Warnings: Sherlock/John. Slash, slash, slash. If guy-on-guy is not your cup of tea, then for heaven's sake, go ahead and avert your eyes now.
Trigger warnings for this chapter: Explicit references to previous abusive relationship, non-con, sexual assault.
Please read and review!
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Chapter 2
"My beloved spoke and said to me,
'Arise, my darling, my beautiful one, come with me.
See! The winter is past; the rains are over and gone.
Flowers appear on the earth;
the season of singing has come,
the cooing of doves is heard in our land.
The fig tree forms its early fruit;
the blossoming vines spread their fragrance.
Arise, come, my darling;
my beautiful one, come with me.'"
– Song of Solomon
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Sunshine slanting in across the bed wakes me, throwing its warm stripes across my face. I start to shift and stretch, then all movement is arrested as I open my eyes to find a pair of cool, glaucous eyes studying me from a few centimeters away.
As I take in my surroundings (Sherlock's room, Sherlock's bed, Sherlock!), memories of the night before flood back, and my heart leaps in my chest. Sherlock is lying beside me, propped on one elbow, gazing down at me. He's been watching me sleep.
That probably ought to be a bit disturbing, but it only produces a warm glow in the pit of my stomach. The expression in his eyes…he looks like he's discovered a treasure. I know that I have.
"Good morning." I smile sleepily at him, raise my hand to stroke the riot of tumbled curls back from his forehead.
"Good morning, John." He has a crease imprinted across his cheek from the pillow, and it makes him look so endearingly innocent. The just-for-John smile slowly spreads across his face, swallowing the sheet-crease up in a deep laugh line. God, he's gorgeous.
"Watching me sleep, Sherlock?" I tease him. "Little bit stalkerish, don't you think?"
His deep baritone chuckle sends shivers of pleasure through me. "You might say that I'm a bit obsessed with you, John. Watching you sleep, seeing you waking up – it's all new data. Did you know that your top lip gets about thirty percent fuller than normal when you have been sleeping deeply?"
I burst out laughing, touching my upper lip. "Thanks. I needed something to feel self-conscious about this morning." I reach up, threading my fingers through the luxurious curls at the back of his neck. I pull him down for a gentle kiss. His lips are so startlingly soft and plush. Suddenly mindful of my unbrushed teeth, I let go of his neck and shift up onto my elbow.
"So, did you sleep well?"
" It's funny. I'm not a fan of sleep, as you know well, John. But last night, I…enjoyed sleeping. I feel so energized this morning. And…I'm actually hungry."
"Hungry!" I leap out of the bed, grinning madly. "Mrs. Hudson said she'd leave us some scones for breakfast. I know she baked cranberry-orange ones yesterday. They're your favorite, right?"
Sherlock grins. "Shall we bring them back in here, have breakfast in bed?"
"You get the scones – she said she'd leave them outside the door. I'll put the kettle on for tea."
Meet you in the kitchen."
oOoOo
When I've had time to boil the kettle and make two mugs of tea, Sherlock still hasn't appeared in the kitchen. That's when I realize that I hear low voices through the closed sliding doors that lead from the kitchen to the living room. Setting down the mugs, I reach out and slide the doors open.
Oh, fantastic. Mycroft.
Sherlock has wrapped himself in his blue dressing gown, and is hunched moodily on the sofa, plucking at his violin. Mycroft Holmes is seated primly in my armchair, plucking fastidiously at microscopic lint on his trouser leg.
I'm suddenly very conscious that I'm only wearing my pants.
"Ah, Doctor Watson. You're looking…fit…this morning." His eyebrows rise toward his receding hairline as he takes in my state of undress.
"Erm…yes. Good morning, Mycroft. I wasn't expecting guests. Excuse me for a moment." I turn to make a rush for my jeans, discarded in a heap in Sherlock's bedroom, when Mycroft's voice stops me.
"Then you'll probably be needing this, Doctor Watson." I turn back to see him use the tip of his umbrella to fastidiously retrieve my shirt from its precarious position, dangling from the horn of the cow skull. He extends it toward me. "Undressed in a bit of a rush last night, I see." He regards me with a searching, steely gaze, and I remember suddenly that Sherlock is his little brother. I can almost hear the unspoken words in his glare.
Hurt my little brother, and I will make you disappear.
Flushing scarlet all the way to my ears, I seize the shirt, then force myself to calmly walk back to Sherlock's room for my jeans.
When I return, clothing and dignity more or less restored, Mycroft is standing in the doorway, and Sherlock is sullenly sawing the bow across his violin strings.
"I'll be talking to you soon, Sherlock." Mycroft turns to me. "Doctor Watson. Walk me out, will you?"
Feeling like I've no choice, I follow Mycroft down the stairs. In the entryway, he turns to me.
"I suppose congratulations are in order. I can't say I haven't been expecting this. I wonder if you know what you are getting into, Doctor Watson?"
"For God's sake, Mycroft. Call me John."
"Certainly, John. My apologies." Mycroft adjusts the perfect Windsor knot of his tie, then fixes me with that piercing gaze. "How much has Sherlock told you about his…romantic past?"
I can feel my spine stiffening. I will not talk about Sherlock's sexual history behind his back, particularly with Mycroft. It would be a betrayal.
"Sherlock will tell me what he thinks I need to know, Mycroft. You need to stay out of our relationship. It's between Sherlock and me, and is none of your business."
Mycroft purses his mouth into a wintry little smile. "Quite right, John. Well, if you decide that you need further…information, you know how to reach me." He turns, umbrella swinging, and sweeps out to the sleek car waiting at the curb.
Closing the door behind him, I turn to head back upstairs. As I reach the top, I spot a plastic food bin filled with scones. Bless Mrs. Hudson. I scoop it up, and head back in to face Sherlock.
oOoOo
Sherlock isn't in the living room or kitchen, so I drop the scones on the kitchen counter, then head for his bedroom. I discover a sulky hump under the duvet on the bed, and sit down beside it, stroking what appears most likely to be the curve of his back. He doesn't move.
"Sherlock?" No response. "Sherlock, what did he say to you?"
A mumbled, "Nothing."
"Then why the wobbly, Sherlock? Clearly, he must have said something to make you behave like a toddler who has dropped his ice lolly."
The duvet flips back to reveal a thunderous brow, and a distinctly pouty lower lip. "It drives me mad when he spies on me, on us. I wanted to spend the morning with you, eating breakfast in bed, not looking at his poncy face."
I laugh at him affectionately. "You can still spend the morning with me, having breakfast in bed. And his poncy face is gone. But you are pouting like a toddler."
"I am not pouting!"
I lean over him, closing the distance between our faces. "Not pouting? What's this, then?" I lean in and nip his bottom lip, laughing softly.
Sherlock lunges up and seizes me around the waist, flipping me over so that he's straddling my hips. Grinning, he pins my hands above my head. "Tosser." He leans down to kiss me again.
I'm startled at the sudden intense heat that pours through me, as though I've been doused in kerosene and set alight. I moan softly and lean into the kiss. Sherlock's hold on my wrists relaxes as he intensifies the kiss, and I reach up to wrap my arms around his shoulders, drawing him down closer to me. Sherlock parts my lips with his tongue, and slides it softly against my own. For several minutes, there is nothing but our breathing, and the soft sounds of our tongues and lips meeting and parting.
I take Sherlock's head in my hands, and gently raise his chin so that I can kiss his slender white throat. He shivers at the touch of my lips against his skin. I'm always a bit amazed at the heat radiating off of Sherlock. That endless expanse of alabaster skin makes him look like he'd be as cool as a marble statue. Instead, he's shockingly warm.
I softly tongue my way along the underside of his jaw, feeling the extraordinary sensation of beard stubble rough under my tongue. Wow - that's new. And hot.
Pushing softly against his shoulder, encouraging him to roll over so we are side by side, I continue to stroke along his neck and chest with my tongue. I press my open mouth to his neck, just above where it meets the clavicle, and suck hard at the skin, feeling the heat as blood rises toward the surface. Sherlock moans in pleasure, tossing his head. I back off and smile in satisfaction at the dark red mark I've left on his neck. Mine.
"So, I assume this means you're okay with going public about our relationship, John?" Sherlock remarks sardonically. "I'm quite certain that lovebites make a certain – statement – about one's sex life."
"Hell, yes, I'm going public. I want the world to know that you're mine, and I'm yours. Assuming you're okay with that, of course."
"Oh, I'm more than okay with going public, John." Smiling broadly, Sherlock reaches out and seizes my head in his hands, his long, graceful fingers cradling the back of my neck. He leans forward and kisses a line from my right ear, down along the jaw, down to the suprasternal notch. I gasp at the feeling of those soft lips, that hot tongue, stroking and tasting their way down my neck.
Unable to restrain my desire, I roll Sherlock over so that I am lying on top of him, our scantily clad erections sliding against each other, and seize his face in my hands. I plunder his mouth with my tongue, reveling in the sensation of our bodies pressed together from chest to knee. Sherlock bucks up against me, and I have to pull back, fighting for control.
"Sherlock…" I have to swallow hard, trying to keep the shaking out of my voice. "We have to stop. We need to talk first."
Sherlock's eyes, so dilated that I can hardly see the irises, open to gaze into mine. He's flushed, breathing heavily. There is no mistaking the desire he is feeling, the urge to keep going. But I remember last night, and I can see a ghost of that fear in his eyes as well. I am not going to go stumbling into a minefield without a map. I need to know what I'm up against.
So I kiss him once more, very softly, and back away.
"Breakfast in bed, I believe you said? How do cranberry-orange scones and tea sound?"
Sherlock sighs, a bit raggedly. "Perfect."
oOoOo
Half an hour later, we've devoured all of the magnificent scones that Mrs. Hudson left for us, along with copious amounts of tea. I'm chuffed at the amount Sherlock has eaten. Perhaps I can encourage his appetite with strategically placed snogging sessions.
We are propped up together on pillows in Sherlock's bed, cuddling and swapping kisses. I'm making a point of keeping things light, knowing that we really do need to sort things out before they get too heated again.
Finally, I decide I can't put it off any more. "Sherlock? Are you ready to tell me about it?"
He freezes, all of the giddy relaxation of the morning gone in an instant.
"Sherlock, I know it's hard. I know it's horribly painful to dredge it all up. But I have no idea what I'm up against, and I need to know what sort of things might trigger those feelings in you. I don't ever want you to feel like you felt last night, when you, well…when you went away, for lack of a better phrase."
"John, it's not necessary. I don't need to give you all of the sordid details of my past. I'm absolutely fine."
I take his chin in my hand and tilt his face up, meeting his eyes. "Sherlock, I'm not asking for a blow-by-blow description, although, if you feel a need to share every detail, I will certainly listen while you tell it. What I saw last night was an abuse victim reenacting a scenario from his past. That was not good, Sherlock.
"Sex can be something so beautiful, to be shared by two people who really love each other and want to express that love. That's what I want with you. I don't want you to suffer through sex with me. I don't want to 'fuck you.' I want to make love to you, to worship your body with mine. I can't do that if I'm afraid I'm going to trigger a reaction like last night's. Do you understand?"
Sherlock stared at me, his eyes wider and bluer than I'd ever seen. I'd never seen him look so naked and vulnerable. For a moment, his mouth twitched, as though his lower lip was on the verge of trembling. Then he whispered, "I can try to tell you. Can you…can you not look at me while I do that?"
"Of course, my love. Whatever makes it easier for you." I drew him down to rest against me, spooning him so that his back rested snugly against my chest. Wrapping him securely in my arms, I whispered, "Whenever you're ready."
oOoOo
We are lying spooned together in the quiet, sunlit bedroom. His voice is husky, a shadow of his usual firm baritone.
"Until I went off to university, I was unaware of myself as a sexual being. I knew about sex, of course. I wasn't naïve. But I thought of myself as being above it all. I focused on my studies, and in my spare time, I studied my peers. I learned to observe little details about them that indicated what their activities had been.
"One evening, a number of students from my dormitory had a party, and invited me along. That's when I met Se– when I met him."
Seth? Seldon? What name did he start to say?
"Somehow the subject of sex came up, and everyone began revealing their amount of experience. I pointed out the exaggerations and outright fabrications by some of the loudest participants. Se– he encouraged me, laughing loudly when I unmasked some of the most obvious liars. I found myself showing off for him."
Serge? Selwyn?
"Of course, the ones who felt the sting of my words retaliated, and began to mock me for being a virgin, saying my obsession with their sex lives proved…proved what a pathetic little poofter I was. They all laughed at that."
Oh, Sherlock.
"I stormed out, and Se– he followed me. We walked back to the dormitory, and he invited me back to his room. He flattered me, told me how brilliant he thought I was. He kissed me. I'd never experienced anything like it. I thought I was in love."
Selby? Septimus?
"He invited me to go home with him for the holidays. We went to his parents' estate in Derbyshire. That first afternoon, he took me out for a walk around the grounds. We came to the old gatehouse. He took me inside, and he…"
Sherlock pauses, swallowing hard. He whispers, "He had sex with me. I didn't know what I was doing, and he was angry and impatient. He forced me down, and…it…wasn't pleasant. I had expected…everyone says sex is so wonderful, but it wasn't. It was painful. I was afraid.
"Afterward, he was scornful, and when I tried to be affectionate, he mocked me. Finally he told me that I was 'his bitch' now, and he walked out."
I cradle him more tightly against me, trying desperately to keep the tears back, to control the rage storming through me. I can't bear to think of that young, lost Sherlock, being forced – being raped – by someone he trusted.
"He did it again, every day, sometimes twice a day, during those holidays. I learned how to move, how to position myself, so that it wouldn't hurt as much. He liked that, and I was…I was grateful for the approval." Sherlock spits the words out, so scornful of his younger self. "Having sex with him was always painful, but it got easier."
"Sherlock, you know…you must know that…that's not sex, right? He raped you. Sex takes place between two willing partners. That's not what you're describing here."
Sherlock is silent for a long time. I keep carding my fingers through his inky curls, pressing soft kisses to the back of his head. Finally, he continues.
"If I could convince myself it was consensual, then that gave me back some feeling of control over what was happening to me. I knew it was…was…what it was, but it was easier if I believed I wanted it, too. Then I was still making my own decisions. Can you understand that, John?"
"Of course, Sherlock. That's actually a pretty classic example of traumatic bonding syndrome. Developing a sense of rapport with an abuser gives one a sense of control." I squeezed him tighter. "What happened when you returned to school?"
"When we got back to university, he told everyone that I was...his 'bitch' now. They all mocked me for giving them a hard time about their sex lives, while being perfectly willing to 'take it up the arse' from Seb–" He breaks off suddenly, going absolutely rigid.
Seb. Sebastian…Sebastian Wilkes?
A white-hot rage surges through me. I try to fight it down desperately, knowing that this is not the time or the place to indulge my need to explode. Sherlock needs me more than ever at this moment. He opened up, trusted me with his terrible story. I will not make this moment about my need for vengeance.
The time will come, though. Sebastian Wilkes will pay for what he did to Sherlock.
Later.
All of this flashes through me in a matter of seconds, and I press it ruthlessly back down inside. I raise my hand to stroke soothing fingers through Sherlock's silky curls. I whisper, "Go on, love. "
Sherlock is still incredibly tense, but the stroking seems to soothe him, and after a moment of silence, he continues his story.
"He kept me as his…'bitch'…for most of the rest of the term. He would come to my room to have sex, and then sometimes, if I had pleased him, he'd stay and talk, laughing and joking like we were great friends. I allowed myself to believe that he cared for me, that this was a real relationship.
"What a little fool I was."
"No. Not a fool, Sherlock. Just a lonely, inexperienced kid, who only wanted someone to love him."
"Sounds like the very definition of a fool, John." Sherlock's lip curled bitterly. "Anyway, two weeks before the end of term, I decided to go see him in his dormitory. It was raining heavily. The way the common room in his dormitory was set up, there was a partition between the entryway and the main room. As I paused in the entryway to fold my umbrella and shake off the rain, I realised I heard Se– his voice…"
"Sherlock, I might not be a brilliant consulting detective, but I think we both know I've figured out his identity."
He nods slowly, just once, and continues, "…I heard…Seb's voice raised in laughing conversation. I wasn't really trying to eavesdrop, but I couldn't help but hear it quite clearly.
"One of the others was asking him what he saw in me – 'the freak,' they called me, like Sally Donovan and Anderson – and Seb replied, 'Are you kidding? I've got that little bitch well-trained. He'll do anything I want him to do. Anything. Use your imagination, gentlemen. If you can imagine it, I can make him do it. Do any of you want to borrow him? I can make him do it. I can make him suck you off, Keeling, while Rodgers is balls-deep in his arse. Maybe he can give me a handjob while he's at it. What do you say, gentlemen – care to come visit the freak with me this evening? I can promise you a good time.' I turned and fled, racing back to my room. I was packing a bag to leave when a knock came at my door. His knock."
My heart is pounding, dreading what comes next. I can't bear that this has happened to Sherlock. My Sherlock. If I could reach back in time and change everything I would – even if it meant that we would never have met. I'd give anything to save him from such a terrible betrayal.
"Sebastian was alone at the door. I sagged against the doorframe in relief, thinking he must have been joking, and I just hadn't understood. You know I don't always get jokes, John. Then he pushed his way in, and…slapped me to the floor. He had been rough with me before, but he never started out like that.
"It was horrible, John. He shouted at me, said I had been spying on him at his dormitory, that I had forgotten my place. He kept slapping me, punching me. He punched me in the mouth, and his signet ring split my lip. This scar on my bottom lip is from that blow. He beat me until I was almost unconscious. Finally he said, 'Clean yourself up. I'll be back tonight with my friends, and you will service them as you are told.' Then he walked out.
"I left that afternoon. I walked out on my university career. I found a place to stay in London, and soon after, I discovered cocaine. Not my best time of life, John." He pauses, waiting for me to respond. "John?"
I can't speak. I am sobbing silently, shaking with grief for my Sherlock. I gather him up against me, as tightly as I can, and press trembling kisses into his curls. Finally, I have myself under control, and whisper, "Thank you for telling me, Sherlock. Thank you. Now I know what I need to do for you."
oOoOo
We spend the entire day in bed, holding each other, kissing and stroking, but never getting more intimate than that. Mostly we talk. Telling me that terrible story has been like opening a floodgate in Sherlock, and he pours out his heart to me. He tells me so many stories from his childhood, his teen years, his lonely time at university, and the dark times spent in drug use. Has he ever had anyone that he could fully trust? It seems unlikely.
He tells me about how Greg Lestrade saved his life five years ago, finding him overdosed on heroin and cocaine, and getting him into the hospital just in time. He tells me of how Lestrade forced him to clean up, accomplishing what Mycroft never could, with all of his detox centers and treatment programs. Lestrade's method was simple – use, and you get no access to crime scenes.
I must remember to buy a really good bottle of Scotch for Greg this coming Christmas.
It's not all Sherlock's stories, this amazing day of secret-telling. I tell Sherlock about my reasons for joining the Army, about Afghanistan and the fact that I fell in love with that wild, alien country and its beautiful people, about the real reason that I kept my army-issue Browning when I was invalided home. Much of it he has already deduced, but he enjoys having his conclusions verified.
By the end of this amazing time together, we are both exhilarated and exhausted, and I've never felt so connected to another human being in my life. Never. Sherlock is the other half of my soul.
oOoOo
"Sherlock? Are you still awake?"
He rolls over to face me, his eyes dark in the moonlight from the window. "Yes, John."
"Listen. I know you can't 'delete' an experience like you had with…with Sebastian. But I'd like to try to 'overwrite the data' for you, if you'll let me."
"How would you do that?" Sherlock is intrigued with the notion. He gets that anticipatory look that always happens before what he considers to be a truly intriguing experiment.
"I'd like to give you the sort of 'first time' experience that you never knew. I'd like to make love to you, Sherlock. When you're ready, really ready. Will you allow me to try?"
Sherlock shivers, but they don't seem to be the triggered tremors from yesterday. I ease forward and kiss his lips softly, and he responds warmly. After a thorough snog, he sighs and whispers, "Okay."
oOoOo
Disclaimers: Sherlock belongs to Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss, Sherlock Holmes originally belonged to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing.
Thanks to my lovely beta, Skyfullofstars.
