Exploring Sexuality
A/N: I'm back! So sorry for the hiatus, I was on vacation, and things may slow down consistently as school starts again, but I promise I won't forget about this story xxx
Also, this chapter is really long…
Ch. 11
John's breath tightened and his fingers itched for his gun. He had come from work, of course, so obviously he didn't have it, and he sighed frustratedly. His heart was racing and he took a couple deep breathes to try to relax. Sherlock would be fine; he always was.
However, he also never asked for help.
Or rather, very rarely asked for help.
John remembered only one other time, and even just thinking of it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
They had been on the case for close to two weeks, and Sherlock was getting restless. He didn't like not being able to solve something in less than a week; two was close to torture for him. Sherlock had two suspects and had spent a whole day on the couch trying to rule one of them out, with little success.
He had finally decided it was the brother's best friend who had killed the fiancée and her parents practically as soon as John had come home from work the next day. Sherlock told John to grab his gun and more or less ran out the door to hail a cab, leaving John scrambling to follow. He had held the cab, like he always did, already explaining how it all came together before John had even shut the door.
When they had gotten to the hotel room where they were to apprehend the brother's friend (Sherlock said he was going to leave town that night; he hadn't done so already because it would seem odd not to offer his condolences. Sherlock was proud of the bloke for being so clever) the man was packing. They split up like they were used to doing, Sherlock heading in first and John following behind a moment later.
At least, that was the plan.
John heard a gunshot and Sherlock shout for him within seconds of the detective's entrance, and he was in the room in a heartbeat, gun already out.
Sherlock had been on the ground, on his back, and the friend was startling him, gun to Sherlock's forehead, eyes already on John. Sherlock was very still, but the other man was much bigger than him, so John understood why. John's heart had stopped, and the other man stared at him where he stood frozen in the doorway. He had told him to drop his gun, or he would shoot Sherlock.
So, despite Sherlock's avid protests, John did. The man then told him to kick it away from him, and John tackled him.
Mycroft paid for three bullet holes in the hotel room's walls that week.
But this time would work out the same; Sherlock would be fine when John got there, he was sure of it. And naturally, the cab got stopped at ever red light since John got the text.
He could see why the cabby had given him and odd look; they were not in a very good part of town now, and the house they stopped at looked deserted; it was pitch black inside, all the windows that weren't closed, broken. The door was kicked open. "You sure this is where you want to be?" the driver asked as John paid him hastily.
"Positive," John mumbled as he shut the door behind him, not even bothering to stay to see the cabby give him a sort of 'whatever' type shrug before driving off again. John typed out a quick text to Lestrade, forwarding him the address in case Sherlock hadn't. Then he made sure his phone was on silent before slowly creeping in to the house.
Inside was much the same as the outside- run-down looking and dark, the only light coming from outside, behind tattered window shades. It was also very silent, and John could hear only his own soft breathing and careful footsteps as he did a quick search of the first floor. Coffee was warm in the pot, which was odd, considering it was early evening by now. Other than that, it didn't even look like anyone had lived here in at least the past year.
There was both a basement and a second floor, so John decided he would take his chances upstairs first, even if every horror story told him that the "bad guys" would most likely be in the basement. Upstairs, there was a short hall and three closed doors. No real light shone from under any of them, and it was still just as silent as downstairs, even when he pressed his ear to each door. Anxiety pooled in the pit of his stomach, but John pushed through it and very, very slowly opened the door closest to the stairs.
Bedroom. Small, dusty. Empty; next door.
Bathroom. Also empty. Not even a bar of soap.
Last door.
Just as John was about to open it, he heard a small whimper come from inside, then the sound of heavy footsteps downstairs, definitely not Lestrade and his men. So he quickly ran back into the first bedroom, knowing it was empty and a less likely place for anyone to come into. Luckily, there was a closet adjacent to the last room, the one he hadn't been in, so John hid in there, pressing an ear to the wall again to see if he could hear anything else.
He picked out three sets of footsteps, though one pair was more faint and gentle. A woman? And two men, most likely. They didn't come in to the room John was in, and when he listened as the other room's door opened and closed, it was just one pair of footsteps, one of the men. So the woman and the other man must be guarding the door to that room then. Why?
Through the wall came muffled protests which John immediately recognized as Sherlock's, though his voice came slower and with none of its usual sharpness. Someone Sherlock had known before this case, someone else he tolerated? There were no other sounds besides the footsteps, a small scraping sound, like a chair on hardwood, and the faint tinkling of metal touching metal. Then more footsteps, and the door opening and closing once more, and the sounds of all three of the people walking back downstairs.
John counted out a very long three minutes in his head, trying to stay as close to real seconds as possible, though he was almost positive he counted out closer to two minutes. Occasionally he heard Sherlock give another small whimper through the wall, and his heart was pounding in his chest. Once he counted to 180, he very quietly opened the closet doors, slipping out and leaving them shut like he had found them. Again his fingers itched for his gun, uncertain of what he may find in the other room next door. John took a deep breath and let it out slowly, listening intently for any sounds outside the room he was in. When he heard none, he shut the door as quietly as he could behind him, heading down the short hall to the third door. He didn't know where the other people had gone, probably in the basement, seeing as he had searched the first floor beforehand, but all he could think about was Sherlock being on the other side of this door. After a millisecond's hesitation, he slowly pushed it open.
Inside, the room was pitch black, despite the sunlight that should have still been coming through behind the shades. John shut the door again behind him, not daring to say or do anything until his eyes adjusted. When they did, he looked around to find that he was in a bare room, completely empty save a plain, wooden chair, to which Sherlock was tied, seemingly unconscious.
"Oh god," he breathed, rushing to Sherlock's side. "Sherlock?" John whispered, gently touching Sherlock's cheek. The other man moaned quietly, leaning away from his touch. "It's okay, Sherlock. It's me; it's John. Lestrade is coming; it's going to be okay." Theoretically. John hadn't looked at his phone again to see if the D.I. had responded. "Can you hear me?"
Sherlock's eyes snapped open in a brief moment of recognition, and he shook his head sharply, looking from John to the door and back again. "Go," he said, and though his voice was hoarse and gravelly, it held a desperate urgency before his eyes closed again and a small whimper escaped his lips.
John shook his head and put his wrist to Sherlock's forehead to check his temperature, slipping into doctor mode. "I am not leaving you, Sherlock. I am going to get you out of here, and we are going to go home." If they didn't stop at the hospital instead. Sherlock's temperature was high, but it didn't look like he had any broken bones or anything, meaning he had been in worse shape. "I'm going to untie you, alright?" he said softly, gently but quickly undoing the lengths of rope around Sherlock's wrists and ankles. Sherlock didn't reply, and looked like he was barely on the brink of consciousness. Once John had finished untying him, he looked around the room again, trying to work out a plan in his head. He held one of Sherlock's hands in his own as he did so.
The room was completely empty. No bed for a bedroom or desk for an office. Just the chair Sherlock had been tied to and the rope he had been tied with. There wasn't even so much as a closet. There were two windows, but they were boarded up and covered so that the evening light didn't come in. The only door was the door back out into the hall.
Still holding Sherlock's hand, John reached into his pocket for his mobile, which had a text from Lestrade. Sherlock flinched at the light it let off, but John sighed in relief.
On my way D.I. Lestrade
Sent twelve minutes ago. John estimated they had probably at least another ten, possibly twenty with traffic. And they couldn't just sit there. "Sherlock?" John whispered. "Can you stand?" Again, there was no response, and Sherlock's breathing was irregular, though his pulse was quick. Looking over him again, realization set in. "Sherlock, are you on drugs?" John knew he was clean, and when still no response came, he assumed it must have been whoever had come in the room beforehand. Not the first time since he's been here either, John would guess, though it was too dark to look for a needle prick. John sighed, anger and confusion joining the anxiety still swirling around in his stomach.
John let go of Sherlock's hand, and the man let out a moan like John had burned him. "Shh, I'm still right here. I just need to tell Lestrade where to find us," he explained quietly, shifting so that he was still crouched next to Sherlock, but so that John's leg was touching Sherlock's, so he would know he was still there.
With Sherlock. 2nd floor, 3rd door. He's drugged. At least two men and one woman, basement probably. Be quick. JW
He put his phone back in his pocket and picked up Sherlock's hand again, holding it tight. "You are going to be okay, Sherlock," John whispered, more to himself than the probably unconscious man beside him. "I am going to bring you home." That was something he had almost never said in the army. He couldn't bring himself to make that empty promise then where there were no guarantees. Some of the other doctors did, to give the men hope. And now, with Sherlock, John promised not only him, but himself too, that it was not an empty promise this time.
The next three minutes passed in a tense silence as John listened to Sherlock breathe. Lestrade would be here soon; they could wait until then. John couldn't get Sherlock far enough away in the state he was in anyway. It would be fine.
But then he heard the footsteps.
Sherlock beside him went rigid and started shaking his head, a tiny whimper escaping his lips.
John squeezed his hand and kissed his cheek. "You'll be okay, but I can't stay beside you now. I won't leave without you," John promised, letting go of Sherlock's hand reluctantly and going to stand by the side of the door. To wait.
Three pairs of footsteps again. They all stopped outside the door and John could hear, but not make out, them conversing with each other quietly. Yet again, his fingers twitched for is gun; he hated being unarmed. He didn't know if the others were armed, but he assumed so. Assume for the worst, but hope for the best.
The sound of the door opening and the sudden light coming through it was accompanied by the sound of tires outside, stopping fast. Which was also accompanied by Sherlock weak protests of no, John's name occasionally slipped in there. The door paused, as if the person on the other side was unsure of what to do, then opened to rest of the way, closing behind a man a good couple inches taller than John. The man stopped, letting his eyes adjust, and simultaneously John heard Lestrade's troops spill out of their cars and the other two pairs of footsteps heading back downstairs.
John didn't give the other man any more time, instead letting learned instincts take over. He landed a well-placed blow to the man's stomach, causing him to double over in pain and surprise as the air was knocked out of his lungs. Something dropped from his hand, and John instinctually kicked it away. Too small to be a gun though, more likely another needle. His next hit landed on the man's back, and he fell to his knees.
But his hand flew out and caught John's ankle, pulling him down too. "Doctor Watson, I'd presume," he said under his breath. He had a faint accent, and was breathing a little harder than was considered normal, but John had no time to ponder that or how the man knew who he was as he crashed to the ground.
Years of military training and combat had taught him how to fall with minimalized damage, but he couldn't twist fast enough to land on his other side and ended up rolling on his bad shoulder with a stifled cry and a short string of profanities. He avoided the first punch, but took the second one square to the jaw. At least the man didn't seem to be armed. He managed to land a sub-par blow to the side of the man's head before receiving another to his own stomach, knocking the breath from his lungs.
John could hear footsteps coming up the stairs and Sherlock's mumbled cries of protest and could only hope it was Lestrade's men as he landed a good punch to the taller man's groin, giving him some leverage to get to his feet again. A foot swept under his own, however, causing him to tumble again, but not without pulling the other man down with him.
They were grappling on the ground, halfway between Sherlock in his chair and the closed door, when it was kicked down and two of Lestrade's men burst through. John was quickly losing, nearly pinned under the other man's weight and height when the two men pulled him off, cuffing him with some effort.
John was almost immediately up and next to Sherlock again, his breathing rugged as he took the detective's hand. "You're okay now," he panted. "It's okay." John's whole world was Sherlock, and his breathing, his pulse, the way he relaxed fractionally as John soothed him. He ignored the pain he himself was in, knowing nothing was broken or seriously wrong.
"Jesus Christ!" Lestrade exclaimed for the doorway. The first two men had apparently taken the other bloke downstairs. "John, are you two alright?"
"I'm fine, Greg, thanks," John replied instantly, his voice soft as he looked up at the D.I. coming over to join them. "He's barely conscious though, and I don't know what's in his system." Or why Sherlock was even here, where his coat, let alone scarf and mobile, was, or if he needed to go to the hospital. Let alone anything about the case or why the man had known his name.
Lestrade nodded, offering his hand to help pull John up, John's other hand still tight in Sherlock's. "C'mon then, we'll let the medics take a look, see if he needs hospitalization this time," Lestrade said quietly, silently helping John get Sherlock up, one of his arms over each of their shoulders.
Sherlock's head rested on John's shoulder, and he could walk a little, though not straight or steady, so that Greg and John didn't have to carry his full weight down the stairs and outside. His eyes stayed closed as they led him out of the house.
Lestrade didn't say anything besides an order here and there, and didn't ask questions. There was a genuine concern on his face as he helped Sherlock and John both into the back of an ambulance.
John let Sherlock lean on him, holding him up as he answered all the questions the medics asked. He had busted his lip and hadn't even noticed, but other than that it was just plenty of bruises for him. The medics took blood from Sherlock so they could know for sure what was in his system, though he had protested weakly at the other needle, even as John held him close and reassured him.
Sherlock also protested when anyone other than John touched him, though his protests were feeble and generally ignored without preamble. He kept his eyes closed and his head on John's shoulder, curled up close to him in the back of the ambulance as everyone bustled around them.
John talked quietly to him when everyone stopped asking him questions, resting his head on Sherlock's. "You need to eat something, and drink, so there's something in your system other than two pancakes and whatever they shot you up with," he told Sherlock softly. "Once they give us the okay, I'll take you home, and we can get take out, and then you need to sleep this off." Sherlock nodded faintly, though he was already half asleep against John.
"I doubt you'll make it to the flat," the medic that usually attended to them when they got into trouble said. His name was Ryan. "He'll probably pass out now. He needs to drink lots of water when he wakes up, and I mean a lot." John looked up at the man and smiled a little, nodding to show that he was listening as he rested his head back on Sherlock's. "I don't think he'll sleep peacefully, but you can go in a minute. We'll tell you what's in his system as soon as we know.
"Okay. Thank you, Ryan," John said quietly.
The man nodded, smiling a bit at them. John talked to him every now and then; he was a nice bloke. He went off to talk to Lestrade, leaving John and Sherlock alone.
"John?" Sherlock asked weakly, not moving.
"Yeah; what is it?" John responded softly, looking down to Sherlock, not used to the quietness of his voice.
"I'm sorry."
John was a bit taken aback, but he kissed the top of Sherlock's head. "It's alright. We are both okay; you have nothing to be sorry for." Besides probably being recklessly stupid and going off on his own, but he had never apologized for that before. Of course, he wasn't usually high, either.
Sherlock nodded a bit, relaxing considerably against John, his eyes still closed.
Ryan finished talking with Lestrade, and Greg came over to Sherlock and John. "How are you feeling?" he asked, looking between the two of them.
John shrugged, sighing a little. "I've been better, been worse," he replied. "Can we go now?" John just wanted to get home, to get Sherlock home. He could ask about the blasted case and all that tomorrow, once they'd rested.
Lestrade seemed to understand, because he nodded, looking to Sherlock. "Yep. I said I would take you back, seeing as he's practically asleep, and you're looking pretty bad yourself."
John smiled. Lestrade was always so helpful, but he did it in a way so that it didn't feel like they were being babied. "Thanks, Greg," he said quietly, running his hand up and down Sherlock's back once. "C'mon, Sherlock," he whispered. "We're gonna get you home."
"I'll pull around," Lestrade said, heading off towards his car so that they wouldn't have to half-carry Sherlock again.
It was really only a bit after six, but it felt much later. Other men had come to check out the now crime scene, if it hadn't been one before. John could hear Sally's voice from somewhere not too far off. He had an arm around Sherlock's waist, supporting him as he started to doze off. "There's Greg," he said after a minute. "Help me out here, love." The endearment slipped out before it had even processed in his mind, but Sherlock either didn't care, or was too far gone to care. John felt a small blush on his cheeks anyway as he carefully jumped the little way down from the back of the ambulance, taking Sherlock's waist again to help him down too, one of his arms across John's shoulders. He wobbled a little, mostly leaning on John, but they made it to the car. Greg opened the door and helped Sherlock in. Whenever John wasn't touching him somehow, Sherlock let out a small sound, that if it were anyone else, John would call a whine.
"It's okay," John would soothe him, and he sat in the back of Greg's cruiser with Sherlock curled up against him, his eyes shut tight against the evening sun. They rode in silence, except for the car radio, which Lestrade had turned down low enough that it was just background noise. Every once in a while, John would see Lestrade look back at them in the mirror with a small smile on his face.
Around the Yard, Sherlock and John's behavior hadn't changed that much, besides the fact that they were constantly holding hands. Maybe Sherlock spoke a little nicer, to John especially, even sounding hesitant with certain things, but other than that, nothing really chanced away from home. So this would be different for Lestrade, to see them like this.
Hell, it was different for John. With their heights, Sherlock usually held him. And he was never like this, quiet and sleepy and off. John was glad for a second that the drugs hadn't made Sherlock loud and tipsy-like. He couldn't imagine him like that, talking nonsense like he was stoned. If he wasn't so on-edge still, John might find this nice.
"John," Lestrade said, not for the first time, judging by his tone. "We're at Baker Street. Do you need a help getting him settled?"
John looked up at Lestrade, then out the window. They were at Baker Street; he hadn't even noticed the car had stopped. "Uhh, no thanks, Greg. I think I can manage," he decided after a small hesitation.
"You sure? You seem a little out of it," Lestrade said, a hint of worry in his voice.
John thought about it again, then nodded. "I'll be fine, thanks," he repeated.
Lestrade nodded and got out, opening the door for them anyway. Then he held out his hand for the keys to the flat, to unlock the door for them, to which John sighed and complied silently.
Sherlock was sound asleep, and though John hated to wake him, he wasn't in the best shape to carry him right now, no matter what he told Greg. "Hey, Sherlock," John said softly, nudging the man a bit. "We're home now; you're okay. Can you get inside?"
Sherlock mumbled something incoherently, then gasped and jerked away from John, eyes wide and pupils blown. "The case!" he exclaimed, practically pushing John out of the car.
"Oh, no, no, no, no," John said, shaking his head and catching Sherlock when he stumbled. He had no idea why the other was so eager to get inside now. "There's no way you've slept it off already. Plus, you can barely walk, Sherlock. I'm getting you a glass of water, then you're going back to bed."
Sherlock tried to push John away again, insisting he could walk just fine by himself, until he saw Lestrade. "What is he doing here?" he asked skeptically.
"Greg drove us home, so you can get some sleep," John explained, carefully leading Sherlock into the flat.
Sherlock looked at him like he had six heads. "John, we're not home. This is the case house. The drug dealer's," he said slowly, as if John were the one on drugs. "And that's not Lestrade, that's Dimmock," he added with a scowl.
Lestrade gave John an empathetic shrug, handing him his keys back, but seeing that Sherlock could stand better, decided that John could handle him. "I'll talk to you tomorrow," he whispered, closing the door behind him when John nodded.
"Of course, sorry, my mistake. That's what I meant," John told Sherlock, leading him to his room. "Come on, sit," he instructed, sitting onSherlock's bed, leftover paper and candles still scattered about the room. Sherlock sat next to him, mainly because John was still partially holding him up. "Shoes off, belt off," John said next, taking his own off to lead by example. He helped Sherlock undress, stripping him down to his briefs. "Good. Bed now," he murmured softly.
"Now? Here?" Sherlock asked incredulously, staring at John. "I'm on a case, John."
"Yes now, yes here, case be damned," John replied, gently pushing Sherlock down onto his back, pulling a blanket over him. "I'm going to get you a glass of water," John repeated. "Stay in bed."
Sherlock looked back at him in confusion and turned on his side, an arm tucked under his head and one knee up. John left him and went to get some water from the kitchen. "John?" he called nervously.
John finished filling the glass and was considering putting tea on for himself when Sherlock called, so he went back to the room instead. Sherlock was sitting up in bed now, a hand by his heart. He looked like he was about to cry as he stared up at John. "What is it, Sherlock? I'm right here," he soothed, sitting on the edge of the bed and setting the water on the little bedside dresser.
"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry. I lost them, and it's all my fault. I'm sorry," Sherlock rambled, looking at John helplessly.
John just stared at Sherlock, completely lost. That was the most apologies Sherlock had probably ever said in his life to any one person. "You lost wh- Oh," John breathed, realization settling in as he looked at Sherlock's hand. His dog tags were gone. John was angry for all of two seconds, before he saw Sherlock's face. He looked absolutely devastated, pupils still blown wide. And John couldn't bear to see that look on Sherlock's face, because it really probably wasn't his fault. So John pulled his partner? boyfriend? lover? they still hadn't decided, into his arms, letting out a slow breath. "It's alright, Sherlock," he said quietly, a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach. "It's okay; it wasn't your fault."
Sherlock shook his head and tried to push John away before pulling him closer, crying into his shoulder. "It is; it's all my fault. You gave them to me, you trusted me with them, and I lost them, and now you're going to leave, and I'm in the middle of a case and practically naked in the drug dealer's house, and you were going to have sex with me, and now I've ruined it, and you hate me."
John blinked at Sherlock quizzically, not understanding. Then he realized that that must be what Sherlock believed was happening, with whatever he was on. "No, no; I don't hate you," he assured quickly, rubbing Sherlock's back as the man clung to him. "I'm not going to leave you, alright? And we can have sex some other time; it's okay," he said softly, leaving out that he hadn't brought Sherlock to bed to have sex, just trying to get him to relax. "You need to sleep. Drink this glass of water for me, then sleep, and when you wake up we can talk, alright, love?" There it slipped again, and John resisted the urge to cover his mouth with his hand.
But Sherlock just stared at him with blurry eyes like he was the most amazing person on the planet, nodding eagerly. "Okay, John. As long as you don't leave," he mumbled.
John smiled a tiny bit and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's cheek, handing him the glass of water. "I won't leave, I promise," he whispered as Sherlock drank the whole glass. "I'll stay right here," Sherlock seemed very satisfied with that answer and handed the now empty glass back to John before laying down and pulling John down with him, holding him close so that they were chest to chest, even though John was still mostly dressed.
"Right here?" Sherlock whispered almost desperately.
"Right here," John agreed softly. "Right here."
A/N: So, I've never written action/suspense like that, so let me know how I did :)
