A.N.: Thank you to all readers who have the patience to wait for my updates, and especially to all of you who take the time to review! I really do appreciate it. Hope you enjoy this chapter! :)
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xXx
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Chapter 29: Dreaming
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"I want you to picture your dream again – exactly as you remember it. From the beginning."
John stared, speechless. Sherlock insisted: "Do it."
"But–"
"Please." He pressed John's arm and pinned him with his gaze. "Trust me."
There had always been something about Sherlock – his voice, perhaps; his gaze, his scent, his gestures, all of him – that made John do whatever Sherlock told him to do. John would come from the other side of London just to send a text and would even forgive the detective. He always did. And probably always would. Sherlock was endowed with a peculiar charisma that did not allow for any resistance, or that rendered it pointless. John, charmed, would always give in.
But this was not simply fascination. The admiration was coupled with a profound respect and a fundamental trust in the consulting detective; in his deductive abilities, of course, but in him as a man, too.
So after having met Sherlock's intense gaze, John let down his hand that was holding the shower, closed his eyes, and complied. It was easy enough, for he was still haunted by the images of his nightmare.
"Now I want you to alter one thing, just one thing."
John nodded curtly, already feeling nausea tighten his throat.
"Picture me completely unresponsive."
John was so startled he opened his eyes. Upon meeting Sherlock's frown, however, he closed them again, and just listened to his friend.
"Imagine the whole scene without me feeling any pleasure at all – even a much unwanted one. You can replace it with pain or with a lack of reaction, it's not essential. But you must erase all signs of pleasure."
John shut his eyes tighter and gritted his teeth. Nausea swelled up inside him and he opened his eyes, staggering.
"I can't."
"But you did picture it?"
"I did! But... no more... Look, I–"
"Do you think you could have become aroused under these circumstances?"
John froze.
"What?"
"In your dream. Would you have been excited by the sight of me being tortured even if it did not arouse me?"
"I... I don't know..." John stammered.
"Then visualize the whole scene in the Basement, but without me being hard. Would it have turned you on?"
"I don't know!" John exploded. "Don't you think this is horrible enough?"
His voice broke. Wordlessly, Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, a bit awkward. He always was when it came to explicit displays of affection; but he also knew John appreciated them very much.
"No," he finally said. "I don't think it's horrible. Think, John, just think! You don't get aroused because I am being tortured. You get aroused because I get aroused. Your body responds to mine. I thought you had understood. This was the crux of Moriarty's device to break me – to break us."
"But this is no excuse!"
"You don't need an excuse." Sherlock leant back a little so as to look John in the eye. "Do you regret having sex with me?"
"What?" John asked dumbly. "Of course not! Sherlock, I..." He swallowed, groping for words and finding Sherlock's hands. He laced their fingers unwittingly. "Last night was one of the most intense and the most beautiful experiences of my life." He caught Sherlock's slight pout and added with the trace of a smile: "The others were probably all with you, too."
Sherlock had not expected the sudden confession and the renewed profession of love. He blinked, looked away, and overall seemed rather disconcerted. But he was not done with John yet and collected himself.
"Then do you think I regret it?"
"No. I mean, I hope not." John's gaze wavered. "Do you?"
"Not in the least."
"Then why–"
"If you do not regret having sex with me and I do not regret it either, then what's the problem?"
"But–"
"Oh, I see."
"Will you let me finish my sentences?!" John snapped.
"But this is quicker," Sherlock remarked, unfazed. "The real problem, then, is that you share Mycroft's views – or what you believe to be Mycroft's views."
John stared, lost. Sherlock developed.
"You believe that my attraction and... affection for you are pathological. That is, that they are the result of a trauma, which retrospectively you think to have resolved quite poorly. But you are confusing two very different things, John."
Since John just kept staring, Sherlock went on.
"You're confusing an event with a trauma. Both affect the individual, and may do so greatly or insignificantly. What makes it confusing here is that what happened in the Basement was both a trauma and an event."
"... Right."
"Don't you see?"
Apparently, John really didn't.
"You reversed the trauma. You transfigured it and made it an event." Sherlock moved closer and reaffirmed his hold on John. "It was the same crux," he murmured. "Do not listen to anything anyone says on the matter. Don't take what Moriarty or Mycroft say for the gospel truth – they are the last to be trusted. Just remember the facts. Remember waiting at the hospital. Remember bringing me back to Baker Street. Remember your reaction when you found me on my bed waiting for you. Remember what you did. Remember the belt. Remember the dance. Who else but us can judge what was right or wrong then?"
Something broke in John's eyes, and something flowed freely again. But Sherlock was holding him too close to see it. John shivered in the embrace, suddenly feeling how warm the water truly was against his skin; suddenly becoming aware of Sherlock's heart beating against his. He held him back.
"It is true I would have never become involved in romance or sex with you before the Basement. But you must understand the Basement as both a trauma and an event. It could have been another triggering factor. Or, it could also have been the case that whatever traces of desire we had remained latent all our lives. At any rate, this is not some kind of PTSD symptom. I thought we were both clear on that."
His cheek pressed against Sherlock's chest, revelling in the beats, John answered in a croaky voice:
"But that's not the issue. I still got aroused while you were being tortured."
"And I got aroused while I was being tortured. What do you think is the worse?"
John chuckled, exhausted. Sherlock caressed his hair.
"This was part and parcel of the torture – and you too were being tortured. I..."
Sherlock swallowed, furrowing his brow in frustration at being so awkward.
"This," he said abruptly, making John start. "I think this is fine." John blinked. "Better than fine. It's... good. It is completely irrelevant to consider it from an objective point of view, because there is nothing objective to it. From an outer perspective, you have been imposing yourself on me and I have been manipulating you. Now, even you must realize how illogical this statement is."
"Proof by contradiction?" John asked, repressing a giggle. This was crazy. They were crazy.
"Precisely," Sherlock replied most seriously.
John sighed. "You make it all sound so simple."
"Because it is."
Their eyes locked. Tentatively, Sherlock traced the side of John's chest and his hip. "'What we cannot speak about we must pass over in silence.'"
John furrowed his brow slightly, tilting his head to the side. "What do you mean?"
"That it is time I demonstrate one of my previous statements."
"Which was?"
"That your body responds to mine."
Sherlock replaced the shower on its stand above their heads and pinned John against the wall again with a barely hidden smirk.
"Sherlock!" John protested.
Sherlock kissed him to silence, hesitantly at first, not sure John would feel like it. But John responded to the embrace. Letting out a smile of relief, Sherlock deepened the kiss, his hands roaming John's throat, John's chest, John's back.
"You tricked me," John groaned, short of breath as they broke the kiss.
"You permitted me to," Sherlock reminded him. John rolled his eyes and pulled him down.
"You are deviousness itself," he murmured against his lips.
Sherlock did not deny it.
xXx
"John. I'm bored."
"What? But I'm here!"
"Yes, and you're shaving! How entertaining do you think that is for someone stuck in a bathtub?"
John rolled his eyes, then focused on his reflection in the mirror again. Sherlock was observing him from behind. It was not strictly true that John wasn't entertaining. Sherlock wondered what could make John's mere presence in a room pleasant to him. Enveloping. Then he realized. His scent. John had different kinds of scents, of course – the one he had after he'd shaved, the one attached to his all-year-round jacket, the one he had when he'd just washed his hair, the one he had when he came back from a brisk walk outside to "get some air"... But there was a deeper, more fundamental one still: the one of his skin. It was always there, his very own scent, pervading all other scents that could still be called "John's scent" but weren't as primary. The scent of his body was naturally very present in sex, too, but Sherlock realized that he smelled it most distinctly at night, when they were just lying in bed, each having his own nightmares. A small, small smile played on his lips for an instant.
"John."
"What?"
"I'm cold."
"But the bathwater is warm."
"I'm cold," Sherlock repeated, stubborn.
John sighed.
"What can I do for you then?"
"...Take a bath with me?"
"No. We can't spend the whole day in the bathroom."
"Why not? I don't have a case."
John rolled his eyes and Sherlock gave his most adorable moue in an attempt to persuade him. Then he remembered something and dropped the act immediately. Wasn't John supposed to be working at the clinic today? When was the last time he...?
"You quit," he suddenly said, realization hitting him.
"What?"
"Your job at the clinic. You quit."
John blinked. He looked at Sherlock's reflection in the mirror, then at his own image again.
"Yes. I did."
Sherlock did not ask why; but he stopped complaining about the cold. After a while, John started worrying about the silence. He washed and dried his face with a towel before coming to sit on the rim of the bathtub.
"I'll dry your hair if you'd like," he offered, stroking the wet curls.
"Do I still have to stay in the bath for long?"
"You can get out once I've dried your hair."
Sherlock pouted.
"Only you get to enjoy yourself," he grumbled.
John chuckled and leant it to kiss his temple.
"Oh, I think you've enjoyed yourself just fine."
So John dried Sherlock's hair and Sherlock let him.
As John ran his hand through the black locks, the consulting detective could not help but think that he was doomed. As if John's touch were responsible for it. Hadn't he become quite useless after the Basement? Hadn't he kept messing up all his cases? First he had been tricked by Mycroft, then by Moriarty; he'd also failed to finish the Hilton Cubitt case properly – although technically it shouldn't have been a failure. He had figured everything out just fine. But that idiotic man just had to act like his idiotic self.
Sherlock's brow clouded. That was why he felt stupid. Idiotic Hilton Cubitt had just acted like his idiotic self. Sherlock should have been able to predict his behaviour. Worse than that, he had acted completely irrationally in the Cubitts' room – closing the door behind him, getting shot. Stupid, stupid...
"What are you thinking about?"
"Cases."
"Ah. Well, if you're badly in need, I suppose I could call Greg and–"
"No."
"No?"
"I am not 'in need'."
"I meant in need of a case, Sherlock."
"But I'm not in need of a case!"
"Fine, fine! I just thought you... Oh, never mind."
They fell quiet again. Sherlock tried to concentrate on the feel of John's hand on his scalp. He breathed in deeply. He didn't know if he was capable of solving a case properly anymore; didn't know if he was capable of keeping John by his side. Didn't know if he was capable of keeping him safe... that is, alive.
Now Sherlock felt cold. He had felt warm when they had been under the shower and he'd tried to caress all of John's self-deprecating thoughts away. It was still very strange to him, touching someone and being touched. Never had he been aware that skin could be such an incredible interface. He had never been touched much.
Maybe that was the reason he had been acting so strange lately. Never had he been so frequently touched in his entire life as he had during this past week. And what about John? Even when he had a girlfriend, he did not see her that often. Not every day. It never lasted long enough to get to that stage. He didn't live with her. Thank God.
So it must have been somewhat new for John as well, Sherlock mused with satisfaction. He shivered as John's hand ran just a little lower and brushed the nape of his neck.
Skin was such a strange thing. You couldn't touch without being touched at the same time. Sherlock had never really stopped to notice, for he was more accustomed to touching dead bodies than living ones. Or objects. It had been a very long time since he had touched anything just for the sake of touching it, too. As a child, he remembered experimenting through touching. Discovering. Playing. And with John, he had found that again – something he could not find in anything else, for everything else he touched only as a means to get somewhere.
Although he had to admit he did a bit of that with John, too.
"John?"
"Mm?"
"It's fine, now. If you want to look for another job. Maybe Mycroft can help you."
"Excuse me?"
Sherlock turned his head slightly to look at his partner.
"Since it was because of me. Surely he would feel indebted to you for some silly brotherly reason. You should make the most of it."
John stopped the hairdryer abruptly. Too abruptly for Sherlock, who wondered if he had said something wrong.
"Why are you saying this?" John asked.
"Because I'm doing better," Sherlock declared decidedly.
"Sherlock, I'm not your baby-sitter. I–"
"But you quit so you would have more time for me."
"What if I want more time with you?"
Sherlock wondered about the change of preposition and his gaze met John's. His eyes widened slightly as he understood something. Stupid. Hadn't he said so himself? He hadn't been the only one to be tortured in the Basement. John had been tortured as well. And wasn't that what the guilt was all about? John was afraid everything he had done since then had been for himself and not for Sherlock. Now he was even having nightmares about it – like Sherlock. Like he used to have nightmares about the war, and still did, sometimes.
In other words, John too had been traumatized. Sherlock couldn't believe it hadn't crossed his mind any sooner.
"Sherlock?"
"You can have it."
"Have what?"
"Time. With me."
The faintest puzzlement lit up John's face for a fleeting moment. Then he simply smiled and turned the hairdryer back on.
xXx
"Lestrade sent a text," John announced as he entered the kitchen, where Sherlock was trying to keep himself busy with experimenting on human nails.
"What does he say?"
"That he's coming with a case," John said with a smile. Sherlock did not look up and continued his experiment pointedly.
"Tell him not to come."
"What?" John's face fell. Sherlock remained silent. "But... Why?"
"Don't you see I'm busy?"
"Sherlock, he's bringing you a case!"
"Yes, well I can't take care of it right now, can I?"
"You were complaining about being bored just this morning!"
"That was this morning."
"Sherlock, it's just past noon. What is wrong with you?"
"Just tell him not to come."
Sherlock's tone was final. John looked at him closely, and the detective felt his scrutiny like lasers roaming over his skin and burning it from the inside. It got worse when John sat at the kitchen table and did not seem ready to leave any time soon.
"You don't want to see Lestrade."
"I don't have time."
"Yes you do. You said so this morning."
"Just for you."
"That's incredibly sweet, Sherlock, but don't talk crap. I'm not buying it."
"Nobody said you should."
"Sherlock!"
"Look, John, I'm busy!"
"I thought you said you had time for me?"
Sherlock sighed with exasperation, trying to hide the unease. And the fear. "What do you want?"
"Won't you sit with me?"
"Why should I?"
Sherlock looked away in time to avoid seeing the flash of hurt in John's gaze. Yet he felt the pang of guilt as if he had. "What do you want?" he repeated somewhat gingerly.
"Tell me why you don't want to see Lestrade."
This time, Sherlock snapped. His pupils flared up as he stood up abruptly.
"Would you?" he seethed.
"What?" John said, taken aback.
"Would you want to see him?" Sherlock spat. Still John did not seem to understand. Sherlock felt a pang of despair buried deep somewhere in his fury. "After what he has seen?"
John paled. Now he remembered. Sure took him long enough.
"Sherlock..."
"Spare me your pity."
"Oh, shut up!"
Sherlock started almost imperceptibly. He hadn't expected the outburst.
"Enough," John said sombrely. "Don't start talking about pity now. It's insulting."
Sherlock cast down his gaze. His throat felt tight.
Slowly, John walked up to him. Very gently, he wrapped his arms around him and kissed his chest because he couldn't reach much higher without going on tip-toe. Sherlock's throat tightened even more.
"Please stop," he asked quietly, and he noticed he had started trembling. John looked up, an unbearable, abounding clearness in his eyes.
"Can I still hug you?"
Sherlock nodded curtly, averting his gaze. Touching, and being touched. Seeing, and being seen. Suddenly he felt very tired.
Soothingly stroking his back, John was in his arms like a burden of warmth. Sherlock was reluctant to give in to the selfish urge to hug him back, to impress him again, to provoke his boundless admiration. A spectator. His public. John gave away compliments almost unwittingly, as a mere reaction, an exclamation, a statement. He sowed handfuls of them as if it were natural. And right now, Sherlock felt very much like hearing such sparkling words.
But he also knew he deserved none.
"It's pathetic," he let out between gritted teeth.
"What?"
"This. Me. Everything."
John couldn't repress a little smile. "Right. I suppose that includes me?"
"Maybe," Sherlock answered evasively.
"That video... I told Lestrade to destroy it."
"Did he?"
"I don't know. I'll make sure he does."
Sherlock was beginning to feel increasingly uncomfortable in John's arms and he hated himself for it. Shouldn't this have been the place where nothing felt wrong? Yet it did. It did, and he could not understand why. He felt trapped. Stifled. Just like he'd been in the Basement.
"Sherlock?"
"Mm?"
"I can still get the case for you, if you'd like."
Sherlock snorted.
"And tell Lestrade I don't want to see him?"
"He'd understand."
"I don't want him to understand!" Sherlock exploded. Now that he'd burst out, he could no longer stop himself. He shook off John's embrace and stepped back. Still he could not find the words; they choked him, burning his chest and throat with shame and a sense of betrayal. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply.
He had to calm down and regain his composure. If he kept acting so childishly, John would always feel like he had to take care of him, and that, Sherlock could not bear.
"I'll make some tea."
John's voice filled the kitchen and was as warm as the announced cuppa. A shiver ran down Sherlock's spine.
"Maybe you can tell me about the Openshaw case," John added before turning away to fill the kettle. Sherlock just stared at his back, speechless. "You've got to rest anyway because of your arm. We might as well while away the time like this. And if you've got any past cases you'd like to tell me about... I don't have to post everything on the blog." Sherlock swallowed, fear and hope mingling in his chest, boiling, laced with a trickle of gratefulness. As he stood there, lost in the unfamiliarity of it all, he could hear a melody floating in the room, woven in each and every one of John's movements, his voice, the simplest word or gesture. Bach's violin sonata n°1, presto.
Sherlock sat down at the table.
xXx
Lestrade did not come in the end, and Sherlock refused to let John go out alone to meet him. John indulged him.
After Sherlock had told him all about the five orange pips case and John had taken notes on his laptop, the consulting detective had continued recounting other cases. John had listened eagerly, if a little enviously, wishing he could have been there.
He wished he knew more about his friend's past, but did not dare ask too much. He feared he would not understand what had truly mattered for Sherlock, or that Sherlock would not believe that he could understand. And perhaps he would be right. Still, John felt strangely exposed in his partner's presence: Sherlock had unveiled part of his life from the very first glance, and John was well aware that every day, his enveloping gaze would see right through him. Sherlock's eyes could read him, but his couldn't read Sherlock. And John found it increasingly frustrating.
"What are your fantasies?" he asked before he could think twice about it. He had been reading – or trying to read – the newspaper while Sherlock was "confiscating" his laptop.
Sherlock looked up from the screen, his brow furrowed in perplexity. John felt stupid but decided he was well past that stage.
"It's unfair, you see," he developed, trying to sound more at ease than he was, "you get to know my fantasies, but there is no way I can guess yours."
"I don't guess."
"Never said you did."
"And I cannot deduce all of your fantasies, John."
"Really?" the doctor asked, genuinely surprised, both by the revelation and the admission.
"Obviously. Surely there must be some for which I would lack data."
John thought about it for a moment.
"Maybe," he recognized. "What is your biggest fantasy?"
Sherlock blinked. "I don't have fantasies. I thought you knew by now."
John just stared. "Everybody has fantasies."
"A serial killer, then," Sherlock mused half-seriously, sparking off a glint of insane jealousy in John's eyes.
"You seriously don't?" he insisted.
"There is nothing I can think of."
"But what did you think of to... Oh. Right." Sherlock had never actually masturbated; he had told John already.
"I was surprisingly aroused by the fighting," Sherlock commented to cheer John up. "The jam was unexpectedly pleasant but I'm not sure I would try it again. We could do it with something else, though. There's still the lemon in the fridge."
At this, John laughed. "What kind of fantasy is that?"
"What would yours be?" Sherlock asked, slightly puzzled by his friend's laughter.
"Well, it is quite silly. You'll make fun of me."
"I really don't need this to make fun of you, John."
The doctor glared unconvincingly. "On an altar," he finally said. Sherlock was lost.
"What? Like, during a mass?"
"No, not during a mass, Sherlock!"
"But still, surely in a church there would be people."
"With no one around."
Sherlock remained quiet, not daring to admit he did not understand.
"You like churches?" Somehow John did not strike him as the type to get off on blasphemy.
"Not particularly. It's just... Well, I guess it is only because an altar is symbolic."
"Ooh, I see. Romantic as ever."
John shrugged.
"What about you? Nothing at all?"
"I told you. I never needed to have fantasies."
"And now?" John asked tentatively.
"Now I have you," Sherlock replied, his tone matter-of-fact. John smiled. "Why do you think I want to experiment?"
Right. It was experimenting, after all. All of it. For some reason the thought depressed John a little.
"What about the Woman?" he inquired.
Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "What about her?"
"You were attracted to her."
"Yes. But I don't fantasize about dominatrix, if that's your question."
"Really?" John teased. It earned him a glower. Sherlock's glares were definitely becoming more and more of a turn-on. A turn-on. Of course! "Sherlock?"
"Mm?"
"What about things that turn you on?"
Sherlock frowned. In the ghastly light of the computer screen, he looked like one of those grimacing masks worn by Chinese actors. John, remembering the Black Lotus, found the thought as disturbing as amusing.
"How is that any different from a fantasy?"
"Well, a turn-on is something we might just do. Or that we did."
Sherlock looked lost again, so John continued:
"I don't know, it can be anything. Your coat is a turn-on for me, like an apron would be, or –"
"I don't wear aprons."
"I know. I'm just saying–"
"I'm not wearing an apron."
"I never said you should!"
"But didn't you say a turn-on is something we might just do?"
John sighed.
"Never mind. I don't even know why I asked."
Sherlock knew. John thought Sherlock would have been just fine never having sex with anyone. And that was most likely true. But he also thought that Sherlock had merely been indulging him these past few days and used carnal pleasure to bind him down to 221B Baker Street. And that was only partly true. For Sherlock had come to enjoy it, in many different ways.
"Tea," he abruptly said, startling John. "You've made tea a turn-on." John remembered the cups of tea he'd prepared when he had danced for Sherlock, and blushed a little. "The belt," Sherlock went on, standing up and walking towards the armchair where John was sitting. "Your voice," he finally said as he stood behind John, his fingers brushing against John's throat. "Although your voice is a bit more than that."
Sherlock looked at John from above and pierced him with his gaze. He could feel his pulse under his fingers, his blood rushing to the carotid artery. Sherlock saw fear, hope, guilt, shame, devotion, courage. There were bruises and love bites and marks from the belt and the collar on his skin.
"The thrill," Sherlock murmured, and John shivered. "It resounds in your voice. Inciting it within you..." Sherlock's hand wrapped around John's throat loosely as he leant in, his lips brushing John's hair, John's temple, John's ear. "...turning you on might just be my greatest turn-on."
John closed his eyes and saw, behind his eyelids, the haunting images of his nightmare momentarily receding.
xXx
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tbc
