special belt which will hold some fun implements. So instead of "tying the knot", you're "bucking the belt". In rare instances, two people are so compatible that they will form what is called a "life bond". This can be beneficial in that if one person is injured, the bond will help in the healing. It can also be fatal as one bond mate can not live without the other. As it is a BDSM universe, there are BDSM practices in effect. This universe is only a fantasy and should not be taken as a guide book on how to be in a BDSM relationship. Again, if you want more information on this universe, check Xanthe's website. There's a link at the top of the main page that links specifically to a longer explanation of the BDSM universe.

Only one more thing: Timeline? WHAT Timeline?

Entwined

Part One

The nightmares always started the same. He was laughing with the men and women of his unit and flirting with subs that were the same rank as him. He had played a few times with one of them, and even entertained the idea of having a relationship with him when they returned from Afghanistan. That all changed when the attack came.

That's when he remembered the looks of pain and fear on tops and subs alike. He remembered the helplessness as a bullet caused red hot flames to burn in his own body and he was rendered incapable of giving aid. He could hear the bombs coming and shot awake.

"HIT THE DECK!"

That's when he looked around and realized he was not in Afghanistan. He was in the recovery unit flat he had been given by the government. The nightmare was probably particularly vivid because of the thunderstorm that was going on outside. He let out a soft sob and fell back on the mattress. So many good people had died because he'd been too much of a wimp to suck up a little pain and help them. He supposed he should have been grateful to Bill Murray for saving his life, but all he felt was a deep aching emptiness.

Survivor's Guilt, his psychiatrist had said, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. His answer to that was "bollocks!" It was grief, pure and simple. Grief and frustration at his inability to do some good in the world. Because of his injury, he could no longer serve his Queen and Country in the army. Because of the symptoms that were a side effect, like the way his hands shook, he'd be lucky if he could get a job as a part-time janitor in a hospital. Forget about actually practicing medicine again. After a few minutes, he gave up on sleep and made himself some coffee then went to his desk to try and write in the blog he was supposed to keep. He pulled out his laptop and regarded his gun as he did every time he opened his desk drawer. Many times, he had contemplated using that gun on himself. His sister, however, had begged him to not give up and leave her alone. They didn't get along, but he had promised, and he still had his honor.

He looked at the blank page and typed two sarcastic sentences before logging off of the blog and looking through the various news websites. It was horrible. People just killing themselves for no apparent reason. People who were happy or successful. It was such a tragic waste of human life. With a sigh, he shut down his laptop and decided to get ready for the day.

"I read your blog this morning, John." His psychiatrist, a fairly attractive dark-skinned sub wearing a burgundy collar with intricate celtic knotwork, made a few notes in her notebook. "Sarcasm does not become you."

John shrugged. "You wanted me to write in my blog, so that's what I did." He tilted his head. "You just wrote 'still has trust issues.'"

She put her pen down and sighed. "And you read my writing upside down, so you can understand why I would write that." She shook her head. "You're a soldier. More to the point, you're a top that has been put through a terrible ordeal. It's going to take you time to get used to civilian life. Writing down what happens to you will help a great deal more than a sarcastic comment directed at me."

John shook his head. "Nothing ever happens to me."

Ella gave him a look that had a small measure of pity in it. He hated it when he got looks like that. "Nothing ever will happen to you, John, if you stay cooped up like some hermit. Get out and try to get in touch with some of your old mates. Go to a bar and pick up a sub to play with."

John glared at her. "I do not do casual scenes. I may have a healthy libido, but I'm not so desperate for a shag that I'll pick up some random sub. I like the feel of skin-on-skin. If I take a sub to my bed, it's going to be because I plan on having a lasting relationship." He turned to look out the window.

"I never said you had to sleep with them. Being with a sub isn't always about sex, as you well know. It's about building trust with someone."

John scoffed and turned back to look at her. "I doubt I'll be able to build trust with someone who spends their nights at bars waiting for the right top to come along. I'd have more trust for the subs walking the streets. At least you know what they want right away. As long as you pay the right price, you can call the shots."

There was that pitying look again and Ella shook her head as a small chime sounded. "Just think about it." She stood and smoother her skirt out. "I'll see you next week, John."

He left the office with a scowl on his face. He didn't need to hear the same thing every week. This was the third time she had told him to basically go out and score with some sub. As if that would solve all of his problems. Wasn't it enough, for now, to just get out of his flat? Shouldn't people be allowed time to grieve? He'd been tortured to the brink of death and madness. No random sub he picked up in a bar was going to help him. They'd probably pity him and think they could chase away all of his demons. He didn't want that. He could live with the demons. They were a part of him now. He just wanted someone who would accept him, demons and all.

"Ugh! How can the so-called brightest get it so wrong?" Sherlock grumbled as he watched the news and texted each and every reporter in the room as well as Lestrade and Sgt. Donovan. The woman really rubbed him the wrong way. They did not have their best minds on the job. Far from it. After another round of general texting, he sent one just to Lestrade and then went back to what he was doing before the stupidity that was the brightest of Scotland Yard interrupted him.

"So, Sherlock, you find a place to live yet?"

Sherlock glanced up at the portly man who entered. He turned his attention back to the computer. "No. Something is bound to turn up. Hopefully something cheap. Until then, I'll just crash in the morgue. Molly doesn't mind." He was, of course, referring to the mousy sub that worked in the morgue. Poor girl was hoping that he would collar her. It wasn't going to happen if only because she didn't stimulate his mind in any way. He never led her on, but she continually flirted with him. Although, if things turned out right, he would have a place to stay by the end of the week. A woman he'd helped a while back owed him a favor. As much as he hated the idea of calling in that favor, he dreaded having to go live with his pompous, overbearing brother even more.

The man, an instructor by the name of Mike Stamford, made a sound of annoyance. "She may not, but the students do. It's rather disconcerting to go in to do an autopsy and one of the so-called corpses moves." He puttered around the room a moment. "You could get a flat-share."

Sherlock snorted. "Nice. However, I believe that I'm difficult to live with. Very few people can stand to be near me for longer than three minutes."

Mike hummed in agreement. "Some can't even stand you for that long." He smiled in a congenial way. "Still ... as you said, something is bound to turn up."

Sherlock ignored Mike for the rest of the time he was there. He glanced up again when Mike left, saying something about lunch. He narrowed his eyes as something about his current case occurred to him and he grabbed his riding crop before heading back to the morgue.

Molly was there, as usual, being more than helpful. It was almost sickening the way she fawned over him. So when she asked him if he'd like to have a coffee, he deliberately made out that he misunderstood before returning to the lab. Idiots. He was surrounded by idiots. He tried to text his findings to his current client, only to fight the urge to growl when he had no signal. The phone he had was supposed to be top of the line.

Mike returned. Someone was following him.

"Bit different from my day."

Sherlock spared the injured man a quick glance and mentally rolled his eyes. "Mike, could I borrow your phone? I can't get a signal on mine."

"There's a perfectly good landline right over there."

Sherlock grimaced. He hated talking to people. Stupidity he could read, but hearing it grated on his nerves. "I prefer to text." Which was something Mike knew. He absently noticed that the supposedly badly injured man wasn't taking advantage of the surprisingly comfortable seating. Psychosomatic limp, then.

The overweight man patted his clothes and shrugged. "Must have left it in my other jacket."

Sherlock was about to steel himself to actually make the call when the man with Mike spoke up. "Well ... you can use mine."

Sherlock blinked in surprise. The man was soft-spoken, but obviously had a strength that belied his mildness. Plus he was generous enough to make an offer when nothing was asked of him. "Thank you." He walked over to the man.

Mike was silent a split second before speaking. "This is an old friend of mine. John Watson."

Sherlock added that to his mental database as he accepted the phone. "So ... Afghanistan or Iraq?" He turned his attention to the phone as he started texting.

There was genuine confusion as John spoke. "I ... uh ... sorry?"

Perhaps he should care that he was about to make a bad first impression on this man that Mike was so obviously shoving in his direction, but Sherlock knew better than to put up a false front. He had tried that once. It's why Molly practically fell over herself trying to please him. Never again. He looked at John. "Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John blinked a couple of times. "Uhm ... Af-Afghanistan. How did you ...?"

He cut John off as Molly entered. "Ah, Molly, coffee! Thank you." He handed the mobile back to John and noticed Molly had taken the lipstick off. "What happened to the lipstick?"

Molly looked confused a second before she replied. "Oh. It wasn't working for me."

Actually, it had been a rather attractive shade on her. "Really? I thought it was a big improvement." He took the coffee. "Your mouth is too small now." He sipped the coffee and grimaced as she left. He hated the university coffee. It always tasted burnt. He didn't even look at John as he started speaking. "How do you feel about the violin?"

John was quiet a moment, and then he politely spoke. "I'm sorry. What?" His tone said something else, but Sherlock appreciated that he didn't voice what his tone implied.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't speak for days on end, and I sleep in the nude. Would that bother you?" He cut to the chase. "Potential flat-mates should know the worst about each other."

John blinked. "Who said anything about flat-mates?" He spoke to Mike, then. "Oh! Did you call ahead while I was in the wash room and tell him about me?"

Mike's smile was obvious. "Not a word."

John frowned. "So, who ..."

"I did, earlier. I mentioned that people must find it difficult to put up with me and here Mike is with an old school friend just home from Afghanistan. Obvious, really."

Annoyance was mixing with curiosity, and that proved promising. "How did you know about Afghanistan?"

He'd save the explanation for later. "I'm thinking of a nice little place in London. Together we might be able to afford it. Meet me there tomorrow evening at 7:00. Now I've got to dash. I left my riding crop in the morgue. If I leave it there, it might give Molly ideas."

"Is that it?"

Sherlock turned back to John. "Is that what?"

John sighed. "We only just met. We don't know a thing about each other. Hell, I don't even know your name or where it is you want to meet, and you're talking about sharing a flat with me?"

Sherlock was pleasantly surprised. From the information he'd gathered, he'd expected John to leap at the chance to get out of his current situation. Showed he was cautious as well as kind-hearted. He decided to pull out all the stops. Only time would tell if this was going to put the final nail into the coffin he was building for this relationship. "I know you're an army doctor that's been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him. Possibly because he's an alcoholic, but more likely because he's just left his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic. Quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to start with, don't you think?" He headed for the door and turned back to look at the astonished expression on the man's face. "The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221-B Baker Street. With that, he winked and bid a good afternoon to Mike. As he headed for the morgue, he found himself wondering why he had winked at the man. More likely than not, he was never going to see John Watson again.

Endnote: It has come to my attention that, in the series, John probably has what is called a bedsit. A bedsit is pretty much one-room low-income housing facility where the tenants have to share restroom facilities. Keara pointed out the fact that John does not seem to have a bathroom. I thought it was just off-camera, but I will concede being incorrect.