Not Knowing
A night in at 221B takes a sinister turn when John's little surprise turns out to be more than the world's only consulting detective bargained for. Sherlock knows he likes it, but can he really be sure who's in control? This is the result of a plot bunny from hell that wouldn't leave me alone. Johnlock. Established dom/sub relationship. Hurt/Comfort. Trigger warning for non con and general psychological trauma. BDSM. M/M. A slashy nightmare. Be warned.
"God please John just fuck me now just fuck me please just fuck me now!" Sherlock ejaculated. Not literally though, not yet. That was just the way he spoke that day and every other day that John had him tied at the wrists and ankles, naked and bent forward on the floor, arse up. John turned his wrist lazily, running the riding crop across the debauched detective's back and pretending not to hear his lover's next incomprehensible string of desperate expletives. He knew what the other man wanted. No matter how determinedly Sherlock begged, they both knew deep down that what he really got off on was being teased. And John Hamish Watson was not a man to deny his lover what he really wanted, even if that meant denying him what he really wanted. Holding back and denying himself the contact that the rather large bulge in his trousers so needed, he knelt down behind Sherlock and let the riding crop fall onto the floor at his side.
"No," John replied.
He ran both hands gently over the hot red welts forming across the detective's backside and closed his eyes, enjoying the whimpers and ragged breathing coming from the beautiful wreck beneath him. Sherlock awkwardly tried to spread his legs but John grabbed him by the hips and pressed his crotch between those sweet upturned cheeks, eliciting a long low moan from his lover. He leaned down over Sherlock's long lean body and stroked his hand across the back of that long white neck, gripping slightly and pushing Sherlock's flushed cheek deeper into the red patterned rug.
"I will fuck you Sherlock, I will spread you open, I will fuck that sweet hole until you scream out my name,"
Sherlock tried to push himself backwards into John as hard has he could but only succeeded in wriggling helplessly and sending a tingling wave of sensation right to John's groin.
"-But not yet."
A deep, long, loud, reverberating groan escaped Sherlock's lips and John had to fight the urge to pull his cock out right then and shove it into that hot wet mouth. Instead he took his detective by the shoulders and gently levered him up until he was sitting back, knees bent under him.
Sherlock settled back, resting his weight on his ankles. John helped him shuffle his knees apart before moving round to his back where he had him remain completely still. Despite Sherlock's moans of protest, John retied the detective's ankles so that the rope was secured tightly to the chain connecting the two cuffs around the his wrists. The doctor stood back to admire his handy work and took in the adorable blush that was in full force across the beautiful man's face. His chest was stretched with his arms pulled back tight, and John couldn't help letting his eyes linger over his sub's long hard swollen cock where it twitched heavily between his spread thighs.
John ran his tongue over his lower lip and made a decision. He didn't normally do this; he liked to see the desperation in Sherlock's eyes. But this time maybe it was time for something different. The doctor walked over to his chair and picked up his scarf, well aware of Sherlock's wide needful eyes watching him. He ran the soft knitted material between his fingers and stepped up to his sub.
The doctor was slightly nervous about the surprise he had in store and figured that if Sherlock was blindfolded, he would be able to try it the way he wanted to, without the consulting detective analysing his every move. Sherlock would just have to feel it and John liked the idea of being able to surprise his lover.
Sherlock eyed him apprehensively and as per their agreement, the doctor gave him a choice. He stroked the kneeling man's jaw gently and spoke clearly and calmly,
"Sherlock, I want you to listen to me carefully. You have a choice. You can wear this blindfold and sit here patiently, perfectly still and well behaved until I come back with a little surprise I have for you. You can enjoy the surprise because I know you will - I know you're desperate to find out what it is - or, if you prefer, I will untie you right now and we can get a take away and watch a film or something. Do you need a moment to think about it?"
Sherlock shook his beautiful head of dark curls.
"Speak to me Sherlock. What would you like to do?"
Sherlock turned a darker shade of pink, "I want to wear the blindfold and have the surprise."
John smiled and tilted the detective's face upwards. Leaning down, he kissed his sub deeply and passionately. Just as Sherlock began to hungrily kiss back, John broke away and wrapped his scarf tightly around Sherlock's head, covering his eyes, and tying the ends together in a firm knot at the back. He waved a hand across Sherlock's face just to make sure and when he received no reaction he stroked a finger from the kneeling man's lips right down his neck, chest and lightly tones stomach muscles. He stopped just short of the detective's straining cock and then removed his hand completely, stepping around his frustrated lover and heading for the door.
Sherlock moaned quietly behind him and John thrilled at the effect this spur of the moment decision was having. He would have to deny his sub visual stimulation more often. Obviously having no visual distractions was making the experience a lot more intense for the genius.
John coughed lightly at the doorway, "Remember Sherlock you're to sit still and quiet until you're told otherwise. If I come back and you've moved I will have to punish you."
Sherlock shuddered upon hearing his doctor's words and listened to the door close behind him. His body tingled as he tested his restraints and found that he was soundly bound and unable to move more than his already stretched muscles would allow. He twisted his hand and fingered the cold metal of his handcuffs. The blindfold was thick and tied tightly so that it not only blocked his vision entirely but also obscured his hearing slightly where it pressed over his ears. Despite this, he could still hear the familiar sound of John's footsteps fading as he climbed the stairs and he had to concede that being without sight made this whole thing far more exciting. He let his mind wonder over the many possible surprised that John might have procured and felt his cock throb between his legs as every muscle in his body seemed to cry out achingly for his doctor.
John ascended slowly, his hand gripping the banister with the sheer effort of not turning back and fucking Sherlock's sweet hot mouth right then. He wanted to run up the stairs, grab the long string of red rubber beads that he'd bought online, and run back down to see just how the detective would respond. His imagination had supplied him with a myriad of possibilities since he'd clicked 'pay' with a surprisingly steady hand and he wanted to try them all. He had caught the post that morning as it arrived and before Sherlock had had the chance to see that there was a parcel at all. He'd shoved the small parcel down the back of his trousers and had brought the rest of the mail into the living room, tossed it onto the coffee table and then scurried away to his now rarely used bedroom. Sherlock luckily was too engrossed in an experiment to notice that John was behaving strangely.
It had taken quite a lot of convincing on Sherlock's part to get John to take on this role. John might have been around a bit in his time but fluffy pink handcuffs were just tacky and he'd thought that being a little bit rough during sex made him dominant. Sherlock had shown this to be quite inaccurate, at least for the detective's personal needs. Sherlock had surprised him by begging the doctor to hit him during one of their first times together. John had been taken aback to say the least and really been quite intimidated - but Sherlock had tried to explain, brushing off John's light touches until he had grabbed the detective out of sheer frustration and gripped his wrists hard. Sherlock's reaction, throwing his head back and moaning out in what seemed like relief, had confused the doctor further. But the hardness he could feel in the detective's trousers had made him curious enough to do it again, and again, and again.
Eventually John had begun to understand that what Sherlock was doing was not perverted, it was love. He was handing himself over to John completely. Allowing John control of all of him. This brilliant man who always seemed so determinedly in control of everything around him needed to feel free, unburdened, and he was asking John to be the one to allow him his freedom. To be in control, just for a little while, to let him relax, completely.
When John had finally come round to the idea and taken the reins, he had seen an immediate quietness come over the detective and it was wonderful to see. As John had gained confidence in his new role, he had started to really enjoy it - more than he ever thought he would. It wasn't the physical act of being dominating, of causing pain, of seeing the marks on that beautiful white smooth skin caused by him, alright maybe it was a little bit. It was the fact that it was Sherlock, the world's only consulting detective, a genius, his genius, kneeling at his side, relying on him, needing him. John had definitely come around to the idea - in more ways than one.
The doctor reached the top of the stairs and faltered. Something was wrong. He had left his bedroom door open, he was sure of it. He stepped forwards and touched the handle lightly and then slowly pushed the door open. Nothing was out of place; a neatly folded pile of clothes still sat on the chair beside his bed and he could see the corner of the brown paper wrapped parcel poking out from under his pillow where he'd hidden it badly in his nervous excitement. He stepped into the room and made for the pillow, but he didn't make it that far. A sudden blow to the back of the head and the good doctor was out cold. He fell neatly onto the bed just as his discreet assailant had intended and when he regained consciousness a few moments later - he was gagged and taped up so tight that he couldn't move a muscle.
"He's back boss," an unfamiliar voice pushed past John's blinding headache into his consciousness and throbbed there. The voice that replied however, was joltingly sharp in it's familiarity. John felt searing white pain in the back of his neck as he jerked his head back attempting to disprove visually what his auditory senses were clearly hallucinating.
"Good, I want him aware of exactly what you're doing as you do it. Do it quickly and without any drama. Just follow the plan. He's become so irksomely boring since he got all cosy with the good doctor here; he doesn't deserve any theatrics or even to know what's to come. Just end the boring, normal, disappointing cunt quickly so we can take Dr Watson here for a little test drive. It seems like such a waste doesn't it Johnny boy?"
John didn't say a word, just stared. His mouth would surely have dropped open were it not already forced open and stuffed with some silky material, he could only guess was his own tie, and taped over. He stared up at the young, suit clad, crazed Irishman and groaned deep in his throat. It was barely audible through the gag.
The consulting criminal strode round the bed and bent over the doctor smiling broadly. "Such a waste. Such a terrible waste of a medical professional. What talent you must have Johnny and I bet you're spectacular under pressure. What a shame that you've wasted so much time already pointlessly squandering your skill with that pathetic pretty virgin. As it happens I occasionally have need for a doctor and I thought to myself, 'Why not that charming Dr Watson?' Two birds with one stone and all that. Gain a doctor and dispose of a mildly bothersome supposed genius with ridiculously perfect cheekbones." He chuckled lightly and turned his attention to the other man whom John couldn't see from his compromised position. His face turned dark and he scowled. "Go Then!" he shook his head incredulously and rolled his eyes at John before removing the pile of clothes from the chair at his side and seating himself comfortably, ankle resting over one knee and hands placed delicately over the arms of the chair.
John cried out as loud as he could when he heard the distinct sound of a semi automatic being chambered and cocked but he knew there was no chance of his muffled voice being heard by Sherlock downstairs and with another horrified shudder he remembered the way he'd left him, unaware, unassuming, on the floor.
Sherlock tensed, what was taking John so long? He didn't like being left on his own. Left for long periods as part as a punishment, he could take, because any discomfort he felt was being directly caused by his master and therefore left him hard and frustrated but wonderfully calm. This though, was just frustrating. He considered calling out, telling John to hurry up with his surprise and had been on the verge of doing so when he remembered those commanding words. Still and quiet, John had said and so with a sigh and a stretch of his neck, Sherlock settled to wait.
Then, footsteps, but wait. Were they footsteps? Sherlock strained to hear through the thick folds of scarf over his ears. It was very faint but it definitely sounded like John was coming back down the stairs slowly and quietly. Was he trying to sneak up on him? Alright, he would play along. Sure enough, in a moment he was sure the door had opened. Sherlock felt the draft on his naked skin from the stairway. John didn't enter the room however, he just stood at the open door making Sherlock wait, infuriatingly, even longer.
The detective's breathing became shallow as be sensed his lover's eyes roaming all over his bound body. He swallowed a whimper still trying to maintain his good and quiet state, desperate to obey his master. And finally, finally Sherlock heard the sound of footsteps treading softly over the large rug towards him.
Suddenly alarm bells went off in his head as he sensed movement right in front of him. He breathed in sharply, his nose filled with a new scent now. Yes, yes he was sure of it, aside from the wonderfully woolly smell of John that he caught through the fabric of the blindfold, he could also smell the unmistakable aroma of a recently fired gun. His blood ran cold, he felt so small, vulnerable and transparent. How had John known? Had he known all along that Sherlock had a secret infatuation with his soldier?
That first time Sherlock had seen John holding his gun, and firing it, had sent waves of heat through him. John's gun hand wrapped around his cock, choking him, beating him, that had been Sherlock's go to image for many a night spent alone. But he'd never told him that one; he'd thought that might be too much for his doctor, a little bit too far. But apparently not. Perhaps his deeply inhaling when John had used that hand to clamp over his mouth when he got too loud, or his desperately sucking on those fingers especially after a case which had called for the gun to be used - maybe that had not gone unnoticed by the doctor.
Sherlock whimpered needfully as he felt cold metal press against his lips, his mind whirled. When John had said surprise, he had expected some new toy or other but his master had truly surprised him this time. His cock throbbed heavy and full and before he could stop himself he had opened his mouth and was licking the tip of the barrel.
The gun was pulled away sharply and Sherlock found himself trying to lean towards it, breathing heavily now but still trying to be good for John. The gun was shoved between his lips deep into his mouth and Sherlock groaned, his jaw stretched and his head tilted back. He wasn't worried about the dangers of having a gun in his mouth in the least. He trusted his master implicitly and knew without even having to consider it, that the gun would not be loaded - but still, the thrill of the picture in his mind of John standing over him wearing nothing but his dog tags, finger on the trigger. Bloody hell, John, John sweet wonderful, John. His dom, his world.
Without warning, the cold metallic taste was gone and Sherlock felt the air swirl as his partner strode from the room. What had happened? Had he been bad? He had made noise, he realised, cursing himself inwardly. His master was going to make him wait even longer.
John squirmed desperately, watching his assailant smiling to himself beside the bed. He was screaming out and crying in sheer panic now. He knew there was no chance of saving Sherlock. He'd sealed their fate himself. He felt hot tears soaking into the duvet under him where the side of his head rested finally in defeat. Still no sound came from downstairs. His vision blurred and the consulting criminal became a dancing, liquid, mirage of light and shadow. He willed it all to be a dream, but when he screwed his eyes tight shut and with another shuddering sob, opened them a crack, he was still faced with the bemused face of James Moriarty. The insane, twisted son of a bitch gave him a puzzled look as if wondering why he was behaving so strangely.
John would kill him. He would kill him in every possible way. Wave after wave of hatred washed over him giving him brief respite from his despair. Jim's face flashed with rage as they both heard ascending footsteps and then the other man was back in the room. What was going on? There hadn't been a gun shot! Hope, seeped back into John but it was ripped away from him again as he listened to what came next.
"You had better have a good reason for failing to follow my orders Moran you thick fuck or I swear I will make your own death far from pleasant." Moriarty was standing rigid, fists clenched. John still couldn't see the other man but he heard the smile in his voice.
"Calm down will you boss? Christ!"
Moriarty shook his head slowly and then dropped his head, rolling it from side to side, mouth open slightly and a crazed blank look in his eyes. "Start . . . talking . . . you irritating twat."
"I think you're going to like it," the glee in this Moran man's voice was almost a giggle.
"What are you talking about? Why isn't Sherlock Holmes dead?" Moriarty was getting more and more frustrated.
"Come on, I'll show you. But keep it down alright? It's worth it." The other man stepped back and Moriarty powered forward, fuming.
John tried to shout out but his voice just croaked, raw, and he barely managed to scratch out a final muffled plea. Moriarty ignored him, and left the room followed closely by a quietly chuckling Moran.
Sherlock snapped his head back up and listened hard. There were two sets of footsteps hurriedly descending and it was with a lot less discretion that the door was opened this time. The detective jumped, causing the aching pain in his knees to jolt up his thighs. Two people. Sherlock reeled back losing his control completely and tilted his head trying to see under the blindfold but there was not even the tiniest sliver of light to be found. He forgot his order to remain silent,
"John?" he called out, the beginnings of panic lacing his voice.
The floorboards creaked where one of the two sets of footsteps crossed the room towards him and he recognised the smell of that metallic discharge again. He craned his neck up towards his master and felt a firm hand touch the back of his head reassuringly. His mind was racing, what was going on?
The other set of footsteps padded slowly toward the fireplace and he heard the mysterious figure seat himself in his own chair and settle back. Sherlock wasn't used to being seen in this position by anyone other than his master and he was reduced to desperately nuzzling his master's leg, asking wordlessly for an explanation, for some sort of comfort. It was then though that he sensed with scandalised surprise, that the man standing beside him, gently stroking his thick curls, was not his master, was not John. He flinched and double checked himself. The other man was John. John had stood in the doorway and watched as this stranger had touched him. The thought although altogether appalling was sending exciting shivers down his spine.
He had had to fight each step of the way to achieve what he and John had now. Each time he had asked for what he needed, from the only person he'd ever needed it from, he had suffered the look in his lovers eyes. It had been like pulling teeth at the start, but gradually the stubborn soldier had overcome his reservations and had come to have as steady a hand when handling his submissive as he did when racing through the darkened streets of London on a case. He had grown and Sherlock had seen his lover finally free of his outwardly controlled persona, finally allowed to lose himself to care for another. Still though, he had been well aware that their relationship was delicate and with that in mind, had prompted each baby step cautiously.
Now though, he found their rolls reversed somewhat. Here he was, abashed and nervous about going a step further than he had expected. They had not discussed bringing a third party into their relationship. Sherlock was so confused by John's suddenly confident decision, he felt so completely at his masters mercy but his conflicted thoughts were interrupted by the heat pooling in his groin.
The stranger's hand was back on his head gripping his hair and Sherlock stifled a moan, goosebumps tingling on the back of his neck. Picturing his master sitting before him watching his helplessness at the hands of a stranger caused the detective to groan deeply within himself.
So this was his surprise. He pressed back into the firm hand and felt his face flush red. He was no longer in control, John had taken the final step in being the dominant partner and had made a decision for his sub, knowing with ease that he was in control and that he knew best. Sherlock remembered John's words right before he'd agreed to wear the blindfold. You can enjoy the surprise because I know you will. And now the detective had to agree that his master had known him better than he knew himself. Dr Watson had surprised him again, this time in a most invigoratingly exciting way.
He sensed a slight movement from the chair where his master sat across the room and began to breath harder - no longer able to hide his excitement now that he had accepted whatever his master had in store. He had just begun to imagine what his dom might look like, whether he would be watching with calm control or with seething jealousy, when he was backhanded hard across the face,
"GAaaah! . . . Joh . . ."
Another blow, this time a punch, landed squarely on his jaw knocking him down completely. He landed painfully, his legs still bound tight beneath him. His spine was twisting and he was balanced awkwardly leaning back on one shoulder. Before he could catch his breath, he felt the treads on the sole of this man's boot pressing into his throat. He gurgled out in protest but only received a more insistent pressure cutting off his air almost entirely. When the foot was removed, he gasped hungrily for air and was hauled roughly back up onto his knees. He panted and frantically tried to get to grips with the situation.
He wanted to cry out for John, to be reassured that everything was in hand but no sound could be heard through the taught material. He tested his jaw, stretching it and wincing a little but otherwise satisfied that he hadn't been badly damaged. Of course he hadn't. John would not allow him to be badly hurt.
A hand came to rest on his shoulder and although he knew it didn't belong to his master, he still felt comfort in knowing that John was there to ensure this man stayed within their boundaries. The hand squeezed lightly and then moved up to his face, cradling his jaw and then stroking his cheekbones gently. A thumb brushed over his closed mouth and then pressed forward demanding entrance. Sherlock wasn't quick enough to comply and received another harsh stinging slap causing him to gasp and then the man's thumb was there anyway, pressing between his lips and his head was tilted upwards. He sucked and swirled his tongue around the intrusion and was rewarded with a gentle stroke of the man's hand ruffling his dark curls slowly. He began to relax, accepting the stranger's touch as an extension of his master's.
John had said it was a surprise and it had definitely been that. Though perhaps the most thrilling part was not that this new person was a stranger, Sherlock had not been an entirely chaste and virginal individual before he'd submitted emotionally to his flatmate - it was more the tease of having this man's identity kept from him. John had teased him until he'd been climbing the walls by denying his submissive his release or making him wait long periods for punishment but being denied information? This was effecting him in a whole new way.
Sherlock had built his life around the pursuit of knowledge and he'd built his career on his unusual ability to seek out the most hidden of secrets, so to have both men remain completely quiet and allow him not even the slightest of clues as to what might come of this surprise, was the biggest tease of all.
Sherlock raged inwardly at his body's lack of ability to stop reacting to the gentle touches the man was now giving him and stopping his brain from sorting the little information it had and deducing the situation. John had robbed him of his mental resolve and the complete control that he was under turned the helpless detective on even more. He mewed almost inaudibly around the stranger's thumb and leaned into the feathery fingers tracing lines over his exposed abdomen. The stranger was obviously kneeling before him now and was taking his time to familiarise himself with the lines and contours of the detective's body. Sherlock shuddered as a thumb and forefinger moved to tweak his nipple gently and Sherlock moved into the touch, only to be reprimanded with a stinging thwack to his inner thigh. He shifted his weight trying to close his legs as much as be could but a fist grabbed a handful of his hair and held tightly until he opened his knees wide again with a quiet moan.
The stranger moved to his back, running his warm fingertips over the taught muscles in the kneeling man's arms. It sent sparks of pleasure rushing up and down his spine when the nape of his neck was gently brushed. Those gentle fingers squeezed all of a sudden and held him there with a grip that told the genius just how much the stranger enjoyed his body - if not who the hell this stranger was.
The stranger continued his exploration but it wasn't just with fingertips any more. The touches were becoming determined strokes and Sherlock felt palms press into his flesh and unseen hands explored him with considerably less control than had previously been shown. Arms were around him and he felt the stranger rest his stubbly chin in his shoulder and bite his ear non too gently. Hands roamed up and down his thighs; each time they climbed they stopped closer and closer to the detective's heavy straining cock. He realised just how desperate he was to be touched and his face contorted in anticipation. A hand snaked its way from his navel down over his tight stiff stomach and curled around the base of his erection, gripping his swollen balls, squeezing a little bit too tightly. Sherlock dropped his head back and squirmed, howling despairingly. The fingers kneaded his sensitive testicles and the pain coursing through him was soon replaced with a pulsating heat and the firm hand of the stranger wrapped around his thick penis and stroked him languidly. Sherlock shook, he couldn't stop his whole body jolting with the pleasure swelling within him. The stranger's other hand had found its way to the detective's backside but he barely noticed the pawing and squeezing because the hand on his cock was stroking back and forth over his slit, smearing his own precum over his glans and circling over his head slowly. The slow movements were threatening to tip him over and he rocked back unconsciously onto the hand spreading his cheeks wide. He strained his hands up in their cuffs and made contact with the strangers prominent erection through his clothes. Sherlock stretched his fingers to feel more, unable to suppress a whimper.
The man's hands stopped and his breath caught as he pulled back slightly. Sherlock froze. He wanted to be fucked by this man. He would be good, he would be quiet; he wanted this man to tear him apart and for his master to watch.
The tantalizing movement began again. The fingers brushing against his opening, the hand stroking his head, and then to feel just how aroused the stranger breathing heavily in his ear was, drove the detective crazy. It was when he was certain he could make out the distinct sound of heavy breathing and skin on skin coming from the direction of the fireplace that he lost himself completely. He began to moan loudly, unable to stop himself he called out John's name again and again bucking his hips into the stranger's hand and cursing wildly with every laboured breath. The man kneeling behind him bit hard into his shoulder and Sherlock cried wildly and came, spurting strings of white ejaculate like ribbons across the carpet.
"No! I'm sorry. Please, I'm sorry," Sherlock moaned, horrified that he had come without his master's permission. What kind of punishment would he face now having shamed himself and his master in front of his master's friend? "I'm sorry I came I'm sorry I came, please Sir fuck me, please sir, fuck me!" His body was still reeling and his cock not finished, dripping his seed.
'Bzzz Bzzz zzz zzz zzz Bzzz Bzzz'
The vibrations of a text alert tone sounded from the chair by the fire and through his shuddering sobs for mercy, part of Sherlock's brain stopped and listened.
His stranger shoved him roughly forward and he fell face first into the carpet where he felt the liquid warmth of his own embarrassment. His feet were pulled up behind him, still attached by rope to his metal cuffs and he wriggled there pathetically whimpering. Nothing happened though, nobody touched him, he twisted his head trying to listen for movement and heard someone above him. He was so disoriented from his powerful orgasm and his new position that he couldn't tell if it was John who now stood over him or if it was the stranger. His mind raced and he cried out when he heard the sound of metal connecting hard with fragile bone. It wasn't his bone though, he hadn't been sure for a moment but no, he had definitely not been hit! A long drawn shuddering breath came from behind him and Sherlock smelled the tangy metallic acrid scent of blood in the air. He felt hot drips, splatter across his naked flesh and reeled. What had happened? John had hurt the stranger, but why? And what was the metal sound? A gun? Had John hit the stranger with his gun? He couldn't make his brain work properly.
'Bzzz Bzzz zzz zzz zzz Bzzz Bzzz'
Sherlock's mind jumped from its slump of panicked lethargy and began to work.
That, was not John's phone.
Suddenly in overdrive, the detective began to struggle, twisting his bound hands painfully in his cuffs and writhing wildly. Before he could confuse himself any more, he felt a whirl of motion above him and suddenly both sets of footsteps were marching towards the door. One set decidedly more determined than the other.
The door wasn't closed his time and Sherlock could clearly hear the sound of both men retreating down towards street level and not up to John's room from where they'd come. Sherlock was rubbing his face into the carpet trying to get enough friction to dislodge his blindfold; eventually he worked it up enough that he could see under one corner and confirmed that the room was now empty.
That was not John. John had not been there.
He worked himself slowly up so that he was once again kneeling with the help of John's armchair for support. He used the arm of the chair to work off the blindfold completely and sat bewildered staring at the room, his eyes slowly adjusting to the seemingly bright light. The front door of 221B Baker Street slammed shut behind the two men and silence filled the flat once more.
Sherlock stopped stock still and strained staring horrified at the open door. John was not there, his master had not been there. He had been, touched and brought to . . . he shook his head, anger rushing though his veins before a cold pain twisted in his gut as he hit on the real question. Where was John? Sherlock had to find him. Whoever those men were, wherever they had come from, could wait. Something had happened to his John!
He began shuffling his way over to the fireplace where he'd left his knife. With some careful leverage he worked through the ropes connecting his wrists and ankles. He was able to stand then, gingerly regaining his balance like a baby giraffe and taking a wobbly step towards the door.
Fuck His mind was racing, his heart beating loudly in his chest. The acidic raging in his stomach was only overshadowed by the dark fear reverberating through him. If anything had happened to John and he had, he had . . . what had he done?
He made it to the doorway on stiff dead legs, still naked and his arms still cuffed behind him. He began the automatic ascent to find his lover, not knowing exactly what he would find. He shouldered his way into the small bedroom and stopped dead as we took in the sight before him. John lay still, taped and gagged, not moving at all. The pit of oblivion inside Sherlock's gut seemed to open up wide and he saw his pulse slow in the corner of his eye. He threw himself onto the bed using his teeth to bite and rip at the electrical tape binding his partner. John's eyes flew open and a muffled yell worked its way out from behind the gag. A breath that sounded like a sob rocked through the detective's body as his very much alive doctor stared at him astounded eyes filled up with fresh tears wide and red raw.
Sherlock bit and chewed but his efforts were useless against the layers of tape covering John's wrists. He changed tactic, instead moving up to work on the gag with his mouth, eventually getting a grip on the end of the tape under John's ear. He pulled back, tape clenched between his teeth and ripped the gag from his love's mouth.
"Aaagh Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock, I'm sorry! How did you . . . . .? What happened? I'm so sorry!"
"John, are you alright? Are you hurt? Did they hurt you?"
"No, no I'm fine, Sherlock they were going to kill you, I thought you were dead!" Fresh tears began to stream down the doctor's face as he stared.
"I need a knife, wait here," Sherlock wriggled off the bed and made for the door but John called him back.
"In the drawer Sherlock there, my old army knife,"
The detective made his way round the bed and opened the drawer of the doctor's bedside table by kneeling slightly and twisting his body round to the side. He saw the knife but struggled to pick it up and open it properly without being able to see from his awkward angle. He knelt on the bed once more and began, with the utmost care, to cut away the tape at the doctor's wrists. John winced as the blade slipped and jabbed him, scratching a bloody line across his hand.
"Wait Sherlock, the key, the key is in my pocket, for the cuffs. Can you reach it?"
Sherlock dropped the knife onto the bed and wriggled his body round so that he sat facing away from John and was able to reach into the other man's back pocket. He dropped the thing a few times as he hurried to release himself from the cold metal restraints but once he was free he ripped the tape from the doctor and finally had him up in a mad, desperate embrace.
John clung to him, squeezing him so tight Sherlock couldn't breath but he didn't care. His mind was flooded with every panicked thought until it just became noise and he didn't know what to do except hold John.
" . . . Sherlock, Sherlock, can you hear me?" . . . . "Are you alright Sherlock? What happened?" . . . . "Please, I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have left you, I'll never leave you again." . . . . "Sherlock? Answer me will you?"
The doctor's voice finally reached Sherlock through the tidal wave of confusion coursing through him.
"I'm fine, John. Just fine, it's not your fault,"
John clung on even tighter for a second and then sat back, looking his lover over carefully through tear stained eyes. He took in the gaunt choked expression and the swelling and beginning's of a nasty bruise on his detective's jaw.
"How did you do it Sherlock? How did you stop them? Is Lestrade on his way? Jesus Christ Sherlock you must be cold!" John whipped the blanket off the end of the bed and wrapped it gently around Sherlock's shivering shoulders. He held and soothed the skin of his wrists where they had been rubbed red raw from twisting his hands to free them. "That sick, mad git, I swear I will kill that man. I promise you I don't care if they put me away this time I swear -"
"Who . . ?" Sherlock's voice was cold and far away.
"Who? Sherlock, . . . Moriarty of course! I will kill him ten times over!"
The raging noise in Sherlock's mind started to ease but his eyes stared blank at John before he stood up from the bed and made his way down stairs.
When John joined him, Sherlock had already filled the kettle and called Scotland Yard; Lestrade was on his way. Sherlock was dressed and John was sat shaking slightly, nursing his cup of tea when the detective inspector arrived. He took statements from both men, shaking his head incredulously when Sherlock explained that he had been unable to detain the consulting criminal due to a problem he'd encountered when testing out some police equipment. He had though, managed to cause some damage by the sounds of it. The description he'd given of Moriarty's accomplice was hazy, but he seemed confident that the man had a facial laceration of some kind. John's expression had been grim, throughout the interviews but he was becoming more and more ashen as Sherlock spoke.
The rest of the day was spent, checking CCTV at Scotland Yard and filling out all the correct paperwork; both men seemed out of sorts but it wasn't uncommon for them to keep information from the D.I.
John watched Sherlock carefully as he spoke to Lestrade and the others, giving them most of the information they needed and a few more details that they didn't need, or want, as usual, but it wasn't with his usual flair that the consulting detective insulted them. No, when they eventually returned to the flat that night, Sherlock went straight to his bedroom and closed the door, making it perfectly clear that this was a night where the old rules applied and it was no-longer shared space.
John didn't want to go back upstairs to the spare room; he wouldn't be able to sleep in that bed, so he curled up on the sofa under his jacket and tried to get some rest. Amazingly, it worked because it was past three in the morning when he was awoken with a start; a noise had startled him.
Sherlock was kneeling, frantically scrabbling at the edge of the red patterned rug that covered most of the sitting room floor. He didn't stop when John sat up to question him, he just moved another piece of furniture aside noisily scraping it on the boards. John stood up warily and walked over to where the genius was crouched by the fireplace hauling up the rug where if had stuck to the varnished boards beneath.
John placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. The detective didn't flinch away as John had most feared, he just stopped moving and slowly began to shake, his whole body seemed to be filled with hard angry tension. It was dark, but John cold see the tears streaming down his partners face and he knelt down beside him completely at a loss until Sherlock began to slam his fists into the floor again and again. Then John had him cradled in his arms, rocking him almost as the angry strained sobs left the detective's body limp and then he just cried and before he could think properly to stop himself, he'd told the doctor everything.
"I thought it was you, I thought it was you!" Sherlock gasped again and again against John's shoulder.
"I know Sherlock, I know you did," was all the doctor could say as he held his love tight in his arms for fear that, should he let go, the detective might crumble to pieces.
Sherlock wouldn't rest that night after he'd calmed down enough to let go of John's jumper and stand. He ignored all of John's protests and worked diligently to rid 221B of the red rug until John was on his hands and knees beside him helping him to pull the thing up and roll it. They carried it down the stairs and outside where they didn't have to search long before they found a house undergoing renovations with a skip outside.
Sherlock walked slightly ahead of John as they made their way home but once they were back on Baker Street he stopped and waited for the doctor to catch up and then took his hand and held it tight the rest of the way.
John Watson knew relatively little about psychology, and what he did know, he knew he would be pushed to apply to a man like Sherlock Holmes. But despite his limited knowledge, he felt sure that his detective would eventually be alright, that he would continue to recover at this alarming rate until he was almost his old self.
The doctor on the other hand, was quite sure that he would never be alright again. He held Sherlock's hand and lead him into his bedroom. When he was pulled down to lie with the detective he complied willingly but made sure his partner knew that if he needed him to, he would go. Sherlock shook his head and held John tightly as he slowly drifted into sleep but John remained awake. He knew that he would never be able to rest right again, not until he had put a bullet between the eyes of Jim Moriarty and he was damned if he was going to accept many more restless nights. Jim Moriarty would die, and by his hand.
I was going to put this up in chapters but I eventually decided to get it out of the road in one fell swoop. I also contemplated not putting it up at all because it's a bit intense but here we are, it's too late now! Hopefully now I'll be able to get on with other fic again! If you have any thoughts and want to tell me what you think, I would of course love a review. Thank you for reading and giving me a chance :)