NOTE: Sorry for the long wait. I was writing the first part of this while listening to Sister Hazel's "All For You," so pardon the fact that some of this is a little cheesy but it's the song's fault, not mine. I swear it.
Curse you, Sister Hazel and your ability to speak the words of John's heart...
That being said, be warned, there's cuddling and fluff and all that jazz, along with, of course, a good amount of subliminal angst. Just to, you know, balance all that fluff...
Yup.
Also, does anyone else have the problem of typing so fast that "John" comes out as "JOhn" more often than not? Yeah.
Alright, I'll shut up now. Enjoy the stuff.
Emblazoned
CHAPTER TEN
It was Sherlock who came first.
John was mildly surprised, since he was very close to his own climax, and he had anticipated being the one to set them off, but Sherlock had tensed upon his quickening speed and had gripped his shoulders, nails digging deep into his flesh. John paused tentatively.
"Are you ok? Did I hurt you?" he managed to grind out, his voice sounding rough and deeper.
"Nn...Not inside me...please John," Sherlock had said, brittle and desperate, worry in his eyes. John felt a heaviness in his chest as he bent to kiss Sherlock's lips tenderly, whispering "ok" as he eased back a bit, suppressing his fast approaching orgasm.
After the brief pause, however, the frenzied thrusts resumed, and Sherlock was moaning and crying out eagerly, clinging to John's rigid body and moving with him in fluid motions. John's hand worked at Sherlock's leaking erection in correspondence with his hips, while Sherlock's legs wrapped tightly around John's waist, their bodies closer than they could ever be. But as John concentrated on figuring out when was best to pull out, Sherlock suddenly cried out desperately in ecstasy, and his hips started bucking wildly.
"Ah! J-John! John!"
John was only momentarily surprised as the detective writhed and trembled beneath him as he climaxed, lost in euphoria, with John soon to follow.
But soon, it was said and done, and now John lay, sticky and sweaty and panting, on top of the twitching detective, with his face buried in the nape of Sherlock's neck, feeling the younger man's body slowly relaxing beneath him. He was indecently happy.
"You alright then?" he breathed after a seemingly long silence. Sherlock nodded once. John could feel their hearts pounding against each other, Sherlock's heavy breaths slowing in his ear, and for just a moment, nothing could be more perfect. John Watson had never, ever been happier.
"John," Sherlock breathed, nuzzling John's ear.
"Mm, yes 'Lock," John said gruffly, kissing his shoulder.
"I...I think I need a shower."
John chuckled and propped himself up, kissing Sherlock softly on the forehead.
"Probably," he said, smiling. Through all the tenderness of the moment, however, he couldn't help but feel a pang of concern. He stayed there, with his lips pressed to Sherlock's damp forehead, thinking. Sherlock sighed against him, slowly.
"You're sure you're ok then, Sherlock?" John then asked in a serious whisper. "I know this was a little...new..."
Sherlock nodded slowly, his fingers lightly stroking John's skin.
"New, yes," Sherlock said quietly after a beat of silence. "But not...unenjoyable."
John kissed him again through a smile.
"Well I'm here for you. You know that," he said, looking down at him. Sherlock's eyes shown with an intense but muffled glow, like stars behind distressed glass.
"Thank you, John."
"You never have to thank me for that, 'Lock," John replied, kissing him once with tender passion. Sherlock pressed his hand flat against John's back, his other cupping John's face as the kiss deepened. John broke first.
"Think you should probably go get that shower now," he said with a smirk. Sherlock bashfully looked down at himself - oh, that's quite adorable - and nodded curtly, and after a moment, he maneuvered himself off the bed, blushing, and rather hastily made his way into the bathroom, while John lay on the bed, cleaning himself with tissues and pondering the experience with a slightly clearer mind.
What the hell just happened?
John lay flat on his back, sighing, breathing deeply, sprawled naked on the bed. The door was open, still, and John entertained the idea of getting up the close it, but fatigue plagued his body for the time being, and so he settled for laying still in the cool room.
It took a moment for the post-coital bleariness to subside before John, rather alarmingly, became fully aware of the situation.
He had had sex with Sherlock Holmes.
Marvelous, passionate, romping sex.
And he didn't regret a single moment of it.
John groaned a bit and ran his hands, which smelled vaguely of Sherlock, down his face. He glanced over at the bathroom door, which was open just a hair. He could hear the shower going, the water spilling over Sherlock's body, no doubt, glistening, flowing, streaming down his -
John sat up. This would not do at all.
He looked around the room, trying to clear his mind.
How in God's name did he let this happen? How on earth did this come about? Why would he lose his better judgement, and why could he accept it without feeling even a little perplexed?
But wasn't he perplexed? Or was he just confused? Weren't those the same thing?
Christ...
John swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, stretching a bit before making his way to the door and sliding it closed. He then squatted over his suitcase, wincing at the soreness in his legs, and pulled out a bathrobe and donned it in a flurry of sudden exasperation.
To hell with what might happen. Who cares that he probably just made his flat mate the single most confused man on the planet? Who cares that he was most certainly no longer heterosexual? Who cares that he probably would do it again?
None of those worries that were blooming within him made him regret what he did or what he said to Sherlock. He loved the man, and if that meant that he could make love to him and make him feel ok, then nothing else mattered.
But it did matter. Because Sherlock was struggling, hurt, damaged, lost.
John couldn't help but feel like he might have taken advantage of Sherlock. His mind kept telling him that there was no way in heaven or hell that he'd do something like that, but still, the feeling could not be shaken.
He had known that Sherlock was not in his right mind. He had known that Sherlock was confused, that he was trying to regain control. Yes, John was well aware that the repercussions of what had happened to him would change him, but still he'd done what he did.
How wrong was it? Was it even wrong?
John flopped back onto the messy bed and grumbled, vaguely aware of the fact that the other bed in the room may or may not be used. At all.
So what were they then, if they chose to continue? Would they be boyfriends? Lovers? Partners? Friends with benefits? Where was the line? And had John already crossed it?
Too many questions.
Not enough answers.
John sulked, but with an air of contentedness. He wasn't even sure if that was possible. But, he supposed, anything was possible when you'd just had sex with Sherlock Holmes.
Yes, John sulked.
Sherlock, on the other hand, had never felt more confusedly clear in his life. He stood in the shower, only a little miffed at the fact that his body was so incredibly sore already, and that it was going to take a bit of scrubbing to get traces of John from his mangled pubic hair, but that was all fine. Better than fine.
Sure, he was out of his element. Yes, he was a bit terrified. But by no means, absolutely no means, did he have any regrets.
John loved him. That was it.
John loved him.
Sherlock was loved.
His heart swelled, and he had to bring his wet, soapy hand up to his mouth to stifle a whimper as tears suddenly sprang from deep within him and filled his eyes.
God, he was loved.
It didn't even matter that when John had been kissing him he was afraid to close his eyes for fear of memories. It didn't even matter that when John touched him he felt vague traces of Maxim's fingertips, ever so lightly, only very briefly. It didn't even matter that when John told him he was safe, he had only the slightest doubts. It didn't even matter that when John was finally inside him, he was scared and excited and had so much feeling that he almost wanted it to stop. But it didn't stop. And that was all fine.
No, those things didn't matter.
Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he'd felt fear and ecstasy in the same instant, or if he'd ever felt it at all. He determined that he probably never had.
All technical withstanding considered, Sherlock was completely aware and understood exactly what had happened. He was completely in touch with the fact that this meant that he was probably gay - oh he hated labels - or maybe he was just traumatized. Either way, this was not to say that he completely, completely enjoyed it. With John. He was with John. Was he with John?
He was also aware that "with" implied a lot of things that he didn't quite understand.
One thing he could say with confidence was that he wasn't certain - ironic, that - if he'd do something like that again in the near future. In the future, probably, but the near future? Probably not, no. It wasn't the...previous horrors that stopped him, it was -
No, say it. Don't catalog it as unimportant. It's important say it. John said it was important to say it.
It wasn't the rape that stopped him.
No.
Was it?
Maybe it was.
Tears streamed down his face as he contemplated all that had happened, shuddering and sinking to the ground, curling up into a wet, naked ball against the shower tile. He whimpered quietly and hugged himself tight, pressing his forehead to his knees. This was probably a bit not good, crying after sex. But so far he'd done that twice now.
He groaned and closed his eyes, chest heaving.
He was raped.
He was loved.
He was raped.
He was loved.
The two things bounced back and forth in his mind like a vicious game of tennis. He'd never been so affected by anything in his life, and John, God, John was in the middle of it and he wouldn't have it any other way. But did this confuse John just as much as it was confusing him now?
Was he confused, though? He knew what happened, he understood it, and he didn't regret it. He knew he didn't regret it. But the mark, the brand...it smarted still, like a salted wound, and he couldn't quite understand that bit. Would he ever?
He sniffed, wiped his face, swallowed hard. It was mildly frustrating that all this had caused quite a lot of crying on his part.
Standing, he gripped the reigns within his mind and yanked hard, very hard.
You will control yourself.
There is a reason for everything.
There is logic in everything.
You will control this.
His inner voice always had this bad habit of sounding like Mycroft. A voice on the outside startled him.
"Sherlock?"
John.
"You've got a bunch of texts and missed calls from your brother."
Dammit.
"Should I call him back?"
He turned off the water and peaked his head out from behind the curtain. His hair was still wet, and the water that clung to the ends of his curls dripped onto the floor, and he saw a fond smile appear on John's face.
"How many times did he call?" he asked. John looked at the phone in his hands.
"Five times, Sherlock," he said with a twinge of concern. "And he's texted you more than that. Mostly saying to call him. Should we?"
Sherlock knew why his brother would call him. He knew, but he really, really didn't want to hear about it. He swallowed, and John looked at him curiously.
"I'll call him later," Sherlock said, reaching for a towel and wrapping it around his waist before stepping out of the shower. His skin prickled with the coldness of the air. "Why's it so cold in here?" John chuckled - cute - and leaned in the doorway.
"We'd left the balcony door open all that time," he said. Sherlock hadn't noticed that. The most observant man in the world, and he'd glossed right over that. Now that John had said, of course, he remembered, but he -
"I'm starving," John said, breaking Sherlock's stream of thought. Sherlock ruffled his damp locks and glanced in the mirror. Christ, he had three hickeys. He could see John smirk out of the corner of his eye, probably noticing the same thing.
"We can order some food," Sherlock said off-handedly. "Call room service."
"Do you want anything?" John asked, drawing closer.
Sherlock studied his own reflection. Despite his normally fatigue-ridden face, he looked...incredibly refreshed. Perhaps it was the after glow of the sex, which he'd briefly heard about, but even so, he didn't think it'd be this apparent.
"Sherlock?"
John was next to him now. Sherlock looked down at him.
"I'm fine. You can get -"
"No. You eat something. You promised."
John looked sternly at him. Sherlock flushed.
"Right," he said curtly. "Then get whatever you like. I'll share with you."
John reached up then and put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Electric.
"Look, I was thinking," he started.
"Incredible," Sherlock replied. Immediately he regretted it. Why'd you say that, you stupid, stupid clot? Why must you push him away all the time? He'll probably just get upset and -
John chuckled, and probably saw the flush of relief spread red on Sherlock's face.
"Seriously, though," he said, smiling and rubbing his arm. "I was thinking that maybe...we should slow down a bit. You're obviously confused, even if you don't want to admit it." Sherlock let his gaze fall, then looked up at John, eyes slightly obscured by his damp cruls. John smiled sadly.
"But it's ok, because I am too," he continued. "And in the wake of all that's happened, well, Sherlock, I feel as though I'm being unfair to you. And I'm sorry if you feel taken advantage of. You know I'd never...never want to hurt you." Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but no words could come to mind, and he fell silent again, looking back down.
"You don't feel that way, do you?" John asked, worried. Sherlock shook his head tersely.
"No, no of course not," he said, still not looking at him. John sighed, relieved but still skeptical. Sherlock cleared his throat.
"But I...well I agree with you. On the confusion, I mean," he said, swallowing. "And the slowing part. Yes. Slow would be good."
Slow would be very good, actually. Give him time to analyze the situation, understand the mechanics, get a grasp on the logic. God, all he needed was to understand it.
John put his hand on his cheek then, and Sherlock looked at him.
He's tired, obviously because of rigorous physical activity, likely that he hasn't had a good night's sleep in about a fortnight, estimated. Hungry, nervous, creased brow and slightly heightened pulse, visible in throat. Need for affirmation, attention to physical contact increasing, he's stressed but suppressing the feeling, likely because of -
Stop it, dammit, stop it.
Sherlock sighed heavily. John cocked his head.
"So...are we gonna be ok?" John asked hesitantly. Sherlock licked his lips and pressed them together. He wanted to feel John again, feel John's body all around him, John's hands grace his body, John's lips and John's kisses flow over his body like healing water. He nearly shuddered when John drew even closer, looking up at him with those beautiful eyes, full of trust, concern, care, love.
It struck him then.
This is what love looked like. John's eyes. John's smile. John's way of quirking his lips in question or tilting his head in curiosity or glancing out of the corner of his eye in fascination. John's look of controlled frustration when Sherlock left things in the fridge, John's "not good" face, John's long yawns in the morning or tired sighs in the evening. John's hands stirring tea, clacking at the keyboard, holding his gun, holding Sherlock's hand...
The little things John did to him, made his heart flutter, pulse quicken, face flush, hands shake...
This is what love looked like, and it made every other thing, every scornful brush of rough calloused fingers or rip of flesh or tear of heart that had been emblazoned onto his flesh, tainted, pressed into his mind like a brand of desolation, it made all those things suddenly dissolve in a rush of fiery passion.
This is what love looked like.
Beautiful...
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock had grabbed him and pulled him into a strong, unfaltering embrace before he could even understand what had happened. Sherlock's arms were strung tight around John's frame, and he shuddered with the intensity of his emotions.
"Don't let me go," he found himself whispering into John's ear. "Please, please don't let me go."
John seemed surprised, but he held Sherlock tight, running his hands up and down his back, fingers bristling over each of his vertebrae.
"Are you -"
"I'm ok, John. God I'm ok. I'm so, so very ok."
John chuckled in spite of himself.
"Well...alright then. You sure?"
Sherlock pulled away from him and held John's shoulders squarely in front of him, his eyes piercing and intense and full of realization.
"I've never been more sure of anything in my entire life, John Watson," he said. John looked a bit frightened, honestly, but Sherlock didn't care. He was here, and he understood. Finally, he knew. He had found the solution.
John suddenly cocked his head and laughed. Sherlock arched his eyebrows in question.
"You look like you've just solved a case," he said. "You have that 'I'm-the-best' look on your face."
Sherlock smiled, actually smiled, and he felt laughter erupt within him for the briefest moment before he reclaimed himself again.
"I have," he said. Then he smirked. "And I am."
Yes, Ireland was beautiful. All things considered.
Things were going terribly, terribly wrong. He knew this, above all things, and he had had an inclining of such long before Maxim had called it quits. The foreboding...the omen...he should have listened to his better judgement. But instead, instead he'd let his cousin walk out on him, guns blazing, fury and fight and the works.
"The plan has gone to shit, Edgar!" Maxim had ground out from under his arm. "You're an idiot if you keep fooling yourself into thinking that everything's going to turn out the way you wanted!"
They'd fought each other until they'd both decided that the other was wrong no matter what, and that throwing punches wouldn't change that.
"I'm done with this, Edgar," Maxim growled as he brushed himself off on the ground. "Fucking done. You can't see how...how delusional you're being. But you know, it's not my problem. Not anymore."
"It was my understanding that you were completely alright with this," Edgar had said, dabbing at his split lip. "That I'd take the lead and you'd follow."
Maxim scoffed at him and shook his head.
"Take the lead all you want, cousin," he said, gathering his coat from the chair. "But I'll be no part of it. You've gone too far. You've gotten too carried away."
Edgar then suddenly slammed his fists onto the table in front of him and stood.
"And how in the hell was I supposed to know that Sherlock Holmes had those kinds of connections?"
"This was a bad idea to begin with..." Maxim muttered. Edgar was livid.
"Hm?" he asked condescendingly. "Bad idea you say? You! The one who saw his pictures in the paper and had told me, no, encouraged me to provoke him? 'He's a big shot,' you said. 'Should show him his place, get him out of our business.' Do you not recall saying that, Maxim? Or does your mental English-Russian translator suddenly stop working when you say things you suddenly don't mean!"
"Enough of putting this on me, Edgar!" Maxim raged. He spun around, kicked the chair, flipped the table out of the way, and grabbed Edgar by his lapels. He drew his face near Edgar's.
"So help me, Edgar Merchant," he said with quiet fury. "You will pay for this."
They'd simply stared angrily at each other before Maxim let go and said quietly.
"We raped him. God, we raped Sherlock Holmes."
"Yes, Maxim, because that's what we do."
"We got carried away. We should have killed him. "
"Now who's going to far, hm? How would that have made it better?"
"We should have just killed him. Like the rest. Just killed him..."
They exchanged looks. Then Maxim fixed his coat and left.
Terribly, terribly wrong, Edgar finally admitted to himself, now sitting in a chair at the dingy fold-out table that he'd picked up after Maxim left.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, and his stomach clenched.
Please, don't be him.
"NUMBER WITHHELD"
Shit.
"Edgar Merchant," he answered, his mouth suddenly feeling rather dry.
"I've just been informed that your lovely cousin has gone to The Ice Man," came the silky, velvet voice on the other end. "Care to explain?"
"It...got out of hand. We -"
"You got carried away. Oh my oh my..."
Edgar sighed heavily.
"I know. It's just that -"
"No."
The voice was sharp, edgy, cutting. He winced.
"No," it said, calmer now. "There are no excuses. You said you'd lure him out for me, said you took an interest in him enough to do so. It stopped there. I thought we were perfectly clear on this."
"We -"
"Shut up!"
A shout that was demonically chilling. After a pause, the voice continued, cool and collected.
"I've got every right to vivisect you lot," it said, and Edgar could hear a twinge of delight in the voice. He shuddered. He was a sick man, but not...not insane. No. But this man...
"Unfortunately, that'd take a bit too long. Very busy these days, you know."
A sinister chuckle.
"Lucky for you, you know. If I had the time, I wouldn't mind playing doctor..."
Edgar cleared his throat nervously.
"We...we can still fix it," he said. "We can find -"
A sharp sigh.
"This is the problem with dealing with ordinary people," it said with dramatic frustration. "They're just so boring. So stupid. Never listen to daddy."
Edgar stood.
"Now wait just a moment," he said. "You're the one who called on us, mister...whoever you are. You can't just -"
"Oh come off it, Eddie," the voice said. "This isn't fun anymore. Shame, really. Now I've got to come up with a new nickname for him. The things I do for love..."
"Now don't you -!"
"Ooooh well. Ta ta, then, love. See you in hell."
Click.
"Fuck!" Edgar spat as he threw the phone on the ground. He sat in the chair and breathed heavily through his nose.
He knew from the start that working for this man was a mistake. He knew that. But why...why didn't he listen? He'd gotten carried away, yes. He'd gone off the reals, onto his own plan. How could he have been so stupid to assume that one little touch of improvisation wouldn't throw off the entire scheme?
Their immunity was gone. Their protection, their pay, their plan was gone. And now Edgar Merchant was quite literally live bait for Mycroft Holmes, and anyone else, and even though Merchant himself was a man of few fears and fewer morals, he knew that he was in for it.
After all, if the master criminal himself called Mycroft Holmes "The Ice Man," and had called off his entire operation at the mere mention of his name, it said something of the elder Holmes' character.
Perhaps he was more evil than Merchant. A different kind of evil. The worst kind. The kind that was evil for the sake of good.
Merchant stood, suddenly grabbed everything in sight that was about five feet from him, and shoved it into a duffle bag. Who gave a shit about Feliks and Jakob, anyway? They were distant friends of Maxim's he'd acquired after he'd smuggled himself into Russia, Lord knows why. It wasn't his problem anymore.
Shit.
How could he have expected Maxim to go all the way up to Mycroft Holmes? And how in the hell did he get there anyway?
Idiot! He's his fucking brother. Of course he'd know. Shit. Shit shit.
Edgar gave one quick look around his filthy flat before he turned and made a beeline for the door. When he opened it, he flew down the steps and out the door, ignoring everything and anything around him.
Out out out. Get the fuck out of here.
"Freeze!"
He'd heard it the minute he'd opened the door and stumbled into the back alleyway.
Shit. Shit!
"Edgar Merchant," a voice said behind him as he dropped his bag and put his hands up. A man with silver hair and a look of fire and anger and incredible pissed-offed-ness approached him with a gun and handcuffs.
"You're under arrest for multiple charges of murder and sexual assault."
Shit...
The man shoved him into the police car and sneered at him through the window.
"May you rot in hell, you son of a bitch."