Title: Contrary to Popular Belief, Sherlock Holmes Cannot Read Minds
Author: heeroluva
Pairing: John/Sherlock, Mycroft
Contains: BDSM universe, talk of past rape/torture, minor character deaths, slight bondage, h/c
Disclaimer: I don't own them. I just like to play with them.
Summary: An already changing relationship is pushed along by an unfortunate event.
Notes: First Sherlock fic. Another WIP out of the folder. All mistakes are mine. Feel free to let me know if you see any. As always feedback is appreciated.
John studied Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, having long since given up on reading the book in front of him. He just couldn't concentrate on it anymore. Even after the months that they'd spent as flat mates, workings cases together, and forming what John was hesitant to call a friendship but lacked any other proper words for, John didn't feel he was much closer to understanding Sherlock than he had when they first met. The things that Sherlock knew and didn't know continued to astonish him.
Then there was the fact that Sherlock was a self proclaimed switch, yet John had never seen him go out with anyone. There was the off chance that he went out on the nights that John had dates, if not for the fact that every time he returned, Sherlock didn't appear to have moved from whatever experiment or project he was currently obsessing over.
John wasn't faring much better himself. He'd been on a number of dates, and while there had been plenty of chemistry he just couldn't bring himself to take it to the next level. He knew he should have stayed a full season at the Bromley School of Sensual Arts like his therapist had recommended, however, he had been suffocating after just three weeks and hadn't seen it getting better anytime soon. Even now, months later, he didn't trust himself, didn't trust what he felt or what he was capable of.
John didn't know if he would ever be what he once was. However, while it was odd to say, he held that since he'd met and begun to work with Sherlock, John felt more alive than he had in a long time. It was nothing new to him to enjoy the thrill and rush of adrenaline that danger brought with it, but it was different now, being both meaningful and guideless.
John's thoughts turned more and more to Sherlock these days, and while he knew it was stupid, he was powerless to stop it. If Sherlock hadn't said otherwise, John would have guessed that Sherlock was non-dynamic or even asexual. John had searched the apartment and found nothing that would give any clues to the nature of Sherlock's dynamic. Mycroft had offered him Sherlock's file on their first meeting, and while he'd been tempted, so very tempted, John had turned it down.
John jumped and dropped his book when Sherlock spoke up.
"Since you obviously won't shut up until you ask whatever is on your mind, please do so, so I can get back to work."
John scowled at Sherlock's back as he bent down to retrieve his fallen book. This wasn't a topic he had dared venture before because he knew that it would change things between them somehow. But he couldn't ignore it anymore. "What are the specifics of your dynamic?"
Sherlock's back straightened, and he quickly swiveled his chair around to face John, a look of disbelief on his face. "Thatis what has been on your mind? You really have nothing better to do than ponder my sexuality?"
"Fine. You know what. Ignore me, pretend I didn't ask." John flipped through his book intent on finding where he left off. He should have known that Sherlock wouldn't be dissuaded so easily.
"My dear John Watson. I could never ignore you."
John couldn't help but roll his eyes at Sherlock's antics.
"You already know part of it, and I won't be bothered to repeat it. In terms of specifics, which I'm sure are what you're interested in, I prefer bondage and sensory deprivation. I have a small sadistic streak but do not enjoy pain inflicted on me. Does that satisfy your curiosity or would you rather I was more specific?"
"No, no. That is enough, thank you." But it wasn't, not even close. John had never imagined that Sherlock's interests would match his so well, having pictured his friend as a sadomasochist.
"And what of your own dynamic, Doctor? Turnabout is fair play after all. No wait. Let me guess. You're hard to please and desire total submission. You enjoy—"
Suddenly uncomfortable, John cleared his throat as he interrupted Sherlock. "No, you're wrong. I have no desire for a pet. I expect trust and respect to go both ways. You already know that I'm a dominant. I also enjoy bondage and sensory deprivation. I have little interest in pain play and even with punishment I prefer to avoid it."
Sherlock suddenly had that look in his eyes like he got while he was trying to figure out the latest puzzle, and John knew he was in for trouble with it directed towards him. Sherlock suddenly rose from his seat, his full height impressive, but John was long used to being shorter than others. It had its advantages.
"Are you sure you aren't repressing some submissive urges? After all, you take my orders so well."
John rose to his feet, heedless of the book that slid to the floor, disbelief and anger twisting his features, not believing that Sherlock of all people would have the audacity to say such a thing. "Excuse me? You have no right!" John seethed, his voice cold with fury.
For a split second Sherlock hesitated and John was angry enough that he almost missed it. But he didn't, and he realized in that instant that Sherlock didn't mean it, that he was fishing, playing his usual game, but that didn't mean that it was okay and that it didn't hurt.
"So is that the problem, John? Why you haven't found yourself a submissive? You want to be one yourself."
"That is enough, Sherlock! You don't know anything. Do you really want to know? Do you?" John demanded. When Sherlock didn't answer, just stared at him with a slightly taken aback look on his face, John forced on. "I wasn't just injured in action. I was a prisoner of war. Me and two others from my squad. Jacob died quick at least. His wounds were too great to last the extra torture they subjected us to. That left me and Bethany, a spunky little submissive who never knew when to quit, who never broke… not even when they… not until I…."
John trailed off, his voice cracking, not noticing as Sherlock moved closer, locked in his own private hell. "I raped her. On their command I raped her. I could blame the drugs they had us doped up on, but I know I would have done the same even without. But they said they'd kill her if I didn't." John suddenly focused on Sherlock who was right in front of him, fisting his hands in the lapels of Sherlock's coat. "You understand, don't you? I thought, I hoped that it would buy us time. But the betrayal on her face, I was almost relieved when they killed her after, despite what I'd done. I didn't fight them when they… I didn't care. I thought I was dead after the last time. Didn't expect to wake up at all, let alone in a hospital. That is what I dream of at night, Sherlock. Do you feel better now for knowing? Does it make you safe knowing what I am capable of?"
Sherlock didn't answer, his face impassive as ever inches away from John's own, but his blue-green eyes were wild and John could practically see the pieces falling into place. John suddenly had had enough, not wanting to take part in whatever game Sherlock was playing. Shoving Sherlock away, he spun and grabbed his coat, not bothering to turn as he said, "You know what. I'm going out. Don't wait up." The slam of the door behind him should have been triumphant.
It wasn't. Instead it felt hollow and drove home the point how wronghe was now, how much of a coward he had become, and how lost he was.
Entering the flat at the wee hours of the morning, John wasn't at all surprised to find the lights still on, but the presence of a grim-faced Mycroft pacing in the sitting room and no Sherlock to be seen but the sound of breaking glass from his room was.
"What's happened?" John asked, wasting no time on pleasantries. It was startling to see the normally posh and controlled man look so openly worn.
With a weary sigh, Mycroft ran his hand through his mused hair, a testament to how many times it had been done. "There was a crash. Mummy…. she didn't make it."
John's heart twisted in sorrrow for the two brothers, for the loss of someone that they both clearly loved. He'd never had a chance to meet the woman that had raised two remarkably difficult individuals, and it appeared it was now too late.
A particularly loud crash woke up the protective instincts that John had thought long gone. "Has he been— the entire time?"
Mycroft nodded solemnly, "Yes. I did not feel it was wise to leave him alone, but now that you are here, I shall take my leave." Pulling something out of his pocket, he shoved it into John's hand, wrapping his fingers tightly closed around it. "Sherlock is a bit old fashioned and won't submit without a collar. It's been the source of a lot of trouble. Do take care of him for me."
Mycroft was gone before John could voice his questions, and he was left staring down at the strip of leather. Opening his hand, John examined it. It was simple yet solid and exquisitely crafted, exactly what he would have considered if he'd every considered collaring a submissive. At one point it would have shocked him that his tastes were so easy to deduce, but dealing with the Holmes brothers had worn away that expectation of privacy.
John's heart sped up as his fingers tightened around the leather again. Of course, the other man would know that this is what he'd wanted, what he was denying. Another crash had John stuffing the collar in his pocket and running towards Sherlock's room. "Let me in, Sherlock," John ordered.
Long moments of silence fell heavy between them before Sherlock broke it. "The door isn't locked."
John hesitantly tried the knob, expecting to enter a warzone of sorts. Surprisingly most of the damage was confined to one corner where an impressive pile of broken glass was building. Sherlock was pressed up against his headboard, long legs drawn up and arms wrapped around him, making him look impossibly young and fragile, neither words he'd ever associated with the younger man.
Entering the room, John took a seat next to Sherlock on the bed, his back against the headboard, legs stretched out, and his shoulder pressed against Sherlock's. Sherlock was tense and drawn beside him, but slowly over long minutes began to sag against John's side. When Sherlock finally relaxed completely, John reached into his pocket and hesitantly drew out the collar. It was bad timing yes, but John knew Sherlock would understand.
Taking Sherlock's hand in his own, he dropped the collar into it. It was Sherlock's choice, and John would respect whatever he decided.
The dry tone of Sherlock's voice was loud in the previous silence of the room. "Mycroft's meddling where he has no right to."
"Yes or no, Sherlock."
In ways of an answer, Sherlock dropped the collar back into John's hand. "Put it on me." He paused for a moment before adding, "Please."
With trembling hands John brought the collar up to Sherlock's neck, gently wrapping it around the vulnerable length, noting the shiver that passed through Sherlock as John finally buckled it. Testing it for fit, he ran a finger beneath it to ensure it wasn't too tight or too lose. Dropping his hand, John was startled by the well of protectiveness and possession that welled up inside him at the sight of it. "We'll write the contract later."
"I have no need for contracts," Sherlock replied.
John prayed for strength, suddenly realizing what Mycroft had meant by 'trouble'. "Well I do. I'll contact a contract lawyer in the morning."
Sherlock looked ready to protest, but seeing the look on John's face, he visibly wilted. Reaching up, he fingered the collar, then like a dam breaking, Sherlock crumbled. "Mummy," he whimpered.
John fought to stretch him out, pushing up against his back, wrapping his legs around Sherlock's and clenching their fists together before crossing their arms across Sherlock's chest. Once John had him well and truly secured, Sherlock went totally lax in his hold, silent and still expect for the occasional quiver. There were no tears.
John wasn't sure when he fell asleep but the next time he opened his eyes the room was bright with morning sun and there was an annoying ringing in his ears. All for ignoring it, he nuzzled against the neck in front of him. That brought him wide and he realized Sherlock was still in his arms and that his phone was ringing. With a curse he struggled to dig it out of his pocket.
"Hello! Hello?" John asked, unsure if he picked it up in time.
"I hope I didn't wake you." Mycroft's voice greeted him. "How is my brother?"
John looked down at the still sleeping Sherlock who was clutching at John's other hand like a lifeline. "He's still sleeping."
"Good. Good. I trust that everything went well then."
"Yes, but—"
"The funeral will take place at the family plot in Highgate Cemetery at one o'clock. Please see that Sherlock isn't late," Mycroft said before hanging up.
John scowled down at the phone before setting it aside, and turning his attention fully towards Sherlock. It was then that it hit him; he'd collared someone. He'd collared Sherlock of all people. Sherlock who never backed down, Sherlock who never did as he was told, and was surely going to drive John to drink. And to think that Sherlock didn't want a contract. Such circumstances weren't totally unheard of, but they were growing more and more uncommon as to certain Doms the lack of one was typically seen as a free pass to do whatever they wanted to the submissive.
It led to very uneven power exchanges. At its worst, it could be little more than slavery, and there had been a number of high profile cases on the new as of late. A number of submissives had been forced into such situations and ultimately died from the result of it. The backlash was astounding, and the thought of it left a bad taste in his mouth.
John fought down the frustration, the fear, the terror, the memories that threatened to overwhelm him. He didn't know if he could be what Sherlock needed, but this was as close to whole as he'd felt in a long time, and he was done with running.
A small sound brought his attention fully back to Sherlock, who was now awake and staring at him uncertainly. It was then that John realized he'd been fingering the leather of the collar, and realized what Sherlock surely thought. "I don't regret it. I will never take it from you. It's your choice, and I'm not giving you up unless you cut it off."
A small smile crossed Sherlock's face, one of the few truly real ones John had seen on him. It was a shock when he leaned up and brushed his lips across John's almost shyly before quickly pulling back nervously. John surged forward, capturing Sherlock's mouth in a deep kiss, rolling them so that he was on top of Sherlock, capturing his wrists and pushing them above his head, smiling against Sherlock's lips as he felt Sherlock harden suddenly beneath him.
But no, this wasn't the point, and John slowed it down, kept it deep and steady, ignoring Sherlock's wiggles and the low whines of protest that escaped his throat. "Shh, shhhh, calm down. It's too soon. Not without the contract," John said, pulling back slightly.
"Damn the contract!" Sherlock hissed, trying to surge upward for another kiss. "We both want this, have been dancing around it from the beginning, which was evident from your lack of success with other prospects and your sudden interest in me when we first met without truly knowing why."
John pressed him down, not allowed it, and was suddenly relieved to see the normal Sherlock back, not wanting the quiet thing had replaced him last night. "That does not mean that we're going to rush into this. Sherlock, I know you've been hurt." Sherlock tensed under him. "I don't want to hurt you. I still don't trust myself, and want to take this slow."
Sherlock had that look on his face, the one that said he was analyzing the data and unsure about the answer he had come up with. "How slow? Shall we write up a schedule?"
John couldn't help the explosive laughter that shook him. "No, no, nothing so formal. I want to learn you, learn what you like, not just read it from a piece of paper."
Sherlock was silent for a moment, considering. "Okay."
"Okay?" John repeated, having expected an argument or more questions at the least.
"Yes, okay," Sherlock repeated in annoyance, and then suddenly serious added, "When's the funeral?"
Of course Sherlock had been awake and knew it was his brother when the phone rang. "Tomorrow, one o'clock at the family plot. Would you like me to come with you?"
Sherlock gave him the are-you-really-that-stupid look. "Of course you're accompanying me."
"Of course," John replied easily, letting go of Sherlock's wrists and moving to get up.
Sherlock made a sound of protest, looking so lost and unsure. "No, stay. Please, I need…"
John saw it, knew what he needed suddenly, capturing Sherlock's wrists again, and pushing them down to his sides, twining their fingers together as he settled his weight on top of Sherlock's long frame. John offered what comfort he could.
Sherlock shivered and sighed as he stared up at John. "Thank you."
John leaned forward and lightly swept his lips over Sherlock. "Never thank me for what you need. Such formality isn't required here."
Sherlock nodded his agreement, but his raised brow showed his clear disbelief. It would take time, John knew, for both of them to truly trust, but this was a start.
"One rule for now," John said. "No more fishing expeditions with me. If you want to know something about me ask. Agreed?"
"Yes, that is agreeable," Sherlock said, and then added with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, "So when can we have sex?
John fought to keep from rolling his eyes, but knew that Sherlock still saw it. "Sherlock," John growled in warning, not rising to the bait. Sherlock was still Sherlock and this was the surely to be the beginning of a grand adventure. John only wished that it hadn't taken such a tragedy to set the wheels in motion.