(A/N- Hey all, sorry for the long absence on this one. This chapter is shorter but getting my head wrapped back around it. Hope you enjoy despite how short it is.)
Sitting down for tea after what had just happened, John wasn't sure how to feel. He watched Sherlock putting the kettle on the stove and rooting around for a certain kind of tea, while he just sat. Normally it was his job to make the tea, but Sherlock had insisted.
John felt tired anyway, and hugged himself which pulled the jumper taut around him. It felt good. Comforting. His mind was in a sort of limbo between bliss and confusion. Then Sherlock started talking. John wasn't completely sure what about as he was only half listening but it wasn't the words he needed- the mere sound of the man's voice was a comfort.
He felt relaxed now that he had a cup of tea, his favorite chair, and the sound of the violin from under Sherlock's fingers. When the music stopped and John's tea was gone, he looked over at his flatmate curiously.
"You're still extraordinary at that, Sherlock." John gave him a smile, gun hand absently rubbing along his chest.
"Thank you, John. I have to say it will be nice to have someone who appreciates my genius back around." Sherlock stood up, placed his violin on the couch behind him and stepped onto then over the table, coming to a crouch in front of John. "Let's go back upstairs now, hmm?" he asked grabbing John's tea cup and setting it aside.
John looked hesitant but didn't resist the tea cup being taken away from him. "Sherlock, I'm not sure why you're-"
"For you. How many times do we have to go over this?" Sherlock took one of John's hands and hauled him upwards, leading him up to John's room. "Trust, John."
John took a few deep breaths and nodded. "Yes, I trust you."
Sherlock pulled out the rope again, wrapping it around his forearm. His voice was that gentle caressing tone once more. "Shirt."
John pulled the shirt off of himself and tossed it onto the back of his desk chair. Sherlock pointed to the chair so John tossed the shirt onto the desk and sat down in the chair himself. He watched Sherlock unwinding the rope and approaching. His heart was starting to hammer heavily, sweat beading on his forehead. He blinked heavily, eyes falling nearly shut as the rope came around his neck.
Sherlock draped it around John's neck, crossing it and tightening it against his throat but not enough to cut off his breathing. He watched John carefully, noting the quick heave of his chest and the beading across his crinkled forehead. He was keeping composure but just barely. Sherlock leaned in and put his face inches from John's, waiting until his dull-hazel eyes opened for him.
When they were eye to eye, Sherlock smiled. "It's alright John. I love you." He tightened the rope a bit. His body was so close to John's but not touching.
John blinked in shock, his mouth gaping with unspoken words of confusion.
Sherlock just smiled and walked around behind John. He tugged the rope again as he bent and put his lips to John's hairline, just above the rope. "That's right. Everything is good." Sherlock's free hand reached around and covered John's eyes so he couldn't see anything. "It's alright John. I'm here."
John's chest was rising and falling quickly. He jerked his head a little, trying to get his eyes free. "Sherlock, please, stop."
He was relentless though, his hand steadfast on John's eyes and the rope caressing John's neck. The rope ends dangled down across John's chest and Sherlock's breath played across the little hairs at the best of his neck with each whispered, "I love you." When it was almost too much, when John thought he was going to burst, John stopped and held completely still.
He quieted himself so that there wasn't the bursting beat of his heart pounding in his ears, to where the rope was slack and still against the skin of his throat, to where the hand covering his eyes was barely a weight at all but more of a whisper of a touch. And then everything was gone from him all at once. Sherlock had taken the rope away, his hand away, and his breath away. John sighed and arched backwards, searching for his touch. "Come backā¦" he whispered.
Sherlock heard his whisper and before he could crave again, Sherlock was straddling John's lap, careful not to put too much weight on his bum leg. "I'm here, John. I'm always here."
He watched John's eyelashes lazily draw upwards and dull-gray-hazel eyes looked up at him. John let out a warm breath and leaned forward, his head falling to the center of Sherlock's chest. His hands, free, found themselves upwards and entangled in Sherlock's shirt.
"You could have stopped me. I did not bind your hands." Sherlock put a hand on the back of John's head, keeping him there, keeping him still.
John gasped and tried to pull back, his hands wrapping tighter in Sherlock's shirt. When he realized the man wasn't letting him go he settled again and let his tension ease away. "Why are you doing this?"
"You know John. Say it." Sherlock rested his chin on the top of John's head, hearing the echoing of the video-tape in their actions. Sherlock never gave of himself, but he wanted all of his being to go to John now.
Sherlock felt John's jaw ticking with jawing, wordlessness, and he let his eyes fall shut, waiting to hear him say it. "You love me."
As soon as the words were spoken, Sherlock got up and leaned against the desk away from John. "What of you, John? How do you feel about being back here?"
John sat back against the chair, eyes soft and composure strong. "I don't really blame you, you know." John gripped the edge of the chair and looked at the light from the lamp, eyes spotting with the brightness. "I thought it was you I was upset with, but it was me. M-" John swallowed hard. "I don't think Moriarty understood my reasoning either."
Sherlock pushed off of the desk with a growl. "Don't say his name!"
Pulling back away from him, John gripped the chair hard, watching the sudden outburst. "Alright," he said quickly. He watched Sherlock settling back down. "What was that about?"
Drawing his lips down in a frown, Sherlock shrugged. "Nothing, you're mine, not his."
John watched silently until he couldn't help but laugh. "I'm yours you say?" He stood up from the chair, his leg slightly shaky since he didn't have his cane to lean upon. "How do you figure that?"
"Didn't I tell you that I love you? Isn't that what love is, belonging to someone?" Sherlock was quite serious and John quieted down.
He moved forward and put his hands to the side of Sherlock's face, studying it in the lamp light. Deep shadows played across his features, amplifying them and making each curve more accentuated. He looked like a God in this light and John was momentarily mesmerized. "You're right, I do belong to you. That's why I couldn't stay away." He sighed and moved back, letting his hand fall away from Sherlock. Moving towards the bed, he sat on the edge and looked at the cuffs and ropes, the iPod he hadn't realized was playing, and the lamp, keeping his eyes everywhere but on Sherlock. Finally he forced them back to the man and smiled. "I'm tired, Sherlock."
Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Fine." He gathered the things from John's room and switched off the music.
John sank back into the bed when Sherlock shut the door. He let his eyes close and he fell into a deep sleep.
Waking up, John wasn't sure how long he'd slept. He groped in the dark for his phone but found he couldn't actually move. He jerked his hands and found them tied tightly. He couldn't see, a fabric over his eyes, and suddenly his body was aching. Oh God! John thought in a panic. It hadn't been real, everything he'd thought happening with Sherlock hadn't been real, it had been a dream, and now he was waking up back in the hands of Moriarty. Jerking his arms hard, trying to break the bonds, curling his hurt leg up, John cried out angrily. Moving upwards on the bed, he could move his arms enough to feel his chest.
It was cut open, he knew it. And a hotness was running down him, his blood pouring forth and out of him in waves. He was gone; this was the part where Moriarty would film his death and send the tape off to Sherlock.
Sherlock, who in his sociopathic tendencies would find this as a challenge and nothing more. Sherlock who had changed John in ways he wasn't sure of.
Sherlock- who had told John he loved him.
He had to be home, with that man. The one who wanted him, loved him, had put his lips to John's skin and whispered secrets for only them.
The reality was Sherlock, not Moriarty. So John settled down and took deep breaths, waiting and listening. "Sherlock?" he asked softly.
A door opened and it sounded too much like the basement door. There was no light that he could see. Sherlock was slipping away from him again and John was lost.
