COME HOME. - JW
ON A CASE. - SH
Sherlock had just tucked the phone away in his coat when it moaned again, the low feminine gasp getting a raised eyebrow from Lestrade. He pulled it out and checked the screen.
COME HOME. NOW. - JW
"Persistent, isn't he, your John?" Lestrade chuckled, reading over his shoulder.
"It would seem so," Sherlock murmured, a small smile breaking the line of his lips at the DI's use of the phrase "your John".
"Go on, then," Lestrade urged. "I have a feeling this will still be here when he's done with you."
Another moan.
COME. THE. FUCK. HOME. - JW
Sherlock wrapped his scarf tighter and fixed Lestrade with a stony glare. "Fine. Don't let Anderson touch anything. It would take me days to sort out the idiocy."
ON MY WAY. - SH
"I'll text you any new details," Lestrade added as Sherlock turned to the curb to hail a cab.
He waved a dismissive hand toward the detective and sped off to Baker Street. Inside the cab, Sherlock turned the phone over in his hands, his thumb idly stroking the screen of the BlackBerry as thoughts of what waited for him at home crossed his mind. It wasn't like John to call him away from a case for, what was it he called it? Another quirk of the lips. A booty call? Sherlock sighed and sat back, thumb still moving softly across the phone, deliberately, as though it were part of John. John's hands, so strong, so warm, so skilled in acts infinitely more wondrous than practicing medicine.
God, he dreamed of John's hands, those marvelous fingers, able to coax his body to life in a single touch, eliciting sounds from him which he never thought humanly possible. Desperate, needy sounds. The slow drag of John's thumb across his lips. The tender trace of those fingers on his brow, his cheeks. John's hands, which knew every dip, every hollow, every secret place on his body, and how to exploit them to Sherlock's ultimate undoing. Hands which clutched and grabbed, fingers that curled into his flesh until he thought he would break. Strength and passion flowed from John's practiced fingers like the notes on his violin, drawn out in sweet agony, and John knew how to play him perfectly.
The uncomfortable bulge in his trousers brought him back to reality with a jolt and he smiled again, wondering what had his blogger in such a state of need. Might be time to get rid of the porn on the laptop. He exited the cab with a flourish and turned the handle to 221B. Might be.
Sherlock bounded up the seventeen steps, divesting himself of scarf and coat as he went. "John, I'm home!"
He crossed the threshold of the flat and had the top two buttons of his shirt undone when he spotted his lover on the sofa. Sherlock stopped cold. "You're angry."
"Excellent observation."
Sherlock frowned and dropped his hands to his side, deflated at the hard line of John's clenched jaw. Surely, he wasn't angry with him? Instantly, Sherlock's brain began sifting through the last few days, trying to lock onto any potential issue between them.
"Is this still about the eyeballs in the olive jar? Because I told you, there was no time to worry about labels or things. A man's life was-"
"No."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "The fire in the sitting room? Because that really was an accident-"
"No."
"Using the jumper Harry gave you for Christmas to put out said fire? Because you said you hated-"
"No, Sherlock." John's voice was becoming more agitated.
The consulting detective shook his dark locks and sighed. "Well, I'm all out of answers, then, because I can't think of anything else..."
Sherlock's voice trailed off as John rose from the sofa and began a quiet stalk toward him. John's eyes bore holes through his as he moved and suddenly Sherlock was very unsure of whether John was planning on kissing him or punching him. He had seen this John face on both such occasions, and he steeled himself for the latter, as there was very little else about John that read 'turned on' at the moment. The ex-army doctor stopped a breath from Sherlock and peered up with a penetrating stare. Sherlock swallowed hard. Even though John was shorter than he, the look in his eyes coupled with the confidence in his stance, conveyed, no, demanded obedience.
John lifted his chin and Sherlock found himself lowering his head automatically to meet John's lips at his ear.
"Deduce."
Sherlock's eyes widened at the command delivered in a voice like velvet over steel and John moved back to sit on the sofa, perching his elbows on his knees, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. The reversal of positions was not lost on the consulting detective, having sat in that similar fashion thousands of times. He didn't remember staring at anybody quite so evilly, though. Maybe Anderson. Donovan on occasion, but never John. He also tucked away that this was the first time his lover had ever looked at him like this as well.
The cold stare, complete with daggers, was concentrated solely on him, and from the rage bubbling underneath the doctor's calm demeanor, Sherlock know John meant it. So, how to appease the riled beast?
"Are you quite certain this is not about the eyeballs, John? Because-"
"Cold, Sherlock," John interrupted. His eyes narrowed. "Play the fucking game."
Another nervous swallow.
"Yes, well," Sherlock sniffed, glancing around the flat, "Ah! The kitchen." He swept eyes over the little kitchen and then back to John, who still sat unmoving, breathing with a steady cadence Sherlock knew the good doctor was fighting to keep. "The kitchen is as I left it, so you obviously didn't find the pancreas in aspic cooling in the crisper, I was going to tell you about that, but it requires two more days in situ before the proper conditions are met, and-"
"Still cold, Sherlock. I know you are better than this," John said flatly.
"Alright then," Sherlock continued as his gaze scanned the rest of the flat for evidence. His eyes hit the coffee table and the small stack of mail next to the crystal ashtray. "The mail," he said suddenly, "You've discovered the one hundred and twenty pounds I charged to your credit card for bondage equipment." Not a flicker from John. "Mrs. Hudson said it was delivered a week ago, she's been keeping it for me, the dear, oh, don't worry, it's not for us. Well, not yet anyway." He tried the crooked smile he knew drove John to distraction. Nothing. "It's an experiment for Mycroft," he went on, "regarding various restraints and pressure points used in interrogation techniques." He licked his lips as he rambled, words falling out of his mouth in a rush," And since your billing cycle ended last Thursday, you might have received the statement, depending on reliable post, naturally, and well, it's been a little spotty lately, hasn't it? But since those envelopes are still sealed-"
"Positively frigid. Hurry, Sherlock, I'm beginning to get vexed."
Vexed was an understatement. Murderous, however, was perhaps a more accurate estimation of the doctor's current state of mind.
Sherlock sniffed again. "John-" He stopped, taking in another deep breath, and recognized the delicate scent lingering in his nostrils. "Walnut oil." It was almost a whisper. John's eyebrow rose slightly. "Walnut oil," he repeated. "You smell like walnut oil. And the only two pieces of furniture in the flat that require walnut oil are our bedside table and the war-" Sherlock paused as realization set in. "The wardrobe." His eyes hit the floor as his brain processed the information. When he finally regained the courage to raise his eyes to John's, he noted he had John's full attention. "You found the box."
John's eyes never left Sherlock's as he pulled the box from behind the Union Jack pillow and set it on the coffee table.
"I found the box."
"John, I-"
The doctor's raised finger silenced him as if he'd slapped him.
The lid made a loud bang that thundered through the quiet flat as John flipped it open.
"What. The. Fuck. Is. This?" John's voice cut to the heart of him. Anguish. Pain.
John's fingers, God, those fingers, gingerly picked through the contents and with each pass, the lines on John's face grew tighter and tighter. "Ticket stubs. A fucking birthday card." He snorted a half-laugh.
"John-" The finger beckoned him to silence again.
"The photograph."
"The photograph," Sherlock parroted.
Whatever steely resolve the doctor was holding in reserve vanished and he stood, taking the photo and holding it in his fingers, examining it with outright rage, his eyelids fluttering in rapid succession as the image, Sherlock presumed, was etching itself permanently on John's psyche.
"Mementos, Sherlock!" John roared. "Sentiment!" In a move Sherlock had executed numerous times, John stepped on and over the coffee table, rushing against him in a fury, pressing the offending photo to his chest and pinning him to the back wall of the flat. "This is you and Lestrade, Sherlock! You and Lestrade!"
Jealous rage contorted John's features into an angry mask. Eyes he had seen dull and glaze over with passion glowed with alarming clarity as he grabbed Sherlock's chin and forced his face down to John's.
"Tell me the truth, Sherlock, or I swear-"
"John-"
"The truth, Sherlock!"
"Yes," he said quietly. "Me and Lestrade."
He felt the photograph crumple as John's fingers dug painfully into his chest, John's hand, God, his hand again, curling like a vice to grab a fistful of his shirt. The gesture, one done often in moments of needy abandon, rushed over him like a bucket of ice water and a small gasp escaped as he bit down on his lower lip to keep from crying out.
John held fast to him and he could feel the small tremors that quaked through the doctor as he gritted out through clenched teeth, "How long, Sherlock? How. Long?"
Sherlock closed his eyes and turned his chin from John's biting fingers. "It was a long time-"
"HOW LONG?" Sherlock flinched at the bellow.
"Three years ago," he managed. "It lasted just over a year. It's been over for a long time."
John released him and stepped back, the photo fluttering to the floor. Sherlock's hand shot out to catch it and he quickly realized his mistake as John gasped in shock.
"It-it doesn't-"
"Right," John sneered. "It doesn't mean anything. Only that you're falling all over yourself to save your precious memento." He ground out the last word. "The Great Sherlock Holmes," he spat, "The 'not really my area' consulting detective. Just how long were you planning on keeping this bit to yourself?"
Sherlock averted his eyes again.
"I see," John said, lowering his voice. "Did Mycroft know?"
"No. Maybe," he shook his head. "I don't know. If he did, he never said."
"I see," John said again.
"No, John, you don't see," Sherlock said quietly.
"You're right, Sherlock. I don't see. But I have observed. I have observed that you have taken great pains to conceal this from me. I was packing away the duvet from the bed when my hand brushed a hidden panel, a hidden panel, Sherlock. And when it opened, your cache of little secrets fell right into my hands." John snorted. "Tell me, did it ever occur to you at some point, when I had your cock shoved halfway down my throat to tap me on the shoulder and say, 'Hey John, just thought you should know I've had DI Lestrade six ways from Sunday'?"
Sherlock held up his chin in defiance. "The photograph depicts nothing of the sort."
"Not in so many words, but I observed the look in both your eyes. You were sotted with each other, and I deduced, knowing what a great shag you are, that you had a leg over on Greg not once, but probably multiple times." John's voice dropped to an octave just below deadly. "And you had the audacity to pretend you didn't know his Christian name on the Baskerville case when, obviously, you had shouted it at the top of your lungs, prefaced I'm sure with 'Oh God, fuck me!'"
"John-"
"Don't, Sherlock. Just don't." The doctor turned and walked back to the sofa.
Sherlock cleared his throat with a muffled cough, causing John to turn back around.
"Do you have anything to say for yourself at all? And please, do us both a favor and think carefully about the next words that come out of your mouth. I am on the razor's edge here, Sherlock. You don't want to push me over."
Standing there, with the London moonlight filtering in through the windows of the flat, the soft light caressing every creased line of John's face, Sherlock's breath caught deep in his throat. The rigid line of John's spine, held ramrod straight at attention, the clench of those beautiful hands, the hard set of the jaw he had rained kisses on in the dark of their room. His puffs of breath were coming faster now, in shallow, disjointed gasps that wracked his lean frame. He wanted to reach out, pull the other man into his arms and just love him, unceasing, unmercifully, until the pain and the hurt were nothing but a clouded memory. The photograph fell from his hands.
"John-"
"Don't say my name, Sherlock. I can't bear to hear it on your lips knowing where they've been."
Sherlock faltered, recognizing the pounding in his chest. His brain spiraled at the onslaught of emotions, trying pitifully to catalogue and compartmentalize the feelings. Fear. Desperation. Desire. He swiped his tongue across dry lips. "I knew Lestrade was gay," he confessed. "I knew, and I used it to my advantage."
"Drugs?"
He nodded. "In the beginning. I seduced him. It was easy. But I continued to use, manipulating his feelings, to keep myself out of trouble. When he came to the flat one day and found me-" the baritone broke, "He-I-I had overdosed and he gave me CPR and called the paramedics. He saved my life."
"And you thought you would just keep shagging him senseless to what, say thank you?"
"I was grateful, yes," Sherlock hissed. "Other than Mycroft in his odd way, he was the only one who showed me any sort of true kindness. And it went from there. I owed him that much."
John snorted. "How noble of you."
Pain twisted Sherlock's insides and he cried out, "He stayed with me, John! After everything. He stayed."
"I STAYED!" John erupted, shaking his hands at Sherlock. "I stayed, you insufferable prat, through the insults, the cases, through the havoc you have wreaked upon me since I first laid eyes on you at Barts! Do you know what this does to me? Do you even care? You should have told me I wasn't the first!"
"You knew I wasn't inexperienced with sex."
"That's not what I'm talking about, you bloody git, and you well know it! I couldn't give a toss if you've shagged all of England! And yet you stand there and expound upon something that even you should have realized was a cornerstone of this relationship!" John paused, fighting for breath. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock! You were in a goddamned relationship with Greg Lestrade! Don't you think that was something I needed to know?"
"Irrelevant at the time."
John barked out a sharp laugh. "Did you tell him you loved him?"
Sherlock opened his mouth.
"And mean it, you bastard?"
Eyes to the floor.
"Fuck me, I'm out of here." John rushed past him in a flurry of black jacket and cable knit wool.
He reached out and grabbed for John's sleeve. "Don't go, John. Please." The pounding in his chest slowed, like a clock winding down, and he felt as if he were drowning, his heart shattering into pieces. The void seemed to swallow him.
"Let go of me, Sherlock, or I will break your arm in three places before you can blink."
The doctor's name slipped past his lips on a breath and suddenly, desperately, he was pulling John in close, crushing his mouth to his.
The backhanded fist made his teeth rattle and a rush of blood filled his mouth as John jerked free. He crumpled to the floor, feeling the salt of hot tears mix with the metallic taste of blood between his lips. He didn't look up when he heard John's heavy footfalls bounding down the stairs. Not even when he heard the slam of the front door.
He lay there on the floor, tucked into a ball, rocking back and forth, as he convulsed into gut-wrenching sobs. Several minutes passed, and then he heard the door of the flat creak open.
"John?" He croaked, beginning to rise.
"No, dear." Mrs. Hudson's voice cut through the din in his head. It was soft, soothing. "You boys having a bit of a domestic?"
Sherlock closed his eyes and sank back down. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson. I'm afraid we are."