Sorry it took so long people! I'm a Junior, finals, you know the deal.
But here it is! The final chapter to Absent Roses! I hope it does not disappoint!
I urge you all, if you like my writing, to follow my fanfic tumblr (acrwritings) or, if you heart me, my personal tumblr (believe-holmes)
Anywho. Here you go! Once again, HUGE TW FOR SEXUAL VIOLENCE
I do not own BBCs Sherlock (if I did, oh the slash...)
The yard had become a mess of people.
There were cops everywhere, running around while Lestrade told them what to do. I had stopped listening to the details of Sherlocks plans, but I knew that it involved a lot of traps to catch Chepelskii while he was making mistakes, catch him in the act, blah blah blah. Arrangements were being made, and I was smart enough to know our role in this case was over now. There were loads of social workers and nurses checking the children. We got a bit caught up in the haze of people, and somehow ended up in an empty room where they were keeping the baby.
I sewed up Sherlocks arm carefully. It was interesting to watch him wince as the needle laced through him. You'd think he would have found some way to make himself immune to pain, but I guess even the great Sherlock Holmes is human. He was distant looking, and unreadable. His eyes drifted over the baby, moving slightly in the crib.
"Are you okay?" I asked after a while.
"Hmm? Oh, yes." He didn't look at me, "It's a bit odd, I didn't think I'd feel this way after solving the case."
"It's not solved yet," I tied off the thread in his arm, "And it's okay to feel a bit empty, this case did stump you for a long time."
"It did."
"So it's natural."
Sherlock made a noise like he didn't want to be natural, which he probably didn't. I watched him stand up and approach the crib.
"Do you think I could hold it?" He said.
I stared at him for a moment before I realized what he was saying, "What? The baby? Really?"
"Yes."
"Um, sure," I stood up awkwardly, "I was told her name is Lucy."
"Hmm…" Sherlock reached down and picked her up from under her arms. I inwardly thought he shouldn't be picking anything up with his stitches, but ignored it. He cradled her in his arms almost naturally, like he'd done it before. But his face wasn't affectionate, more… calculating.
"I thought you hated children."
"I do," He said deeply, "They're loud and sticky and they smell horrible."
I giggled at that, making him look at me for the first time since we had reached the station. His gaze made my heart speed up a bit.
"Is that funny?" He looked genuinely interested.
"Yes." Was all I could manage to say. After a moment of feeling odd, I added, "You're often funny when you don't mean to be."
"Why?"
"Other people aren't so honest."
He smiled faintly and returned his eyes to her. He held her out to me and, after a moment's hesitation; I took her in my arms.
"My childhood was miserable at best."
I glanced at him. He had never offered information about his childhood to me before, and I was almost shocked. I wanted to hear it though, almost desperately.
"How so?"
"Mycroft is a lot older than me, by seven years," Sherlock leaned on his hands and watched me, "He wasn't around very often. My father died when I was three, so I never knew much of him except he was the descendant of a duke, and we were very rich because of it."
I cradled the baby and watched his blank facial features carefully, "What about your mother?"
"Mummy was a drinker after father died. She was an elegant woman, and held her alcohol accordingly," he snorted, "But she went through men like they were nothing but expendable to her. Mycroft was the good child, and I had… issues. Obviously."
I nodded. I could imagine a tiny Sherlock, extremely intelligent, but antisocial. It wouldn't have gone well with a mother like that.
"What does she look like?"
"She's tall, but I'm taller," He leaned back as though he was trying to remember, "She had brown hair and eyes, like Mycroft. Extremely beautiful. I sadly took after my father in looks, which meant the rage she felt towards him was obviously always directed at me."
"She beat you?"
"She hit me. It was in my interest to never hit her back. When she would have too much to drink, or I'd get in trouble at school, or I wasn't as good as Mycroft, or I was rude to her 'guests', she'd hit me hard."
I stared at him.
"When her boyfriend molested me, oh," He laughed bitterly, and I saw the emotion in his face for a second, "She hit me so hard. Called me a liar."
"Sherlock…" He seemed like he was lost in his own little world of imaginings at this point, but I wasn't sure I could take it.
"She loved him, I think. That's why she would refuse to believe it. He was the only man who was allowed to come back, years later. And that's when he raped me. It took me months to tell Mycroft, and Mycroft told mummy. It was the only time I had ever seen her turn her rage on him. She refused to believe us, of course. That's when I moved out."
"How old were you?"
"By then, sixteen. I lived with Mycroft until I went to Uni." His eyes drifted to mine and he smiled, "Don't be so upset, John."
"He hurt you." I stood up and put the now-sleeping baby in the crib, "That makes me mad. And sad."
"Why?"
"No one should go through that," I stared long and hard at him, but he looked unphased. After a few moments, he coughed and looked away awkwardly.
"You're a good friend for caring."
I tried not to let my jaw drop at and actual compliment from him, "I'd care if it was anyone Sherlock…"
"But you care a lot, because it's me." He looked at me then.
I gulped, "Yeah, of course. You're my best friend."
He approached me quickly, and I tried not to jump as he advanced. He stopped a few inches in front of me and stared into my eyes harshly.
"It's appreciated." Was all he said before he leaned forward and kissed my forehead. Again.
He swooped around and my cheeks were growing red. He was heading for the door, "Wait!" I called. He stopped, "Why do you keep doing that?"
"Aren't signals mandatory for showing our affections?" He smirked at me.
"Yeah, like, you hug your friends. Kisses are more romantically implied though."
"Are they?" He said sarcastically. Something in his voice said 'no shit' which made my stomach drop as he left through the door. I frowned and collapsed on the chair. He's such an annoying tosser.
The case was wrapped up. Not really, of course. There was so much planning and capturing to be done. But our involvement in the case was over, so I understood Lestrade's sentiment.
Sherlock darted ahead of me and up the stairs to our apartment. I shared his enthusiasm, since we had been at the Yard all day answering questions and dealing with a relative amount of shit. I had also, notably, been flirting casually with the social worker woman with the blue eyes. I had, of course, obtained her number. But at this point, a warm bed was the only thing on my mind. It seemed to also be the only thing on Sherlocks, which was unusual.
"Sherlock?" I entered the apartment after him, "Do you want to order some food?"
"No," he said quickly, "I'd like to retire, thank you."
After that he just went into his room and shut the door. I stared after him for a few moments, a bit confused. This day had been long and complicated. Sherlocks lips had touched me twice, and moreover, it had given me… feelings. Feelings I didn't really want to admit.
I couldn't ignore my aching stomach so I advanced towards the kitchen. I made a sandwich while I reflected on my complex emotions. I had suspected Sherlock was gay for a long time, if he wasn't completely asexual. I had seen him flirt with men and women for the sake of the case, and he was obviously good at it. He also knew he was ridiculously attractive, of course, and he would use it to his advantage.
After things with Irene, I began to question his sexuality. And then after a while, I began to question mine. Someone doesn't get to be my age without experimenting quite a bit. In the army, after no sex with women for months, men learn ways to help each other without being gay. And in Uni I had received quite a few blowjobs from my Tranny roommate. But I had convinced myself it wasn't gay if he was dressed like a woman, right?
In the end, I had always appreciated the female form and workings. I loved women, and sex with women, and dating women, and falling in love with women. But being around Sherlock didn't feel like any of that. On the small occasion that his hand brushed mine, my heart would speed up. With his lips brushing my skin, I felt hot urges I hadn't felt before. And it was complicated on so many levels. Because I lived with the man! And he was married to his work. And I worked with him. And we were just friends.
And when he told me he was raped…. Ugh. I stopped making my food and closed my eyes. I could imagine Sherlock as a teenager; lanky and sarcastic, curly haired with the bittersweet attractive young face and bright eyes. Now I pictured him pinned under some huge, disgusting monster. Sherlock wouldn't scream, no… would he? I could picture him fighting; kicking and punching as hard as he could to get away. I could picture that.
The image filled my head. Sherlock being bruised, used, broken, his innocence being taken away.
I let out a guttural growl and my eyes flew open. I reached for the nearest thing, a plate, and threw it across the room. It hit the wall with an ear-shattering crash. I breathed heavily for a few seconds before crumpling down onto the floor.
There weren't many people in my life I was truly protective over. Actually when I thought about it, Harry used to be the only one, but she was my sister so that was expected. Maybe now I didn't want anyone hurting Mrs. Hudson or Molly. But I definitely didn't want anyone laying a FINGER on Sherlock. That was evident, and sealed in fate the moment I shot the cabbie.
At this point, my eyes were resting in my palms. I was angry, and maybe I was shaking, I couldn't tell.
"John," Cold hands stretched over the length of my shoulders. I looked up into bright blue eyes on mine. If I was shaking, I must have stopped then. Thinking about Sherlock hurt was bad, but seeing him in front of me whole… that made me feel better.
"Sherlock," I sighed and leaned back against the counter, stretching my legs out. He was crouched in front of me, half straddling me.
"What's wrong? Why are you throwing dishware?"
"What? Oh, right. The plate." I laughed breathily, "Yeah, no. I'm okay. Just needed to release some anger."
The genuine concern in Sherlocks eyes looked so out of place on his face that I nearly started giggling hysterically. But I suddenly noticed his hands were still gripping my shoulders and my heart was pounding hard in my ears.
"Why are you angry?"
I met his eyes, "Uh, it's just… You know. What you told me today."
"That I was raped?"
The way he said it so nonchalantly, like it wasn't something horrible and traumatizing, "Yeah."
"Oh," His face softened. He let go of my shoulders and moved off me, settling to sit down next to me on the floor, "I don't understand why you're so upset still, I apologize."
"Don't be sorry. It's just horrible. I imagine something like that happening to someone I love, and it's horrible. I'm glad you're okay, and I know it happened way before I met you but… It just makes me so bad. That someone could hurt you."
Sherlock and I didn't talk for a few minutes. Finally, he spoke in a cold and calculating voice, "I used to think I deserved it."
My head shot around, "You didn't."
"I was truly a terrible child," he laughed harshly, "I could have been nice to my mother, been the better person, tried harder, but I didn't. I think that's why she left me unprotected that night, that's why he went to me. Hurt me. Split me open like I was a useless whore. I was useless."
I was shaking now, again. And he kept talking.
"In all truth, I did find him attractive. I tried my best to shoot him dark looks when we were alone in the hallway passing, wear less clothes then I should. And he looked at me that way, and no one had ever looked at me that way. Maybe it felt good to have him look at me."
"Stop."
"But I didn't want him to do it. Not when he came into my room. I had ever even kissed a man, when he molested me before I was too young to understand. But now I was. I didn't even scream. I zoned out, became numb. That's the first time I ever realized I could control my emotions, make the feelings go away."
"Stop, please," I pressed my face into my palms, "Why are you telling me this?"
"I…" He stopped talking. I looked sideways at him. He looked genuinely lost, an emotion I had never seen on him before. Horrible tattered and broken, "I don't know. I trust you to know."
I smiled at that, though my heart still felt like a wreck, "Have you ever… you know, done anything since?"
He looked oddly at me, "No."
"Ah," I sat back and looked away. What a weird question, god. I am such a freak. He trusted me and here I was, trying to find out exactly how much of an innocent he was.
"Perhaps I've wanted to."
"Really?" I glanced over. He might have been red in the face, "With Irene?"
"Ah, no. I was infatuated with her though."
"I remember," I smiled and raised an eyebrow, "So, who?"
He stared right at me for a long moment, "I'd rather not say. Some things are supposed to remain a secret, isn't that a rule in friendship?"
"Not this sort of stuff!" I bounced up onto my knees and poked him with a finger, grinning, "Who? Do I know them?"
"I'd say that's accurate, yes."
"Oh, come on Sherlock! You have to tell me." I was balanced in a crouch on my toes now, staring at him. He stared back stubbornly.
A smirk crossed his face and he pushed me with a hand. I lost my balance and toppled backwards, my arse hitting the floor with a good thump. I scoffed and looked up, but he was advancing towards me. My heart beat loudly as he leaned forward and pressed his mouth to my ear, his hand flattening on my chest and pressing me down. Soon I was laying on the floor, red in the face and flushed, him laying over me. I could feel him grinning against my ear.
"I'll give you a hint," he whispered. It tickled and went almost right to my dick, "I've already kissed him twice."
"Oh," was all I managed to say. He sat up and hovered his face over mine for a few seconds.
"Is that okay? That I want to kiss you?"
I tried to think of an appropriate response to that question, "Yes." Wow, genius.
He leaned so close I could feel his breath on my face, "Can I?"
"Please."
His lips came to rest on mine, and my stomach must have flipped inside of me. It was soft, and I resisted deepening it to let him have control. I wanted him, but my desire to have him feel safe was so much stronger then my desire to take him.
He pulled back, and suddenly he was calculating again, "Interesting."
"What?"
"You didn't push or grab like I expected."
I let out a breath I didn't know I had been holding, "You trust me."
"Yes?"
"I don't want to fuck that up."
He laughed, "I trust you, John. Which means you can grab me if you want to."
I didn't need much more permission then that.
