Protea
"I called the school." John announced to the room. Sherlock was upside-down on the couch in her Memory Palace, still wearing her dress for some reason. She was not one with the outside world and therefore probably not paying attention but John needed to speak to someone or she would go insane. Billy The Skull would do. "Martin Morstan does work as a science teacher. So I checked on the website. He's a completely different man. They look a bit the same but- just. Not."
John looked into the empty fireplace where she had tossed her generic engagement ring. She said it would be a good idea to sell it for some extra cash, but threw it into the fire instead. Unfortunately, it did not melt like she wanted it to. It simply changed colors.
Once Sherlock had another experiment to scare her brother away, maybe involving tubs of acid, she would throw it in there. For now, it would stay in the ashes.
"The kid…" She had to clear her throat and shake her head. Her fist clenched. The wall was dangerously close to getting a hole punched through it. "The kid that killed himself in the chemistry lab was 19. He was 19 fucking years old. That bastard manipulated that child into killing himself." She slapped the arm of her chair instead. Once was not enough. She slapped again and again until her palm stung. "He killed so many fucking people. He fucking manipulated me. And now he's fucking run off. That fucker!"
Suddenly, John was standing and her tea was across the room. One of their many cheap mugs was splintered across the floor, tea dripping off the wall. She could kind of see why Sherlock liked doing that.
Martin Morstan aka Frank Grant had disappeared almost instantly from everyone's radar, including Mycroft. He was a professional after all.
"All of that shit, for what?" She turned and kicked her chair, then gestured at the mantle where a small painting was propped up, evidence papers sprouting behind it. "A bloody painting. By some lady who died a year ago."
"Not just some lady," Sherlock interrupted.
John spun around wildly and snapped, "What?"
Sherlock had her eyes closed, still as a statue. "Elaine Rookshire was not her real name."
"Fantastic," John sighed and sank back into her chair, all of her energy suddenly gone. "Who the hell was she then?"
"Adela Gunilla. Daughter to Hertha Gunilla, lover of Amata Massimo."
John slumped back into her chair and glared at the ceiling. She really needed a fucking drink. It had been forever since she went to the pub for herself. "So?"
Sherlock spun around and sat up like a normal person as her pink face drained and the blood returned on its normal distribution path. "Massimo was an Italian spy during World War One and Two. She had a Boston Marriage with Gunilla the elder."
"A Boston Marriage?"
"Lesbians, John. Though not all of those in a Boston Marriage were as such."
John simply nodded along. "Oh, well, that's very helpful then."
"Massimo would write back to Hertha Gunilla, so that she could report to the leaders of Italy. It is specifically noted that she worked to rid Germany of the Nazi party by going undercover dressed as a male."
"That's… intense."
"Yes, but she had a good cause. They would have killed her had they learned of her relationship with Gunilla and their daughter too." Sherlock lifted herself up from the sofa and zoned in on the painting.
John refused to look away from the ceiling. "Did they kill her?"
"She lived five years beyond the wars before dying of lung disease."
John sighed. "And how does this relate to the case?"
"No idea. But it is important. Adela Gunilla was Elaine Rookshire. There has to be a reason Moriarty is interested in this single painting."
"It is rather small," John said, tilting her head to the mantle where it sat no bigger than 10cm on each side out of its frame. "To be honest, I expected there to be a cock on it."
"I still don't understand why you won't let me keep it," Sherlock sulked.
"Because it's priceless artwork that we have stolen. You know you don't have the equipment to analyze it here."
"But-"
"Or at the hospital." John closed her eyes and tilted her head back again. "Just let Lestrade take care of it. He won't let her take it."
"He's an idiot."
John's fists clenched. "Everyone's an idiot."
"Martin-"
"Frank."
"-was a master manipulator with multiple degrees in psychology. You thought you were going to marry him. You loved him, or what you thought he was. Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind. And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind."
John squeezed her eyes tighter and grit her teeth. "You know Shakespeare?"
"I'm English. Of course I know Shakespeare."
"Of course you bloody do." John swallowed thickly and cleared her throat. She squeezed the arms of her chair and dropped her head. "I should have known better. I should have seen something was wrong. I should have made you meet him sooner. After what happened with Molly I should have-"
"Let me make something very clear to you, Doctor Watson." Sherlock leaned over John's chair, hands gripping the tops of the back, blocking her body in. "You may be an idiot, but you are not an idiot."
"Sherlock-"
Sherlock grabbed her shoulders and shook. "It was his sole job and purpose to get you to feel this exact way. To make you question yourself at every turn. There is no such thing as should have. Do not let him win, soldier."
John's head snapped back up, nearly colliding with Sherlock's chin. "Did you just call me soldier?"
"You bet your arse, Captain."
John burst out in a pathetic laugh that quickly tapered off into silence.
Sherlock knelt between her legs in front of her, her hands falling to John's wrists. "What would you like your safeword to be?"
John pulled her hands into her lap, but Sherlock would not let go. "I can't do that now."
"Yes you can."
The last time they had done it, John had been in almost the exact same spot. Her body bound and writhing. Focused only on Sherlock's next move and the pleasure squeezing her center. The desperation for release as soon as she was free, crumpled in Sherlock's arms.
The guilt followed soon after. Martin.
All of it came back to that fucker. She had no reason to still feel guilty about what happened. Martin had been lying to her all along. He had no right over her emotions any longer. Yet he was still there. Would always be there. Anyone new she met, anyone who talked her up at the pub, any date she managed scrape together, she would always wonder if they were doing the same thing he did. Lying, manipulating, scamming. Martin would be controlling her life forever.
John ripped her wrists from Sherlock's grasp and clutched at her head. She quickly raked her fingers through her hair and threw her composure back together, sitting up ramrod straight with a fake but pleasant smile on her face. "I don't want to."
Sherlock stayed seated. Slowly, she reached one hand up and curled her fingers under John's bangs. She swept them to the side and let her fingers trail down cheek and jaw. "Your thoughts are spiralling into dark, treacherous waters. I'll pull you back to shore, if only for a moment."
"Did you just call me a boat?"
"I know how it feels. Let me help you. Please."
John's eyes pinched. She found it impossible to pull her head away. It tingled wherever Sherlock's fingers touched. A touch that brought with it the memory of her on her knees in a stupid sex club, Sherlock brushing away her hair, rescuing her from the man grabbing her from behind, and the tender way she smiled as they finished their dance.
John nodded reluctantly.
"Good." Sherlock handed her the necklace from seemingly nowhere. The necklace that Sherlock weaved together from suede. That necklace had been on John's nightstand. "Go upstairs and change into your military outfit. Dog tags are optional, though I suggest you dig them out. Your safeword will be chosen by the time you come down the stairs. Go on."
John took her time changing from a sports bra and sweatpants into her uniform, carefully tying her hair in a bun along her neck and slipping her dog tags between her coat and tank top. Nothing was quite to regulations standards and the choker would never pass, but it would do.
Sherlock was waiting, the middle of the living room cleared away in haste, everything pushed to the side. She was huffing a bit from her hussle but pretended she was fine as she sat in her chair, now pushed directly in front of the cold fireplace.
"Good," Sherlock nodded. "Your safeword is protea. Say it for me."
"Protea," John repeated back robotically. At some point she would need to look these words up.
"Fantastic. No more talking unless instructed. Moving on." She pointed in front of her. "Stay on your feet and stand at attention until I tell you otherwise."
John did as she was asked, pulling her shoulders back and squaring herself up in front of Sherlock. Her gaze landed on the painting and she found herself getting lost in the colors all swirling together. It still looked like nothing.
"Jacket off," Sherlock instructed and John's fingers instantly dropped to her buttons, undoing and shedding the outermost layer so she was only in her tank and trousers. "Drop and give me twenty."
John's eyebrows twitched. Was she serious?
"You heard me," Sherlock hissed. "Make it forty. Count out loud. Pushups. Go."
John dropped to her arms and toes and started, counting off every time she dropped.
"One. Two. Three. Four. Five-"
It had regrettably been awhile since she had done pushups and her muscles were uncomfortable by the time she hit twenty. At thirty they started shaking from lack of use and she cursed internally.
"Thirty-two. Thir-ty-thre-three-"
This was pathetic. Why was she even being made to do this?
Martin. Right.
"Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight.-" She was starting to sweat a bit, her panting making it harder to understand. She needed to start working out daily again. Jogging just was not going to cut it anymore. "Fourty."
John dropped to the floor and pushed into a seated position, tempted to pull her choker away from her sticky neck.
"On your feet," Sherlock commanded. "Jumping jacks. Fifty. Go."
John sucked in a breath and made it to her feet, jumping up and down right away, hoping Mrs. Hudson would not be bothered by the noise. . . or misinterpret it like she did when Sherlock rented that mini trampoline.
"One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six-"
Fifty jumping jacks would be easy enough. Her heart was pounding and wisps of her hair were sticking across her temple. Each time she jumped her dog tags clanged together, reminding her to count aloud. That was all she needed to focus on. Jump, count, jump, count, jump, count.
"Forty-seven. Forty-eight. Forty-nine. Fifty."
"Another fifty," Sherlock commanded, her position never changing, her eyes locked. "Go."
"One. Two. Three. Four. Five-"
The second fifty were harder but her body was pressed into shots of adrenaline and the high hit her around jump forty five. A smile came across her face without her meaning for it to do so, but Sherlock did not say anything.
"Another fifty," Sherlock said, a small smirk crawling up the corner of her mouth. "Go."
"One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven-"
By the time she reached the final fifty, sweat was rolling down her back in beads and her hair was coming loose from its bun, her hairband dragging towards her neck.
"Sit-ups," Sherlock commanded. "Twenty. Then one hundred crunches. Twenty more sit ups. Then one hundred crunches on each side. Count. Go."
John's eyes bulged but she dropped to the ground. This would have been nothing for her a few years ago with drill sergeants screaming from above, pushing her to do it faster, do it better. She had Sherlock now.
"Thirty-one. Thirty uh." WIthout the clang of the metal around her neck, it was a bit more difficult to keep track. "Thirty-"
"Start over," Sherlock said cooly, unable to mask all of her amusement.
John just barely managed to keep the 'For fuck's sake' from coming out of her mouth as she sucked in a breath and pushed herself to start over.
"One. Two. Three-"
Her side was already starting to tug. She would be feeling these for days, that was for sure. That would be something to deal with later though. No reason to distract herself from her count by a wee bit of pain or Sherlock would probably make her restart from the pushups. She simply sweat and breathed and worked until she reached that final count for her final set of one hundred.
"On your feet. Twenty squats."
John hopped lightly to her feet and spread her legs, dipping into her thighs, breathing deeply. "One. Two. Three. Four-"
She froze when her phone started ringing.
You don't know what it's like, baby.
That was Martin's ringtone.
You don't know what it's like.
John's entire body dropped to the floor, the breath punched out of her. She gasped for air and sobbed instead, her head falling towards her lap.
To love somebody.
"John-" Sherlock fell to her knees and shuffled over.
To love somebody.
John pushed her away. "St-top. I want to keep going. Let me up."
The way I love you.
"Protea."
"No, don't do that! Let me up." John pushed to get back up as the chorus repeated. Sherlock pulled her back down and wrapped her in her arms as she cried, "I have seventeen more. Let me up!"
"No." Sherlock said simply. "Your safety is in question. I will not have you continue."
"I want to," John sucked in a breath and tried to break away, but her arms felt like jello from all the pushups.
"I safeworded. Respect that. Now stay." Sherlock wrapped her up tighter and pulled John's sweating head against her neck, a hand cupping over her exposed ear.
John pushed at her chest but her fingers slipped. She collapsed into the embrace and shook her head, arms and feet falling to the floor.
"Seven seconds, John." Sherlock cooed, pulling closer. "Endorphins. Don't be stupid."
John choked on a laugh, pulled her arms up, and wrapped them around Sherlock's back. When she felt Sherlock squeeze, she lost all semblance of restraint. She bawled into Sherlock's shoulder. All sweat and tears and snot. Shaking and hiccuping, she cursed ever meeting that man. Ever meeting Moriarty.