Mycroft toyed irritably with a pencil as he waited for the decryption process of the video file to finish.
For many long years, Mycroft had ensured that a team of trained people were dedicated to looking after Sherlock, his safety and anything that remotely related to him. It was how he'd known about the blast across Baker's Street and managed to be the first one there. It was how he'd known about Hope's murder and managed to be there at the same time as the police. It was how he'd known when John Watson had decided to move in with Sherlock.
Finally….he thought as the file finished unscrambling itself.
He hit play.
Less than five minutes later he sat with lips pulled back in a feral snarl as he shook with rage. He gave himself a moment to compose himself before summoning Anthea.
"I need to see Dr Watson," were the only words he could utter, even as he struggled to keep his clenched fists out of view, the urge to throw things across the room too rabid to control.
How dare he….I will tear him apart with my bare hands…...how DARE he…..
John stood staring at the vacant bench in the park.
Joggers jogged and children played. Mums with strollers strolled and hawkers sold their wares. Carefree tourists clicked photographs and teenagers flirted.
Life went on.
But John stood there staring at the vacant bench feeling like his life had ended. He'd stumbled on to the park as he'd walked aimlessly, desperately seeking solace for his agitated mind.
Right here…I'd been sitting right here just over a month ago. Thinking about him, looking back at the five years gone past….thinking about everything that he'd ever done for me…thinking about Mrs Hudson's words…Its always been you, John…..
Right here….I'd experienced for the first time the truth of the fact that I was HIS…..that flawless and sublime insight had moved me to tears, into running back home and falling at his feet. Offering myself up to him, for him to do as he pleased.
How could it have all gone so wrong? How could I have forgotten it all, in a blaze of lust inspired by self-pity and anger? How do I redeem myself from this… either I tell him or I don't. If I tell him, he may decide to leave me. If I don't tell him this guilt, this pain will eat me alive until there is nothing left.
It had been two days since that night.
Two days of dread, fear, guilt, sorrow chewing through his mind driving him insane. Even as he tried to function, underneath the surface he felt like he was disintegrating as though there were a black hole inside of him that was consuming him from the inside out.
Sherlock mercifully had decided to leave him alone, give him space. Wonder what he thinks that panic attack was for? Why is he not demanding explanations, sex? He couldn't really suspect anything, could he? What if he does and this is his way of rejecting me? Fear started to build again as his heart started racing.
It had been difficult….difficult to keep his mind from going round and round in circles, thinking the same things over and over again; a jumble of thoughts like a child's nervous babbling, unable to reach a decision, rationalizing his behaviour…..so it went, on and on….and fucking on and on….
He'd not eaten or slept in any meaningful way since that night.
He tried to deep breathe as he dragged his footsteps towards Baker's Street again. Why the fuck did I come here? What did it achieve apart from proving to myself what I already know….. I am a colossal fucking idiot…. I don't deserve him….. I'm doomed no matter what I do…to tell or not to tell….
The sleek, black unmarked car pulled into the kerb as he walked back home. The back seat window lowered soundlessly.
Fuck…. just what I fucking needed right now. Mycroft fucking Holmes. Might as well get it over with. Big fucking Brother is here…..
He got in and faced Mycroft, face drained of all strength, unable to come up with any clever remark.
Mycroft pounced the moment the door closed and the car pulled away.
"What were you thinking, Dr Watson? How dare you? How does this even happen?" he spluttered, face red with rage.
John just looked at him with tired eyes, thinking absently. I've never seen him this angry before, so out of control. The ice man is melting…..fuck, he's burning. A manic giggle arose which he clamped down as best he could. Man up, Watson. You deserve this.
"He is your superior by every single parameter known to man. And yet, he invites you into his life, into his home, into his heart and into his bed. And this is what he gets for it!" Mycroft continued, his voice a furious hiss. "What in the name of God were you thinking?"
John's voice was a small whisper, "I wasn't."
"Do you have any idea what he was doing while you were satisfying your carnal urges behind his back?"
A scream that tore itself out of John's throat, "I don't know anything. He didn't tell me anything."
Mycroft's jaw was clenched, "But you know him! Or I thought you did. Since when does Sherlock explain himself to anyone? That's just not who he is. And if you knew him you should have known that only something important would drag him away from you. Did you even think, Dr Watson? Or did you just let your anger and libido run wild?"
"Well, it's done. And I am the one who has to live with it. So screw you. You've said your piece, now let me the fuck out of here," John said through gritted teeth.
Stunned into silence, Mycroft pushed aside his righteous anger and focused for the first time. He took in the slumped shoulders, the downturned lips, the listless tired eyes, the slight shiver in the hands, the crumpled clothing. He felt himself deflate as the anger gave way to concern. He's broken. Dear Lord…
He turned to look out of the window at the passing traffic, fighting to keep the pity out of his face. Eventually he turned back, his voice bitter, "You know, John, you remind me of the man who went around the whole world with a begging bowl in his hand, stretching his arms out to beg for alms, little realising that the bowl he held was made of solid gold." He sighed, his voice gentled, "For the love of God, open your eyes and see what you have in your hands."
Wordlessly he gestured to the driver.
The car slowed to a halt two blocks from Baker's Street.
John looked up wryly, his hand on the door handle. "What? No threats to kill me, harm me? You're getting soft, Mycroft."
Mycroft snorted, "Sherlock would disown me if I touched a single hair of your head, John." He took a deep breath, "Besides, it's not cricket to kick a man who's already down."
John stared outside at the passing human traffic, hopelessness like a filmy veil over his eyes. Finally he took a deep breath and turned back to look at Mycroft.
"Do you think I should tell him? How do you think he'd respond?"
Mycroft resisted rolling his eyes with disdain. Do you really think he doesn't already know, John? How little you know my brother!
Aloud he said, "That is a decision you must make. As for how he'd respond, I'm afraid I have no idea. I am not privy to his thoughts on this particular aspect of his life… The only person who might have a clue is perhaps Victor. You could consider asking him." He shrugged his shoulders.
John sighed as he opened the door and got out.
Mycroft leaned out of the window. "John, what I can say with certainty is that you are very dear to my brother. Please bear that in mind before you decide to do anything hasty. Your loss would break his heart."
He nodded as the car started and drove off.
Sherlock lay on the sofa frowning at his mobile as he read the incoming text from one of his homeless network group. Oh for God's sake!
Annoyed, he texted…..
That was completely unnecessary- SH
Mycroft grimaced as he read it.
He's not dealing with it, Sherlock. He needs help- MH
Sherlock's fingers flew over the phone as he texted back.
Maybe this time I'll wait until he asks for it—SH
He's hurting, Sherlock. I hope you know what you're doing—MH
I do. Stop worrying, brother mine!-SH
He threw the phone down irritably.
It was mid morning and John sat on his bed in the upstairs bedroom, papers scattered all around him. He was looking out of the bedroom window lost in thought. Sherlock had gone to Barts, one of his many visits chasing some interesting mystery or another.
John reflected on the week that had just gone past. The week since that gut-wrenching night of his deception, the week since Sherlock had come home to a Sub who had cheated on him, lied to his face.
Life, amazingly, still went on.
He had switched shifts with other doctors and as a consequence had had to go to work only once that week. A part of him felt bad about letting Julia and her patients down. But, you know what? Screw Julia!...Hey, you fucking idiot, you already did. A hysterical laugh rose inside of him at his own folly; he gulped it down before the urge to scream and rage and tear himself apart enveloped him again.
Sherlock continued to give him space, while ensuring that routine conversation kept flowing. He was out and about and came back grumbling about Lestrade and those idiots at the Yard, bringing body parts home….fuck, entire scalps…something about studying the decay of hair or was it growth of hair after death? And John felt almost incoherently thankful for it. He didn't think he could have handled it if Sherlock had crowded him, asked questions, demanded answers…it certainly was his right as a Dom, he had all the power….but still he had not asked a single question or made a single demand….surely he must know something is not right…...
And yet, conversely…..he somehow seemed to be there all the time; sitting in the living room in the evening and at odd hours during the day. Working on his laptop but not lost in his mind palace. As though he were inviting John to talk to him if he chose to do so. Staying available in a sense without being overbearing.
John had barely eaten the past few days.
The sight of food reminded him of the alley, the last full meal he had consumed, the mess his vomit had made of Sherlock's coat. But then after two days, Sherlock had started handing him his own half-eaten plate at meal times; a stern, forbidding look on his face, a one word order that could not be ignored, "Eat." So John dutifully had a few morsels.
Nights came with their own version of hell; assorted whirling thoughts, the barrier of useless daytime activity stripped away.
And so Sherlock played. Tunes that John liked, little jingles, popular songs…..while John lay in bed, clutching to the awareness of Sherlock outside and within every cell of his tortured body and mind. It was as though Sherlock was with him, inside him, soothing him, inviting John to let him in.
But John lacked the courage and was still unable to make up his mind. To tell or not to tell? Does he know something happened? How can he know? But he is Sherlock…he knows everything.
This morning, the need for distraction and the fact that he was about to see a patient with a rare diagnosis in two days had led him to the upstairs bedroom in search for a medical journal.
Whilst rummaging through the cupboard he came across a stack of paper.
He froze into place, staring at it. And then removed the pages with hands that shook ever so slightly, with eyes that held the misery of nostalgia. They were the pages on which he had once drafted and re-drafted the Dom-Sub contract that he'd once thought he would be negotiating with Sherlock. He'd climbed on the bed, some masochistic instinct driving him to read those roughly drafted pages, some more food for self-flagellation.
Idly his tired eyes roamed over the papers lying scattered around him. He picked up one at random.
HARD LIMITS-
No edge play, enemas, water sports, spitting, fisting, sounding, video recordings, public humiliation…..- would never want to try these.
Blindfolds and gags- Sherlock, I think these would trigger my PTSD and cause the nightmares to come back. So I would prefer never to use these.
John snorted derisively.
He thought about Sherlock hovering protectively by his bedside at the hospital, pulling him out of his night terrors night after night. He thought of the warmth and safety of Sherlock's arms as he had held John as he wheezed with panic, the gentleness of his embrace as he had come down from the Submissive trance that first night and just before Sherlock had left for Edinburgh….holding him safe, as though wanting to shelter him from all the ills of the world…John thought of Victor's words from a lifetime ago…. In which universe did you think that Sherlock Holmes would allow anything to happen that could even remotely compromise your safety, let alone endanger it himself? Or force himself upon you without your consent?
What was I thinking when I wrote all this bullshit? How did it make Sherlock feel, to think that I thought him capable of this… Fucking internet…
He picked up another paper
BONDAGE—
Soft bondage only-but nothing that might be triggering of my PTSD.
Collars-I'd prefer not to wear them in public without prior discussion…
Unable to read any further, he crumpled the paper and threw it on the ground, raging at himself.
Victors words came back to haunt him again…..In all the years I've known Sherlock he has never tied me with so much as a shoelace.
John remembered the two occasions in the past month when he'd accompanied Sherlock for a case. Far from showing off John as a new prized possession over whom he'd unlimited powers, far from making him wear a "collar"… he'd been…Sherlock! Unequivocally, quintessentially Sherlock. Snarky and maddening at times, yes. Irritable and arrogant at times, yes. Buzzing with excitement at a new mystery like a child with a new toy, yes. And ordering John around to fetch things, give his opinion or just because he wanted to yell at someone or the other's incompetence, yes. But never, ever by word or deed had he shown any disrespect, dominance or disparagement.
He read again…..Collar…..Bondage…..he sneered at his own naivety, stupidity…..He told me again and again to think for myself….. John, think about it. Really think about it. Not what the books or other people or the internet tell you.
He picked up another random page, unable to stop himself, as though this were a form of penance, as though he were letting some of the purulence of guilt out of his system by torturing himself.
SAFEWORDS-
Safeword 1- ANDERSON- I will use this safeword if what you are doing becomes too intense and I need a break before resuming.
Safeword 2- MYCROFT- I will use this safeword if I want to stop any activity completely. Either because it is too painful or unpleasant.
As my Dom I would expect that you would be agreeable with following these safewords, because I need to feel safe when we indulge in sexual role-plays.
John rubbed his face with a weary hand. Fucking hell…..
He thought about the month that had gone past. He tried and failed to come up with one occasion when Sherlock had had sex with him without John initiating it first. One occasion when he had felt unsafe. One occasion when John had felt like saying STOP. Even when he fucked me before leaving for Edinburgh, he made sure I climaxed. Even in his righteous fury as a Dom who'd just been challenged and then attacked, when he could have unleashed all manner of harm and punishment on me for my behaviour, he held back. Come to think of it, I gave him a fucking carte blanche…..he could have chained me to the table and asked me to bark like a dog while he fucked me …..and I would have had to obey. Not once….not fucking once did he hurt me, did he do something against my will…..
He buried his face in his hands, the guilt and the tears that were never far from the surface arising again.
He should throw me out. That is what I fucking deserve. I don't deserve this, to be living under the same roof as him….. I deserve to fucking die, to be fucking dead. How am I supposed to look in the mirror everyday? Sooner or later he is going to want to fuck me…..how will I hide my shame, my guilt…what I've done…. So what if he went to his other Sub….even if he fucked David three times a day while he was gone, even if he gave me permission to have sex with anyone I choose to…. I am still his Submissive…..and he had said I am supposed to inform him….wonder what the fucking statute of limitations is on that…How can I go in front of him and look at those beautiful clever, clever eyes and tell him, "Hey, guess what, Sherlock? I fucked some woman behind your back, without your permission….and I was too fucking gutless to tell you about it"
The urge to wait for Sherlock to come home and then run downstairs and fall at his feet and confess all, was strong. If he then asks me to leave, my gun is always there….because one thing is certain….. I cannot live without him…
Mycroft's words floated into his stream of consciousness.
Victor…..maybe one last time, before I rush down and do something foolish, maybe I should ask Victor…
He picked up his phone.
Victor stood staring outside the kitchen window.
What does he need this time?
Three weeks ago, he'd received an exuberant phone call from John, informing him about his submission. Informing Victor about how wonderful everything was. And now, a few minutes ago there was another phone call. Despairing and confused. Asking if he could come and talk to Victor.
Concerned, Victor urged him to come straight away. And as he waited, he decided to organise some food, it is lunch time….he might be hungry. And set about getting cold cuts and salads ready, slicing onions, celery, cucumber, tomatoes. Coffee beans soaking in the machine.
What's happened? Why is he coming?
Ever since John had come into his life, Victor had found himself reminiscing about the past a lot more, thinking about the early days with Sherlock…..reflecting on his own trajectory with him. It was a fascinating thing to reflect on.
He thought about when he first joined college. Attempting to do an arts major….hoping to become a painter, the one big passion of his life.
For as long as he remembered he'd been like this. Homosexual and sexually submissive. His father had insisted on therapy to cure him of this "preference" Victor shook his head. Preference…..the word implied a choice….. as though something this elemental could be a choice. It just was.
He'd attempted to keep to himself when he started college, hiding his shame. Until one day he had gone to a frat party and was lured into taking some poppers…..it had been wild….But the word spread…..and within a few weeks life had become a living hell for him….
"Wait up, Victor." The coarse voice called out from behind him, as Alex came into view, his hulky body catching up and then planting itself in Victor's path. Three other boys—Jayden, Chris and Martin- stood around and leered. Victor's heart sank as he looked at them….Bloody hell, why can't they just leave me alone…why did I agree to be with them last weekend…
It was getting dark as Victor walked back from college, a satchel full of art supplies slung over his shoulder. They had stopped him in a quiet corner of the campus and started to herd him behind the building, vacant and spare save for some trash cans lying around.
"I'm having some friends over this weekend. Make yourself available. I'll text you the time later," Alex continued, as he neared further, crowding Victor against the wall of the empty building. He leaned over to whisper in Victor's ear even as his hand snaked down to cup his arse suggestively, "Grease your pussy before you come. It's going to be quite a party."
Victor struggled, "Leave me alone. I told you I won't do that anymore."
Alex's smile was teasing, his middle finger straightened to poke right into Victor's crack as he loomed over Victor's smaller body.
"Oh yeah…..that's not what you were saying while we were pounding your faggoty arse last Sunday. Or don't you remember, Victor?"
Another boy, Jayden laughed as he said, pointing at Chris, "Fuck dude, you just have to do it for Chris's sake. His girlfriend refuses to put out and he's gagging for it."
The boy in question, Chris, stepped forward with a lewd smirk on his face, "And there's only so much I can do with her fucking mouth, know what I mean?" His eyebrows rose suggestively.
Victor pushed against Alex forcefully, "I said leave me alone. I'm not a party piece you can pass around."
Alex's voice smoothened as he cajoled in a sing-song voice,, "Oh come on, baby…you fucking love it so much. A bit of rough, some good-old fashioned spanking and an endless series of loads up your fagpussy." He grabbed Victor by his arm and pulled him closer, his expression an ugly threat. "Don't think we don't know what you're panting for pretty boy…and I will treat you so good…..just as a fagbottom like you should be treated."
Victor cowered even as he blushed, horrified to find his cock grow between his legs, as though it were tied to a string to the prurient dominance in the bully's voice. No….no…..I can't do this…..I was barely able to walk after last week…..assert yourself, you wimp…I'm not a whore….. He struggled to get free.
"Yeah, well…..I've to concentrate on my painting. I have assignments due next week. And I can't do this anymore. You guys should get a life," he said, trying for bravado and failing.
Alex grabbed his hair and pulled, "Oh I forgot, you like being forced, is that it pretty boy? Can't give your cunt up until you're made to beg for it like a dog?" His other hand swung into a wide arc and came down as a hard smack right over Victor's balls. Tears of pain and frustration filled Victor's eyes, as he whimpered, as he felt the hand grope his now rock-hard dick.
Alex laughed, loud and ugly. "Like turning a fucking switch with this one! Two spanks and he spreads his legs." The other boys jeered and laughed as Alex shoved Victor to his knees, hands still holding his hair in a cruel grip.
As his other hand pulled down the zip and popped his erect cock out, he hissed, "Listen to me, you faggot. Your arse belongs to us. And we all know what you like….to bend over and take it like a girl. And you know what you get for arguing with me?" His hand shook Victor's head back and forth like a rag-doll. "Open your mouth and suck me off, before I dry ram my cock into your hole."
Victor's eyes swam with tears of mortification as he bent forward, his hands trembling as they rose towards the dick he was meant to service. You can't keep doing this, you moron…..these are not your friends…..they just want to use you…but I don't have any other friends…stop it….don't do it…..
"Let him go."
The deep baritone was commanding, a voice that must be obeyed.
Everyone halted as though a cold jug of water had been thrown over them.
Victor looked up, expecting to see a teacher. And he stared.
A young man stood a few feet away. Tall and slim, one hand around the strap of his backpack which lay on the ground, wearing a simple t-shirt and jeans. The expression on his chiselled face was forbidding, the blue-grey eyes were calm, focused, alert, the lean strong body planted on the ground with feet apart as though balancing himself.
Beautiful…..thought Victor, his eyes widening.
"Oh great, another faggot." Alex's voice broke the spell, his hands came off Victor's hair. "Come and join the party on Saturday, asshole. We could use two of you around. Take turns you know. Maybe we'll play eeny-meeny-miny-mo," he laughed loudly obnoxiously at his own joke.
The young man tilted his head slightly, his tone was dry as he responded, "Perhaps you should consider tucking yourself back in before you try to make salacious propositions. Too much familiarity can breed contempt, as you no doubt already know."
The retort seemed to have frozen Alex and the boys into place. Soon though he snarled as he zipped up, "Oh yeah…a fucker with a mouth on him."
Victor crept back, clutching his satchel as he watched with wide incredulous eyes.
Alex strode up to the new boy, moving his bulk in an intimidating manner, "You know what cocksuckers like you should use their mouths for, don't you, fagboy?"
The look on the young man's face tightened, menace seeming to pour out of him. His voice though was even as he said, "Walk away. Leave him alone. And stay away from him."
Alex and Jayden stepped forward, while the other two hung back.
"Or what? What the fuck are you going to do about it?" Alex asked, his voice belligerent like a schoolyard bully as he crowded his opponent's face.
The fist when it rammed into Alex's belly took him completely by surprise as he bent over, hand over his tummy, stumbling back, breath knocked out. The young man pivoted on his foot and followed it up with an uppercut that knocked Alex's head back and knocked him clean off his feet, slamming him down on his back. Roaring with fury, Jayden joined in, grabbing the young man's t-shirt and slamming him against the wall. The man drove his knee hard against Jayden's groin and in the same motion he spun around to grab a trash can lid. He thrust it upwards with a forceful blow, knocking Jayden's teeth into his tongue. Blood spurted out of his mouth as another blow landed to push him to the ground.
Chris charged, joining into the fray, with a loud cry, "You fucker…..we'll kill you."
The man smirked as he ducked under his strike and pivoted to grab Chris's collar and slam him over Alex's body. He landed a kick to the midsection of Chris's prone body before turning his attentions to Alex. He hammered Alex's face with a series of fast jabs till he heard the satisfying sound of breaking cartilage in his nose and a visceral cry of pain.
He got up and pulled Alex's shirtfront. His voice when he spoke was cold, menacing.
"He is off limits from now on. Do you understand? If you even try to talk to him, if you lay one finger on him…..I will break all ten." The voice was a promise, the eyes which looked down at Alex snapping with fury.
Alex looked up with panicked bulging eyes as he nodded feverishly.
The young man straightened.
"Now then, off with all of you." He made a shooing gesture with his hands and watched with narrowed eyes as the quartet scrambled away.
He turned towards Victor, who still stood frozen in place staring at this vision with wide eyes.
He walked towards Victor, his stride confident, regal, eyes flicking over Victor from head to toe in rapid movements.
"The name is Sherlock Holmes," the young man said, hand extended for a hand shake, the deep voice lending additional gravitas to the unusual name.
Dropping his satchel, Victor straightened up and stepped forward to shake hands. "Victor Trevor."
Sherlock stood looking at Victor, head tilted as though considering something.
"I have a small apartment about a twenty minute walk from the campus. I am messy, I play the violin at odd times. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end." He lifted one eyebrow, "Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other….or so I've been told."
Close up, his eyes were dazzling as they flashed with knowledge, with acceptance. Victor had been conditioned to expect scorn, pity…..this kind acceptance was new to him. He felt like he was in the presence of someone who knew everything about him and despite it all he was validated.
He struggled to stay upright even as his knees buckled from underneath him; every instinct in him wanted to kneel at the feet of this extraordinarily beautiful, confident man….heck, he wanted to lie down on the ground and spread his legs and beg.
Sherlock…Sherlock Holmes. He mouthed to himself.
Sherlock looked calm, his observant eyes taking in the trembling in Victor's legs, knowing his thoughts as easily as if he were reading them on his forehead.
His voice was kind but firm, "No. Not as a Submissive. Not yet, anyway. I'd like you to flat share as a friend. That is if you are amenable?"
Victor shook his head as he came out of his reverie. His hands busied themselves, cutting and slicing as he asked himself again…..What is John coming for? What could be wrong? How can he keep getting confused when he has Sherlock with him… Does he even realise how lucky he is? He gets to live with Sherlock…..breathe the same air…..spend his days and his nights with him…..have meals with him…talk to him whenever he wants to….how can he still be wanting…how does that even happen….
He tried to clamp down hard on the nascent impulse towards envy, resentment that began to churn in his heart. He did what he always did when he felt like he was losing his way…..hands still holding the half sliced tomato, he closed his eyes and imagined himself seated at Sherlock's feet, feeling those gentle fingers running through his hair.
God, Sherlock, I miss you so much….I know you need your time alone with him….but it is so hard….I miss you…..help me to be brave….I can do this….I will do this…..For you…..always you….only you…..whatever you need from me…..Because you are my Master…and I am yours…..Yours to own, yours to use, yours to command…Yours…
He got the sandwiches and tea ready.
He waited.