Sunday, 7 Mar 2010
Cytotoxic venom, Sherlock thought, glaring into the chest cavity where the dead man's heart and lungs had been. Molly had finally gotten on with her actual autopsy, and she and John were now elsewhere, throwing Sherlock vague snippets of whatever information they uncovered while he dealt with the bulk of the evidence.
The Portuguese man o' war was not entirely unknown in the waters around the British Isles, but it certainly wasn't common, which made it unlikely that this death was an accident, despite the effort to make it look like a sting that had led to shock and drowning. No, this was clever, but not clever enough to be a murder truly worthy of Sherlock's attention. Unfortunately, he needed to figure out just one more step, and then he could hand it off to Lestrade and his half-trained team of performing animals.
However, the dead man was, again, being uncooperative, and John was infuriatingly not here with Sherlock. But that, at least, Sherlock could fix.
Come here. -SH
John answered the text in person, with gratifying speed, entering the morgue just as Sherlock wrestled the dead weight of the man back over. The corpse landed on its emptied torso with a wet thump, and all the bits that were no longer attached started to ooze and seep and drip out of place and onto the floor.
"Look, you can't — God! Sherlock!" John gasped at the thump, freezing in the doorway.
"Come here, John," Sherlock snapped, glaring accusingly not at John but at the dead man's back. "Look at these stings."
John approached like a skittish horse, circling wide around the puddle that was spreading out from the autopsy table. Sherlock looked at him, noting that he'd gone a peculiar shade of grey under the winter-fading tan, but let it pass, turning his attention back to the pattern. Surely he'd seen violent death before.
"If it's not what we see, it must be what we don't see," Sherlock said thoughtfully, remembering that he'd said that once before, regarding evidence that had been cleaned away. "What don't you see?"
"Other than a mop, a bucket, and you cleaning this mess?" John asked sharply.
His words hit Sherlock's brain like a lightning strike, searing a connection straight through to the slightly curved marks on the dead man's back.
"Oh, that's it!" he breathed, and rushed out, nearly slipping on the wet, tacky mess beneath the autopsy table as he bolted for the doors, leaving John standing there next to the dead man in silence.
Sunday, 7 Mar 2010
This was why he'd wanted John here. Not because he was a doctor, but because he was interesting. He thought in new and unique ways, and while none of his insights were particularly enlightening, something about him sparked Sherlock to see things differently.
Besides, this was where he belonged: with Sherlock. Not with Irene Adler or Kate or whoever he was trying to impress at the café by his flat.
Favoring John with a quick grin to show how pleased he was, Sherlock finished wringing out the string mop — now cut so the strings hung free instead of in loops, stained blue with ink. "It's not as accurate as it could be," he said, lifting it over the paper spread across the floor between two of the unused tables. "The tentacles of an average specimen are thirty feet, you said?" he asked John.
Surprised at being called out, John nodded. "Well, yes. Something like that."
Sherlock looked to Lestrade and Molly to see if they were following along, but Lestrade just seemed expectant and Molly was her usual besotted self. So he turned back to John, who at least seemed an appreciative audience, and said, "The tentacles of the man o'war sting on contact. There are two potential moving elements: the tentacles and the victim. Each leaves a distinctive pattern, shown by the ink."
Enlisting Molly's help, he proceeded to demonstrate the ink patterns left by various combinations of moving and stationary elements. Between each demonstration, he quickly glanced up confirm that Lestrade was following. John was grinning, his eyes alight with interest despite the dark, tired circles under them. The demonstration would have been better with a live body instead of paper, but it was critical that Lestrade see — that he observe and analyze — and that left only John or Molly to strip down to bare skin. Molly would, if Sherlock asked, but he knew that John wouldn't approve. And John...
There was no rational reason for it, except that John was his in a way that Sherlock couldn't define, and that possession included the sight of his bare skin — a sight even Sherlock himself hadn't yet experienced.
Molly was eager to impress, and immediately took up the papers to compare them to the marks on the dead man's back, so happy that she didn't even notice as she splashed through the congealing puddle beneath the autopsy table. Sherlock snapped off his ink-stained gloves, nodded to indicate to Lestrade that he had finished, and headed for the door. "Coming, John?" he tossed back over his shoulder, eagerly anticipating the praise that surely would follow.
John obligingly followed, and Sherlock remembered to keep his steps slow and short, though he felt a bit impatient, wondering when John would realize he didn't need his cane. "Hungry? I could do with — oof."
His back hit the wall, one of John's hands locked around his arm, the other pressed into his chest as the cane fell with a loud, echoing clatter. Surprised by this behavior, Sherlock stared down into John's face, and the cold, dangerous look in his eyes silenced his protest.
It was absolutely entrancing, how many facets this man had. The helpful doctor was gone, replaced entirely by the soldier, all hard edges and full of resolve. This was the man who had calmly and steadily shot the serial killer dead just over a month earlier.
"The only thing you'll do is go back inside and clean up that mess you made. You're not saddling poor Molly with all that."
It actually took Sherlock a moment to realize what John meant; the body was now insignificant, as was the state of its entrails and vital organs. "I'm —"
John's eyes narrowed. He released his grasp and stepped back, no longer touching Sherlock, and the absence of that touch silenced him. Dizziness swept through him, leaving him disoriented, as if John's touch had somehow anchored him. He closed his eyes, trying to analyze what he was supposed to be thinking, what he actually was thinking, what he should do and say...
"I'll stay here as long as it takes for you to clean up," John told him when he opened his eyes a moment later, "but if that lab isn't spotless when you say you're finished, I'm leaving. Alone."
Slowly, Sherlock nodded, adding this new exchange to his growing analysis of John Watson. "All right."
One corner of John's mouth turned up in a faint, humorless smile. "That's 'Yes, John'," he corrected.
It felt right, like they'd come full-circle, pulling Sherlock's memory back to John's tiny, impersonal bedsit, to when John had so calmly and easily taken control. It felt oddly reassuring, though Sherlock had never been one to allow anyone else to tell him what to do.
This is what he wants, Sherlock thought, and felt a twinge of nervousness. The last time things had gone this way, John had sent him away. He couldn't allow that to happen — not again — and no price was too great, if it meant he could keep John with him.
Suddenly glad that he hadn't put on even a single nicotine patch, Sherlock nodded and spoke quietly: "Yes, John."
Sunday, 7 Mar 2010
John went out into the viewing hallway where he could watch Sherlock and be watched, reassuring Sherlock that he had kept his promise not to leave. Finally he'd taken control again, returning some measure of balance to the world, and he was content to wait, however distasteful it was to watch the clean-up.
For a while there, he'd lost himself entirely, pulled under the riptide of Sherlock's brilliance, and it had been the sort of glorious sublimation that he'd heard subs discussing, though he himself had never experienced it. Sherlock had led and he had simply gone with it, against his very nature, and he'd loved the challenge of it, following Sherlock's reasoning as it twisted and turned down unexpected paths, supporting and helping him with research or conversation, or even just being there for him.
Never in his life had he even imagined such an incredible mind. Just being with him in this state was like standing too close to the sun. The only comparison he had was the rush of battle, and there was no logical reason at all for this to feel like that, without bullets flying and the risk of death hanging over every breath, but he felt it all the same.
He lifted a hand to his forehead, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes, thinking that he was probably going insane. He should have been rushing back to the café to coax the manager into giving him Jim's phone number so he could call and apologize. He should have been furious at Sherlock for interrupting his date. He shouldn't have been fantasizing instead about taking Sherlock back to his new flat and systematically tearing down every defense he had, until that brilliant mind was laid open and focused entirely on nothing but John, and then sating every last, dark whim he had on that beautiful body.
"Doctor?"
John turned to see DI Lestrade coming down the hallway, carrying an overcoat folded over one arm. Thankfully, the sight distracted him from what was threatening to become a very embarrassing train of thought. "Just John, please."
"Greg." He offered a small, tired smile and glanced at Sherlock, who was currently working with Molly on closing the chest incision. "What's he doing?"
Confused, John turned his attention back to the room below, but he didn't see anything out of the ordinary, except that the two of them were standing in the now-gelled puddle. Note to self: Make him remove shoes outside the flat, he thought, and had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
"Sorry?" he managed to ask mildly, turning back to Lestrade.
"Sherlock. He's done. So what's he doing, putting it all back right?"
"Ah. I take it he usually doesn't?"
Lestrade let out a huff and shook his head. "Never even thinks of it. It's one of the reasons my team hates working with him." Raising his eyebrows curiously, he added, "How do you stand it?"
Alarm prickled over John's skin as he reminded himself that this man was a detective inspector. Sherlock didn't seem the type to suffer fools lightly, so there had to be some reason he was willing to work for DI Greg Lestrade.
Cautiously, he shrugged, resisting the temptation to look away. "I've been in the military since I got out of med school. You learn not to take shit from anyone — not even him."
Lestrade looked him over appraisingly. Then he burst out laughing and turned his attention back to the room below. "My wife said damn near the same thing when she first met him."
John grinned, feeling better with the attention off him. "You've known him... five years, was it?"
That got him a sidelong glance, though he kept most of his focus on Sherlock, his expression casual. Lestrade finally said, "Yeah. So you know...?"
Know what? John thought in frustration. He didn't know what answer would get him more information, so he shrugged and temporized. "Some."
Lestrade sighed deeply, looking down at his own feet for a moment before he spoke more quietly. "Look, this might not be appropriate, but... I know what's going on with you two."
John couldn't hide his surprise. Was this the 'if you hurt my friend, I'll kill you' talk? He hadn't gone through that in... well, it had to be at least ten years, maybe more. Besides, in his case, 'hurt' had a very different meaning, and that most certainly was his intent, so long as Sherlock was willing.
Apparently not expecting an answer, the detective continued after a moment, "Today was the best I've seen him in... well, I suppose ever. He was almost human — almost civilized. And that doesn't happen with Sherlock."
Startled by this new twist, John could only stammer, "This — this is good behavior?"
"Oh God, yeah." Lestrade laughed, turning back to him, and rubbed a hand over his short-cropped hair. "On the bad days, even I want to punch him, and I might well be the only person on the planet who likes him, except for you."
"He's really that bad?" John asked without thinking, startled. It was true that Sherlock hadn't exactly been a paragon of courteous behavior. Actually, he'd been flat-out insulting. And he certainly had proven utterly incapable of making wise decisions. Thinking back to that night he'd had to threaten Sherlock into going to A&E, John began to consider that Lestrade's assessment might well be spot-on after all.
"It got a little better, after he'd been clean for a few years, but this..." He shook his head in admiration, looking back at Sherlock as though seeing a brand new side of the man. "This is a bloody miracle. So just tell me right now that what's between you two is real, so I can stop fucking worrying about him already."
John swallowed, his throat dry and tight, and watched as Sherlock continued making a line of neat stitches up the dead man's chest. He was gesticulating between stitches, the thread tugging at dead flesh as he explained something to Molly, who was hanging rapt on his every word.
"I don't even know what's between us," he said softly, without even realizing he'd spoken aloud. Shaking his head, he turned to Lestrade and asked, a little desperately, "If he's really that bad, why do you put up with him?"
"Could ask you the same thing."
With a sigh, John shook his head. "God only knows," he admitted, wondering why in hell he was being so honest with himself, much less with this man — this detective, no less. "There's just something about him..."
In the angled glass, he saw Lestrade's hazy reflection nod. "Something, yeah," he said quietly. "Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And someday, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one."
John exhaled sharply, his hand tightening on his cane, and let out a little laugh edged with something like desperation. "No pressure there, hm?"
Lestrade laughed and put a companionable hand on John's shoulder for a moment. "Here," he said, dropping his hand away and digging through his pockets. He found a silver business card holder and slipped a card out, offering it to John. "You need help dealing with him, or if you just need to get away from his madness for a pint, you call me."
Startled by the man's loyalty and protectiveness toward a man who even the kind-hearted would describe as abrasive, John nodded, slipping the card into his pocket. "Thanks. I'll do that."
Sunday, 7 Mar 2010
Molly insisted on helping, in an inefficient way. He sent her to find a mop (strings uncut) and buckets of hot water and bottles of chemicals to sterilize the whole mess. He had the feeling that a half-hearted swipe or two with the mop and some quick staples to close the incisions wouldn't satisfy John.
Sherlock hadn't missed the careful wording, either. If that lab isn't spotless when you say you're finished... That meant John wasn't going to call a stop when he was satisfied. It was up to Sherlock to guess when he'd done enough, which meant that he'd naturally have to go far beyond in hopes of satisfying John.
It fit. It felt right, a puzzle piece shaped like one tiny facet of John's personality slotting perfectly into place with all the others that Sherlock was using to build his picture of John as a whole. This wasn't John's way of forcing Sherlock to do anything at all, because Sherlock could walk out right now. No, this was John's way of offering Sherlock the chance to submit to his will — to be with him, on his terms.
So Sherlock cleaned, though he was entirely unfamiliar with the task and couldn't recall ever using a mop in his life, not even that one time he'd masqueraded as a janitor to gain access to an office building after hours. He splashed bleach over his shoes and wasted ten minutes meticulously rinsing them and then applying the beeswax lip balm stolen from Molly's purse to the surface. He used the lab sink to empty, rinse, and refill the bucket a dozen times, appalled at the idea of using dirty water to clean the floor, even though Molly told him it was done that way all the time, and he managed not to get distracted by taking samples of the so-called clean floor on the other side of the room to show Molly exactly how contaminated the surface really was.
He watched, furious that he couldn't overhear, as Lestrade confronted John in the viewing hallway. They shook hands and Lestrade stared at Sherlock as if he were some kind of fascinating zoo specimen while John kept throwing him startled looks. Sherlock started sewing up the corpse, thinking to attract John's attention with the neatness of his stitches and the thorough effort he was putting into cleaning up the whole mess and not just the floor, but it didn't quite work.
The two men laughed companionably, and then Lestrade touched John, putting a hand on his shoulder, and Sherlock nearly stormed out to warn Lestrade off. Only John's words — when you say you're finished — kept Sherlock in place, though he had to stop stitching so he wouldn't tear the thread right through the dead, yielding flesh.
Lestrade handed John a business card from the silver case he kept in his inside jacket pocket. Why? Did he want John to call him? To text him? John didn't return the favor, but Sherlock didn't know if he had business cards at all.
And then, finally, Lestrade left, and John continued to wait as though he'd be content to wait for the rest of his life. Sherlock cleaned and helped Molly neatly label the evidence that she'd collected and that he'd analyzed, all the while conscious of the calm, steady presence standing at the observation window, and though it had to be boring just standing there with that unneeded cane and nothing to do but watch, John was still there every time Sherlock looked up.
And watch he did, with such a quiet intensity that it shattered Sherlock's composure all over again, just as had happened in the hallway, and replaced it with confusion and uncertainty. He tried to suppress it with his usual iron will, only to discover that something inside of him had folded beneath the weight of John Watson's scrutiny. Then he tried to ignore it and push it aside as inconsequential, only it was somehow threaded up with the presence behind that window, and the knowledge that John was still there kept bringing the confusion and uncertainty back to the front of his thoughts.
He asked himself, over and over, Is this clean enough? and kept going back to tend to more small details until finally, after what felt like hours, even his sharp eyes could see nothing out of place. There was nothing he could do at the moment about the splashes on his trouser cuffs, but that was all — that and his shoes, but they could wait. Only when he was certain he was finished, that John could find no fault with the state of the room, did he look toward the window, and their eyes locked, and somehow John read the unspoken question.
He nodded. Smiled a tiny smile that felt like approval.
The answering warmth that coiled through Sherlock's body felt like satisfaction, but not the same satisfaction that came with solving a mystery. This was more personal, something Sherlock had never felt but was able to identify by the realization that if John was happy, he'd stay.
Snatching up his coat and scarf and gloves, he left without another word to Molly, half-hearing her farewell echo out into the hallway. Stopped outside the double doors to the morgue, he pulled on his overcoat and just watched John, reading the remnants of fatigue that had burned away under the intellectual challenge of the autopsy and the absolute lack of discomfort in his leg despite standing still for so long.
Exhilarated, Sherlock picked up the thread of conversation where it had been so abruptly cut before. "Hungry? I could do with a good Chinese. There's a place not far from the flat."
John reached out with his left hand and took hold of Sherlock's scarf, sliding it through his fingers and out of his grasp. He leaned the cane against his hip and calmly, quietly folded the scarf in half. Then he reached up, draping the scarf behind Sherlock's neck. The touch sent a shiver down his spine, and he closed his eyes to better concentrate on the sensation made unfamiliar and exotic and new because it was John causing it.
"How many patches?" John asked, holding onto both ends of the scarf, trapping Sherlock. There were inches between them, inches that felt like miles and like nothing all at once.
"None."
John nodded, and the approval seemed to ignite a bonfire in Sherlock's chest, drawing his own lips up in a grin as he realized he'd made the right move after all. The game stretched between them, bridging those inches, twisting their thoughts and intentions together, and Sherlock knew then that even though he couldn't recite the rules, he still could win.
"You can say no, if you'd like," John said very quietly. "You can always say no and walk away. We'll talk more about it later, but for now, I need to know you understand that much."
Sherlock examined his words, both spoken and unspoken, and heard what John was really saying. He'd done his research, and while the internet was notoriously unreliable for accuracy, he at least had a general idea of what he was getting into. That would've been enough to catch his interest even without John, because it was new. It wasn't a matter of kink or inclination or even sex. It was the experience — the unpredictability, the danger — that had him hooked.
Adding John to the mix made it that much better. Time and time again, Sherlock had failed to predict John's actions and reactions. If they did this, he had no way to know what John would do. What Moriarty would do, if that's who John really was.
"Stradivarius," he answered, having made his decision some two days after they'd met. It was such a fragile convention, an agreement of words alone, and since he'd first considered it, Sherlock had wondered if John would honor it or not.
He still wondered if he'd want John to ignore it entirely.
But for now, John blinked up at Sherlock, brows drawing together in a frown that caused new lines to take shape on his forehead and the corners of his eyes. "Sorry?" he asked, automatically seeking refuge in politeness.
"Stradivarius. It's my safeword."
John's eyes went wide with surprise, but Sherlock saw the way his pulse jumped in his throat. As they stared at one another, John's pupils dilated and his lips parted just slightly before curling up at one corner. The tension left his body as he brought his hands together, fixing the scarf in place around Sherlock's throat with gentle care. There was no sharp tug, no tightening of cashmere to press against his larynx or make the blood roar in his ears, and the softness of it froze Sherlock in place.
"Right," John said, dropping his hands along the edges of Sherlock's overcoat. He buttoned it with quick, neat movements. Then he glanced to the side, into the morgue where Molly was still busy at work, and lowered his voice even more as he turned back to Sherlock. "Limits?"
"None." They seemed to be reduced to single-word concepts, but Sherlock took that as a sign that they were finally, completely in alignment with one another.
"None?" John's expression shattered, flashing into disbelief and exasperation, but not before Sherlock saw a hint of something else, something darker. Something like elation.
"None." Sherlock took a breath and considered the possibility that more than one word was needed after the repeat of this one. "The safeword is for your benefit — because I know you would insist. I won't need it."
"God," John breathed, closing his eyes. "You insane, stupid man."
Despite seeing Sherlock in action today, he was obviously missing the point — or, more accurately, thinking Sherlock had missed the point. At least it was easy enough to prove him wrong there.
"You want me helpless and hurting and yours just as much as I want you to be mine, until there's nothing left in the world but us. Whatever you want to do to me, I want, because you want it. And you won't want anything that you shouldn't, because you're not the type of man to destroy what's yours."
John's exhale was ragged. His voice, when he spoke, was broken. "Fuck. Sherlock."
That didn't seem to need a response, and in any case, Sherlock was entranced by the emotions and thoughts and raw desire that seemed to play just under the surface of John's skin, broadcast in the flush of blood and movement of breath and shift of muscles.
But finally, as the silence continued, Sherlock asked, "Am I wrong?"
"No." John took a deep breath, steadier this time, and set his hand gently on Sherlock's chest. Through the layers of overcoat and jacket and shirt, Sherlock could barely feel the pressure, but he imagined he felt warmth blazing from that single point of contact. "God help us both, no. You're not wrong."