Title: I Love the Sound of Breaking Glass
Summary: Sherlock is having one of his drug-addled isolation bouts again, and this time he's holding a loaded pistol to his head. Watson tries to talk him out of it and gets more than he bargained for. Angry/violent sex and slut!Sherlock.Rating: NC-17 for some iffy consent and slashy sex. Dubious consent, gun play, choking, dirty talk, blowjobs and sex.Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Disclaimer: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle created these characters with no intention of them being paired sexually. Welp, sorry. Also this fic is based heavily off of the 2009 film with portrayals by Jude Law and RDJ. I don't own anything, just writing dirty stories on the internet. Enjoy.
The view over Baker Street was quite catching.
Or, at least, would have been. If it weren't for the smog, and the dirt, and the cocaine powder drifting about in the detective's fuzzy little head. He had not left his room for six days—took tea for dinner, ingested all other nutrients via the convenience of his nose—and the charm of London fell weakly upon him like so many bits of ash. Instead, he lay his chin upon the sill, eyes widely involved in the scene below, absorbing the most fascinating details from the crowd…
Yes, Sherlock was locked away again, musing down upon the repressed Victorian masses with all the relish of a hungover voyeur: the overtight petticoats, the starched gray dress, men's canes carefully tapping dirt away from the heel of a polished shoe. And of course, every cane he saw reminded him of the one he recalled being clutched by a certain veteran doctor, a certain moustachioed blue-eyed devil who tickled the back of his mind, due to be swinging through that door any moment now, with that frequently-worn look of concern upon his features, oh Watson, oh innocent little Watson.
It was the drugs, drugs and the sheer black boredom of days of isolation that curled a wicked little knot in Holmes' belly, when that door swung open and Watson's sigh of exasperation changed the light in the room.
He did not turn. Holmes' finger played against the trigger of a pistol, which he held in a melodramatic angle to his temple, as his tired eyes perused the crowd below.
"Holmes," Watson's voice cracked. "What the bloody hell are you doing?"
"Nothing special," Sherlock replied with a vacant tilt of the head. "People do it all the time, Doctor Watson. Surely it should be nothing you haven't seen before."
Footsteps came up behind the detective. Watson was wearing his professional dress: Sherlock knew this because he could hear the finished tick of the heel upon the floorboards, smell the subtle parfume of a new tie; the clean smell of Watson, the sound of his clothes hitting the air.
The trigger was oiled and the metal cool, pucker-kissed against his brain. "I'm growing rather bored of this living thing." Holmes said matter-of-factly.
"You're acting a lunatic," Watson huffed, wrung hands that were encased in leather gloves. "What you need is a case."
"Case, case, case, all you can talk about is cases." Sherlock's wild head of hair bobbed, and he finally did turn, a graceful sort of switch from his perch on the windowsill, his body and head turning fully toward the doctor with large brown eyes looking on without hesitation. He was correct: the Doctor was indeed dressed in his professional best, looking sufficiently overdressed in that dusty and cluttered room, with scarf slung over shoulder, with pale, sad blue eyes looking back at him.
"Sherlock, please don't be stupid." The doctor's jaw set. He was beginning to get worried now, as Watson had a tendency to do, and his fingers shook just slightly in their gloves.
"Can you provide me with a reason otherwise?" Sherlock lifted his brows, adjusted the place that the muzzle held against his head.
"You're not done living, for one," Watson replied roughly. "That and if you go, who will pay your half of the rent?"
"Bloody clever one aren't you." Sherlock smirked.
"So, put the gun down before you blow your ear off."
