Hello! I can't believe I actually met my self imposed deadline. As penance for the extremely lengthy gap last time, this is the longest chapter yet. One small thing about this chapter, I must issue a warning.
TRIGGER WARNING: RAPE
Yep. I know it's a touchy subject, but it was necessary for backstory. I will have the next chapter out no later than the 14th, but hopefully sooner. Please point out any spelling/grammar errors, I do not have a beta reader. If anyone would like the position, I would be exceedingly grateful and will return the favor. As I am sure you all know, I did not invent the characters and all credit goes to BBC and Doyle.
Chapter 8
John was still trying to figure out what was wrong with Sherlock when the car stopped.
"Wait here, I'll get your crutches." Sherlock said as he hopped out into the frigged wind. John was perfectly happy to sit in the warm car, and he watched Sherlock through the rear view mirror.
"It looks like we will need to have a discussion when we're alone." John though. "Whatever is wrong, I need to fix it." Sherlock opened the door and silently handed John the crutches. The wind nearly blew him over, and it had started to snow again. The ground was icy underneath the snow, and John noticed how Sherlock followed close behind him, just in case he fell.
"Mrs. Hudson is still at her sisters. She won't be back for a few days." Sherlock said as they stepped into the entrance of 221 Baker Street. John just nodded, eying the steep stairs apprehensively. Sherlock seemed to realize how difficult they would be the same time John did. "I'll help you up." The consulting detective said, turning to his sidekick.
"I've got it." John replied. He didn't want to be trapped in the flat, and he knew that his ability to maneuver the stairs would be the deciding factor in if he could go out. Sherlock, trusting the doctors' judgment, went outside to provide the driver instructions on what to do with the groceries.
"I can do this." John told himself as he hobbled to the stairs. Standing at the bottom looking up, it felt as though he was bracing himself to climb Everest. At first, John tried to climb them the usual way. Placing both crutches on the first step, he pushed himself off with his good foot in an attempt to swing himself up. This did not work at all, and John came crashing down to the floor. "Bloody crutches!" John muttered in frustration. The cumbersome tools were being more hindrance than help. Abandoning them in the floor, John tried scooting himself up the stairs on his bum. This one would have worked if Sherlock hadn't come in just then.
"You do realize I was coming back to help you." The taller man said as he rolled his eyes.
John ignored this comment. "I can do it on my own." He said, scooting himself up another step. Sherlock did not even bother with a response, instead choosing to act. "Oh God, what the hell is he doing?" John wondered. Sherlock had leaned down, and was holding John as if hugging him. "Why is he hugging me so tight? Why is he hugging me at all?! It's nice, but confusing." John thought, trying hard to ignore the urge to lean closer to Sherlock for more of the shampoo smell.
"You could help." Sherlock said, turning his face to look a John. The blond man turned scarlet as he realized that this was not a hug, but an attempt to help him stand without crutches. John hurried to help, standing up on his good leg. Moving to John's injured side, Sherlock left his arm around John's waist and nudged John so that he would put his arm around his shoulders.
"This is embarrassing." John thought as they hobbled up the stairs as though they were in a three legged race. John was surprised at how patient the consulting detective was being. Moving slowly up every step, he never showed any irritation at having to help.
Although it took almost ten minutes, they finally made it up the first flight of stairs. Johns head was throbbing, and his ankle hurt from the effort that the stairs had took. "Fantastic, more stairs." John said sarcastically to Sherlock as he turned to start up the steps to his room. Sherlock apparently had other plans.
"You are not sleeping up there, I already moved your stuff." He said as though rummaging through someone else's belongings was a perfectly natural thing to do.
"Well, for Sherlock it is normal." John mused. "I know you mean well, but I can't sleep on the couch. It hurts my back." He said nicely, knowing that his friend was trying.
"I know that." Sherlock said with another eye roll. "I have moved some of your things to my room."
It took John a moment to process this information. "What the hell is he thinking? Surely he knows what a terrible idea this is!" Deciding that maybe Sherlock just hadn't thought this through, John tried to act as though the suggestion was completely normal. "Um, that's really nice of you Sherlock, but I hate to impose. Where will you sleep?"
Sherlock once again proved John wrong. He had obviously given this a lot of thought. "As you know, I do not sleep much. I would be in and out of bed without you waking, if you're concerned that I would keep you up. You sleep an hour off army time, from eleven to six, unless we are on a case. If I sleep, which I usually don't given what a waste of time it is, I sleep from one to four. As you can see there is plenty of overlap so that it wouldn't disturb your sleep schedule." The detective rattled off, obviously proud of the solution he had come up with.
John was not as pleased with the situation. "He is absolutely mental." John thought. "This is a tricky situation he has put me in. If I outright refuse to share a bed with him, he will think I'm angry with him. If I agree, it's going to be awkward."
John had been standing there motionless for almost a minute, deep in contemplation. "Or, if it's a problem, I could sleep on the couch." Sherlock said, breaking the silence.
John saw that he had to make a decision now, before it became a bigger issue. "No! I mean, I'm perfectly happy to sleep with you."
The taller man gave him an odd, appraising look. Realizing how his previous comment sounded, especially with the consulting detective still holding him up by his waist. John stammered to try and rephrase. "I mean, we can sleep together. Shit. BLOODY SHARE A BED!"
Sherlock was now the one looking a bit apprehensive. "It's quite alright, I'll just sleep on the couch."
"No, it's really fine." John insisted, the pain in his head growing worse the longer he stood there. Sherlock, realizing the pain his friend was in, just nodded and helped him through the front door. The slow shuffle to Sherlock's room felt to John like it took hours. His head was spinning from the pain and his foot felt as though someone was stabbing him every time it moved. John was relieved to finally sit down on Sherlock's bed, although the action made him feel as though he had just got off a tilt-a-whirl. Seeing how pale and clammy the blond man had become, Sherlock bent down and removed his shoes for him while John removed his coat. As soon as Sherlock went to put them away John fell asleep, surrounded by the smell of Sherlock that was infused in the sheets and not caring that he was in his flat mate's bed.
The game was on. John was crouched low, watching the entrance to the old abandoned factory. The wind was cold, blowing John's hair to and fro as he hid behind some empty crates that were stacked by the large industrial doors. John knew time was of the essence, but he waited until the guard walked around the corner before he made a move. Using his military training John pistol whipped the armed guard, dropping him without a sound. The early morning silence was cut with a piercing scream from inside. Knowing that he had to get to Sherlock, John quickly sneaked into the building.
The air was dusty and cold, with light filtering in through the high grimy windows and rusted through roof. The factory was completely empty apart from the group gathered in the center of the floor. Four burly men were sitting at a table, one of them holding a bloody knife. John's heart sunk, desperately hoping that the blood didn't belong to his Sherlock.
"We got 'em tied up in a room upstairs, but 'e sure put up a fight." One of the men said with a southern American accent, looking over at a shadowy figure that had just walked in.
"Good job boys, I knew you could do it." Said the person who wouldn't step into the light. With his strange singsong voice, the man continued what appeared to be a meeting. "It won't be long until his brother shows up, then ding-dong the ice king is gone!" He finished with a manic laugh.
Hearing enough, John decided to pit and end to whatever this psycho had planned. He raised his gun, and without a second thought put a bullet through the head of the leader. At the sound of a gun, the four men at the table pulled out their guns and started firing at random, obviously not trained to aim properly. John, who was running toward them, easily hit his mark and dropped them all one by one. Now that the immediate danger was gone, he had to find Sherlock. "Sherlock, SHERLOCK!" John yelled as he sprinted through the factory, looking for some indication as to where the men had taken him. It was suddenly warm as John stepped into a long hallway, and he could hear his name coming from a room at the end. Taking off again, the shorter man raced into the room to find Sherlock tightly bound to a chair.
"John!" Sherlock cried, turning to look at his rescuer. John was relieved to see that Sherlock appeared to be perfectly fine, and without a word cut through the knot in the back of the chair with his pocket knife. After freeing his friend, John took the taller man's hands and pulled him to his feet.
"John, you saved me." The detective said, looking into John's clear blue eyes with grateful adoration. Before he could say another word, John leaned forward on his tip-toes and kissed him. Slow and sweet soon turned to hot and passionate. John was kissing Sherlock as though he couldn't get enough, and Sherlock was responding with as much enthusiasm. Grabbing John at his hips, Sherlock twisted them around so that John was pinned to the wall. John could feel every inch of Sherlock's body pressed against his, and he reached down to-
John was woken by a particularly loud note on the violin. He groaned, part out of irritation that the dream had happened and part out of disappointment that it had ended. "This is why sharing a bed won't work." John thought as he sat up. The blanket fell away from him, and he realized that Sherlock must have come in at some point and covered him up. The thought of Sherlock caring enough about his comfort to tuck him in made John smile. Sherlock was playing a song full of joy and loss that, mixed with Sherlock's minty shampoo in an empty bed, made John feel quite lonely. John thought back on the dream, sure he had dreamed about being on a case in the past, but they had never ended like that before! "Okay, so maybe a little gay." John admitted to himself.
The army doctor was rattled. He had known he had felt something a deeper than just friendship for the detective, but before he had been able to reason himself out of admitting it was anything other than a passing phase. He had never dreamed about any of his girlfriends, ever. When he was younger the females in his dreams were all faceless figures, and after the war he only had nightmares. It wasn't until he met Sherlock that he had begun having decent dreams again, and these dreams were almost always about him and Sherlock working a case. Now his subconscious was admitting defeat.
"Great, I'm in love with a sociopath." John thought, dumbfounded. He realized that the problem would now be how to hide this realization from Sherlock. Between this new issue and the strange way Sherlock had been acting in the cab, John desperately needed someone to talk to about this. Unfortunately there wasn't anyone else in the flat, and John knew he couldn't call Greg to chat without Sherlock hearing. As if knowing that this was a terrible to interrupt, Sherlock knocked on the bedroom door.
"Come in." John said, not having much choice.
Sherlock stepped into the room, looking calmer than he had earlier. John was relived, but he could still see that something was not quite right.
"Are you feeling alright?" Sherlock asked as he stood stiffly, unsure if he was supposed to sit on the bed or if that would be rude. John nodded and scooted over so that Sherlock would take a hint and sit down, his behavior was making John nervous.
"If he deduces this, there is no way I could fix it." John worried as he tried to think of something to talk about. "Um, the song you were playing was nice. I haven't heard it before, what's it called?" John asked, grasping for any kind of conversation.
Sherlock, who had been staring out the window deep in thought, turned to John as though he had forgotten he was there. "Oh, I haven't named it." He said with a shrug.
John was surprised. Usually when Sherlock composed, it was to sort out whatever was going on in that brilliant head of his. This song had been so full of emotion, so mournful, that it worried John. He understood that not everyone wanted to share their past, but the last thing John wanted was for his friend to relapse or sink into a post New Year depression. John knew that they had to talk about it, and now.
"Sherlock, is something wrong?" John asked gently, trying not to sound overly distressed. The last thing he needed was for Sherlock to become defensive.
The brunet seemed to be caught off guard, as if he hadn't expected John to notice. He didn't speak immediately, instead he resumed his staring out the window. John knew that it wouldn't do any good to rush him so they just sat there together on the bed, comfortable with each other's silence in the warm bedroom. After a while, Sherlock turned back to John.
"Yes, something is wrong. John, I - "
Knock Knock Knock went the front door, interrupting Sherlock. The detective jumped up immediately, and hurried out of the room without a second glance.
"At least I know he's willing to talk about it." John thought as he listened to hear who was at the door. He could barely hear the muffled voices downstairs, but it didn't take long for John do deduce who must be at the door.
"Sherlock, take the case." He called out, causing the voices to stop immediately. He heard Lestrade laugh before making his way back to the bedroom.
"You're getting almost as good as he is." Greg remarked with a chucked as he entered the room with Sherlock right behind him, giving the DI a reproachful glare.
"Thanks, but no one can be that good." John countered, soothing his flat mate's ego.
"As I was saying," Sherlock said loudly looking irritated. "I will not take cases until John is better. He shouldn't be alone, particularly so soon after head trauma."
"But it's a locked room murder where there isn't any evidence!" Lestrade said with exasperation. "You know that without at least a little help, we won't find the murderer."
John jumped in. "He is right, it does sound like they need your help."
Sherlock refused, as stubborn as ever. "Whether they need help or not is irrelevant to the fact that you shouldn't be left alone."
Lestrade finally caved. "Fine, I'll call my superior and tell them that I won't be back until later. I'll stay with John until you're done investigating the crime scene."
Sherlock looked as though he was about to refuse, so John intervened. "That's a great idea Greg. Sherlock, if you want to you could just pick up dinner while you're out."
Seeing that this was the most logical course of action, Sherlock consented. He didn't say anything until the DI had stepped out of the room to make his phone call. "John, are you sure you'll be alright?" He asked, searching the older man's eyes for any evidence to the contrary.
John liked the new level of concern he was getting from his flat mate, but it was becoming a bit wearing. "Yes Sherlock, I am a doctor you know." John said with a sigh. Sherlock's piercing gaze was still locked onto John and he found that the longer Sherlock stared, the warmer the room seemed to be.
"Alright, it's settled. Take the cab that's still waiting downstairs, I'll stay here." Lestrade said as he entered the room again. Sherlock nodded, then turned back to John. He stood there a moment, as if he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. Giving up, he just gave John a look and left without another word. The expression had been so similar to the one in the cab, making the detective look forlorn and, if John didn't know better, lonely.
Lestrade, who had watched this event unfold, went and retrieved a kitchen chair to sit on before asking about it. "So, that was new." He said as he looked to John for an answer.
"I have no idea. Things have been getting weird between us, and after a conversation with Mycroft earlier this has started. I don't know what Mycroft said, but whatever it was it has made Sherlock unhappy and I have a bad feeling it involves me." He said.
Lestrade thought for a minute before replying. "I can't think of anything either unless they are having some family issues. I'll have to ask Mike the next time he stops by."
"Speaking of Mycroft. What's going on between you two?" John asked with a grin.
Lestrade collected his thoughts before answering. "We are friends, and due to what I hope is mutual interest in something more, we are going on a date Thursday." He said without the slightest bit of embarrassment.
This answer surprised John. He had expected his friend to dance around the issue, but instead he had just admitted that he was dating a man. It wasn't the two men dating bit that confused him, it was his openness about it.
John remembered when his sister came out, and how much trouble it caused. How his parents didn't know, John couldn't guess. Between her lack of boyfriends and the rumors that had flown around the small town where they had grown up, it had been obvious to anyone who looked. The night she had told their parents had been a terrible one.
John had been eighteen that summer and was preparing to go to university, his sister was living at home and attending a local college where she studied literature. It was very late when Harry's girlfriend Anna had called him, sobbing. "I, I found her behind the school. Oh John she's bleeding and won't wake up, you need to come now and bring her some clothes!"
John leaped to the rescue, not knowing what condition he would find his sister in. When he got there, she had woken up and Anna had put a blanket over her. He instantly knew what had happened.
"It was Charlie and his friends wasn't it?" He asked, trying to control his rage. Harry looked lost, and only nodded a bit to confirm John's suspicions. He took some steading breaths to keep from crying or screaming or hunting down Charlie and putting a bullet in his scull. Charlie was known by all the adults to be a good kid, with a good head on his shoulders and ambition. To everyone that didn't worship him, he was a cocky arse hole with anger issues. Charlie's untarnished reputation was kept clean by his father, who just so happened to be the pastor of their small and very religious town. Whatever the pastor said everyone believed, and John knew that if the pastor said his son didn't do it than Harry would always be known as the whore who tried to soil the pastor's son. This is why Anna hadn't just taken her to the hospital, they would have had her tested for rape.
John helped his beaten sister struggle into the clean clothes he had brought. He could see the finger shaped bruised on her wrists and neck, and scattered randomly across her body were wide bruises as though one of Charlie's friends had been carrying a cricket bat.
The blood Anna had been referring to was coming from a gash that sliced a raged path almost six inches long from the back of her head to her hairline. John applied pressure to the wound, and with Anna's help he got her into his car. Harry was lucky that their parents were away for the weekend and with John's help she began healing psychically, although mentally was another story. When their parent's returned, all hell broke loose. Their concern for her injuries was drowned out with anger when Harry told them why she had been the chosen victim, although she left Charlie's name out of it. Their parents were enraged, telling her that the life of sin had chosen is what caused this to happen and that she deserved all of it.
John, refusing to let Harry suffer the verbal abuse, had just taken her hand without a word and pulled her out to his car where he had already put their packed bags encase this happened. John had left their parents for good, and although he didn't know it at the time, it was the last time he would ever speak to his parents again.
John had seen firsthand how damaging coming out could be, and now that he was questioning his own sexuality he wasn't sure if the freedom was worth the pain. "Greg, can I ask you a personal question" John asked quietly, and waited for him to nod before he continued. "How did you know you were gay? You've been married and have a daughter, everyone thinks you're straight. Aren't you afraid of how your family and friends will react?"
Lestrade answered immediately, apparently having already asked himself these same questions. "If someone really cares for me, they won't care who I'm dating. True friends won't leave, and I didn't need the fake ones anyway. As for the first question, I don't consider myself gay. I'm just attracted to whomever I'm attracted to, and right now it's Mike." John sat there in silence, trying to process this information. Lestrade seemed to realize something was up. "It's alright to fall somewhere in between John." The DI assured him kindly.
John decided that he was tired of hiding. He trusted Greg, and knew that he was one of the true friends he had mentioned. "I have been having feelings for, um, someone male. I have no idea what to do." John said, blushing a bit.
Lestrade grinned. "See, doesn't that feel better? Now all you have to do is tell Sherlock about these "feelings" and you'll be good to go!"
"I never said they were for bloody Sherlock Holmes!" John replied indignantly when Greg began to laugh.
"But you still haven't said they weren't." the DI answered, still chuckling.
John sighed, but was relived at how well his friend was taking it. "Fine, I have feelings for Sherlock." He said, and to his surprise if felt like a weight was lifted off his chest. "What do I do now? There is no way that he feels the same way."
Lestrade just looked at him. "What do you mean? Whether he recognizes it or not, there is something there. You should have seen him before he met you, or even just when you're not around. He is so much, well, nicer when you're there. He needs you, the same way you probably need him. John, you have to tell Sherlock. It may be difficult at first, but if you don't this secret will wear away at your friendship until it breaks." He said wisely.
John knew that Lestrade was right. There was no way to move forward without talking about it with Sherlock, and if he ignored it then he may be missing out on something spectacular.
"I'll make us some tea." Greg said, seeing that John needed some time alone to process this new information. He had only just left the room when his phone rang. He answered, and John could hear him growing frustrated with whomever was on the other end. They were arguing, but Greg lost the quarrel quickly.
"Sherlock is going to kill me for this, but I have to go." Lestrade said as he came back into the room, stress evident on his face. "There's a hostage situation at Smithing's jewelry, so I really can't stay."
"Like I told Sherlock, I'm fine. I'm sure he'll be back soon anyway." John said. Not having any choice, Lestrade said goodbye and raced out the door.
The flat was eerily silent, punctuating the fact that John was all alone. John could hear every creak of the walls as the house shifted in the cold wind. Knowing he couldn't just sit in bed alone waiting for Sherlock to come back, John decided to take a shower. "If I'm going to tell Sherlock about whatever these feelings are, I would rather do it before he sees me nude." John thought as he struggled to get out of bed.
His ankle hurt, but it was bearable so he stood up on the icy floor. It was only after he was standing that he realized his crutches were still downstairs. Holding on to the wall, John inched his way to the bathroom. It took a lot more energy than he had been expecting, so John sat down on the edge of the tub to undress. Removing his shirt and sweater was alright despite the cracked rib, but the jeans proved to be a problem once again. "Bloody trousers!" John said with irritation as he gave up and cut them off.
He sat there a moment, pondering how he could shower without getting his cast wet. Coming up with a plan, John wrapped himself in a towel and hobbled to the kitchen, where he retrieved a garbage bag and duct tape. By the time he made it back to the bathroom on his injured leg, he was tired again. Ignoring his fatigue, John put the bag over his foot and taped it firmly to his leg before getting into the steamy shower.
The hot water brought instant release to his aching muscles, causing John to moan. He washed himself quickly knowing that his flat mate would be returning soon. John knew that the super sleuth would deduce what was going on, so John decided that they had to have their conversation as soon as he got home. The thought gave him butterflies, but at least the torture would be over.
John was so lost in thought that he didn't overhear Sherlock entering 221 Baker Street. He had only just cut off the water when he heard Sherlock enter the flat, startling him. Knowing Sherlock's habit of just barging in, John whipped around to grab his towel. The wet garbage bag over his leg was slick, causing John to stumble. He latched on to the shower curtain to try and catch himself, but the curtain rod refused to support his weight. John fell hard out of the tub, hitting the cold tile floor
Thank you so much for reading! Please follow so that you can be notified as soon as the next chapter comes out, and comment because I like knowing real people are reading this and not robots. I am thinking about writing a one shot for Halloween in addition to regular updates to this, so if you have any suggestions I'd love to hear them. Fyi, it may or may not be a Supernatural crossover! :D
