I've got thick skin and an elastic heart
Chapter Eighteen:
When Sherlock went down for breakfast on the day after Boxing Day, he found his brother in the kitchen. This was in itself a bizarre occurrence, as Sherlock rarely saw his brother before dinner and hadn't been aware that his brother even knew where the kitchen was, seeing as he mostly existed on coffee and one meal every two days.
He stopped short in the doorway, staring at his brother pouring himself another cup of coffee with his phone laying face up on the kitchen bench next to his leather-bound diary. "Good morning, Sherlock," he said, without looking up from the Economic Inquirer also spread out in front of him.
"You didn't take a wrong turn on your way to the library, did you?" Sherlock replied archly. "I know those rectangular shaped objects are rather misleading." He nodded to the row of cereal boxes on the shelf above the sink.
Mycroft sent him a withering glance. "I will miss your sparkling wit when you return to school, Sherlock." He folded the newspaper and nodded to the chair opposite him. "Sit down."
"John will be down in a minute, we're going out," Sherlock said.
"Surely you have a few minutes to spare beforehand," Mycroft said calmly. "In my brief experience, John tends to take his time when it comes to his personal appearance."
It wasn't a completely unfounded jibe. John could become a little overzealous in preening himself. It was compulsion, rather than vanity. A hair out of place or a wrinkle on his shirt was a serious source of distress to him.
"You can talk," Sherlock said tartly, conceding to sit down.
"Touché," Mycroft said, taking a measured sip of his coffee.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He knew his brother too well to be fooled by that hasty capitulation. "As much as I am enjoying this brotherly reconciliation, I would ask that you get on with whatever it is you intend to do. Apology-"
His brother gave a dubious chuckle.
"Or otherwise," Sherlock finished coldly.
Mycroft smiled placidly. If Sherlock thought that humiliating his brother in front of their relatives, going expressly against his wishes at every turn and then making violent and passionate love right above his head would ruffle him then he would have underestimated his brother's temperament. Though the knowledge that he was inwardly seething with rage was comforting.
"I don't intend to apologise for being concerned." Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "That would suggest I did something wrong."
"Don't play games with me," Sherlock snapped. "I admit I have made some mistakes-"
Another dubious chuckle.
"But I've more than atoned for them. My relationship with John is completely different in every respect to anything I've done in the past." He paused. His brother looked unmoved. "I can only assume that jealousy is the root of your interference."
It was a feeble accusation but he had nothing else at his disposal.
"Jealousy?" Mycroft said coolly.
Sherlock stood. "The sooner John and I get out of here, the better."
He turned and stalked towards the door.
"Sherlock?"
He came to an abrupt halt, just shy of colliding with John in the doorway. John frowned at him and then looked over his shoulder to where Mycroft was still seated. He immediately stiffened. He hadn't come face to face with him since Christmas Day.
"Mycroft," he stammered, with a barely concealed cringe. "Hi." He glanced quickly at Sherlock, as though he was somehow responsible for Mycroft's unexpected presence.
Sherlock turned slowly to his brother. He had known that defying Mycroft would have consequences. This awkward, little encounter was just the beginning of the torment he would inflict on John in their last days in London.
"Good morning, John," Mycroft said, with all of the composure that John couldn't muster.
Sherlock felt certain that Mycroft's sudden and frequent use of John's name, rather than his old favourite "your friend" was far from an accident. Sherlock didn't realise just how unnatural it was to hear John's name on Mycroft's lips. The way he drawled it made his skin crawl.
"Don't let me interrupt your breakfast," Mycroft said at length, when John didn't speak or move. "Sit down."
John didn't seem to dare look at Sherlock as he tentatively walked over and took the seat he had just vacated moments before.
"So what is the plan today?" Mycroft said silkily. "I trust you will want to see as much of London as possible while you're still here, John."
John was struggling to meet Mycroft's eye and Mycroft seemed to know it. His eyes were boring into John with almost unwavering viciousness. "I don't know," he said, in a tone more poised than Sherlock could have hoped.
"We're going to have breakfast out," Sherlock said, finally managing to find his voice.
"Oh, anywhere special?" Mycroft said, eyes still on John. John was steadily turning a brilliant shade of scarlet.
"I haven't decided yet," Sherlock said shortly. "John."
John stood so quickly, he hit his knee on the underside of the table.
"Well, enjoy," Mycroft said, as John hurried back towards Sherlock, hands buried deep in his pockets. "By the by." He added in an offhand tone, as they was about to leave. "As it is your last week in London, I could be induced to take you and John out."
"What do you mean induced?" Sherlock spat. "Why the hell would John and I want to go anywhere with you?" A boy could only take so much. Mycroft's insinuation that they would jump at the chance to be ferried around by him was too much for his hitherto angelic level of patience to take.
Mycroft raised a well-groomed eyebrow. "Well, a friend of a friend of mine owns a club in central London." He paused, an almost undetectable smirk flitting across his features. "And he owes me a favour."
"I loathe clubs," Sherlock said venomously, his brother's serene expression sending a cascade of irritation and suspicion through him. "Why would I consent to go anywhere with you, much less some alcohol stained hole full of drunken morons?"
"Well," Mycroft said, thoughtfully raising his coffee cup to his lips with raised eyebrows. "That is a fair point, but I think you should consider making an exception."
Sherlock stared at him. "What?"
"Mother and father will be back by the end of the week," Mycroft said. He lowered his cup with a hard look. "They'll be very interested to know what their sons have been doing to occupy themselves all Christmas."
"No, they bloody won't be," Sherlock retorted. "They've probably already forgotten our names."
"Be that as it may," Mycroft said loudly. "They will be interested to know all about your new friend..." His eyes slid past him to John, the almost-smirk settling in the corners of his mouth again. "And about all the time you've been spending together."
Sherlock felt a cold trickle run through him. He stared at his brother. He could have driven his fist into that calm, condescending expression. "John, would you wait for me in the hallway?"
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John jerk his head towards him. "Yeah. Okay," he said reluctantly.
Sherlock waited until the door was closed behind him and then took a furious step towards his brother. "What the hell are you playing at?"
"Such an obedient pet," Mycroft taunted. "You say "get out" and he trips over himself to do as he's told."
It was the first time Mycroft's contempt for John had been truly obvious and it stung Sherlock more than he had expected. Some small, insecure part of him longed to demand just what made John so repugnant. But he already knew the answer to that.
John was human. He wasn't capable of paralysing his emotions like Mycroft; he couldn't smile with such poise and indifference when he was hurt or angry. And he bowed to his basest instincts and desires, in a manner Mycroft never would allow himself to. He thought John was polluting Sherlock, stripping him of his ability to remain unmoved and untouched. Perhaps he really was jealous. Perhaps Mycroft secretly wanted what Sherlock had with John or resented John for giving Sherlock something he couldn't enjoy.
"So this is your way of getting square?" Sherlock said coldly. "You'd think I'd done something really terrible. Like blackmailed my own brother-"
"You brought this on yourself," Mycroft replied, lowering his eyes to the rectangle of newspaper still visible. "With your past, I wouldn't be surprised if they were extremely concerned about this dalliance- be it with a school boy possessing the cunning of a hamster." He paused. "Perhaps even concerned enough to remove you from Redverse."
"And you would tell them?" Sherlock spat. "Because I embarrassed you in front of relatives we don't even like, that we only see once a year?"
"If you won't help yourself, I'll be forced to tell the only people who have ever seemed to possess any sway over you," Mycroft said, speaking in the same manner someone might talk about the weather. "Of course if you did wish to take up my kind offer and accompany me to my esteemed friend's establishment I could be persuaded to conveniently forget the existence of John Watson."
"What's in it for you?" Sherlock said, his body pricking all over with cold anger. "Besides having the pleasure of seeing me suffer the strobe lighting and alcohol doused imbeciles who inhabit nightclubs."
"Your words not mine," Mycroft said coolly, raising his eyebrows at him in a knowing fashion. "I would merely be interested to see John in is his natural habitat."
"John's nothing like them," Sherlock said icily. But inwardly he couldn't help remembering just what event had led to his and John finally coming together.
"You can take the boy out of the clique but you can't take the clique out of the boy," Mycroft said. He looked up with him, eyes glinting. "You must have thought it quite a game to ensnare a feebleminded footballer and see how long you could keep him distracted from all the excitement that being the centre of undeserved attention affords him. I congratulate you on your efforts, but you know just as well as I do that they won't last. He'll fall back into his old ways sooner or later."
Sherlock's curled up right knuckle gave a sharp crack. "For once in your miserable life, just shut the fuck up, Mycroft."
He left his brother, slamming the door much harder than what was necessary on his way out. He never learnt. He never seemed to quite get just how persistent Mycroft was and just how he acted when he was so determined to be right. And he was pissed. He was really damn pissed about what Sherlock and John had done. Sherlock had walked straight into this.
John was waiting for him in the hallway, fidgeting restlessly by the wall. He straightened up abruptly when he saw Sherlock. "Well?"
"Well, we're fucked."
...
John knew Sherlock was checking out his arse as he added the finishing touches to his hair in the vanity mirror. It was difficult not to bend over a little further than what was necessary and wiggle his hips around just a tiny bit when he knew how closely the taller boy was looking at him.
"Why are you taking so long?" Sherlock barked, breaking into John's foolish thoughts. "One would think you're actually looking forward to this."
John turned to him guiltily, deciding it would be safer to ignore that remark. "How do I look?"
"Like someone whose hair gel has seeped right through to their brain," Sherlock snapped, his eyes wandering down John's torso.
"Why are you taking this so hard?" John said, rolling his eyes. "It's just a club, Sherlock. You drink, you stand around laughing at the poor idiots trying to pick up and you relax. Sometimes it's even fun. It could be worse, don't you think?"
"Hardly," Sherlock said, his lips thinned so aggressively that he could barely get the word out. "The spectacle of watching people drink themselves into a stupor and dry hump each other in public is not an attractive one." He paused, eyes narrowing. "Though it seems exceedingly so to you."
John shrugged, feeling the blood rush into his face. Truth be told, he was looking forward to this. He hadn't been to a party in a long while, hadn't been to a club for even longer. The rush of being allowed in at age sixteen was something akin to a drug high; the sense of being the youngest in a sea of seasoned clubbers was intoxicatingly fun. He could go without it for months, but every so often he craved that smell of men's deodorant and cocktails, the darkness and almost intimacy of it, though there might be a hundred or so people in the building.
"Earth to John," Sherlock said crossly, waving a hand irately in front of his face.
John coughed embarrassedly, hastily rearranging his dreamy expression. "Well, I don't think it's so bad."
Sherlock sighed and leant back on the bed, his legs spread. John decided to take the unspoken invitation and lowered himself onto Sherlock's lap, linking his arms around Sherlock's neck. Despite his aversion to fun, Sherlock had washed his hair and donned a clean shirt. It was made of grey cotton and was very soft against John's fingertips. "Won't you be cold in this?" he remarked, plucking at it.
Sherlock's hands found his waist and wedged him firmer onto his hips. "Not if you stay near me," he mumbled.
John grinned. "How close?"
Sherlock tilted his mouth up towards his. "We'll be ejected for indecent exposure."
John laughed and let him kiss him. Sherlock rocked his hips up into his, his grip tightening on John's waist. His mouth expertly moulded John's against his, tongue lapping at John's bottom lip and teeth grazing against him when he deepened the kiss.
Suddenly he broke away, drawing back to look at John with a shrewd expression. John still felt dazed from the kiss and could hardly take control of his features again half as swiftly as Sherlock. "Be careful tonight," he said, his tone suddenly very serious.
"What?" John said, frowning.
"Don't do anything you might... regret," Sherlock said, almost gently.
John felt an irritated twinge, knowing he was talking about what Sherlock called his "susceptibility to alcohol". "I don't need a chaperone," he said, in a clipped tone.
Sherlock sighed in a manner that told John that he had expected that reaction. Somehow that was even more annoying. "I'm just looking out for you."
John pulled himself out of Sherlock's grip, and stood. "Fine," he said shortly. "But don't think that just because we've had sex, it gives you permission to police me. I'm still perfectly able to take care of myself."
Sherlock watched him for a moment in silence and then shrugged. "I didn't mean anything by it."
John wondered if he had overacted. He coloured and turned back to the mirror to smooth his already creaseless shirt. "Let's just relax and enjoy ourselves. We won't be in London for much longer. Your brother can't do anything to us if we're in a club."
Sherlock gave a cynical "hah".
There was a brief silence. John stared at himself in the mirror. He couldn't remember when his complexion had last looked so healthy or his eyes so free of dark, grey circles. He looked healthier and happier than he had for months- perhaps years. It was all due to Sherlock.
Past him on the bed, Sherlock was staring at him. He looked particularly ravishing tonight. The grey shirt set off his eyes and made them look bigger and darker and more gorgeous than usual. His hair was its usual mess of dark, ramshackle tangles but no one could pull it off quite as flawlessly as Sherlock did.
"We better get going," he said grudgingly, getting to his feet. "Let's get this over with."
"Alright," John said solemnly, trying to curb his obviously too evident enthusiasm.
Apparently it was still too evident, because Sherlock sent him a decidedly dark look. He was at the door when he suddenly felt hands grip his waist and he was thrust against the wall by Sherlock's taller frame.
"Sherlock!" he narrowly avoided squealing.
Sherlock lowered his mouth to his ear, his breath sending convulsive shivers through John's body. "If you ever tease me like that again, you may find yourself unable to walk for a week."
John blinked sheepishly at him. Apparently his subtle wiggling hadn't been subtle enough to escape Sherlock. "I have no idea what you mean."
Sherlock shook his head at him. "Cunning of a hamster indeed."
John frowned confusedly at him as he was tugged out of the room.
...
Even before they had arrived at the club, Sherlock was in hell. He was crammed in the back of a cab with his brother on one side and his boyfriend on the other, looking more ravishing than ever in a fitted white t-shirt that reminded Sherlock so stridently of the one John had posed for him in on Christmas Day that he was in danger of getting a hard-on purely as a result of this association.
Yes, this was hell. But only the first circle. It could only get worse from here on in. He looked resentfully at his brother, staring so obliviously out of the window. Except Mycroft Holmes was never oblivious and Sherlock knew it.
They pulled up outside the boozy masses gathered around the entrance of a club that Sherlock couldn't even see the name of it was so obscure. The low, ceaseless thump of the music was audible even inside the taxi and made his whole frame pulse.
"Keep the change," Mycroft said, handing over a twenty pound note to the cabbie and stepping out into the cold and noise.
John sent him a brief, taut smile and then also exited out his door. Sherlock had no choice but to follow them. It was icy outside, the night air bit into his skin like a blade. He buried his hands in his pockets, staring around the chattering crowds dubiously.
His brother, in his pinstripe suit and leather gloves, led the way through the crowds. Sherlock watched him with narrowed eyes. John sidled up closer to him, his sleeve brushing up against his. His teeth were audibly chattering.
"How are you going to get in?" he said in a low voice, staring around at the people staring at them.
Sherlock slid a hand into his pocket and brought out his wallet. He flipped it open to reveal the ID card in the slot usually reserved for a driver's licence. It was, of course, fake. He'd acquired it when he was fifteen from a well-connected youth and had only ever used it once to get into a club, but too many times to count in the name of cigarettes.
"Where the hell did you get that?" John exclaimed, snatching it from him.
"Probably from the same person you got yours," Sherlock said drily, while John squinted closely at it.
John lowered it, smiling sheepishly. He handed it back. "Mine's better. The laminate isn't so cloudy and uneven."
"That's what you get for 50 pounds," Sherlock said, taking it back. "Cloudy, uneven laminate."
He slipped it back into his coat pocket. More than half of him hoped that the bouncer saw straight through their silly, fake IDs and turned them away. But of course the bouncer barely glanced at either of them when they passed them over and certainly not closely enough to notice anything like cloudy, uneven laminate.
Mycroft glanced over his shoulder. He was already standing in the doorway, it was dimly lit and very noisy and slightly smoky, despite the strictly "No Smoking" law that banished nicotine to the coldest, creepiest corner of the earth.
Sherlock thinned his lips. They walked past the surly, sallow skinned bouncer and were plunged into almost complete darkness.
"The Crypt," John said directly into his ear, as that was just about the only way he could be heard over the rising swell of music.
"What?" Sherlock said into the impenetrable cacophony.
"The name of the club," John mouthed at him.
They turned the corner out of the dark hall and were violently accosted by the flashing glare of the lighting and the deafening hum of a hundred odd voices. He looked sideways at John. His eyes were glowing. He was truly happy here. Sherlock felt his heart sink.
Mycroft had disappeared. Sherlock couldn't say he gave a damn, but he didn't really want to lose sight of him. An enemy he couldn't see was infinitely more dangerous than an enemy he could.
"Come on," John said, tugging on his sleeve.
Sherlock allowed himself to be guided over to the bar. They elbowed their way through the crowd to where five or six attractive, young bartenders were moving so fast among the various taps and bottles that Sherlock was almost impressed.
"What will you have?" John hollered at him.
Sherlock detested alcohol, but he needed something to repair his frayed nerves and make the night bearable. "Vodka and coke," he told the bartender, who had evidently learnt to read lips because she didn't miss a beat and he had the drink in front of him within two minutes.
John had the same and they fought their way back out of the crowd and towards the only empty table in the joint. It was extremely close to the table next to it, where two sequin clad girls and a man were seated, scanning the crowds like birds of prey.
Sherlock placed himself between them and John. He was more than aware of the glances being thrown their way. He was painfully aware of every lingering look that landed on John. It was inevitable. Sherlock more than understood what people came into clubs to do and it seemed as though more than a few wanted to do it with John and him.
"Where did your brother go?" John shouted into his ear.
"No bloody clue." Sherlock took a deep gulp of his drink. It was sickly sweet.
John sent him a sideways smile and took a sip of his. Sherlock rolled his eyes. He could only hope that John hadn't brought more money than what was needed for five drinks at the most. He doubted whether John's small frame could take very much.
"Gentlemen."
Sherlock looked up. Mycroft had returned and he wasn't alone. He was with a man of about thirty, with receding hair and an outfit that was at least five years too young for him. And two sizes too small.
"This is my brother," Mycroft said over the noise.
"Splendid to meet you," the man said, holding out a hand. "I'm Greg."
Sherlock stared at him. He slowly raised a hand to briefly shake his. He usually avoided physical contact with people who used the word "splendid" and wore hipster jeans but he wasn't going to give Mycroft the satisfaction of seeing it get to him. "I take it that this is your establishment."
The man nodded and glanced at John. Mycroft looked at him too. "And this is-"
"John," John interjected, sticking out a hand. The man shook it, smiling again and revealing slightly greying teeth.
"Well, have fun," he said, slapping Mycroft's shoulder. "The drinks are on me, boys. So don't go shelling out any more cash." He nodded at the half-empty glasses on the table.
"How kind," Mycroft said, smiling placidly at him.
Sherlock had to wonder just what dirt Mycroft had on Greg to make him so generous and compliant.
When he was gone, Mycroft took the seat opposite them, casting a look around the table next to him. The girl nearest to Sherlock had been throwing looks at them since they had sat down, shaking her hair back from her face constantly and crossing and uncrossing her legs so often it looked like she had crabs.
John drained his glass, obviously to avoid looking at Mycroft. Mycroft was certainly looking at John. It was almost as though he was sizing him up, seeing just how much booze it would take to send him over the edge. Not much. Sherlock knew that much.
"Another, John?" Mycroft said, nodding to his empty glass.
John looked up quickly. He glanced at Sherlock. Sherlock stayed silent.
"Just mention my name at the bar and I'm sure they'll make sure you're well looked after," Mycroft said, when John didn't reply. "I'll be back in a moment. I promised Greg I'd make the acquaintance of his investors."
Neither John, nor Sherlock replied. When he was gone, Sherlock glanced at John. "You're going to be sensible tonight, aren't you?" He knew he sounded patronizing and that his interference would only irritate John but he couldn't help it.
"I've had one drink, Sherlock," John said irritably. "Would you get off my case?"
"You know alcohol makes you act like an idiot," Sherlock snapped, knowing he was taking a cheap shot. "If you remember, I've had experience with you when you're off your face."
John narrowed his eyes at him and didn't reply.
"Excuse me."
They both jerked at the sound of the unfamiliar voice.
Sherlock stared at the woman sitting down opposite them. She had been seated beside him just moments ago, he hadn't been noticed her moving. From what he could see of her through the poor lighting, she was a brunette with a rather liberal amount of cleavage and makeup.
"Is your name really Sherlock?" she said, leaning forward and treating them to an eyeful of her chest. "That's so unusual."
Sherlock could almost feel his skin crawling. He had nothing against pretty women, as long as they didn't make passes at him. His lips thinned. Or John.
"And you? What's your name?" she said to John, clearly not put off by their stunned silence.
Sherlock wondered what she would do if he told her she was hitting on two sixteen-year-olds.
He was exceedingly pleased to see John's alarmed expression, though he quickly collected himself and flashed her a smile that Sherlock wanted to claw off his face. "John."
"Oh!" She gave a trilling laugh. "That's not quite so exotic, is it? Mine's Jillian, by the way."
"Nice to meet you," John said, speaking for both of them. "Ah," he looked sideways at Sherlock. "Can I get you a drink?"
Sherlock didn't look at him. There was no way he was giving him the satisfaction.
"That would be great," "Jillian" said sweetly. She was spilling eyelashes and boobs all over their table and Sherlock just wanted her to get the hell away from him.
John disappeared with her. Sherlock sat very still in his seat, staring straight ahead. He was not jealous. He was not angry. Because John liked boys. He liked boys. It didn't matter that the girl was pretty and had boobs the size of beach balls and was leaning down to whisper something in his ear and he had put his hand on her back-
"Fuck," Sherlock snarled, looking away. "Bastard."
He shouldn't have said what he'd said. He knew it was an episode that John was extremely embarrassed about. But he had known this was going to happen and he felt powerless to stop it.
The table next to him was empty now. He had no idea where the girl's friends had gone but he wished they'd come back and claim her. He drained the rest of his drink and cast a look over at the bar. John had disappeared amongst the crowd.
Twenty minutes later, neither of them had returned and neither had Mycroft. Sherlock felt like throwing something at someone and he would have settled for his empty glass and someone's head.
"Fucking tool," he growled, pouring another piece of ice into his mouth and angrily crunching it into pieces.
John finally reappeared moments later, but he wasn't with Jillian. And he had clearly been drinking in earnest. His face was flushed, his eyes a little too bright and his features strangely dazed. He was wobbling slightly when he walked. Sherlock lividly shook his head.
There was a man of about twenty-three next to him. He was at least a foot taller than John and his hand was resting on John's shoulder.
Sherlock stood up, before he could stop himself. "What the hell is going on?" he spat.
"Sherlock!" John yelped, as he was yanked out of the man's grip. "What the hell are you d-doing-"
"This is my boyfriend," Sherlock snarled into the face of the mystery man.
The man's eyebrows had disappeared into his hairline. "Sherlock, is it?"
"This is Leon," John said, flushing with anger and embarrassment. "He's the co-owner of the club."
Sherlock glared at him. That explained nothing. Like why his arm had been around John's shoulders. "Where's Mycroft?" he spat.
"He's at the bar. I'm sure he'll be coming over soon," Leon said, smiling wanly at Sherlock, as though this was exactly the sort of reception he had expected. "Nice to meet you, John. It was good talking to you."
"Thanks," John said, in little more than a mortified whisper.
Leon nodded briefly to them and disappeared. John whirled to Sherlock and almost completely lost his balance. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"You stupid drunk," Sherlock said under his breath, turning on his heel.
He was too furious to care how nasty, how unwarranted the comment was. He wanted to slap John. He was doing everything Mycroft knew he would. Stupid, fickle, naive idiot.
When he looked back, John was gone. Sherlock sat down again, convincing himself he didn't give a fuck. Mycroft slid into the seat next to him. Sherlock didn't think this night could get any worse.
"Where's John?" he said as soon as he sat down, placing a glass of something in front of him and another in front of Sherlock.
Sherlock picked it up and took a sip. "Screw it," he said in a low voice, placing it down again.
Mycroft sent him an amused look. "I'm sorry it had to come to this." He sounded anything but.
"Go and fuck yourself," Sherlock said blandly, not caring whether he heard him over the ruckus or not.
He scanned the crowd for John. As pissed off as he was, he felt more than slightly concerned that a drunk John had suddenly disappeared into a crowd of people considerably older than him. If he was completely honest, he would say that he was scared shitless. And when the anger began to leak away, the scared shitlessness only increased.
He stood up. "I have to find him."
Mycroft looked at him. "You won't have to look very far."
Sherlock followed his gaze to the dance floor opposite. Sherlock immediately recognised John's small figure. He was dancing close to another boy. Or more accurately he was swaying close to another boy. He kept staggering every so often and almost tumbling off his feet and the taller boy would touch his hips to steady him, laughing as he did. Their bodies weren't touching, but they were so damn close. The boy's face was craned down towards John's.
He didn't look at Mycroft. He didn't want to see his expression. He couldn't stand seeing the satisfaction or contempt or disdain there. Or worst of all, the pity.
Sherlock stood up; he felt his hip connect with the table and heard his drink roll off onto the tiled floor with an explosion of glass.
"Sherlock!" he heard Mycroft shout after him through the pulsing bass of the music.
He was barely aware of reaching John. People stared as he forced his way between them. He forced himself between John and the boy and gave him a far too rough shove.
He stumbled backwards and collided with the person behind him, eyes wide and struggling to keep his balance. "What the fuck!"
"What the hell are you doing?" John shouted, trying to pull him away.
Sherlock didn't look at him. His eyes were fixed on the boy whose hands had been on John's body, whose lips had almost been touching his. Sherlock should have ripped them off his face. "Touch him again and I'll kill you," he spat.
He sounded insane. He was perfectly aware of that. He was also aware of the way John was watching him. Like he was about to hurt someone. Or him.
"Who the hell are you?" the boy screamed at him over the music. "What the fuck is this?"
Sherlock yanked John from the crowd by his arm. John didn't struggle. It wasn't until they reached the table that he wrenched himself out of Sherlock's grip and gave him a sharp shove away from him.
"You're such a prick!"
Mycroft watched them silently from the table. He was enjoying every moment of this. It would have been better than pornography to him, watching Sherlock's relationship with John burn to the ground like a house doused in petrol.
"You're drunk," Sherlock spat, as John gave a telltale wobble on his feet.
He was struggling to even focus on Sherlock's face. "So fucking what?"
Sherlock shook his head. "Just leave, John. You're embarrassing yourself." He took his wallet from his pocket. "Get a cab and go home."
When he looked up, John was striding towards the doors, stumbling on the stairs and almost losing his balance more than once.
"God damn it."
He felt a hand on his arm and jerked to see Mycroft standing. "I'll go after him. Calm down. Take a deep breath and then come out. You don't want to say anything else that you'll regret."
Sherlock nodded in spite of himself. If he ran after John, John would just run faster. He'd be safe with Mycroft, if nothing else. "Fine," he said tersely, sitting down and resting his head in his hands.
...
John was drunk. He knew it. He was aware of it. Unfortunately his body could not comply with what his mind wanted it to do any longer and all thoughts of returning to the club and settling things like a mature adult were lost amongst the white noise that too much booze encased his brain in.
There weren't many people outside now, just a small clump of people standing to one side smoking and a long line of taxis along the curb.
John walked unsteadily over to the smokers. The smell stung his nostrils and inevitably made him think of Sherlock. He'd never seen Sherlock so angry. More than once he had thought he was about to hit him.
"You want a smoke, honey?" said a heavily painted woman to the left of him, holding out an open packet to him.
John shook his head wordlessly, shivering slightly against the wall. She sent him a searching look and turned back to her friends. John stayed close to the wall. He was stranded now. He couldn't go back in without attracting too much attention from the bouncers. And he had no idea what he'd say to Sherlock once he got inside.
"John?"
He looked up. "Mycroft." He attempted a smile, when he felt increasingly like crying.
Mycroft cocked his head to one side. "Are you alright?"
"F-fine," John said, the word trembling when he said it.
Mycroft smiled in an almost understanding manner. John thought how stupid he had been to misjudge Mycroft. Steady, impassionate Mycroft. He would never hit John because he happened to flirt a little with some boy.
"Sherlock can be rash," Mycroft said, casting a look at the smoking group beside them. "He can be so jealous and overprotective."
"I shouldn't have-" John began.
Mycroft waved a dismissive hand. "Nonsense. You need to make your own decisions. Sherlock doesn't own you."
John looked away. No, Sherlock did own him. Not like a toy or a possession. He wasn't one of Sherlock's things, but they did own each other. They were connected. They possessed each other like every person possessed a brain- or a soul.
John took a step back and found himself back to back with the wall. He could feel the damp, cold brick through his clothes. "You've always hated us... us being t-together," he ventured to say. If he hadn't been pissed, he never would have had the guts to say it.
Mycroft looked steadily at him. "No. I've always found it interesting."
"Why?" John said, conscious of the increasing slur to his voice. He tried to concentrate every muscle on being sober.
"Because he's so..." Mycroft said. He squinted thoughtfully. "And you're so..."
"Stupid?" John said dully.
Mycroft gave a low laugh. "Far from it. I think you're very clever to have charmed my brother. It takes more than a pretty face for him to be ensnared, trust me."
If John had been in a better state of mind, he might have questioned to use of the words "charmed" and "ensnared" but in his current state he considered it a great compliment. If he had been in a better state of mind he might also have realised just how close Mycroft was to him before it was too late.
"Mycroft," he said uncertainly, touching the wall behind him.
There was a hand on his chin; cold, smooth fingers were curling around his jaw, urging him forward, upward. Mycroft's knee was suddenly between his legs; his hand was pinned against his back. His eyes fluttered in confused alarm.
"Sto-"
The word was silenced by Mycroft's mouth suddenly forcing itself roughly against his. His eyes widened. He put his hands against Mycroft's chest. The shock felt like it had paralysed him. His hands were obeying his command to push him away.
The next moment, there was a cry from somewhere beside him and cold air whipped painfully against his face as Mycroft's warm form- warm mouth was suddenly torn from his.
He stared dazedly ahead, trying to focus, trying to stop the world from spinning. His eyes landed confusedly on Mycroft's figure in front of him.
Sherlock's hand was wrapped around the collar of his brother's expensive suit, so tightly that he was in danger of tearing it right off. John realised too late what was about to happen. Sherlock's fist came into contact with Mycroft's face and there was an explosion of blood. It was dripping everywhere, all over his mouth, all over his nose. It was everywhere.
"Sherlock!" John cried out.
Mycroft stumbled backwards, gripping at his nose with one hand. He looked astoundingly calm for someone who had just been punched in the face. Sherlock was staring at him with such hatred, such bile that John felt a twinge of fear for himself.
But Sherlock didn't even look at him. People were catcalling and laughing from around them. The woman who had offered him a cigarette was openly grinning.
"Never fucking talk to me again," Sherlock said in a terrible voice to his brother.
He took John's arm so tightly it felt like there'd be bruises in the morning.
Somewhere amongst the confusion and chaos John found himself being pushed into the back of a taxi. He stared out of the window. Mycroft was dabbing at his nose with a piece of tissue. Then they were pulling away and the club and the smokers and Mycroft were gone.
John felt his eyes begin to water. He turned to Sherlock. He was staring forcibly out of the window, his features like ice. "Sherlock..."
Sherlock shook his head wordlessly and didn't look around.
...
Sherlock didn't know what time Mycroft got home. He didn't hear him get in. He had sat in the window seat in the guest room all night, sometimes dozing off but for never longer than minutes at a time. Whenever his head lolled to the side, he would awaken with the sight of John curled on his side on the bed.
He didn't think. He didn't dare let himself think. The pain lingering just below the surface was too near, too intense for him to even try and conjure the events in his mind.
At about six in the morning, he jolted awake from another of his momentary lulls of exhaustion. He stared across at John. He had turned over onto his back at some time in the night. He was still dressed in the clothes he'd gone out in; he was still wearing his shoes. He was almost exactly how Sherlock had left him some six hours beforehand.
Sherlock watched his chest gently rise and fall. His mouth was slightly ajar and he was a little pale from the cold. Sherlock had purposely left the blankets off. He didn't want him to be too comfortable after all.
He sat there for what could have been a minute, or an hour. Time didn't seem to mean much. When John began to stir, he turned away. He didn't want to see John waking up, hung over and confused. He didn't want to see those eyes, which could so easily break his defences.
"Sherlock?" his voice sounded very small.
Sherlock didn't turn and didn't reply. He stared hard at a smudge on the window.
"Sherlock," John said again. He heard a rustle as John sat up. There was a moan, as the weight of his hangover evidently hit him. "God, my head."
Sherlock closed his eyes. He didn't know if he could take what he knew was about to happen. Things always had a way of screwing him over.
"I don't know what to say," John said, his voice thick with tiredness and nausea. "I know... I know I acted really... Really badly-" He faltered. "I never meant to- I was just so drunk."
Sherlock turned to him so quickly that he saw John recoil against the pillows. "Don't you ever, ever use that excuse with me again."
John stared at him, his face alarmingly white and barely able to keep his head upright. "I'm sorry-"
"When we first got together," Sherlock said, his voice shuddering with the effort not to scream at him, "you told me that if I ever hurt you, you would leave me."
John looked away, a tear tumbling down his cheek. He didn't speak.
"And you... you go..." Sherlock's voice shook almost uncontrollably. "You go and mess around with my brother!" He all but roared the last word at him. His voice echoed around the room.
"I'm sorry," John said, in barely more than a whisper.
"Sometimes I think that maybe you're everything he says you are," Sherlock spat, the rage pumping through him so intensely it made him feel physically ill. "Maybe you're just too naive, too stupid to understand anyone but yourself. Maybe you're just like your friends. Just another ignorant, selfish, self-absorbed prat."
"I'm nothing like them," John said softly. "I'm not."
"I thought you were so different to them," Sherlock said. A throb of pain forced itself through the anger. Sherlock wanted to thrust it away. He wanted to feel enraged, he wanted to be eaten up with anger. It made it easier to ignore the agony that was being barely contained inside of him. He took a shuddery breath. "I thought you were so much better than them."
"I made a mistake," John sobbed into his hand pressed against his face. "A stupid mistake. I'm a fucking idiot. I love you so much."
Sherlock swallowed with trouble. His throat was so dry. He was almost panting with the exertion of his anger. "Congratulations," he said in a frayed voice. "If you had intended to hurt me in the worst manner possible you have succeeded."
John looked up at him. His eyes were red and raw. He still looked perfect. Sherlock would still have given anything to have him in his arms, to have woken up with him next to him. He hated himself for being so weak for John. "Please don't leave me," John said hoarsely, his hands shaking. "Please."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows at him. "Who said anything about leaving?" He bent down and snatched one of John's fallen cardigans from the floor. He tossed it at him. "Get up. Get dressed. We're both leaving."
John stared at him, partly in confusion and partly in disbelief. "What?"
"We're going to visit your parents," Sherlock said, wrenching John's suitcase out from under the bed and throwing it open. "I think they will be very interested to find out where you've been all this time, don't you?"
"No... Sherlock, please," John said, sitting upright with difficulty and clutching his head. "Please, don't. I can't."
"You can either come with me, or I'll leave you here," Sherlock said, straightening up. "Seeing as you and Mycroft are getting on so well."
John flushed. "Fine."
Sherlock oversaw John's packing and then went to pack his own things. He hadn't removed very many of his belongings from his school suitcase so it didn't take long. John was clearly in considerable discomfort. He disappeared once to bathroom and Sherlock overheard him retching into the toilet.
He felt a pang of concern. He was on the verge of going to him, and then he reminded himself that John had done this to himself. Had done everything to himself. He would have to suffer a bit longer for Sherlock to forget what he had done the evening before. If he could ever get the image of his brother pressed up against John-
He gave himself a violent shake. He couldn't visualize it. It made him want to scream and break things. Namely, every bone in his brother's body.
He was more than aware that his brother was more than partly responsible. He had wanted to break them up. He had wanted John to make an idiot of himself in front of Sherlock. He had succeeded in making John look stupid and do some incredibly stupid things, he had not succeeded in making Sherlock think that John had a single malicious bone in his entire body. He had been manipulated. And yes he had been drunk. A pathetic excuse that Sherlock loathed but a drunken John had no chance against his brother at his most cunning and alert.
"Ready?" he said, standing in the doorway of the guest room and casting a look around inside.
John was knelt by the bed, the suitcase zipped and closed and none of his belongings scattered around like they had been just minutes before. John silently nodded at him, getting slowly and gingerly to his feet. He looked vaguely green. Sherlock hoped he didn't throw up again before they got outside.
He wordlessly walked forward and took John's suitcase. John looked quickly at him. "Well, come on," Sherlock said gruffly. If John dared mention this very small act of mercy on his part, he would have no qualms in hitting him.
In the hallway, Sherlock stopped and lowered the suitcases to the floor. John looked quickly at him. He had been clearly dreading a confrontation with Mycroft. The temptation to punish John by forcing him to come face to face with Mycroft in the cold, harsh light of dawn was extremely high but his desire to get out of there as quickly as possible overrode that temptation.
He went into the drawing room alone. He found his brother sitting by the window, his leather-bound diary spread open on his lap and a cup of tea on the windowsill beside him. The remnants of Sherlock's attack were obvious on his face; his lip was swollen and there was bruising around his nose.
"Good morning, Sherlock," he said, glancing very briefly at him.
"John and I are leaving. We're staying with his parents in Southampton," Sherlock said, staring dispassionately at him. "I've left the address and number on the fridge, if mother or father happen to want to know." He thoroughly doubted whether they would.
He turned on his heel to leave.
"I'm sorry that we can't leave on more amicable terms," Mycroft said calmly. "But I think that one day you will understand why I did what I did."
Sherlock paused in the doorway. He opened his mouth to retort and then closed it. There was no point. He left, closing the door quietly behind him.
John followed him silently out to the taxi. Sherlock's only consolation was that he had spent a small fortune of his parents' money on transport that holiday season. It was very small mercies but it was better than nothing.
John, to his credit, bore his hangover well for the first twenty minutes of the car ride. It was obvious that he was suffering; his head was rested against the window. He looked desperately pale and his forehead was damp with perspiration.
Sherlock felt sorry for him. He tried to suppress it, but the anger that had been so intense when he had faced John that morning had leaked away to a faint twinge. That was how John's head ended up in his lap halfway through the journey and how his hand found its way into his hair soon after.
Every so often John released a piteous moan into his legs. Sherlock gently stroked his scalp. "This doesn't mean I've forgotten about last night," he said in a low voice, when he sensed John was close to dropping off to sleep on his lap.
"I know," John mumbled.
"I just know how low your threshold for discomfort is," he said quietly, trying not to smile.
They were about half an hour from Southampton when John suddenly sat up, looking extremely pale. "Sick-"
Was all he had to articulate before Sherlock understood him. "Pull over to that petrol station," he said sharply to the cabbie.
They drove into the parking lot and John tumbled out of the cab, almost sprinting towards the bathroom just outside the station. Sherlock wanted to follow him but he didn't want to leave the cab and risk them getting left behind in the middle of nowhere.
John reappeared moments later, looking ruffled and incredibly rough. When he slid into the back of the cab he smelt faintly of vomit and urinal cakes. Sherlock had to fight the urge to grin.
"Stop smirking at me," John groaned, resting his head in his hands. "I'm suffering here."
"Good," Sherlock said, though he let him lay his head back in his lap.
"How do you even know where I live?" John grumbled.
"It's called the White Pages."
When they were close to Portswood, John sat up with some difficulty. He stared out of the window, looking like a boy awaiting his doom. Sherlock could see him getting tenser and more fidgety the closer they got to his home. His hangover seemed to worsen with every street they passed.
They pulled up to a yellowy terrace house with a neat but sparse front garden and a flaking white gate. It was a little in need of repairs and repainting but Sherlock liked it. It reminded him of John. It was pretty and unassuming, though that may not have been the most flattering of comparisons to John.
They sat there in silence and neither of them moved. John seemed almost unable to move, he had gone rigid in his seat. Sherlock gently touched his leg. "Are you alright?"
John shook his head very slightly. "No."
"You'll be ok," Sherlock said quietly. "I'll be there with you."
John jerked his head again but didn't reply. His hands were curled into two fists on his lap and his knuckles were white.
"Wait here a moment," Sherlock told the driver and he got out.
John got out of the other door, keeping his eyes down. He followed Sherlock through the gate and up the path to the door. There was a brass knocker on the door and a doorbell. When Sherlock pressed it, it played London Bridge Is Falling Down in a slightly distorted, out-of-tune manner for a couple of verses.
Almost immediately there were footsteps from inside. Sherlock heard John take a step back behind him on the gravel path. The door opened slowly on its hinges, emitting a low creak. A woman with bleached blonde hair and peach coloured lipstick stared out at him; she was wearing a faded, floral dressing gown.
"Yes?" she said uncertainly.
She looked past him to John and her eyes immediately widened.
"John! Oh my goodness!"
Sherlock edged to one side and looked behind him. John was leaning heavily on the wall that separated the house from the one next to it.
"Mum," he said weakly.
He curled over the wall and threw up violently into the next-door neighbour's wilted acacia bush.
End of Chapter Eighteen