Johnlock Intoxicated- Remember
Sherlock woke slowly, his eyes feeling swollen and stiff. He yawned and attempted to stretch, but when he moved, he felt a burning pain in his rear end. The man gasped, immediately flinched, and curled outward a bit from the sudden burn. He turned his head to look at the state of his bed- in complete disarray, smells like sweat and male ejaculate, dirty from sweat and dirt from bodies.
So it hadn't been just a nightmare. It had been real. John had… had actually… Sherlock shook his head, not wanting to believe his friend had actually done what he thought he had done. What he knew he had done. John had… taken him, to put it lightly, without the detective's consent. He had threatened him with a weapon and had forced him into sex, something the man had never experienced before. And it had been terrible.
His first experience and John had turned it into a disgusting, lust-filled activity he thought he could do to Sherlock because he was drunk and the detective was weaker than him. The dark-haired man scoffed, hating John for what he had done to him. He laid there in the bed thinking over what could be done and what he had to do.
The doctor definitely had to pay for what he'd done, but what could Sherlock do? He wouldn't physically harm the man because it probably wouldn't do much good anyway. John could protect himself from the man's attacks and resorting to violence wasn't really Sherlock's style. No, if he was going to punish John, it had to be something more, something terrible, something devious. It had to be something to mess with his head, fuck him over mentally; in much the same way John had done physically. But what, exactly, could he do that would attain that goal?
His thought process was cut short by a sound coming from the kitchen- metal clinking together, water filling some sort of pitcher, metal on glass. John was making his morning tea, just as he always did. Sherlock assumed he would make tea for two as well. John was always thinking of Sherlock, taking care of him. And Sherlock trusted him. Well he had trusted him before last night. Now however, he didn't know what to do regarding John.
The detective mulled over what he should do- act like it never happened? Or make John remember what he had done to him? The latter seemed more like torture if the man had forgotten because of his drunken state, but that was just what Sherlock was aiming for- torture. Pure, psychological torture. He threw the covers off his frame and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, wincing a bit as he forgot about the potential pain that would visit him. He stopped a sat on the bed for a few moments letting the throb of pain subside before slowly sliding down onto the floor. Maybe standing would be better that sitting.
Sherlock got up and stood by his bed, waiting for a sting of soreness, but it didn't come, at least not like before. Walking over to the closet, he grabbed a suit and was about to put it on when he thought it would make John more uncomfortable to just wear his robe and trousers. He smiled grimly to himself before replacing the suit and found a pair of slack pajama trousers and his robe, wrapping it around his torso. Exhaling a steadying breath, he opened the door.
John was in the kitchen, just as he suspected, making tea and holding his head with one hand- hangover. At the sound of Sherlock's door opening John turned, a slight grimace already plastered on his face from the pounding headache. At seeing the detective, his brow furrowed for a moment before he paled and quickly turned back around, facing the stove where the water was boiling in a teapot. So he remembered. And it seemed he felt at least some sort of guilt over it all. But Sherlock was not content with him just feeling a bit guilty.
"Morning, John." Sherlock said in a rough tone. He knew that saying someone's name in a sentence made it personal and that was just how he intended to make this situation- personal.
John merely grunted a response and went back to holding his head. The detective narrowed his eyes and deduced the man- tense, he was nervous or the chemicals from sleep still haven't left his body which meant he hadn't yet used the bathroom, the headache was intense because he went straight down to the kitchen to brew a home remedy, facing away from Sherlock intentionally meaning he was definitely guilty. He had a good time last night, but hadn't considered the consequences of the morning after.
The dark-haired man sighed quietly, hating what John had done last night and hating that he had to give him recompense. But he had brought this on himself, and Sherlock was going to give him what he'd asked for. He looked down at himself to make sure he was exposed enough to cause discomfort, but not show too much of himself to John again. His robe was hanging off of one shoulder, his torso was bare, and the gray pajama bottoms were sagging low on his hips. He smiled and walked over to the man, taking notice that he had turned his head even farther away from him. Good- he was uncomfortable.
He stopped, close enough to John that he could feel his body heat through the man's sleeping shirt, and said again, "I said good morning, John." In fiercer tone.
After a few moments, John responded, "…M-morning." The detective had a small smile playing on his lips as he reached forward, brushing John's chest with his arm, and grabbed his mug of tea.
"Thank you for the tea, John."
"…yeah…" He said simply.
Sherlock stood there for a few moments, staring down the doctor, trying to convey the hate and betrayal he felt towards him. When he noticed that the man's breathing became quicker than before, he turned away and made for the couch. Instead of flopping onto the furniture like he normally did, he had to lay down easily so as not to feel the burn that John had caused. He set the cup of tea down and slowly eased himself onto the couch.
When he was nice and settled he let out a loud, contented sigh, loud enough for John to hear, and asked, "What do you want to do today, John?"
There was a moment of silence followed by a barely audible "Nothing really…" A few seconds later the sandy-haired man emerged from the kitchen with his tea and sat in his chair, taking care to not look in Sherlock's direction.
"We don't have to solve any cases today. You look a bit tired, John. We can just stay home."
John's lips thinned slightly and he hummed in response.
Sherlock got up from his position on the couch and stalked over to stand behind John's chair. He leaned down and rested his hands on his shoulders and lowered his head to the man's ear and whispered, "Why don't you try to fuck me again, John?"
At this, John's whole body visibly flinched and he made an odd sound, most likely choking on his tea. "W-what?" He stuttered.
"I asked you if you were going to try to fuck me again, John." He repeated. John went rigid and his breathing became ragged and uneven. Sherlock gave a huff of laughter and went to sit in his chair across from John. He slowly lowered himself down into the cushion and glared at the man. "Well? Have anything to say, John? Anything at all?" When all the taller man got in response was silence and the sandy-haired man staring at the floor tensely, he muttered, "You coward…"
At this John looked up, desperation in his eyes. "I'm not- I-" He choked on his words, unable to continue the thought.
"You what, John?" He started to lean forward, intending to rest his elbows on his knees, but quickly abandoned the idea when his arse flared in pain. He allowed the pain to reflect on his face for a few seconds, to let John know what he had caused. Sherlock leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs, arms on either side on the armrests.
"I… Sherlock…." He sighed and dropped his head in his hands. "I didn't mean- I never meant to- ah, Christ…"
"Oh, so you didn't mean to rape me? It just sort of… happened?"
"I didn't rape you!" John yelled whipping his head around the flat, afraid of someone might have heard him. "I- I… just… I was drunk and…" John sighed, frustrated at his inability to concoct and excuse for his actions last night.
"And what, John?" Sherlock asked in a bitter-sweet tone. "You weren't in control of you actions? It was the alcohol's fault?"
"No, I- well… No, no. I just- I didn't… rape you okay? Don't say that…"
"Why? Because it's easier to lie to yourself about what you did to me? I didn't want that, John." Sherlock said strictly, as if scolding a child. "You raped me. You raped me, fucked me, took me, did me, however you want to say it. I did not consent." The dark-haired man stared hard at John, waiting for a response.
When none came, Sherlock decided to speak again. "Do you remember it, John?"
The sandy-haired man looked up at Sherlock with red-rimmed eyes and a deep frown. "What?" He asked.
"Do you not remember me saying 'no' and 'stop'? That I didn't want what you forced on me?"
"…I do…." John replied.
"Good. I want you to remember every. Single. Second… of last night. Every second that you had your cock in me, every time you thrusted into me and made me moan in pleasure or cry out in pain, every second that you felt it was right, it was wonderful, pleasurable." Sherlock had gotten up now and was slowly walking towards John, his eyes fixed on his, his fierce gaze making the man squirm in his seat. "Because I want you to know that for every second you enjoyed me, I was dying. You killed me, John. You..." Sherlock's gaze flicked down for a moment and he swallowed bile and pride. "You broke me, John. Congratulations. You did a wonderful job. You should be proud of yourself." He practically spat venom in the last sentence at the man.
Before Sherlock reached the man's chair he made a sharp turn and walked towards his room. He planned to let John mull over what he had just said before trying anything else. The longer he had to think about it, the more he would hate himself for it and that was just what Sherlock needed him to do. Hate himself. Completely and thoroughly. A few hours should be good before he came out of his room again. He could busy himself with something else for that time. Then he could call Lestrade for a case and take John with him. To the outside world everything would seem normal, the same as always. But when it was just he and John, Sherlock would separate himself from the man, let him know he no longer trusted him to make him feel even guiltier. He wanted him to remember everything that had transpired last night. Sherlock certainly did. Making him remember and constantly reminding him was the only way to fuck with him the way Sherlock wanted to.
He smiled to himself evilly before realizing something- John hadn't even apologized. If he was truly remorseful, he would have apologized over and over to the detective until his throat hurt and his voice was hoarse. But he hadn't said sorry even once. Sherlock shook his head a little and dismissed it as John being too shocked with all that had happened to actually say sorry to the man. That was it. He was just in shock. But soon he would be truly sorry.