Another day, another exhibition…..
Victor leaned against one of the large, diamond-shaped pillars that rose up to meet the high ceiling of the large exhibition hall of the art gallery, as he stood and observed the teaming mass of people moving about.
It was an annual exhibition that featured a select group of prominent painters and their latest efforts, much awaited by the art connoisseurs, gallery owners, art students and the general populace.
He watched as affluent, well dressed people walked around looking at each painting, talking amongst themselves about the value, the price, the advisability of purchase. Younger art students walked in groups or singly with their satchels, carefully noting the finer details of the techniques, the colour combinations and such. Many who just loved and understood the art had come to have a nice day out looking at the contemporary styles, the trends.
The painters as well as their agents mingled with the crowds; the former to answer questions, discuss their paintings, the latter to scout potential buyers and proceed towards satisfactory sales.
Victor reflected about the time earlier on in his career, when he too had done the same. Eager to talk about paintings, to have the validation from both the buyers and the fans of his artwork; he too would enthusiastically meet and greet as he tried to form a good network, tried to be professional about everything.
And then, one day, Sherlock had accompanied him to an opening show.
Eager to show his progress to his Dom, he'd put on his most professional demeanour and moved about talking to people, while Sherlock had stood at one corner of the gallery and observed.
Victor had been in his element that day, welcoming the handshakes, the encouraging little touches on his hand, the camaraderie of shared passions, returning the interest shown by talking about the paintings with knowledge and enthusiasm.
Until he caught Sherlock's narrowed gaze which was trained on him. Sherlock's expression was indulgent, but what stopped Victor in his stride was the slight shade of disappointment that laced the corner of his eyes.
Even at that young age, Sherlock looked arresting.
Dressed in a white shirt that was just a shade too tight and stretched over his chest, black bespoke trousers, his arms behind his back, he surveyed his surroundings, his demeanour forbidding and aloof enough to discourage even the most garrulous of people from approaching him.
Victor made excuses and walked away from the group he was talking to. If his Dom was unhappy, nothing else mattered. Not money, not fame, not success, not his art. Only Sherlock….always Sherlock.
He was with Sherlock in a few moments, his expression anxious.
"Something is not right. You are not happy with me," he said, his tone was subdued, respectful.
Sherlock's voice was warm, "On the contrary, I am very pleased with your success, Victor."
Victor shook his head, "No. Please, Sherlock…..tell me. Please."
Sherlock was quiet for a while, looking at the bowed head as he measured his words. Finally, he said, "Look at me."
Victor looked up to meet the kind eyes of his Dom.
Sherlock nodded at the crowd of people moving about, looking at Victor's paintings.
"You see all these people who are fawning over you and your paintings, Victor. They will depart when what they get what they want. Success and fame come and go. It is valid to enjoy it while it lasts, but with the knowledge that it is temporary. If you seek your validation from them, you will set yourself up for disappointment."
Victor looked at Sherlock with unblinking eyes, absorbing every word. Sherlock continued.
"You have a gift. Your paintings are not just beautiful. They have meaning, they are spiritual, mystical at heart. See how they gape at them….most are unable to decipher the meaning. The few who have the vision, can see. But Victor, I want you to paint only because you cannot help but paint. Because it comes from inside of you. Not for money, not for these people. Don't seek validation from outside, only inside of you."
Victor had examined Sherlock's words long after they were said. And taken the lesson to heart.
Now he stood in a corner, quiet and unassuming as he watched with wry amusement.
People would walk up to his paintings. Stare for a while. Walk on ahead. Then circle around and amble back to them. Stare some more as though mesmerized, tilting their heads, frowning. As though something was speaking to them, but they could not quite put their finger on what it was…..
He cared not about the money he was undoubtedly making, nor about making himself known.
Suddenly, he could not wait to get out of there. He needed some fresh air. He needed to think about Sherlock. How did all these people matter?
He caught the eye of Mark, his agent and inclined his head slightly.
A few moments later, Mark walked up to him, a suppressed glee on his face. His voice was hushed, "We've sold ALL of them, Victor! And I have three clients who want to commission you for some more. I told them I'd talk to you. And how you like to paint what takes your fancy, that they cannot dictate a particular theme….." He gripped Victor's arm in his excitement. "I don't know what's gotten into you, but by God if you keep painting these kind of fantastic paintings at this pace…. You'll outstrip every single painter in the country. Fuck, in all of Europe. Both in fame and money."
Victor cut him off with a wave of his hand, his smile warm.
"I'll leave all this to you, Mark. Do whatever you think is best. I need to go."
Victor leaned back on the chair in the alfresco area of the riverside café, his coffee cup in hand, as he stared out at the river. It was a dreary cloudy day, the chill in the air ensuring that not many people were roaming around by the riverside.
He sighed. God, he missed Sherlock…..
His stream of consciousness moved back in time, as he sipped absently. He remembered those early days with Sherlock, the first six months of living at close quarters with the most beautiful, powerful Dominant he'd ever seen.
His face crinkled into a self-deprecating smile as he remembered the many attempts he'd made to get Sherlock to accept him as his Submissive. Asking for it, begging for it….Once, he'd even waited naked and on his knees in the apartment and offered a new riding crop with his head lowered, as Sherlock had walked into the door. Sherlock, as always, had turned him down. Kindly, but firmly.
Until that one fateful day...
"Get your kit off and your arse in here, Victor. We could use some fresh meat!" the hoarse voice of a senior greeted him, as Victor walked into the door. I know him…what the fuck is his name… Victor gave a little smile in return as his eyes scanned the familiar tableau of loud music, empty beer cans, loud chatter, young couples dancing and making out, muted lighting, suggestive loud comments made in drunken revelry…
It was the end of the academic year celebrations.
Earlier, he'd met some of his old friends who'd talked him into coming to the party. "Aw, you've been off the radar for fucking six months, you fucking wanker. We've missed you during scenes. You haven't even met some of the new Alphas…..Christ, you should meet Nathan….fucks like a bull, he does…"
It had been six months.
He'd tried to immerse himself into classes and lectures, painting in his free time. Home was the tiny apartment he shared with Sherlock. Home was safety, it was Sherlock, his safe haven where he was accepted without condemnation, without judgement. Sherlock, who had turned him down again and again and fuck it all…. again and again…..
The youthful submissive hormones yearned for an outlet. And after close to six months of celibacy, he found it easy enough to agree, to fall back into the old patterns and habits.
He felt a demanding hand on his arse.
"Well, well….where have you come from?" A tall young man smirked at him suggestively as he licked his lips. He waved vaguely to the rooms leading to the back of the house. "The real action is in there….come on, I'll show you."
And so Victor had followed him, leaving behind the party to enter into yet another familiar scene.
Naked bodies of both sexes, writhing and moaning on the floor, the sofa, the bed, against the walls. Hoots of laughter as the alpha boys rammed their cocks into willing pussies and arseholes or down eager throats. Occasional sounds of spanking and slapping. Grunts and protests. Squelching sounds of lube and come.
Victor was already a bit drunk as he and his friends had come straight from the pub, desperate for some action. In no time at all, he was stripped naked and had a dick up his arse, while sucking off another boy even as two more stood by, masturbating as they waited their turn.
He broke off from time to time to down a few more drinks, intoxicated empty eyes staring at the frenetic activities around him. And so it went, the faces and bodies interchangeable, as the night continued.
Till he passed out on one of the tattered sofas, a couple of hours later. And succumbed to an exhausted, inebriated sleep.
Only to be woken up by a firm, unyielding grip pulling him up by his hair.
"What the fucking…." his voice broke off, his eyes widened as he stared up. Sherlock looked down at him, his face thunderous, his voice a tight command.
"Get up. Get dressed. We're going home right now."
Victor's hands trembled as he dressed, watching from the corner of his eyes as the fury on Sherlock's face magnified as the keen eyes looked around, taking in the aftermath of the night's activities in the room.
The walk home was tense, a pregnant spurious calm before the metaphorical storm.
The moment they were in the apartment, Sherlock shoved him into a chair. The act of restrained violence from a man who was always so controlled, froze Victor as he stumbled. He watched wide eyed as Sherlock stood in front of him, shaking with rage. But it was the undercurrent of disappointment and sorrow in those beautiful blue-grey eyes that hit Victor with the force of a sledge-hammer, gutted him completely.
He looked up mutely, as though awaiting judgement, filled with dread. Why did I do it? I would give anything to undo this…please…forgive…
They looked at each other in silence for a few moments.
Sherlock's nostrils flared as he finally hissed, his hands outstretched in a gesture of futile anger, "How….after everything. Why?"
Victor felt tongue-tied as he hung his head down.
Sherlock fisted his hand around Victor's hair and pulled it up roughly. His tone was fierce, "No. You LOOK at me."
He bent down to peer into Victor's eyes.
"LISTEN carefully. From now on if you want pain, you come to ME. You want to be used, you come to ME. Your orifices need filling, you come to ME. IS. THAT. UNDERSTOOD?" his voice rose into a boom that resounded in the quiet room, piercing its way into Victors body, thrumming inside every cell of him till he shook with reaction.
Sherlock dropped down on one knee as he let go of Victor's hair.
"Tell me. You have to say it. Do you agree?"
Victor stared into his eyes, every fibre of his being as though coming alive for the first time, a long abandoned hope finally at the cusp of fulfilment.
"Yes. Please, Sherlock….yes," he whispered, struggling to get the words out fast for fear that the offer may be retracted, while feeling too overwhelmed to say much more.
Sherlock's eyes flicked all over his face for a few seconds and then he gave a small satisfied nod.
"Very well."
He stood up.
"I want you naked. All the way. And then go down on your knees, arse on heels." It was the order of a Dom, the deep voice uncompromising, stern.
Something gave way and loosened inside of Victor at that voice, as though he'd been holding his breath for years and finally, finally been allowed to breathe. He couldn't get out of his clothes and on his knees fast enough.
Sherlock stood back and watched, eyes flashing with fury, the Dom ready and eager to unleash himself, barely managing to restrain himself from tearing into the naked man in front of him.
The sound of the unfastening of the belt buckle was loud. Victor looked up and watched as Sherlock slowly pulled off his leather belt and stood in front of him.
The silence was deafening.
Victor's eyes moved like a pendulum from the impressive bulge between Sherlock's legs and the slim fair fingers that were lightly curled around the belt buckle. His heart was galloping, slamming against his chest wall, his mouth felt parched, his hard-on actually hurt as it twitched between his legs. The Submissive core of him whimpered at the sight of the gently swaying belt as it hung down, both a threat and a promise.
Oh God…yes, YES….please, please, please…
In a gesture of complete subjugation, he slowly went down on all fours and parted his legs, arching his back so that his arse was pulled up and presented, in complete acceptance of whatever Sherlock wished to do with him.
Sherlock's eyes darkened as he looked down at the naked body. The Dom was almost frenzied in the need to reign down in anger, to dominate. He silently circled the offering, taking note as he went around; the patches of redness on the back and sides where someone had bit Victor, spanked him while using him, the fine tremor in the thighs like a newborn colt, the racing pulse, the mildly gaping arsehole, lube flakes still hanging off, stuck to the fine hair around it. His nostrils flared again.
Oh no, you don't….MINE…
Coming to stand once again in front of the prostrate form, he waited. Victor looked up, his hypnotised eyes watching Sherlock's hands. In slow studied movements Sherlock pulled up the belt and doubled it in his hands, snapping the loop as though testing for flexibility, face inscrutable. Victor licked his lips nervously.
He went and stood behind Victor again.
Victor strained his ears to hear something, anything. His breathing was a chaotic mess, his heart was going off like a jackhammer trying to jump out of his chest, his legs shivering so hard in anticipation that even perched on his elbows, he was struggling to maintain his balance.
Without warning, Sherlock's arm swung and the belt came down with full force across both his cheeks. A cry of pain, of jubilation escaped Victor's throat, his legs coming off the floor in reaction. The next minute he felt a warm broad palm cup his arse gently.
"Steady," Sherlock's baritone rumbled. "Stay still."
Victor slowly sank back down and waited. Oh God…don't stop…more…more…your hands, my body….
As though in answer to his silent prayer, Sherlock's hand came down again and again, strapping his arse with powerful strikes. With each strike, Victor's body jerked, loud moans competing with the sound of harsh leather on soft skin. His cock bobbed and jerked, his arousal at its absolute limit. He wanted to wrap himself around Sherlock's feet and thank him. Yes, yes….give me more….from your hands, only you…only you, Sherlock…
When the strapping stopped, Victor heard Sherlock throw the belt down. And then a zip being pulled down, the rustle of clothes as Sherlock undressed and pushed them aside.
Sherlock came and stood in front of Victor, pulling him up to a kneeling position.
Victor stared and stared at the beautiful full length of Sherlock's desire, his mouth flooding with need.
"I'm going to have you now." Sherlock's voice was gruff. "Open."
Victor struggled as he tried to take the long, thick cock in deep, almost crazed in his need to serve. Sherlock held his head with one hand, feeding his cock into Victor's mouth with the other hand. The sigh of pleasure from Sherlock was visceral as he bottomed out, his precome leaking directly down Victor's throat. Victor's hands came up helplessly to hold on to Sherlock's thighs, stopped short by the firm order.
"Hands on the ground. Eyes on me."
He looked up to meet eyes dark with arousal and anger, as Sherlock withdrew slightly and slammed back in. Sherlock's eyes pinned Victor in place as he started fucking his face, his movements merciless, brutal.
Sherlock's hiss came out through gritted teeth as he fucked, "You want it rough? I'll make it so rough that you will beg me for mercy. But you will NOT pander to the lusts of that pack of animals you call your friends. IS. THAT. UNDERSTOOD?"
With each of those last three words he thrust in deep, his fist tightening around Victor's hair and twisting it so hard that tears streamed out of Victor's eyes. Victor managed a small nod, Sherlock's cock impaled deep inside his throat, sound and swallowing both impossible.
Satisfied, Sherlock abruptly let go and pulled himself off. His eyes narrowed as they scanned Victor's face and body, assessing him.
Muttering about condoms, he left Victor briefly as he went into the bedroom. When he came back, he put the condom on with a snap and slicked himself, his eyes locked into Victor's.
"Down," he said as he pushed on Victor's shoulders. He left Victor on all fours, as he took the few strides needed to reach Victor's painting corner. He pulled off the dusty bed sheet that covered the stack of about half a dozen paintings that lay propped against the wall. He pulled one out and carried it back to where Victor was waiting on his hands and knees. He propped it against the sofa, so that the painting was just a couple of feet from Victor's face.
Victor waited, staring blankly at the painting he'd been working on just a few days ago, unfinished and unnamed. To his utter surprise, he felt Sherlock's warm body drape him from the backs of his legs to his shoulders, like a warm blanket. Gentle fingers brushed back his hair, soft lips kissed his temple.
"I am going to fuck you now. And I want you to look at your creation while I do it," the voice was husky, incongruent in it's urgency when compared to the tenderness of Sherlock's touches.
Without waiting for a response, Sherlock straightened up, pried open Victor's buttocks and thrust in with one savage thrust. Victor's hips lifted off the ground again as he tried to accommodate the sudden intrusion of that large cock, panting. Jesus, fuck…he's big….. Sherlock's fingers dug into his hips as he withdrew and slammed in again.
He set up a powerful, relentless rhythm, the sound of his groin slapping against Victor's arse echoing in the room. Victor braced himself against the floor, trying to absorb the impact of the feral thrusts, his body jerking, ripples moving up and down his flesh as Sherlock moved.
He had just enough awareness to obey Sherlock's orders; no matter the ferocity of each plunge, he kept his eyes on his painting. Sherlock growled with approval.
His hand coming up to grip Victor's hair again, holding it so that even as his body wobbled with each thrust, his head was held steady. The rhythm changed. The thrusts became slower, longer ones as Sherlock draped himself over Victor and whispered in his ears.
"Look at what you are capable of, Victor. Do you SEE?" He withdrew his cock fully before slowly sinking in again. The cadence of his voice changed to match the changed rhythm, hypnotic, mesmerizing.
"Do you know what I see when I watch you paint, when I look at your paintings?" Soft lips pressed tender kisses on Victor's temple. "I see a spirit that is beautiful, perfect in every way. I see art that expresses life, that comes from the soul. Listen carefully. For art of this calibre, the art and the artist cannot possibly be separate. The painting is you. The beauty that is in you."
Tears gathered in Victor's eyes as he stared ahead, trying to see what Sherlock saw, his parched soul soaking in every word of praise and validation from the man whose opinion he valued above all else.
Sherlock's fingers gentled as they stroked Victor's hair back, his cock wedged deep, his hips moving only slightly.
"But you have to let that artist breathe. Let him be free. Not beholden to the world, nor to the submerged desires coursing through your veins. You have been seeing some twisted flawed version of yourself that has chosen to believe that you deserve humiliation, pain, loathing. The truth is the opposite, my love. Can you see? See what I see, Victor. Let go of this pathetic false image you have of yourself. See what you're capable of. Do you see the spirit of the man who painted that? That man is worthy of being my Submissive. Will you give him to me? I need for him to spread his wings and soar."
His lips were gentle as they suckled on Victor's neck, giving him a few moments, his hips rocking very gently.
Finally, he murmured, "Whatever you need, when you need it…I will provide. More pain than you can bear, humiliation, rough brutal sex, validation, my friendship, my love and commitment….I will provide for it all. In return give me the gift of yourself. Belong to me….let me be your Master." He buried his face in Victor's neck, "Just…for God's sake, don't do this thing with your friends anymore."
Tears fell from Victor's eyes, his being focused on Sherlock's words, his gentle touches. As though everything inside him was being shaken and rearranged. A scrambled jig-saw puzzle with disparate pieces falling into place to reveal the sublime. A broken kaleidoscope settling into a breath-taking image of himself. He shook, eyes swimming in tears. No longer needing the outer eyes, now that he saw the vision that Sherlock had seen and made him see.
"Think about it and let me know. Then I can accept you as my Submissive." Sherlock's words were whispered softly. "For now, let's finish this."
He straightened up again and his thrusts picked up pace. Soon he was pounding in, hitting Victor's prostate with every plunge, determined to fuck his orgasm out of him. Victor moaned loudly, pitiful little mewls of pain, of desire as he tried to absorb the force of Sherlock's thrusts within himself, taking in that engorged steely length that stretched his sore anus up to its limits.
"Fuck….yes…getting close, Victor," Sherlock panted as his hips bunched and flexed, pummelling the tight hot passage savagely.
"Sherlock….Sherlock…."Victor moaned as everything inside of him coalesced into a massive pressure point inside his balls, and built and built and built until finally…..he exploded and spurted all over the floor, his dick still untouched.
Sherlock rammed in deep, holding his hips still as he let go, his release pulsing out of him and inside the condom.
Both the young men stayed still, locked in position as they panted.
Victor was weak as a rag doll that had just been mauled, his body gave way as he slumped towards the floor. Sherlock pulled out and discarded the condom.
Gently he led Victor to the bathroom. Started a warm shower and got in with him. There was only tenderness in his touches as he washed Victor thoroughly in quick economical movements. He led Victor to his bed, lay him down gently. He fetched water, some cream, some painkillers. He raised the limp head as he helped Victor take the painkillers, cajoled him into drinking more water. He lay him on his stomach, his fingers light, nimble as they applied the cream.
He gathered Victor in his arms.
"You've been through a lot in just a few hours." Long fingers stroked Victor's scalp in soothing circles. "Sleep for now. We'll talk later."
Drained and exhausted, Victor slept in his arms.
It was hours later, when Victor finally woke up from a dreamless, refreshed sleep. Though his body hurt with every movement, his mind felt light as a feather, free. He felt a bit like a wandering lost traveller who has found the way home and couldn't run fast enough. There was no more burden to carry, everything was simple now.
He walked into the living room.
Sherlock lay in his pajama bottoms, stretched out on the sofa. One arm lay outstretched, a half finished cigarette dripped ash on an ashtray from the hand hanging off the sofa. His eyes flicked up to see Victor standing quietly. They flicked once from the top of the head to Victor's toes. Apparently satisfied with whatever he'd deduced, they moved back to contemplating the ceiling. The hand came up again lazily, as he took another deep puff, pink full lips pursed around the cigarette as he sucked in.
Victor came and sank to his knees near Sherlock's feet, his fingers curling around the naked ankle. His head was bowed in Submission as he said, voice hushed as though he were praying, "Yours. Yours, Sherlock. Yours to own, yours to use, yours to command."
Sherlock was silent as he watched the bowed head, the warm clasp of the long artist's fingers around his ankle. He dropped his cigarette in the ashtray below.
"Come here," he murmured softly.
He pulled Victor over himself, gathering him close in his arms. His hand was gentle as he cradled Victor's head close, his voice husky. "Mine….You are MINE."
Victor gave out a choked sob at his words. Burying his face in Sherlock's chest he wept, as though a dam had burst inside him. His shoulders shook as he cried, as he let out the grief of years of rejection, at a family that had disowned him, at derision directed at him, accumulated shame from being repeatedly passed on around like a whore, as though he were nothing but two holes, years of self-doubt and self-pity, years of emotional scarring - as though everything were slowly healing under Sherlock's touch. A part of him felt paradoxically felt thankful for it all, to have earned a place in the arms of this totally improbable perfect man.
Sherlock's arms tightened around him as he let him cry, let him heal.
"Shh….it's alright now. Everything is alright now…."
"I'm sorry, Sherlock. Sorry for last night."
Sherlock shook his head. "Don't ever belittle yourself like that again. From now on, remember when you belittle yourself, you disparage your Dom."
"It will never happen again," Victor promised.
"I know," Sherlock smiled as he brought his lips down for the first time to meet the eager lips of his Sub.
Victor came out of his reverie, his coffee cold, his body shivering delicately in the brisk air and in reaction.
He quickly paid his bill and left, walking by the riverside for a while. Finding a nice spot, he sat down on the ground, his knees bent in front of him, his arms folded across them. He sighed again.
It has been so long. I haven't felt your touch since before I left for Europe, before John's accident. Months, it has been months, Master…..I don't know if I am strong enough anymore…..Please, Sherlock…..
In the two years he'd lived with Sherlock after that day, he'd grown, blossomed. Shackles off, he'd soared like a free spirit, only Sherlock's firm hand guiding him, moulding him. He had dropped out of college and taken to painting full time.
In the quiet evenings at home or when they went on long walks, Sherlock would talk to him, about his philosophical musings, about life, about sentiment, about the world. Victor absorbed everything like a sponge.
There were many exuberant hours spent painting while Sherlock would work on his laptop or play his music, or just sit back and watch Victor.
As for sex...Sherlock took him again and again, beyond reason, beyond sanity….and Victor was desperate to serve, desperate to please. His aura in the presence of Victor's complete Submission was so Dominant, that he could bring Victor off within seconds, just on his command. On his knees, at Sherlock's feet the most fulfilling place in the world….
Victor's eyes closed against the brisk breeze as he yearned…..
He wanted…..no, no, it was NEED now. He felt hungry like a starved being, hungry for his hands, his mouth, his attentions.
He needed to feel that mouth on him again, those hands gripping him hard enough to leave bruises, gripping in any which way that he desired. God, Sherlock….. He needed to see that look that Sherlock had as he got hard, the look which said, I'm going to fuck you now, no asking, no coaxing….just, I'm going to fuck you and you're going to take it, because I own you…..He craved for Sherlock's touch rough and brutal, gentle and teasing. He needed to gag on Sherlock's cock, wanted to feel that length inside his throat, those rough hands holding his head as he rammed in, that commanding voice…Swallow….. good boy…. He wanted his arse filled, pummelled …. he wanted to hear that triumphant growl as Sherlock emptied himself inside his bowels, that hot fire that he poured out inside of him. He needed his Master to whip him, to writhe to the tune of his riding crop. Only Sherlock could make a flogging meditative….You're taking it so well, Victor. Take it….that's right….he needed to feel the soreness for days, welcoming the tangible evidence of his Master's attentions.
He wanted, craved those gentle hands that held him as he lay shivering in the aftermath. He needed to listen to that voice that was filled with kindness and wisdom, he needed to feel those fingers stroking his hair as he knelt in front of him, with love, in benediction….
His eyes moistened, as he desperately tried to swallow the lump in his throat. Sherlock…..
He sat there, shivering in the cold, feeling bereft and lost. Needing his Dom…
Please, Sherlock…..I need you…..
Several metres away, Sherlock stood and watched grimly….the lone, hunched over figure, the dejection and need on the face of his Sub.
It is time.
He threw the butt of his cigarette to the ground and crushed it decisively.
Pulling out his mobile, he frowned as he considered. Finally he typed.
Come to Baker's Street at 9 pm. Do not mention that I've summoned you—SH
He looked at Victor's forlorn expression one last time, before turning and walking away. He pressed 'Send' only when he was well out of the vicinity.
John leaned back on his chair as he started his laptop. His hand strayed to the coffee table to have another sip of his tea. The TV volume was muted as the news played in the background.
It's almost nine. Sherlock should have been back by now. I'll have to reheat the pasta….hope he eats today. He's been so fussy and pre-occupied the past few days…..
He opened his web browser, keen to look up some information about an unusual case.
The knock on the open front door surprised him. He looked up.
Victor stood at the door, a small smile on his face.
John's face widened in a spontaneous grin, "Victor!"
He stood up and walked to the door, ushering Victor in, "Come on in. Gosh, what a surprise!"
Victor walked in, his eyes moving around as he looked for Sherlock.
"This is fantastic! It has been a long time," John muttered as he took Victor's coat. "All my fault. I've not been in touch. Fuck…how long has it been?"
His eyes narrowed as they took in Victor's subdued demeanour.
"Sherlock has been out for a while now. Hopefully he should be home shortly. I was just having some tea. Would you like some?"
At Victor's short nod, he moved towards the kitchen. "Take a seat. Make yourself at home."
As he made the tea, he observed Victor out of the corner of his eye. He stood by Sherlock's chair, staring out of the window, one hand absently stroking the leather. He looked….distracted. As though he were in the throes of some emotion known only to himself.
As he waited for the kettle to boil, John texted Sherlock, letting him know of Victor's arrival. His frown deepened in worry. What's so wrong, Victor? You look…empty. What's the matter?
He prepared the tea in silence, mulling over how to keep Victor occupied.
He came out with two cups.
"Here." He sat down on his chair and motioned for Victor to sit on Sherlock's.
Victor shook his head, "No, I couldn't. That's his chair." He carried the cup to the sofa.
"How are you, John? Have you worked things out with Sherlock? You never told me." His voice held no censure, just a mild curiosity.
John flushed, "Sorry….I meant to. I should have. Things are fantastic…yeah. It was just as you said…." His voice softened, "I let go, Victor….and he caught me. Safe hands, you'd called them once….I never understood. Thank you for, you know….everything." He waved a vague hand.
"That's good, I'm glad everything worked out. I did tell you that they would. He is a magnificent Dom." Victor's expression was sincere, without guile. "Forgive me, John. I do not mean to intrude on your life with him. I just….. just need to be in his presence for a little while. It has been months…."
John blinked, "Don't say that. Please, God…..if it weren't for you I wouldn't even be here. Fuck, Victor…." He shook his head. He tried to sound reassuring in the face of such desperate need, "He'll be here shortly. I've texted him."
They sat sipping their tea in silence. John felt increasingly worried as he watched Victor. Dark circles under the eyes, some weight loss, tired, lost.
It was with relief that he welcomed Sherlock's trademark thundering steps as he ran up the seventeen stairs. Sherlock stopped short as he entered the living room, keen eyes on Victor. Victor stood up, staring at Sherlock with bulging eyes, as though his eyes had forgotten how to blink.
Sherlock took off his coat, his scarf, his shoes, his socks—every movement deliberate. His face was an impassive mask. When he was done, he walked up to his chair and sat down, legs crossed, hands on the armrest, expression mild, inscrutable as he looked at Victor.
In the hushed silence for those few moments, broken only by Sherlock's motions, it seemed to John that he did not exist. As though, Sherlock and Victor had entered into their own world, the lines of its perimeter firmly drawn to include just the two of them.
Finally Sherlock spoke, a one word command, "Kneel."
Like a marionette whose strings had all been slashed at once, Victor sank to his knees in front of Sherlock, on his face a look of such deep love and yearning, that John almost gasped.
Then followed several moments of absolute silence, the only sounds were the crackling of wood as it burnt in the fireplace. John had the surreal feeling like he was in the inner sanctum of a place of worship, looking on at a private moment between a devotee and the object of his reverence. A solemn, dignified and unbelievably beautiful moment.
He was aware that perhaps he should leave, etiquette demanded that they have their privacy. But he was also aware that he was in the presence of two men who scoffed at etiquette, who were completely unaware and uncaring about his presence. Besides, he had this strange feeling that he was not unwanted. That the two men had completely walled themselves off from him, unaware of his presence or absence. As though he were a witness and it was okay to watch if he wanted to. And God, fuck he wanted to…..
John sank down on his chair, observing, mesmerized.
Sherlock's shields were all up, something John had come to realise only happened when he was controlling some powerful emotion with the force of his indomitable will. His alert eyes flicked all over Victor's face, and down his body. Fuck if I know what he is deducing…..
Victor meanwhile wordlessly stared. God, he's looking at Sherlock as though he were his entire universe…..Have I ever looked at Sherlock like that? As though the answers to all the mysteries of life were in those beautiful eyes…..
The air felt like it were dried kindling that could start crackling with the tension in the room, only a small spark needed to set it off.
Sherlock's voice when he spoke was soft, loving, "Have you been painting?"
Victor stared silently for some time, as though his brain was having difficulty computing the sound vibrations into meaningful speech, as though it was taking him time to think, so immersed was he in just being in the presence of his Dom. Something low and deep inside him uncoiled, responded to the gentle tone, the tenderness that only he could see on his Dom's face. Sherlock's masks somehow never mystified him.
His tone was soft, halting as he finally spoke, eyes wet with emotion.
"Yes….. Till it felt like my fingers would bleed. At first I could not. Then I realised I don't need your physical presence to express what I feel. That, which is otherwise inexpressible….. You are everything, Sherlock, everywhere I look….. you are beauty, you are joy, you are peace…you are the vibrant earth in its myriad forms, you are the seasons, you are the brilliance of the Sun, you are the rhythm of the rain that drenches the parched earth, you are the song that the birds sing… You are life, you are love, you are pain, you are solace…..You are need, you are craving, you are the fulfilment of that need, the end of all sorrow… you are my Master, you are my home….. Every time I thought of you I couldn't grab a brush fast enough. You may not allow me to paint you, Sherlock, but as it turns out I've been painting you from the very beginning."
Victor fell quiet, as though there was nothing else to say.
There was a hushed silence.
John had stopped breathing as he listened, something deep stirring in his soul. As though the words were vibrating inside him. He remembered Victor's words from a long time ago…Love is not a potent enough word for what I feel for him, John…Of course….this is the way…. It HAS to be this way…. Why didn't I see that?
Sherlock stayed quiet, face expressionless. His eyes betrayed his emotions though, even his mighty will unable to keep the love that was shining in them, hidden from Victor.
I've missed you. I love you too. Don't you SEE it has to be this way?
He said aloud, a quiet order. "Well done. Go home, keep painting."
Three things happened in rapid succession. So rapid in fact, that an impartial observer would probably declare that they were simultaneous.
Victor bowed his head in quiet acceptance of his Dom's decision and started to get to his feet.
"NO!" The spontaneous anguished cry rang out loudly from John's throat.
And-Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed and hung his head down -in triumph, in approval.
Well done, John. Well done….