Their first night in Florence, John refused to share a bed. Layne watched unenthusiastically as he pillaged the closet for extra blankets and made a small sleeping bundle.
"I don't even understand," she huffed, "We've slept together before!" John immediately turned around, mouth agape.
"We never…no…we didn't sleep together. We shared a bed."
"Yes. And that's what I'm offering now."
"Are you and Sherlock just blatantly unaware of social practices? You're the lady, you take the bed. I act as the respectful, soft-hearted gentleman and take the floor without expectations of friendly payment." Layne respectfully pivoted her body as she peeled off the day's clothing, unhooking her bra swiftly and replacing it with a loose blue camisole. John was standing in his boxers, but still felt a blush rise to his cheeks when he saw that Layne herself was only wearing tangerine panties under her top. Sliding her legs under the covers, she gave him a quick salute and turned off the light.
John twisted uncomfortably for a good five minutes, before settling a pillow underneath his shoulder. It was very rare that it gave him much trouble, but as posh as the carpeting was, it was still no substitute for a mattress. Trying to turn on his side, a low grunt fell out the side of his mouth, instantly making him furious at Sherlock's stubbornness. Not like he even sleeps…
Layne could tell immediately that John would be having issues with his posture. She wondered if he would stop her if she tried to crawl onto his level, support his scarred muscles with her own hands. She'd hold his arm all night if he asked. Instead, without turning over, she threw back the covers on the opposite side of the bed.
"John, for fuck sakes, get in." He barely hesitated, slowly standing to only hold at the side, left hand clutching the edge of the covers. For all her unnatural patience (for a Holmes, that is), she grew frustrated as the backs of her legs chilled. She finally rolled over to see what the fuss was, only to catch him staring at her underwear. He looked…alarmed.
"I can put some trousers on if it bothers you that much," she kindly worded.
"No, it's fine, let me just…are you sure?" With no more energy to argue, she grabbed John by the collar of his undershirt and pulled him-on top of her. He lay there, staring down her neck, too nervous to shift his position. Layne adjusted her arms underneath his own, flipping him onto his side, where she kept her hold. He continued looking at her, as if she were brittle. Feeling the exit scar riding high upon his shoulder blade, she brushed it with her fingernails.
"Where does it hurt the most? The front or back?" He looked confused, then became aware of her touch.
"Oh, um…it's more of a joint thing. It's just all over. Not usually this upsetting, mind you…" he looked thoughtful for a moment and whispered out loud what he rarely spoke to himself, "It'll never fully heal."
Layne nodded her head once, gripped his shoulder with her hands, kneading and pressing all the distinct points of muscle and ligaments. John closed his mouth, breathing uncomfortably through his nose for a few moments. It was awkward and intimidating, to be touched by someone he'd sat with a handful of times. Layne was everything and nothing of Sherlock Holmes. Her profile was similar to Mycroft's, but the lean, sleek bones of her cheeks gave her a lovely shadow. Looking at Layne, he knew right away he had projected his thoughts too loudly. She stopped massaging and gave him a passive stare.
"Is that enough? Feel better?"
"Yes…yes, t-thank you."
He thought she would roll back over, facing the balcony, keeping her body pin straight so as to not let her curves fit into his. Instead, she tucked her elbow under her head and kept looking at (or was it past?) him. For the first time he saw how tired she was, how far away her heart was from the investigation. Obviously she was worried about Moriarty's message, but there was something else. He didn't press her, just continued staring back and waiting for her to speak.
"If I tell you something, will you tell me something in return?" she asked.
"A secret?"
"Anything, I don't care."
"Okay, you first."
Layne steadied herself, then spoke.
"When I first found out I was pregnant, I didn't want to have my baby." John nodded understandingly. It was his turn.
"When I first met you, I wished you weren't pregnant." The information startled Layne, but refused to pass judgment. Her thoughts just seemed to pour out of her mouth, followed by one of his in return.
"I once punched Sherlock in the face when I found him strung out in my bathroom. He was sixteen…"
"I spilled one of his experiments down the sink, which ate up the pipes, then blamed it on Mrs. Hudson."
"When Max calls me 'Mummy' it makes me want to throw up. That's what we used to call our mother. I just want to be 'Mom.'"
"I shot a man the first day I knew Sherlock. And I didn't care. I still don't care."
"I resent Mycroft for refusing to help me raise Sherlock. I begged him to take him for just a little bit. I was a few weeks away from my degree…I never finished."
"Those nights, when you used to come up to my room and lay next to me, I would pretend you were my wife. I'd imagine Max was mine, you were mine, and in a few months we'd be just another normal family bowling around London."
Layne felt tears brew at the corner of her eyes and blew a laugh. She hurriedly placed the back of her hand against John's face, inhaling.
"Jim and I…we were never officially together. I told Sherlock I dated him, because had he known what happened he would've gone after Moriarty alone." John now crinkled his forehead in frustration.
"I don't understand. When you came to Baker you said you were involved with…"
"Yes, I did. Because it's just easier to say than…well—than, 'He raped me.'" John sat up in bed, his fists making strange heavy balls, before easing back down. The rage underneath his military façade brewed, but stayed capped. Layne moved her fingers into John's stiff hair, speaking.
"He wasn't a bad man at first, but they very rarely are, I suppose. We met through a mutual connection in Hong Kong. I was hired out for a rather unsavory job, and Moriarty was the man behind the action. He sought me out. He paid me two million dollars to kill a man and I did just that. Three nights later, we went to dinner. Four weeks later, we had sex. Six months, we shared a flat. It was, casual, but never dull. Jim Moriarty is not a dull man, that is to say. He was looking through my phone one day, found Sherlock's number. He became obsessed with the idea of meeting my little genius. And of course, as the proud fucking mother hen I am, I told him everything. I made sure he knew Sherlock was goddamn brilliant. Mycroft may have told Jim Sherlock's life story, but I gave Moriarty something even worse; I gave him Sherlock's mind. Soon I realized his intentions, and decided to leave." Layne's voice hitched onto a hint of exasperation. John kept boring into her, his eyes so translucent with regrettable curiosity she couldn't help but finish. As she started her story, she smelled the sandalwood cologne on the back of Jim's collar…
"And where are you going all pretty like that?" Layne kept her legs crossed and barely moved from the couch. She left Moriarty's question hanging in the air, finishing her glass of wine and slipping on her heels. Without a doubt he had seen her luggage piled beside the door.
"For someone who is so disgustingly nosy, I assumed you would know." There was a throaty growl from his short frame, his head keeping a slight weaving pattern as he stared at her. Unfortunately so, Layne felt a pang of sorrow as she remembered their last night in bed. He was incredibly dead as a human, but he knew her body better than anyone else. It was a game, as most of life was, to him. He enjoyed the pleasure of finding a pulse behind his thrusting, and the guttural responses she would give him in return. It was sick sex, but she loved it. Her life was better and worse for knowing Jim Moriarty, but she knew with certainty that it was not worth sacrificing Sherlock any further.
"Layne Holmes, the assassin with a conscious. Now that's a story I'm sure won't linger in history." Crossing over to her, Moriarty snaked an arm over her shoulder, letting it crawl down the length of her chest and cup her breast. She shivered reluctantly and pulled his hand away.
"You've been a huge mistake. A fun one, but a mistake nonetheless. Stay the fuck away from my brothers, or I will make sure you are dead within the month." As she moved towards the doors, Moriarty's eyes widened as he clapped his hands with a strange sort of glee.
"OH, this is about the virgin! Come now, Layne, he's just a hobby." She faced him with a frightening fury, pointing a deadly finger at his chest.
"You've been playing him for months! And I had no idea. The cabbie, the fucking Black Lotus! You have followed him for years, you bastard! I found Carl's shoes. You are—is that why you hired me? Hmm? Fuck me to fuck up my brother?" Jim merely raised his eyebrows at her exclamation.
"Fuck you? No, no, no, no you idiot. I owned you. I still own you. I've tagged you every night this week without complaint. True, in the beginning ordering up the infamous Holmes sister was just a ploy to get a little under Sherly's skin. But you…you are so much fun. And since your brother got a pet I thought I'd invest in one. But you're not an animal, unfortunately. You're just a hole, but a fun one to crawl in I'll give you that." Now inches apart, Layne felt his breath run over her face. Without giving any thought to her situation, she spit between his eyes.
She knew immediately she'd made a mistake.
Turning to run in the opposite direction, Jim grabbed her ponytail, throwing her to the ground. She'd fought many people in her time, never rethinking a maneuver. But looking into his black eyes, she felt paralyzed. It was there all along, his plan. And even as he forced her thighs apart with a rough leg, she couldn't bring herself to move. He held her arms down with one hand, running the other over the band of her underwear. Her dress was off before she knew what to do. With a sudden consciousness, she rammed one of her heels into the soft spot of his calf. Bucking up, he reached for a nearby ashtray, knocking her several times across the face. She felt loose teeth barely clinging to their roots, the back of her throat closed up with blood. Ignoring her state, he kissed her roughly, wiping the crimson from the corner of his mouth. He was on top of her in moments. Positioning himself, he gripped her broken chin with one hand.
"When I say scream, you'll obey."
When she woke up, she found the place empty of his belongings. Lying there for several hours, she groped long enough to find her clothes, only to press it against the growing puddle of blood between her legs. Finally gathering herself into the shower, Layne sat down and cried till the water ran cold.
Holding Layne's chin with one hand, John chased a large teardrop with a calloused thumb. Their entire relationship, he realized, had been built on these small touches. Layne's eyes remained glassy, but she cleared her throat once more.
"I found out I was pregnant six weeks later. I let myself go until Mycroft had me tracked down. He managed to get me into a private hospital, where I apparently hadn't been doing too well. I spent two weeks there. He asked me, once, why I just hadn't got rid of it. And the honest answer was I just tried not to think about it. Which sounds stupid, at five months pregnant how can you just ignore something like that, but I did." John remained silent but a moment, then paused.
"So, does Max know about his dad? I mean, does it bother you? Well obviously it does, but…"
"He's my baby. I love him more than anything in the world. His father is irrelevant. But no, he doesn't know who his father is. When he asks, I just say it's a surprise. He's young enough that that trick still seems to work. But how do you tell your child something like that? Do ever wonder why us Holmes children are the way we are? We were unwanted. We were just part of an arranged marriage. Sherlock, bless him, was the worst. Our mother constantly told him how he was the last thing she needed in her life. She loved all of us, but we were too much. I don't want Max to ever hear me say that he is the result of one man beating his mother into submission. He might not have been born into love, but he is loved regardless."
At that moment, John decided he had never loved anyone more. Realizing that after quite a long confession, it was his turn to tell her a secret. He understood how emotional appeals were ineffective on Sherlock, and perhaps Layne at one point. But she had softened, and grew warm, but was still fiercely sharp. Breathing heavily through his nose, John looked deep into her frame, and began:
"After you had Max, and you'd left, I didn't touch your side of my bed for months. I still don't let anyone else near it. And every night after, I imagined you settling into all your fussy mothering routines. I wondered if you needed help putting the baby to sleep or if you were getting enough rest through the night. Sherlock used to get pictures of Max in the mail, from Mycroft. I would stare at them, just trying to find all the little features in his face that were you. And one day I woke up and decided that if, by rare chance, you ever showed up at Baker Street again, I would tell you something. I would tell you, Layne Holmes, that I love you more than anyone on this bloody great earth. And I would love your son, no matter whose he was. And you could be whoever you decided you wanted to be, and wear whatever you wanted to sleep in, and eat whatever you wanted to eat, and I'd still be there to love you the next day. So…there. Ta."
Shaking with feelings, Layne ran her hand over John's blonde cropped head. She could feel his heartbeat pulse through the skin behind his ears. The best man she'd ever known would obviously want the worst woman who walked the earth. As disgusted as she was with her life, John loved her. More importantly, he loved Max. And to this soldier, her history had no more importance than her shoe size.
"John…I completely love you."
John snorted, "No, you don't."
"Yes—yes I do. I do love you, but you are worth so much more than me." Giving her a gentle shove he laughed.
"You mad cow, come here." Reaching towards her face, Layne let one of her legs slip over his. Kissing soundly, John's hands swarmed underneath her shirt, while her fingernails no longer delicately traced the lines of old scars, but left moon-crest imprints in the small of his back. Breaking apart briefly, they started thinking.
"Layne."
"Yes?"
"I really, really hate your orange pants." She laughed lightly, peeling them down to her knees.
"Well, if you can get them off with your teeth, I'll make sure to never wear them again." With face-breaking smiles they both laughed as John darted underneath the cover. Layne laid back, one hand tunneling into her pillow as she allowed herself, for one moment, to stop worrying about whoever else was alive outside the room.
From one room over, Sherlock's ear had practically glued itself to the wallpaper. Desperately trying to control his emotions, thirteen levels of disgust ran through his stomach. With a surly stare, he briefly thought about running next door to break up…whatever was happening between the two of them. Instead, he stretched out on his stomach, his frame consuming the entire bed.
"Bloody John Watson, snogging my sister."
