Post-operative Week 5
"John?" Mrs Hudson's voice called out as she knocked on the door.
"In here, Mrs Hudson," John yelled out from the kitchen. He looked up as she came in with a plate covered with a kitchen towel.
"I made some cheese-cake last night. Thought you boys might like some. Didn't turn out as good as I had hoped," she said as she placed the plate in the fridge. "But good enough if you're craving something sweet after supper."
John's smile was genial, "Yeah, thanks, Mrs Hudson. Would you like a cup of tea, I'm making myself some?"
She nodded, "Oh, I would love some, John, thank you. Where's Sherlock?" she asked, looking around.
Stirring the tea-bags in the cups, John replied, "We just got back from the hospital. Had a follow up today with the neurologist and the surgeon. He dropped me home and now he's off to Bart's." They moved to the living room, cups in hand. John settled down gingerly on his chair…..can't wait to get this fucking cast off….. Mrs Hudson sat opposite him as he continued, "Lestrade has been calling constantly, couple of cases he wanted Sherlock to have a quick look at."
Mrs Hudson took a sip and then nodded.
"It's good for him to go out. I've never known him to be cooped up here for this long before. How long has it been?"
"Five weeks since the surgery. Four since we got back."
Mrs Hudson nodded.
"And has Philippe been here today?"
"No," John shook his head. "I had a session with the hospital physio instead." He looked a bit hesitant as he stared purposefully at her, chewing his lower lip. "Mrs Hudson?"
"Yes, dear?"
John took a deep breath and sighed. "Look, I don't know how to say this." His embarrassment deepened. "It's just that I've not been at work for a while because….you know. And I just wanted to say that I'll be a bit late in my rent payment. The cast comes off next week and I should be able to start work a couple of weeks after that…."
Mrs Hudson looked at John with a kindly, quizzical look on her face as she shook her head.
"It's alright, John. Sherlock has paid six months of rent upfront including your share, while you were still in the hospital." She stood up and gathered both the mugs. "In fact, he gave me one of his credit cards and asked me to go through the mail and pay whatever bills came in and buy the groceries as well."
She shrugged her shoulder, "Said he didn't want to be bothered with paper work and money matters while you're recovering. Especially as he wasn't sure how long the recovery would take."
John stared at the carpet blankly as he absorbed this. Every single fucking time…..he knew this would happen…..he pre-empted it….. He felt conflicted. Part of him felt humbled, grateful to have a friend like Sherlock looking out for him. The independent part of him bristled. How can I accept this generosity…..I need to get back to work asap, can't keep accepting this….how can he do this without consulting me? What must she think of me?
Mrs Hudson came back and sat on Sherlock's chair.
"So you see, dear, there's nothing to worry about."
His voice was gruff when he snapped, "Yeah, well, I'll pay him back of course."
Her expression was pitying as she mumbled, "John, you're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
She shook her head gently, "Well dear, you do tend to just focus on what he's done, rather than why he did it, don't you? It's almost as though being angry with him is some kind of default position in your head. You know, it's not about money!"
John's voice was strained as he asked, "What do you mean? I…..I don't understand."
"Look, it's not my place. But I've been watching this little domestic drama for five years now. Forgive a woman who's getting on in years, but truly John…the mind boggles at how much you miss."
She leaned forward and looked at him intently.
"Are you really so blind, my dear? He's gone for two years and you mourn him like a widower. And then when he comes back, you spend all your energy being angry and throwing it on his face. As though he had taken off to visit the Seven Wonders of the World or something, instead of putting his life in danger to make sure that you stay safe." She paused and then pointed an emphatic finger towards the front door. "Right there….he was standing right there, pale as a ghost, sweating and shaking because he was in so much pain, struggling to stand upright, after your wife shot him…..and you yelled at him and kicked furniture around. As if it was his fault whom you got married to! And he just stood there and absorbed all of your anger within himself, all the time thinking about what's best for you."
John watched her as she sat frowning, her disapproving look deepening as she seemed to lose herself in the past. After a while, she pointed an accusing finger at his chair, "Right there….you sat right there, tracing patterns on that arm-rest and mused about who could Sherlock be trying to protect? Well, guess what, John? It's you. It's always been you. He's been protecting you and looking out for you since the day he met you."
Her lips trembled with indignation as her voice rose, "He left your bloody WEDDING early, John. Who leaves a wedding early? Did you even stop to ask yourself that? But why should you? You had your wife and your friends and a blooming good day, why would you bother to look around and wonder where your best friend had gone. He threw himself into getting the most important day of your life organised, because it was important to you…And then…..just left."
John gaped at her, eyes striken as he watched the misery on the frail face, the tears gathering in her eyes.
"I…I….it's not like that, Mrs Hudson," he pleaded.
"Don't you 'Mrs Hudson' me, young man," she exclaimed. "You strut around like you know all about compassion and empathy and my Sherlock is a particularly socially inept robot. Well, you were the one who chose to walk out of here, and never looked back at your old landlady for two years. While Mycroft paid the entire rent and organised doctor's appointments and family visits for me."
John spread his arms wide, trying to explain.
"Things have changed. I do understand now. I am already taking steps to ensure that he is happy…..that I do the right thing by him….. yeah…."
She stood up abruptly, sniffing.
"Every single time you're in trouble he brings you here. He doesn't say much, mind you. That's just not who he is. But look at what he does for you."
She halted at the door and turned around, her thin, wrinkled hands fluttering in the air helplessly.
"I don't really like to say this, John. But I feel like I must. If life gets better for you and you choose to leave him for greener pastures, again…..I might…..it might be difficult to welcome you back to Baker Street."
She gave a decisive short nod and walked out.
John rubbed his face with weary hands…..she's right…..everyone sees it but me….he cares, so much that he spent five fucking years proving it, while I had my fucking head stuck up my fucking arse…this ends now, damn it to buggering fuck…..
Post-operative week 5
"Hello? Julia? Yeah, it's John. John Watson. How are you?"
"Hey, John!" an excited voice squealed back. "Gosh, how have you been? We've missed you! Are you back home? Are you able to walk?"
John laughed, "Slow down, slow down." He held the phone closer, a fond smile on his face. Julia was the principal doctor at the practice he had been going for locum doctor positions recently. After Mary moved on and he decided to move back with Sherlock, he had been unable to find a suitable full time practice close by. Besides, things with Sherlock had been unsettled, he wasn't sure how often Sherlock would need assistance with his cases. So John had deliberately chosen a more flexible option, albeit an hour's commute away.
"I'm much better, thank you. Back home and recovering well. And yes, I'm able to walk. I did have a tibial fracture though, the cast comes off next week."
"I know…..Mr Holmes called us four weeks ago to apprise us of the accident. He did say that he will let us know when you're well enough to return. But that the prognosis was equivocal."
"Good, that's good. Listen, as I said, I have the cast off next week and I was wondering if I can start working the week after?"
She sounded hesitant, "If you need more time, John, that's fine by me."
John chuckled aloud, "I reckon I'll be climbing walls by then, bored out of my mind. Look how often can you fit me in?"
"Well, do you want to start with three shifts a week and see how you go?" she asked.
"Sounds perfect. Let's do that, and I can bump it up if all goes well."
"Fantastic! I'll pencil you into the roster and email you with the dates. Go through them and confirm with me."
After some more small talk John hung up, heaving a sigh of relief.
Post-operative week 6
The rays of the afternoon sun were slowly dying down and the chill in the air was picking up speed, as John and Victor sat slumped, leaning on the trunk of a large tree in the park, sipping their hot café lattes.
"You didn't have to rush to see me, Victor. You just got back this morning!" John said.
Victor waved a hand dismissively, "Ah, doesn't worry me. Paris is not that far, I'm not tired." He took another large sip. "Actually, I wanted to come the minute I heard you were injured, but Sherlock forbid it. He didn't want me to leave the exhibition shows….there were still quite a few venues left when you got injured."
They sat in quiet harmony, watching people taking strolls and jogs and kids playing.
Victor's voice was nostalgic as he reminisced, "You know something, John? For the first few years I knew him, I used to beg Sherlock to let me paint a portrait of his face. He never allowed me."
John looked intrigued, "Yeah? Why?"
Victor shrugged, "He used to say he prefers that I focus on the mental image I have of him rather than get distracted with external symbolism."
John frowned, "I don't follow…"
Victor grinned, "Yeah….I didn't as well. So I stopped asking after a while." He stared ahead vacantly as he said in a thoughtful voice, "And then…..after a few years I understood. Well, I think I understand. You see….if I had painted his portrait, I would have focussed on that…..instead of what is…..it is the Sherlock in my head, the Sherlock that I feel I belong to…..he's the important one….not any material image I have of him….." He shook his head ruefully, "I don't know…. I can't explain it."
John frowned as he thought about this for a while. Finally taking a deep breath he leaned back on the tree, smiling. Victor looked at him bemused.
"What?"
John lolled his head towards Victor, the smile morphing into a wide grin.
"I've decided, Victor," he said softly. "Decided to submit to him fully, no limits, no safe-words, no conditions."
Victor laughed, "That's good…..very good. But it is not a decision you can make, you know? Like you can't say, 'Now I'll submit'" he mimed sitting up. "But it's good to know that your mind is moving in that direction."
John sat up straight again and turned to face Victor.
"I don't know…..I've never felt like this before….I've been exercising like the dickens. And now that the cast is off, I think I'll be ready in the next couple of weeks." His smile was sheepish, "I…..I'm nervous. Yeah. Basically thrilled….but yeah, nervous." He was beaming.
Victor's voice rang with confidence, "You will only be nervous till you keep thinking about it. Once you're on your knees, once you feel his fingers running through your hair, you'll realize how silly all your fears were."
"What if he doesn't accept me?"
Victor frowned, "Then he doesn't. Your job is to offer yourself up. What happens after that is his decision. Your work is done. It's not your concern anymore what happens after that."
John sat for a while, looking thoughtful as he mulled over this. He's right…..what more can I do? But Sherlock won't reject me…..will he? Can he?
"So….I wanted to ask. What's he like? You know, as a Dom…"
"A Submissive's dream come true," Victor's grin was cheeky.
John laughed. "Look, I get that! Lord knows you've said it often enough. But seriously, tell me…..what should I expect?"
Victor laughed as he laid down on the grass and looked up at the tree. His eyes were twinkling when he looked at John after a few moments.
"I am serious, John. The truth is that every Submissive's relationship with his Dom is different. What he is to me will be different to what he will be to you. You can't generalise. And you will find out soon enough."
John held up his hands, "Okay, okay, I get it. You don't want to kiss and tell."
Victor chuckled, "No, no….that's not it. It's just that….it is a very private relationship, you know? In front of a Dom like Sherlock, you're laid bare. And I don't mean just physically. I mean your thoughts, your psyche, your shameful secrets and hidden kinks, your flaws….. Nowhere to hide…no need to pretend. It's …freeing, you know?"
They stayed silent for a bit, just people watching.
"Victor?" John started hesitantly. "Don't take this the wrong way. But I….you know that if Sherlock accepts me, he will…..I mean we will be having sex. Doesn't that make you feel…..I don't know….Jealous or insecure? How do you handle him sleeping with other Subs?"
Victor was quiet for a long time, as he stared into the distance. His voice when he spoke was soft.
"There was a Sub…..David. Many years ago…..Sherlock was very concerned about him, used to spend a lot of time with him." He paused and frowned, lost in the past. "John, for a while there, I behaved like a complete pillock." He heaved a long sigh. "Once Sherlock asked me, Victor, which leg do you care about more? Your right or left leg? Which ear do you feel closer to, your right ear or left ear? I know the metaphor is flawed….but that is essentially what it is….David is mine, just as you are mine. When both belong to me, how can one be more dear than the other?"
Victor gave a short laugh and went quiet.
John asked quietly, "What happened to David?"
"He fell in love with a co-worker, got married with Sherlock's blessings. Actually, Sherlock was the best man at their wedding….So, you see John….I belong to him, as will you. There is nothing to be jealous about. We are both part of the same bigger whole."
John was quiet for a while, as he thought about this.
After a while, John asked, "Tell me, are there things I should watch out for? Do's and don'ts?"
"Hmmm…let's see," Victor pursed his lips as he thought. He propped himself up on one arm as he spoke. "Biggest 'Don't'- don't lie to him. He will know…biggest 'Do'—when you want to ask him for something, ask as his Sub….you know, John, you'll see…..it's like when you're on your knees….he's incapable of denying you anything." He frowned, "It's really weird, so unlike what you expect….it's like he holds his Subs above himself somehow….like they're more important than him…Apart from that….."
John's eyes were eager, hungry for every morsel of information as he ravenously listened to every word. What is he like in bed…..does it hurt to have a dick up your arse….how should I prepare for it…..how big is he…..will he be rough or gentle….how often will he fuck me…..
Victor looked at him gently, "Look, don't overthink it. Seriously. Nothing much will change. It's not as if he's going to start interfering in your life or make you kneel in front of others or decide what you're going to wear or force himself on you when you're not in the mood. In fact, you'll be surprised by how little changes." He sighed, "Only nothing is the same as before….." He tapped his own head with a finger. "In your head. Everything changes in your head."
John took a deep breath, "Okay then."
Victor lay back again, a faraway look in his eyes, "Do you know how wonderful it is to talk about Sherlock with someone? Usually, it is just me carrying on a monologue in my head." He laughed self-consciously. Then he sighed as he thought. John waited impatiently for any titbit that might slip out of Victor's mouth.
After a long pause, he continued, his voice wistful, "The pure joy you will feel when he praises you, when you have pleased him, it has to be experienced, John. And it never diminishes, that surreal feeling…..it's just as strong so many years after…..he makes you feel invincible."
As if energized, Victor sat up and leaned towards John, "And then if there is even a hint of disapproval on his face, you shiver with fear, even though you know he's not going to hurt you. Sherlock has never hit a submissive in anger, but still you feel it….the fear, the shame, the disappointment in yourself…..at some visceral level….I'm telling you, John….every freaking emotion is heightened…."
John looked with bulging eyes, drinking it all in greedily as he absorbed each word into himself, listening, internalizing..…..
Post-operative week 7
John's short bursts of delighted laughter alternated with panting huffs of exhalations as he stood bent at the waist, hands on his knees and tried to catch his breath.
Philippe laughed as he pressed the side of his belly with his hands and gasped in between breaths, "Oh God….you run fast for a short person. I almost can't keep up."
Joggers ran past them, listening to music from their phones and iPods, children were squealing as they played around them. They stood on the leafy promenade by the lakeside, giggling like teenagers as they had raced.
"It's all part of working with Sherlock," John gasped out. "He keeps you on your toes…..if you fall behind, then watch out!"
Wiping their brows with towels they headed towards a park bench and sat down, carelessly sprawled with legs wide apart, the exhilaration of physical exertion still coursing through their veins. They looked around quietly as they slowly calmed down.
"So John, I was thinking that you don't need me to monitor you anymore. You are more than holding your own. Maybe we can still catch up once a week for a couple of weeks if you have any concerns. But otherwise, we're done."
John nodded, "Yeah, I feel good. Actually, I feel terrific."
He turned to Philippe with a warm smile, "Look, I don't know how to thank you. You've been great."
Philippe shrugged agreeably, "My pleasure, John. It's good to have a fully committed patient once in a while, you know."
"With regards your fees…..will you send me your invoice? I'll try and pay it in the next couple of weeks. I go back to work next week."
Philippe waved a hand, "Oh, don't worry about that. Sherlock has paid it already." He turned to John with a wry smile, "I didn't want to charge you at all, but he insisted, said it's a long recovery, he wanted you to have the best." He smiled sheepishly. "And I do have a young family…..so…yeah." He shrugged.
John stared at him as he spoke and then quickly looked away as he tried to hide the sudden gush of moisture in his eyes. He just nodded silently, dumbfounded yet again.
After some time, he cleared his throat and said, "Look, you go on. I'll sit out here for a bit and then head home."
Philippe stood up and extended his hand.
"It's been a great pleasure, John."
John shook his hand and smiled warmly, "Thank you for everything."
He sat back on the bench, deep in thought as Philippe left. He looked around vacantly, feeling overwhelmed even as his thoughts churned round and round in his head. EVERYTHING. He thought of everything and looked after it. Just so that I could be okay, so that I did not have to worry about it. This is the man that I felt I could not trust fully. What more does he have to do? Mrs Hudson was right. I am truly blind.
His hands were trembling as he brought them up to rub his face, trying to get a grip over himself.
When he put them down he stared at a man talking on his mobile a few feet away. Dressed in a formal suit, a cunning, arrogant smile on his face as he yelled at someone about board meetings and portfolios and dividend payouts; an investment banker. John stared at him as his mind projected the image of Sebastian Wilkes and he remembered that morning before they went to meet him, clutching yet another unpaid bill in his hand. Listen, if you'd be able to lend me some…I need to go to the bank. And he had let John collect the cheque…..
He sat there, thinking….thinking….with each passing minute, it seemed his mind was whirling faster and faster…memories of the past five years flooding into his brain from all sides with the destructive power of a tsunami. They seemed to rearrange themselves, so that for the first time, John was looking at them the right side up.
Sherlock leaving him, flying off a building roof to certain death, a choked voice saying….. Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me? It's what people do, don't they….leave a note?
His own anger at Sherlock's presumed indifference to Mrs Hudson getting shot, a statement he had spent long agonising hours regretting in the aftermath….Sherlock using a ruse to send John off to safety and face Moriarty alone…..a catastrophic error in judgement in the intentions of his best friend…. Doesn't she mean anything to you? You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her…..you machine!
The memories of grieving by his grave-side, the silent nights spent staring at the ceiling with bulging eyes, wanting to die…die…DIE…his gun had never been far from him..…thinking to himself….I don't WANT to exist in a world in which Sherlock Holmes does not exist…what is the point of such a life….
Standing with Sherlock in the hallway of 221B…. I asked you for one more miracle. I asked you to stop being dead…the softness in Sherlock's voice as he had replied….. I heard you.
His hands interlinked behind the nape of his neck as he tried to breathe in deeply, in and out….in and out… get a fucking grip, Watson, you're scaring the fucking kids, for fuck's sake…...even as a kaleidoscopic medley of audio-visual images from the memory bank of his brain assaulted him.
Irene Adler, that shrewd seductress who'd captured Sherlock's fancy and had made John swallow the toxic bile of jealously for many long months. Even she had known….. We're not a couple, John had croaked defensively…Yes you are…I'm not gay…..Yet, look at us both….
Sherlock sitting in the living room of Baker Street, looking lost and dazed as he gamely tried to keep a stiff upper lip and organise what was to be the most important day of John's life…..paper work on the wall, to-do lists, the wall itself divided into sections—"Transport", "Catering", "Rehearsal", "Wine"… Schedule the organ music to begin at precisely 11.48…..serviettes folded into different shapes… Swan or Sydney Opera House?...sitting cross legged on the floor in front of the coffee table with half a dozen serviettes folded into shape….. that just sort of….happened…
Sherlock at the wedding, playing beautiful music on his violin…..Both of you, now go dance. We can't just stand here. People will wonder what we are talking about….We can't all three dance, there are limits….yes, there are…..Don't worry, Mary, I've been tutoring him…..
Sherlock's pale, pained face, sweat on his brow, hand clutching his belly, as he fought to keep John's marriage alive…. I believe I'm bleeding internally and my pulse is very erratic…..John, you can trust Mary…she saved my life.
John sat biting down on his clenched fist as the barrage to his brain refusing to subside as the avalanche of memory clips, disjointed voices and faces continued relentlessly. His breath was now just short gasps, his brain feeling like it would explode.
Magnussen's slimy voice crooning….. But look how you care about John Watson….your damsel in distress. Sherlock's pressure point is his best friend, John Watson.
Magnussen flicking his face and the quietness on Sherlock's face, the apologetic look as he watched that viper playing with his friend…..and then the determination and fury with which he had shot him….. Oh, do your research…I'm not a hero, I'm a high functioning sociopath….as the man who had never begged for anything in his life, went down on his knees because John's happiness depended on it….
John came up for air, gulping uselessly, heedless of the concerned and irritated stares of the joggers and walkers as they looked at this odd man behaving wildly as though he was having a mental breakdown right in the middle of a crowded public park. The tumult in his brain seemed to have reached a roaring crescendo…
Ella Thompson's professional mask….. John, you're a soldier and it's gonna take you a while to adjust to civilian life; writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you. ….nothing happens to me.
Lestrade's frustrated words directed at the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes….. And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And one day, if we're very very lucky, he might even be a good one.
Sherlock shaking hands with him on the tarmac, as he left faux cheerfully for certain painful and prolonged death… To the very best of times, John.
The most human, human being…
Constantly misjudged him…punished him relentlessly for not including me in his plans….despite all his glaring actions to always act in my best interests…..ALWAYS what is best for me….that keeps me safe…keeps me happy…...never caring about the cost to himself…..his home, his WORK, his beloved LONDON…..gave it all up in a heartbeat for me…..TWICE…
Mrs Hudson had said…..Who could Sherlock be trying to protect? Well, guess what, John? It's you. It's always been you. He's been protecting you and looking out for you since the day he met you.
Sherlock's beautiful calm face looking at him as he patiently explained… John, you don't need sex, you don't need romance. You need to belong. To know that you are integral to something bigger. To know your place in life without doubts. To know that you're home. You're mine, John. And I am your home…..Every fibre in your being is aligned towards me, John. Everything that you are has been yearning to reach home, surging towards me. An inexorable march towards culmination into oneness with me. Because you are MINE.
And then suddenly like a critical tipping point had been reached, the scattered threads of thoughts in his fragile mindscape coalesced and then burst into a blinding light, into a spectacular life-altering epiphany…... I belong to him, I am HIS …and finally, finally…blessed peace. John felt as though a distant vision that had merely been a blur had come into a sharp focus as a powerful conviction and joy sizzled through his being with increasingly rapturous certainty.
It was impossible to sit still any longer.
John got up and started hurrying towards Baker Street… towards Sherlock. His legs picked up pace as he started jogging, blinking off tears of happiness and newly found serenity…..have to get home, not a minute to lose…the sensation of desperate urgency giving him wings. Heart pounding, he ran, dodging pedestrians, barely aware of the curious stares of passers-by as their eyes followed the mad-man who was laughing and running like the wind past them. It was rapidly getting dark, the streets were busy with people trying to get home from work before nightfall.
Of course...yes...a thousand times YES...his...I am HIS...this is not something I have to make up my mind about. It's only simple statement of fact. I belong to him, only him...always HIM...so simple...why did I not see this? Sherlock, Sherlock...
Strides getting longer, he ran as his chest heaved as though he was bursting with new-found knowledge, with joy, with exhilaration, unlike anything he had ever felt before. The sheer sense of rightness, of belonging. Nothing happens to me...I said that once to Ella...nothing happens to me...Look where I am now...where life has brought me...so much time wasted, Sherlock...fighting this...and for what? Some misguided sense of propriety? Pride? Stubbornness? Homophobia? As though anything could be more right than this...I am yours, Sherlock.
He raced, wanting to be in Sherlock's presence right this second, the sensation of urgency pressing upon him, as though every extra second lost was a huge waste. As he turned the corner of Baker's Street, his feet flew, the exuberant elation bubbling inside him making him feel so light that he felt like he could take off from the ground any minute and become airborne.
He stopped abruptly on the pavement opposite 221B, just staring at the beloved sign. He stood gasping, air hunger making his chest heave in and out, desperately out of breath. He stood for a moment recollecting his thoughts from just a few months ago.
Five years ago he had stood here with a limp and a cane, a hair's breadth from eating his gun in depression, no prospects, no family, no friends, just a washed out middle aged army doctor.
Five years ago, Sherlock Holmes the most complete, private and untouchable man to ever grace the planet had taken him under his wing and given John a place in his life and his heart.
He had chosen to save John then. Would he consider doing it again, after everything he had been through?
John had not known the answer just a few months ago. He knew now. Moisture filled his eyes as he thought, he did choose to save me. From some bottomless well of grace and love, he managed to extend a hand yet again, to save me.
John stood there staring at 221B, tears making his vision blur as he stood, body trembling minutely with emotion and in the cold air.
I thought I'd be nervous, but nothing has ever felt this right, this perfect in my entire life before this.
He crossed the road, the last few steps home. No...no...not 221B...but in the arms of the man I belong to...that is my home...you are my home...why couldn't I see that?
As he climbed the seventeen steps every fibre of his being was aware of the tectonic shift his life was about to undergo. I don't even know what I'll say...haven't prepared a speech like I did with Mary...but do I need to say anything? He'll take one look at me and know...
He stood outside the door, mouth dry, and took a deep breath. His hands were rock-steady with certainty, with the absolute conviction of what he was about to do.
Sherlock was pacing in front of his chair, talking on the phone, frustration in his voice as he spoke in his haughtiest public school voice, "Forgive me for thinking that two days actually meant two days. You were supposed to have sent me those results by this morning."
He looked up as John opened the door, eyes flicking over and then narrowing as they took in the overwhelmed expression on John's face, looking like a person who's just had a huge, cataclysmic revelation.
He mumbled on the phone, "Leave it, I'll call you later." And abruptly hung up.
"John?" his voice was soft, concerned.
John swallowed, his mind a sudden blank as he walked mutely towards Sherlock, his eyes looking intent, a suppressed joy bursting on his face.
Sherlock frowned as he gazed back, scanning, deducing. As John neared the frown disappeared and his eyes widened as disparate details slotted into place and a conclusion was reached. His face smoothed into an impassive mask as he watched. And waited. Quietly. Patiently.
John stood in front of Sherlock, feeling like he was drowning in the intensity of his emotions, thought suspended, words having long fled save one.
"Yours," he whispered softly as without conscious thought his knees gave out and he was sinking, sinking to the ground. His eyes did not leave Sherlock's as he sank down to his knees and knelt in front of his Dom...my Dom...Sherlock.
Sherlock looked back, frozen in place and went completely still.
His gaze so intense, John felt as though it were boring straight into his soul, probing, searching, analysing. John felt completely naked, flayed and dissected under those laser beams as he was laid bare, pared down to his very being, his essence. And he allowed Sherlock to probe, to find. Victor was right, it is truly freeing.
John's mind was curiously empty, random thoughts floating in, directionless as he waited.
So, this is why people kneel down when they pray. There is something about this posture, being on one's knees and gazing heaven-wards...genuflection symbolising complete subjugation and acceptance coupled with the gaze turned upwards, the stretch of the corded neck muscles symbolising the soul seeking and gloriously striving for something Higher than oneself... I understand now...
He watched as Sherlock seemed to have found what he had been looking for and before his very eyes, his expression transformed into something impossibly softer, more beautiful...grace, tenderness, love, acceptance fighting for supremacy. As though all the harsh edges and sharp lines on his sharply angular face had been smoothed out. What kept you so long, John? I've been waiting forever for this….for you to come home….He stood motionless, his head inclined downwards as he looked unblinkingly at John. His eyes shone with a blue-grey incandescence, his expression was radiant, even as John watched in wonder as tears gathered into those gorgeous eyes and started to drip down directly to the carpet....one...two...three...the tears flowed unabashedly, without restraint, without guile.
In all the time I have known him he has never looked more stunning than right now...
Suddenly it was too much; too much to take in...too MUCH...the solemnity of the moment, the tumultuous upheaval his mind had weathered in the past hour, the ethereal vision he was staring up at. With a shuddering gasp John closed his eyes and bowed his head and went still.
Time seemed to come to a standstill as they both stayed in the same position for long minutes, like statues, motionless and comfortable in their places.
A feeling of absolute silence and peace seemed to engulf John. He was in the presence of his Dom, kneeling at the feet of his Dom. Nothing to think about, no decisions to make. Submitted. Absolute surrender. It did not matter whether Sherlock accepted him or not. This was not about acceptance, but about surrendering, the act of submission itself, of letting go now that he was home. What his Dom choose to do with him was not up to him, and it did not matter.
It was a long time later that there was a rustle of clothes and the next thing John heard was Sherlock's voice say very softly, "John. Look at me."
John opened his eyes and looked up. Sherlock sat on his chair, his hands in the familiar steeple in front of his chest, his expression forceful, grave.
"John, I need for you to reflect on what you are offering. If you become my Sub, you agree to hand over yourself to me, body, mind and soul. There will be no negotiations, no limits set to what I choose to do to you, how I use you for my pleasure. There are no safe-words that you can use at any point in time. You will still have your volition, but at all times it will be subjugated to mine. If there is anything that truly troubles you, you may discuss it but only as a Submissive, on your metaphorical if not your literal knees. If at any time you wish to walk away from this relationship, you can. Nothing binds you to me. But it must be with the understanding that there will be no coming back, no second chance. I do not abide by hesitation in my Subs and I will not tolerate it in you either."
His tone was without inflection, not pushing John in any desired direction, matter of fact and direct. He scrolled down on his phone and then waved it at John.
"I had myself tested whilst you were in the hospital. You were tested as a matter of routine as well. We are both clear of any STIs. We will not be using any protection, should we embark on this. I haven't made up my mind about any intimate acts with other Subs, but if I do choose to have sex with anyone else, I will use protection and I will inform you about it. I expect you extend me the same courtesy."
He waited a few moments, allowing John time to think.
His expression softened, his voice was gentler as he murmured, "John, it is not necessary to give your answer right now. There is no shame in reneging on your offer. There will be no questions asked should you decide to straighten up and sit in your chair and ask for more time to consider this. I encourage you to think some more if you find even the least hesitation as you look within yourself."
John looked at him, his chin turned up with confidence as he replied without hesitation, his voice steady, "Yours, Sherlock. Yours to own, yours to use, yours to command."
Sherlock's lips twitched up, pleased. He inclined his head gravely and looked away as he considered, his tongue absently running across his lower lip. John waited, his eyes eager with hope as he watched that familiar, beloved face as Sherlock contemplated.
Finally, finally after long interminable minutes, Sherlock seemed to reach a decision. He stood up and neared John.
He looked imposing, commanding as he looked down at John and whispered, his voice husky, "Mine." The simple word uttered with finality in that unmatched baritone, sounded like the pronouncement of God himself.
John shivered as he let out a long breath he didn't realize he had been holding and of their own accord his eyes closed, his head bowed down again. With a low shudder he leaned his head against one muscled thigh, craving support, anchorage. And finally felt them, long sensitive fingers running through his hair, in acceptance, in ownership.
Home...home...home...Sherlock, Sherlock...This is what completion feels like...nothing to worry about...it's all in his hands...I'm safe, I'm free...
They stayed there, Dom and Sub, one on his knees having offered himself up, resting on the strength of the other, supported and supporting each other in their roles, two entities yet joined by some unfathomable profound bond, that made them one.
John felt hypnotized, like a spell had been cast on him, his awareness narrowed to the tips of Sherlock's finger tips moving on his scalp. Nothing else existed, nothing else needed to exist.
It was a long time later that Sherlock said softly, "Stand up."
John got off his knees and stood up gingerly.
Sherlock pulled him into an embrace, "Come here."
John rested his head on Sherlock's chest, his arms coming around to hold Sherlock close, nuzzling his face against Sherlock's long neck. Sherlock stood holding him close, one hand gently cradling John's head, while the other ran soothing circles at the small of John's back.
"You did so well, John. I'm so proud of you," he whispered against John's ears.
The jolt of pure happiness that ran like a shard of electric current up and down John's spine was unexpected, powerful. The pure joy you will feel when he praises you, when you have pleased him, it has to be experienced, John. And it never diminishes, that surreal feeling...
John clung harder, choking back a sob, "I'm sorry, Sherlock. For making you wait…..for doubting you…..I've lost us so much time. I'm sorry, Sherlock."
"Shhh…..I know, my love, it's alright now," Sherlock's voice was gentle.
Two large palms held John's face as Sherlock looked down, his lips inching closer, his exhalations fanning John's face delicately, his nose nudging John's as he tilted his head. And finally, finally after what seemed after a lifetime of waiting, those perfect velvety lips caressed John's. Oh fuck...soft...so soft...I had thought his neck was the best smell...I could drown and lose myself in his mouth...John's heart was racing, palms sweating as one hand came up to fold over Sherlock's hand, seeking an anchor. He's barely even touched my lips and I'm lost already.
John's mouth was pliable under Sherlock's, opening up to his insistent tongue, welcoming him, as his entire being surged towards Sherlock….trembling hands fluttered up helplessly to pass his fingers through those luscious curls. The warning growl that came through Sherlock's vocal cords reverberated with force through John's body and his hands came back down his sides submissively. Not yet, only when he allows…..Victor said he does not like to be touched without permission…
Sherlock moved away slowly. No…no, don't go…please….I beg you. One hand still rested lightly on John's waist whilst the other slid from his face to grip the nape of his neck. Silver-grey eyes pinned John in place as they gazed at each other, lips only a hair's breadth away. Sherlock's grip turned firm and proprietary as he pulled John flush to his body. Sherlock's rock-hard erection pressed urgently against John's tummy, eyes dark with arousal, the gleam in his eyes predatory.
A small whine escaped from John's mouth, frantic desire and excitement about what was to come, making him feel lightheaded, needy, as he asked breathlessly, "What happens now?"
Sherlock's other hand slid down the small of his back and further down, cupping his arse, long fingers in between John's legs, pressing into his cleft. His smile was seduction itself, the promise of a Dom, as he tilted his head and whispered against John's ears.
"Now, the taking begins."