Can't Go Back Now - The Weepies
And yeah, yeah, you go where you want to go. Yeah, yeah, be what you want to be.
Chapter Thirty-One:
Sherlock was becoming used to waking up with a throbbing headache and his mouth dry and foul-tasting from the air-conditioning that was on full-blast round-the-clock in the sick bay. He was also becoming used to the sensation of the sticky pink crap the nurse insisted on slavering all over his face.
He hadn't looked at himself in a mirror since he'd woken up, but he could tell from patting his hair that he looked like a washed-out, sticky scarecrow. It was a wonder John could put up with staring at him hour after hour from his adopted chair, only closing his eyes when exhaustion completely overtook him.
Since he'd woken a day beforehand, John had been there. And, Mycroft told him, had been there before he'd woken up too. Sherlock didn't dare hope that this meant what every ounce of him wanted it to mean. He couldn't let the thought penetrate his brain. He couldn't afford to hope. He couldn't.
John was a caring person, a friend who cared about his wellbeing. That did not mean he intended to forgive Sherlock. Nor should he, Sherlock thought glumly, staring at the wall opposite.
Mycroft had made that very clear to him. They had a few... brother to brother chats since Sherlock had regained consciousness, or rather Mycroft had forced information out of him and then prompted to lay into him for being a thick, selfish tosser.
Sherlock knew he deserved it, but it was even more humbling coming from his brother. He kept his mouth shut and took it, though he fully intended to take revenge on his brother in the future, perhaps when he tripped up on his new "healthy, low-sugar" diet that he had been harping on about like he was entering a nunnery.
Mycroft and John had been gone for almost an hour now, going by the yellowing plastic clock Sherlock had taken to staring at when he didn't have the mercy of sleep. He hadn't been aware that this depth of boredom existed. He had counted all of the beds, all of the windows, all of the bed pans, concluded that the nurse was probably divorced by the look of her vacant ring-finger and by the fact he'd heard her arguing on the phone with someone who seemed to be giving the brief, vexed responses of an unhappy teenager, and he had construed many, many, many, many scenarios in his head where he had blurted out an apology to John, prompting him to kiss him passionately and forgive him immediately for his transgressions.
Of course, in reality, John would be more likely to punch him in the face if he did anything so half-arsed as apologise in a sick bay. And according to Mycroft, he needn't expect John to forgive him. He had done something very, very stupid.
Any parallels Sherlock tried to draw between them were quickly brushed aside. Mycroft had acted for Sherlock's benefit, Sherlock had stomped stupidly and blindly into a trap, let his emotions rule him, and wounded John terribly in the process. There was no comparison.
Sherlock sighed and rearranged himself against his pillows. As he did so, something caught his eye from his bedside table. He jerked his head around, for a moment hardly able to believe what he saw.
"What the..." he murmured, picking up the mobile phone with furrowed brows.
He hadn't seen it since the day... Well. He had lost it. It hadn't even crossed his mind what could have happened to it. To be frank, he hadn't cared.
He unlocked it and went into his messages and photos, and both were the same as he had left them. Nothing had been changed or messed with. But that in itself sent a shiver up his spine. It was pristine, untouched.
He looked up at the empty doorway. Outside in the corridor he could hear footsteps. And whistling. Someone was walking- No, the correct word would be strolling up the corridor, and whistling something tuneless and nondescript.
Sherlock tightened his grip on the bedcovers, staring around the empty sick bay. The nurse was in the office; he could hear her thumping around in her white, patent leather shoes. She would surely hear him if he shouted. The glass on the door of her office couldn't be that thick and it was only six or seven feet away.
As an afterthought, he slid the mobile phone beside him on the bed, covering it with his hand. His long, slender fingers almost obscured it entirely.
Around the sick bay door came a pristine Redverse uniform, complete with blazer, and a smirk on a flawless, alabaster face, below a slick of dark hair.
Sherlock stared at him, his fingers twitching on top of the covers. He would remain calm. He would not let his emotions rule him. As much as he loathed taking Mycroft's advice, he knew he was right- at least in this circumstance.
"How's the wounded soldier?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He felt blissfully serene. Maybe it was the after-effects of being knocked out, or his body was finding a previously unknown source of endorphins. "Hello, Moriarty."
Jim smirked, though it lacked his prior glee. "On a second-name basis now, are we? Oh dear..."
"You look rough," Sherlock said quietly, keeping his eyes latched on him as he wandered casually around the sick bay.
Jim looked sideways at him, a wolfish grin playing on his lips. "You, however, look divine. As always."
Sherlock sneered. "Thanks to your patsies."
Jim shrugged, though it was clear by the twitch of his lips that he felt extreme pride in his successfully programming his minions to precisely carry out his instructions. He had virtually instructed them to each fall on their own particular sword, and down they'd fallen. Obediently and willingly.
"And yet you seem unsatisfied," Sherlock said conversationally, as Jim paced to and fro like a caged animal.
Jim turned to him, raising his eyebrows as he looked him over, reminding Sherlock of a doctor looking over his patient. "What a mess that old hag has made of you. May I?"
"Be my guest," Sherlock said shortly.
Jim took three short steps towards him and was beside his bed, one hand touching the curve of his chin. He turned his face this way and that, as though he was looking for one particular mark on Sherlock's battered flesh. "Look how marked you look. How owned. How does it feel?"
Sherlock gritted his teeth at him. "I couldn't possibly describe it to you."
Jim gave a tinkling laugh and dropped his face. He turned on his heel, walking around the edge of his bed and then back again, falling back into a restless pace. "Of course I haven't gotten what I came here for."
Sherlock kept his eyes on him. With the hand on his phone, he entered the main menu. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a confusion of colours and symbols. Jim didn't look at him.
"I came to visit you, you know," Jim said, continuing his route back and forth around the bed. "When your brother and the toy were away."
Sherlock let the words wash over him. "Indeed? Did that please you? To have me helpless? To be able to do whatever you like? Play out your little fantasies?"
Jim looked at him with a crooked smirk. "I will admit that having you so compliant was a novelty- at first. But it became a bore. Having you alive and kicking is much more interesting."
Sherlock arched an eyebrow at him. He had located what he thought was the symbol of a microphone on his phone menu and pressed it quickly with his thumb. "How sweet. And now? You said you hadn't gotten what you came for."
Jim halted at the foot of the bed, sliding his hands into the pockets of his school trousers, and looking far older than his seventeen years. "Well, of course, my sweet." He raised his eyebrows in an almost matronly fashion. "You haven't forgotten what I promised to do when we first met, do you? Tut tut. Did I make such a fleeting impression?"
"You wanted to drive me out of the school," Sherlock retorted, barely daring to apply the pressure needed to activate the 'record' button on the touch screen of his phone. "You failed. Jim and I aren't the ones facing expulsion."
Jim smiled sweetly. "I doubt they'll expel them. No, I think my little friends will get off with a suspension at worst..." He lowered his eyes in a mockingly demure fashion. "I think we'll all be in this place together for a bit longer yet. Unless..." His eyes snapped up onto his.
Sherlock looked over Jim's face: the hollows of his cheeks, and his dark, shadowed eyes. The eyes themselves were set deep into his delicate skull. He seemed to have lost weight since he first came to Redverse. Perhaps his frenzied pursuit of Sherlock had made him ill.
Sherlock's stomach twisted sickeningly inside of him, and he had to close his eyes for half a second to calm himself again, and shrug away the temptation to panic. "Unless me and John get out?" he said, opening his eyes slowly.
"Oh, not John," Jim replied, feigning a shocked expression. "Did I say John? I never mentioned John, Sherlock. Not once. No..." He took a step towards him, his eyes fixed fiercely on his. "Just you. I need you to leave. I need you to get out."
"Or what?" Sherlock breathed.
Jim's mouth twisted into a cruel smirk. "Oh dear. Have all those knocks to the head slowed your wee, little brain?" he said mockingly. "Or I'll fucking kill John Watson." His eyes flashed violently.
"Since you've asked so nicely," Sherlock said coolly, staring impassively into Jim's blank eyes. "I'll answer equally so." He smiled up at him. "Go fuck yourself."
Jim simply stared at him for a moment, and then, almost on cue, he burst out into peels of manic, gleeful laughter. He spun around, clutching his knees with both hands. When he turned back to Sherlock, he was pretending to wipe a tear away from his eye. "That's what I love about you, Sherlock. You're always so funny. Here you are, in the worst position you could possibly be in, and yet you still manage to crack out the wit. Breathtaking-"
I doubt they'll expel them. No, I think my little friends will get off with a suspension at worst...
Jim frowned. His voice, somewhat muffled and distorted, but nonetheless audible, was coming from beneath Sherlock's hand. Sherlock held up the phone, feeling grim, and not as triumphant as he had envisioned.
Unless me and John get out?
There was Sherlock's voice, thin and tired, but recognisable. Sherlock pressed 'stop' and lowered the phone again. Jim was simply staring at him.
"So sorry, Jim," he spat. "It pains me to play dirty against you, it really does, but you see, I have something more important than games to think about now."
Jim raised his hackles in a vicious sneer. "John Watson."
"Always," Sherlock said quietly. "Forever."
Jim's looked at him blankly. For once, lost for words. For once, taken off guard. For once, the loser.
"Game over," Sherlock hissed.
Jim took another step towards him. Slowly and with utmost calm, he slid his hands around Sherlock's throat. Sherlock's eyes widened as he felt pressure on his jugular, heavy and uncomfortable. He choked slightly.
"You are so beautiful, Sherlock," Jim said musingly, calmly choking him, as though he were picking lint off his shirt. "So very intelligent. Oh, how I would have loved to own you. Damaged, as you are. I would have fixed you."
Sherlock could only splutter in response, throwing a hand up to clutch at Jim's. The word "help" was crushed in his throat and came out as little more than a harsh syllable.
Sherlock's vision began to blur, but the pain only got worse. The sounds being forced from his throat were a series of high-pitched gasps.
"This wasn't how it was meant to go," Jim panted.
Sherlock closed his eyes. Outside of his confused sphere of pain he heard footsteps and a voice swearing furiously. And then, Jim's hands were wrenched from his throat. He choked in a breath desperately, hardly able to take in enough air to sate his deprived lungs.
He groggily opened his eyes and was met by the sight of John and the nurse wrestling Jim away from his bed. If he hadn't been desperately inhaling, Sherlock would almost have found in comical. Especially the expression on Jim's face, as he was yanked away. He didn't take his eyes off of Sherlock.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" the nurse demanded, propping her hammy fists up on her hips.
John was staring from Jim to Sherlock, breathing furiously and pink in the face from exertion and rage. Sherlock could see it in his eyes. He knew that John longed to put his hands around Jim's throat the way he had around Sherlock's. He was barely holding himself back from smashing Jim's face into the floor right there and then.
"The noble sidekick, here to save the day!" Jim spat, imperiously ignoring the nurse. "You pathetic toy. Hit me! Hit me like you want to, like I know you want to. All that rage, all that antipathy. Just give in to it!" His voice became a perfect shriek. "Make me bleed!"
John looked at him with pure disgust. "It's not even worth the energy. I wouldn't want to dirty my hands."
Jim snarled and turned on his heel, stalking for the door. The nurse was hot on his heels.
"Young man!" she was saying furiously. "I'm not sure if you're aware, but this is a sick bay and that sort of behaviour is completely unacceptable!"
Then they were both gone, and John and Sherlock were alone.
They stared at each other, both breathing heavily. Sherlock was wheezing, massaging his vocal chords with one hand. He hadn't imagined that Jim could be so strong.
"Are you alright?" John said awkwardly.
Sherlock nodded. It still hurt too much to speak. He doubted whether he could have verbalized his feelings even if he had been able to. He was still clutching the phone in his hand. He had been squeezing it so tightly when Jim had been choking him that it had cut into the edge of his hand.
"What the hell was he thinking?" John burst out, his face flushing with fury. "He really has gone off his rocker."
Sherlock shook his head and tried to speak. His voice came out surprisingly clear, though husky. "I... recorded..." He held up his phone, hoping John would understand his meaning. "Threats."
John stared at him for a moment and then his eyebrows shot up. "You what? Sherlock... Sherlock, fuck!" His expression darkened. "You could have been seriously hurt. You should know what he's capable of by now, you idiot! How could you do something so risky?"
Sherlock shook his head.
"You honestly never think about anyone but yourself," John ranted furiously. "What if I hadn't walked in? What if you had passed out? Jesus. You are the biggest bloody idiot!"
Sherlock simply looked at him, one hand wrapped around his aching throat. He could only watch as John began an irate progression about the bed, walking in much the same place as Jim had minutes beforehand.
"You never learn!" he continued, marching furiously to and fro. "You'd think that getting beaten to a bloody pulp would drive some sense into your head but no, not you, not Sherlock bloody Holmes. He has to put himself in danger at every-"
He broke off sharply, staring down at the hand Sherlock had laid on his arm as he had made his irritated route back around the bed. He made a movement, as though to tear his himself away, but changed his mind abruptly and let his arms go limp beside him, staring at Sherlock with a mixture of anger and helplessness.
Sherlock tightened his grip on John's arm. His throat was swollen and beginning to throb, but he forced the words out. "I'm... sorry." He could do little more than stare at John and hope, hope more intently than he had for anything else in his life. "I'm sorry."
John gazed at him, his expression difficult to read, his body language tense and frazzled. He tugged his arm away from Sherlock's hand, and this time Sherlock let him go.
John turned and walked away. Sherlock stared after him, the ache in his throat becoming intense. John was at the door of the sick bay when he suddenly and sharply turned around.
For a moment, they simply stared at each other across the empty corridor, Sherlock still absently clutching at his throat and John standing with his fists clutched and his body tense and frozen in the doorway.
In a few hurried steps he was at Sherlock's bedside, one knee resting on the mattress and both hands clutching Sherlock's face. His kiss was fierce, and took Sherlock's breath away. Before his brain had properly adjusted itself to this development, he found his hands clutching at John's arms and chest, his lips responding to John's like it had been minutes since their last kiss.
"John," he breathed, when they both came up for air. One of John's hands had moved from his face and was tangled in his hair.
"Sherlock," John said softly.
THWACK!
The force of the slap threw Sherlock's head to the side. Pain erupted in one hot sting in his cheek.
"What the bloody hell was that for?" he exclaimed, completely forgetting his sore throat, as he clutched his face with both hands.
"Something I learnt from my mother," John snapped, his face pink. It was difficult to tell if it was from adrenaline at slapping Sherlock or arousal at kissing him. "You deserve worse than that. I should punch you in the mouth."
"Please don't," Sherlock croaked. "I don't know how much more punching my face can take."
John looked at him coldly. "I swear if you mess me around, I will walk away and I will not be giving you any more second chances. I mean it. Do not fuck up again."
Sherlock stared at him, one hand still pinned to his cheek. "John," he said quietly.
"Just promise," John said shortly, crossing his arms.
"I promise," Sherlock said so quickly it came out more as a garble. "God, I promise. Please... Please-"
He didn't even know what he was asking for until John came back to his bed, his arms carefully wrapping around his torso. He pressed his face into the material of John's jumper, ignorant of the way the wool irritated his cuts and bruises.
"Your face..." Sherlock said, as they broke apart and John sat on the edge of his bed. He gently touched John's skin, close to a particularly ugly bruise beneath his left eye.
"They'll heal," John replied.
He was right, of course. Sherlock knew the bruises would fade, the cuts would close up, but it felt as though something deeper had been left on them, something deeper than a flesh wound. Some things wouldn't heal. Some things they wouldn't forget, no matter how fast or far they ran. But hopefully they would always be there to wake each other up from the nightmares.
...
Sherlock remembered the day he had first set eyes on Redverse. His parents had been in Poland at the time so they'd paid for a taxi to drive him. He'd pulled up to a vast, dirty facade of bricks and windows, set back some hundred feet from the gates at the end of a long, smart gravel path.
In the middle of nowhere, it looked more like an asylum than a school. It probably had been once. It was funny that in the years he had been there, it had not occurred to Sherlock to do some digging on what the school had been used for before it had been Redverse.
Now, as he looked at it from the same place in front of the black iron gates that he had when he'd caught his first glimpse of the school, he could hardly believe that it would be the last time he looked upon it.
He looked at John. He was fiddling with something under his jumper again. He looked very pale under the bruises still sprinkled on his face. Sherlock gave his hand a squeeze. John looked up at him and gave him a very small smile.
"You alright?" he said, typically more concerned about Sherlock than himself. "Not feeling too achey, are you?"
Sherlock shook his head. In truth, he was getting a little stiff, but John needn't know now. It had taken some convincing for him, his brother and the nurse to all concede that he could travel just two days after waking up. He was still very tender, and walking was a slow and mildly painful process.
But he wouldn't be the one to delay them. Despite John's insisting that he would wait for as long as it took for Sherlock to get better, Sherlock knew it was bullshit. John wanted out.
"What time did they say they were coming?" John asked, tugging at the collar of his jumper.
"10," Sherlock said. "Don't worry, they won't be late."
"They" were the odd couple on their way to pick them up. Mycroft and John's mother, who had volunteered her car. It was a very bizarre thought to imagine his pompous, stiff-backed brother sitting long-legged in the front seat of Mrs Watson's little car, while she chattered away in her good-natured, not particularly well-spoken fashion.
"Let me look at it again," John said, turning his head towards him, one of his hands still clinging to the collar of his jumper.
Sherlock knew exactly what he was talking about, and he was reluctant. "Again? John."
"Don't "John" me," he retorted. "Let me look at it."
Sherlock sighed and felt for his phone inside of his picket. He grudgingly handed it over. He was going to delete it, despite John's protests about taking it to the police, or telling Mycroft. He knew that neither of those options would do much good.
John stared at the screen, his eyes moving as he read the text. God knew how many times he had already.
"That's a threat," John said, handing it back to him. "That's a goddamned threat."
"I know, John," Sherlock said patiently. "But what can we do?"
"The police-" John began.
"Will think we're stupid kids winding them up," Sherlock interjected. "It's just his parting shot, John. We'll be ready for him next time."
He put the phone back in his pocket. It wasn't that he didn't care, but he didn't think Moriarty would come at them again anytime soon. He needed time to regroup, to lick his wounds and nurse his ego. He had lost control. That must have been a terrible thing for him to realise. He had lost control and then lost to Sherlock. The humiliation must have stung him like a wound.
"He won't chase us," Sherlock said, closing the gap between them. "I know he won't. He was beaten, fair and square. It'll take him time to accept that."
John let Sherlock wrap his arms around his torso. "I know, but-"
"What the heck is that?" Sherlock said, stepping away abruptly and touching his chest. "Something just stabbed me."
John looked at him, his expression something between amusement and sheepishness. "What?" he said in an unconvincingly nonchalant tone.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "John."
"Don't "John" me," John said, frowning, though there was little force in his words. "Fine. But if you laugh, I'll-"
"Yes, yes," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "Hurry up and reveal your secret."
John sent him a withering look and reluctantly peeled off his jumper. He had to be more careful than prior, because of his own various bumps and tender spots. Sherlock couldn't help thinking that sex was going to be a fragile event, if neither of them could move without wincing.
Sherlock stared at John's chest for a moment and then grinned. "I see."
"You said you wouldn't laugh." John said, frowning.
"I'm not laughing," Sherlock said, hastily straightening his face. He reached out to touch the instrument around John's neck. "Should I take this as a good sign?"
John shrugged in a would-be nonchalant fashion. "Mum bought it for me."
Sherlock arched his eyebrows. "Really? How about that. She knows more about you then you thought."
John looked at him flatly. "Don't look so smug. Nothing is decided."
Sherlock shrugged. "You're wearing a stethoscope around like a scarf, but nothing is decided."
"Oh, shut up," John said, smirking reluctantly.
Sherlock watched him hastily pull his jumper back on and tuck it back under. He could only hope that John realised sooner than later that he had every right to want it, to strive for it, to not be embarrassed for thinking he could do it.
Sherlock watched John, tracing the outline of his face, every bruise and the particularly long cut under his eyebrow. How he wanted to kiss him. He had been refraining. He didn't feel he had earned back the right to touch John without an invitation.
"Can I, ah, kiss you?" he asked, feeling foolish.
John didn't laugh, or even snigger. He simply nodded. Sherlock leant forward and pressed a very gentle kiss to John's mouth. He was mindful of pressing too hard, or accidentally hurting him, but soon John's hands had slipped up behind his neck to pull him deeper and harder into the kiss.
They broke apart; John stared up at him, a little pink in the face and still clinging loosely to his shoulders. "You don't have to treat me like I'm breakable," he said wryly. "You're in a worse state than I am."
John stared at him pensively for a moment and then stepped away with a frustrated sound. "I wish they'd hurry up."
There was a crunch on the gravel behind them. They both turned at the same time to see Bruce Hester's squat, hammy figure coming down the path with Marty beside him. He had two suitcases; his father was holding one also. His face was ashen and hard as rock.
Sherlock wondered if he'd ever be the same, if he'd ever regain his confidence and shake off what he had gone through. It must have been unspeakably painful for him to be deserted by Jim. It would have finally driven home the truth: he had been nothing to him. Jim had fled the school without a thought about anyone, but himself. Marty could have been dead for all he cared.
They passed John and Sherlock without a word and barely a glance. Bruce Hester placed one of his huge, pudgy hands on his son's shoulder and steered him away to a BMW parked alongside the curb. Marty seemed barely conscious of what was going on around him.
John was staring at them with his mouth slightly ajar, and his eyes glassy. They both watched until the car pulled out and disappeared up the road.
"Do you think they'll bother coming back?" John said.
"They might do," Sherlock replied, with a shrug. "A month is a long time. By the time he gets back, the football season will be over."
John shrugged, his expression hard. "Serves him right, the tosser."
There was something not altogether convincing about his tone. Sherlock suspected that he pitied Marty, against reason and logic. Marty was alone. He had been deserted, duped, used beyond comprehension. If that wasn't a good reason for pity, Sherlock didn't know what was.
"They deserved to be expelled," John muttered, absently fiddling with the stethoscope through his jumper. "If it was anyone else, they would have been."
"I think I can hear a car," Sherlock said, not meaning to change the subject, but also not particularly eager to pursue it.
They stood in dead silence, and sure enough, moments later, a rather noisy Ford Focus turned rapidly around the corner and hurtled down towards them. It was in need of a good wash, and was very, very small, but Sherlock had never been so happy to see a car in his life.
It stopped in front of them, and Mycroft unfolded himself onto the pavement, looking ever so faintly green, and dabbing his mouth with a handkerchief. From the driver's side came Mrs. Watson in a pink sundress and tights with her blonde hair crushed underneath a woollen hat.
"Hello, Johnny," she said fondly, looking anxiously tired as she embraced her son and kissed him on each cheek.
"Mum," John said embarrassedly, looking at Sherlock.
"Oh, Sherlock doesn't mind, do you, dear?" she said, the fondness in her voice almost seeming to increase when she looked at him. "Come here, you goose."
Before Sherlock could respond, he was tugged into a hug. "Hello, Mrs. Watson," he said awkwardly, avoiding his brother's eye.
When she let him go, he reluctantly turned to greet his brother. He was clearly nursing car sickness and seemed uninclined to tease him at that moment. "Hello, Mycroft. Having a spot of bother with nausea, are we?"
Mycroft send him a narrow look over his handkerchief. "Not at all."
"Well, we'd best hit the road," Mrs. Watson said, seeming determined to supply enough cheer for all four of them. "Help me get your bags into the back."
John sent him a pained expression that suggested at how he was feeling about spending the next two hours trapped in the car with his jittery mother and Mycroft's car sickness. Sherlock just smirked back at him.
It didn't matter. They were leaving. He would turn around in the back of the hopelessly small, cramped car and he would see the black gates, the ugly brick building disappearing behind him and know that never again would he belong to it, never again would it lay a claim on him, or John.
"You know what's funny?" John mumbled, as they were entering the highway. His head was lolling onto Sherlock's shoulder.
"What?" Sherlock said quietly.
"We never found out what mark we got for that stupid play," John said, through a yawn. "After all that crap."
Sherlock couldn't help smirking at that.
...
It was like something out of a television sketch. John had never seen a more motley crew jammed into his living room.
His mother was busy handing out tea in chipped mugs sporting cartoon characters of various descriptions. He got one with Garfield on it, Sherlock's had Snoopy. They exchanged a similar expression of entrapment.
Perched on the edge of the sofa opposite, Mycroft looked positively cartoonish in his smart suit, a Batman mug held primly in one hand. He was seated next to Harriet, who had cut the remainder of her hair off and gained two piercings since he last saw her.
In the easy chair John's father had used to occupy his mother had finally sat down, though her stream of chattering small talk did not cease.
John retreated into his own mug. He was dying to be alone with Sherlock. It was like something out of a horror movie to watch the minute hand tick down to when Mycroft and Sherlock would have to leave for London.
That would be it. Done. They'd be gone.
John closed his eyes. He couldn't stand this.
"John will probably going to the local state school," his mother was saying cheerfully. "Unless he can get another scholarship of course. We think he'd do just fine at a state school though, he's very bright."
"Oh, no doubt," Mycroft replied politely.
John cringed.
"Where will Sherlock be off to?" his mother went on, almost without taking a breath. "It's such a shame to split the boys up, but... Well, they'll have the holidays."
John opened his eyes. He looked at his mother in disbelief, but she was pointedly avoiding his eye. He looked at Harriet, but she just shrugged at him.
"We're not entirely certain," Mycroft said archly, looking at Sherlock, who was calmly sipping his tea, not looking at anyone. "Mother and father are often... preoccupied, so I believe it will be down to me."
"Oh, I see- John? Where are you going?"
John just shook his head at his mother. He placed his mug down on the coffee table and headed for the stairs. He heard Sherlock follow him. He had counted on it.
"I'll talk to him," he heard him say quickly to the others.
John took the stairs two at a time, and didn't stop at the landing. He hurtled around to his bedroom door, feeling the urge to punch something growing furiously inside him.
"John!" Sherlock grabbed the back of his jumper, forcing him to stop. "What's wrong?"
"What's wrong?" John snapped, turning to him. "How can you sit there and be so calm? I'm going to be stuck here and you're going back to London. How can you be okay with that?"
"I'm not," Sherlock said grimly. "But we don't have a choice."
John shook his head in slow disbelief at him and then turned and burst into his bedroom. It was cold and slightly dank. He stared around it. It was barely a home to him.
"I wish he was here," he said quietly, staring at his curtains, pulled across the windows and the grey, overcast sky outside.
"Your father." Sherlock was close behind him.
"Yes." John laughed bitterly. "He's such a coward. He couldn't even face me, after everything that happened. He's screwed us all over."
He felt Sherlock's hands carefully encircle his waist. His lips pressed briefly into his hair. "He'll come around. He just needs time."
"How much time does he need?" John asked blankly.
"I'm not saying you should forgive him," Sherlock said, uncharacteristically gentle. "I'm saying you should wait. Wait for him to come home, and then tell him he disappointed you. Chances are he already knows it. Why else would be run?"
John shrugged away Sherlock's hands and went to the bed. He smoothed it down and sat against the wall. Sherlock followed him, sitting alongside him, as he had hoped he would. He needed him close to him now.
A bleak, cold silence engulfed them.
"I know it hurts," Sherlock said, finally breaking it.
John could see him watching him with his intent, grey eyes, but he couldn't bring himself to look at him.
"We will be together, John."
"How do you know that?" John said in a voice as numb as he felt. "We could be apart for months. You could..."
"No," Sherlock said, almost sharply. "I won't "get bored", I won't forget you, I won't find someone I like more. That's rubbish."
John would cling to those words in the months that were to come. Some nights his loneliness was more than he could bear, and from his memory he would extract those words, wrap them around him and squeeze every ounce of warmth and security he could from them.
Sherlock cupped his chin with a cold hand. "We will be together, John."
John could only nod, as the hopelessness and regret welled up inside of him. How could he have taken all of those months at Redverse for granted?
Sherlock kissed him, even more gently than when they had been outside the gates of Redverse. John gripped his shoulders, letting his nails sink into him and yanked him hard against him. "You are not giving me some wimpy, poufy goodbye kiss, Holmes," he growled.
He forced Sherlock's mouth open and took quick ownership, desperately wanting to taste every inch of Sherlock's mouth. Indeed of his body. He needed to remember all of this. Every inch of it.
Sherlock quickly responded, his hands exploring and searching over John's body with heated purpose. He squeezed between John's legs. "I want to fuck you," he growled into his ear. "I want to fuck you so hard you remember it every time you're alone."
John swallowed thickly. He pulled Sherlock down on top of him, their legs becoming hopelessly entangled. Sherlock slid his hands under his jumper and tore it off, in a slightly painful manner. The stethoscope was still around his neck. He felt slightly and embarrassingly like a child carrying their favourite toy around, but Sherlock didn't smirk.
He carefully removed it and placed it on the bedside table before returning to kissing John fiercely on every inch of his face and neck. John could feel himself getting hard. He was almost oblivious to the small aches and pains of his bruises, but he could see Sherlock wincing ever-so slightly whenever he moved too quickly.
"Are you in pain?" he said softly.
Sherlock looked up at him, his face flushed. "No," he said.
John raised his eyebrows at him.
"No," Sherlock insisted. "Nothing I can't handle."
John rolled his eyes, but allowed him to continue. It was hard not to want him to keep going. His knee had slid between his legs; his hands were on his chest, his pinkies stroking his nipples into hardened nubs through his t-shirt.
He stroked Sherlock's hair back from his face, kissing him fiercely on the lips and pulling him against him closer than they had been in weeks. He slid a hand behind Sherlock's neck, holding him into the kiss, and barely noticing the telling bulge of his erection against his thigh until they broke apart.
"Doesn't take much to get you hot, does it?" he teased, slightly breathless.
"Speak for yourself," Sherlock breathed with a smirk, pushing a hand down between them to cup the mound of John's cock. It had become fully hard during their kiss, and more than a little sore inside his jeans.
"There's a rubber in the drawer," John said, his mind beginning to become foggy with the need to have his lust sated. "Do we have anything to use for lube?"
"Not unless you want to venture back down to our bags," Sherlock said archly.
"Fine, we'll make do," John said, rolling his eyes.
Sherlock grinned and felt clumsily for the drawer of the bedside table, seeming unwilling to stop kissing John's jaw and neck. John forced him upright, off of him and quickly tore his own shirt off, dropping it alongside his jumper on the floor.
Sherlock leant over him, his torso pressed against him and his hair engulfing much of his face, in search of the condom in the drawer. John was content to wait underneath him while he felt around for it.
"Where the... I can't..." he was muttering, as he rummaged. "Aha!"
He produced it triumphantly. He dropped it onto the bed beside them and followed John in removing his jumper, but when it came to his t-shirt, he hesitated.
He looked pensively at John, his fingers poised at the hem. John knew what he was thinking.
"It's okay," he said. "I've seen them."
Sherlock nodded and pulled it off in one smooth movement. Underneath, his body was chequered with bruises. John couldn't help reaching out a hand and gently touching one. Sherlock's skin flinched against him.
"So beautiful," he smiled. "Even now."
He pressed a kiss to Sherlock's lips, kneeling up against him. They were still both in their jeans. Something Sherlock soon had a mind to correct.
He tore himself away from John's mouth and hastily undid the buttons on both of their flies and tore them down one after the other. John let him do it, watching him in amusement. He wiggled out of his jeans and kicked them onto the carpet. Sherlock did the same.
John let his eyes roam down Sherlock's form. Even his legs were marked here and there with bruises, of varying size and shade. John trailed his fingers faintly down Sherlock's skin, over his slight shoulders, his stomach, his thighs.
"We look a mess," he said, glancing down at his own slightly battered body.
Sherlock shrugged. "It'll all fade." He closed the gap between them. The sensation of cold, smooth skin against his sent goosebumps over every inch of John's body. The hair on his arms, neck and legs stood up on end.
His crotch was pinned against Sherlock's, and he was already slightly wet. Sherlock gave him a teasing stroke, his mouth close to his ear. His breath was hot on his neck when he spoke.
"Lay down."
John did as he was told, arranging himself against the pillows of his bed. He could see his bedroom door behind Sherlock's head and he could only imagine the disaster if someone walked in on him, but he didn't think it would happen. They knew that Sherlock and John needed their alone time.
Sherlock spread his legs, running a hand warmly up and down his thigh. John kept his eyes on Sherlock's face and Sherlock did the same. They didn't need to speak. They knew what the other was thinking. John wanted this to last forever, for the end to never come and for Sherlock never have to walk out of the door and away from him.
John felt Sherlock's fingers slip into the band of his underwear. He gasped at the sensation. "Kiss me," he mumbled, cupping the ridge of Sherlock's neck.
Sherlock leant down to press his lips against his, while his fingers slid down to cup his dick. He gave it a teasing squeeze. John gasped into his mouth.
"Stop that."
Sherlock smirked, his face so close to John's that he could feel the vibration of his lips when he spoke. "Make me."
"Fighting words," John said narrowly.
Sherlock guided John's hips upwards and gently pulled his briefs down the bruised plains of his thighs to his knees. John bit his bottom lip. His cock ached for attention.
"Are you sure you're alright?" John asked, as Sherlock rested back on his knees, his own underwear around his thighs. John couldn't help taking a good look at Sherlock's long, pale dick, glistening at the tip and surrounded by a shock of dark pubic hair.
"Fine," Sherlock said, kneeling back over him, as though in defiance of his evident pain. "I intend to take you, John Watson. I won't be denied it. I need to remember this until the next time we meet."
"Don't say it like that," John said. He spread his legs either side of Sherlock and watched as Sherlock one-handedly tore open the condom. "You make it sound like a lifetime."
Sherlock knelt back to roll the condom onto himself. He knew John liked to watch; he always made a great show of putting it on, slowly and smoothly, his fingers stroking the underside of his shaft.
John wanted desperately to touch him, to touch all of him, but he was wary of hurting him. He looked up to Sherlock's face and found him already watching him. "It's alright," he said, stroking loose strands of John's hair back from his face. His fingers smelt salty and hot from touching himself. "You don't have to treat me like I'm breakable." He smiled.
John nodded. He touched Sherlock's chest. He rolled Sherlock's nipple under his fingertips. It almost immediately hardened. Sherlock breathed softly against him. He spread John's legs a little wider, until it was almost uncomfortable.
John could feel his hole was exposed. It felt cold and very tight. "It's going to hurt," he said breathlessly. Sherlock touched his cock and then cupped his balls underneath, very gently, but with enough pressure to make his eyes flutter back a little in his head.
"I'll be as gentle as I can," he said. His cock was leaking more than before, and John knew he was very, very aroused.
"You better not start fucking my brains out like some sort of animal. Not without my permission," he said narrowly. "I'll twist your nipple off."
"Dually noted," Sherlock said with a smirk.
John gripped the pillow behind his head hard when he felt one, and then two fingers slide inside of him. "Oh- fu-fuck-"
"You're really tight," Sherlock noted.
"Yeah- No shit-" John arched his back with a moan. "Stop poking around down there and get on with it."
"Bossy," Sherlock quipped, but did as he was told.
John felt very open and very stretched when Sherlock finally extracted his digits. And very sore. He held tightly onto Sherlock's arms when he felt Sherlock positioning himself against him.
He bit back a gasp as the tip of Sherlock's gloved erection pressed against his partly prepared, but gently throbbing entrance. Sherlock was looking at him with an intensity he hadn't seen in his eyes before. It was almost as though he was drinking him in, putting away memories of him for later, much needed pictures for lonely days.
Sherlock nodded briefly to him by way of warning and John closed his eyes furiously tight as he was entered. The pain was, for a moment, intense. Almost as bad as when he had lost his virginity, but it was easier to take because he knew it would soon lessen.
Sherlock gave a harsh moan as he pushed himself completely inside of John. "Jo-John-" he breathed.
John opened his eyes with a strangled groan, and held one clammy palm to Sherlock's face. It was warm under his skin. Sherlock wasn't moving against him, he was hunched over, breathing rapidly, though keeping his eyes firmly on John's. They were wide and bright, almost silver in the bedroom light.
"Ok?" Sherlock said, his voice taut from the pressure of being fully lodged inside of John and unable to move.
John nodded his head with difficulty. "O-ok."
Sherlock started to move, with not a small amount of relief John thought. He wrapped his hands around Sherlock's very slim torso, as Sherlock extracted himself from him and then pushed in again, with a small burst of speed.
"Ah!" John moaned, tilting his head back.
He had almost forgotten how tender and sore his body was, how the nurse had made him swear he and Sherlock would abstain from any "vigorous activity" for at least a month. He was pretty sure this was not what she had in mind. As far as he was concerned it therefore counted as an exception.
"You... alright...?" Sherlock panted, his face contorting with pleasure.
John could only nod his head.
He could hear his bed giving a series of low, growling creaks, though thankfully it wasn't slamming against the wall as he feared it might. He could only hope that the floorboards weren't making any suspicious sounds for the party in the living room below to wonder at.
"Fuck me... harder," he hissed, bucking his hips up to meet Sherlock's.
Sherlock looked at him, but didn't argue. With a groan, he ground his himself harder and deeper into John.
"Yes!" John couldn't stop himself from crying out.
Sherlock didn't bother telling him to hush. His pale skin had become blotted with red across his cheeks. He was making the most obscene and exquisite expressions. His eyes fluttered and then closed and then opened again, his mouth twisted into what looked almost like grimaces of pain, or even smiles, he furrowed his brow furiously. John stopped noticing the bruises.
John felt something like a shot of pure pleasure to his stomach and the tip of his cock. "Oh!" He gripped the blankets. His neglected cock was straining and dribbling pre-come. He wrapped one of his hands unsteadily around it.
"Going to-" Sherlock said breathlessly from above him.
John nodded wordlessly. He could feel his own orgasm was close. He was clenching around Sherlock harder and tighter every time he thrust inside of him.
Sherlock hit his prostate again, and he cried out against his will. "Sherlock!"
Sherlock's eyes closed. John saw his climax overtake him before he was aware of his own. Sherlock's face was divine as he was overcome. He barely stifled a moan, and a cry of John's name that was very nearly a sob.
John's eyes rolled back in his head, and he came violently onto his own chest, gasping for air. Sherlock rode out his orgasm in slow, smooth waves.
John laid flat against the bed. He felt stretched and sore, but it wasn't an unpleasant sensation. Sherlock carefully pulled out of him and rolled onto his back next to him. They were both sticky with sweat, and smelt strongly of sex.
"Not bad for a last shag," Sherlock remarked.
"Shut up," John said, leaning his head against Sherlock's shoulder. "It better not be the last shag, Sherlock. I will come to London and hunt you down. You know I'm not joking."
Sherlock slid his fingers through his and gave his hand a squeeze. "It won't be forever. It's only a few miles."
"A few hundred," John interjected.
"It's not forever," Sherlock said firmly. He sat up, his expression serious. "You have to believe that, John. We will be together."
John smiled. "I do believe you."
...
There was a taxi at the gate, its horn bleating impatiently. Five people soon emerged from John's modest terrace house on Portswood Road.
At the rear were John and Sherlock, walking slowly behind the rest. John took hold tightly of the sleeve of Sherlock's jumper and didn't let go. They stood side by side at the gate, watching the taxi driver struggle with each of Sherlock's bags into the boot, and trying to listen to all of Mycroft's polite, though absolute instructions at the same time.
Behind him John's mother had her arm around Harriet's waist. Harriet looked very tall next to her. She gave him a small, tight-lipped smile.
John turned back to stare at the taxi. The driver was getting back in the driver's seat, muttering to himself. Mycroft walked over to shake his mother's hand and thank her for her hospitality.
Sherlock's hand slipped into his almost without either of them noticing. They didn't look at each other. John didn't think he could stand it.
Then Mycroft was getting into the front seat, and he knew it was time. They walked two steps, hands still clasped. No one spoke, and John felt grateful, grateful that they understood their need for them not to speak.
Sherlock turned to him at the door of the cab. Letting go of his hand, he touched his jaw.
"Sherlock," John said.
Sherlock nodded and kissed him. In front of his brother, the cab driver, his mother and Harriet. In front of his sour-faced next-door neighbour and the cat from number 9 that was always pissing on their garden gate. In front of Portswood Road and whoever in the world happened to be looking: Sherlock kissed John.
They broke apart and Sherlock turned to get into the cab. There were no more words, no more promises or reassurances. There didn't have to be. John believed. He knew.
Sherlock would come back.
The End