~ Chapter 3 ~
John realised he was shaking like a leaf. It was more than the return of his hand tremor, his whole body was wracked with it, while his thoughts chased themselves in useless circles around and around ad infinitum. He buried his face in his trembling hands and wished he had the faintest idea of how he'd managed to get himself into such a mess without even realising it.
Eventually, by dint of forcing his rational mind to believe that he'd been imagining things no matter what he actually felt, John managed to calm down enough to enable himself to stand, walk into the kitchen, and make another, much needed, cup of tea. Yes, it was habit, but he had become so used to being betrayed by his body in recent years that he knew taking refuge in habits was sometimes the only way in which he could cope. Drinking inordinate amounts of tea was far less destructive than the vast majority of alternatives and if it stopped him from sleeping he didn't care, in his current state of mind he classed that as an advantage. He headed back into the living room, his chair, and the telly; if he was lucky there would be a repeat of Top Gear on, but he'd make do with almost anything for the company. There was no point in going to bed, his thoughts and the ghosts of possibility would clamour to be heard in the silence and haunt him too much for restful sleep to be a likely occurrence.
The roar of car engines and Clarkson's latest tirade had faded into the background, but John couldn't bring himself to care; he was on the cusp between sleeping and waking, imagination and reality, where anything seemed possible.
He stepped into the darkness…
The club is dim, the atmosphere thick with smoke from the machines and the sort of music you feel rather than hear, with the bar a brightly lit oasis to one side. Sherlock leans nonchalantly against the counter, one hand wrapped around a bottle of something, the other resting on Greg's leather-clad arm. He smiles, head bent to listen as Greg murmurs into his ear. He's not wearing the coat, so Sherlock is on display in all his fishnet and pvc glory; John can't believe that there isn't already a line of people wanting to get into his trousers. Maybe Greg is scaring them off. Sherlock laughs at something Greg says, his face open and carefree, and John wishes he could make Sherlock laugh like that more often; it hurts. Next minute, Sherlock is weaving sinuously through the crowd towards the dance floor, one of Greg's hands in contact with some part of him at all times; shoulder, wrist, back, hip – to eventually slide down and cup the pvc clad arse as Sherlock stops, turns, and begins to dance. It's mesmerising, and John can see other eyes turn in Sherlock's direction as he writhes against Greg to a beat John can't hear. He watches them move together until all sight of them is lost to the billowing smoke and the press of other bodies.
John came back to himself with a start. He was breathless, his heart was pounding and he had a raging hard on straining at the fabric of his jeans. Had what he'd seen been a dream or daydream? He had no idea, and, either way, the evidence was just as incriminating. Jesus Holy Fuck, he was in trouble, big trouble, and he doubted that Sherlock would realise that he was the cause of it, or worse, and more likely if he was honest with himself, wouldn't care if he did. John turned the sound down on the telly and flicked through the channels, skipping some astronomy programme that he'd ordinarily watch because he didn't think he could deal with Brian Cox in his current state either. He eventually settled on something about the history of the Vikings in the Scottish Isles. It would hopefully be interesting enough to distract him from his unwanted erection and keep him at least semi-awake. Hopefully. With any luck.
The next time sleep reaches out her tendrils to claim him Greg is nowhere in sight. Sherlock makes his way to the bar, where the bartender hands him a note and a drink. They chat for a moment before she points in the direction of a shadowy figure sitting in a dark, secluded corner of the club. Sherlock nods his thanks, takes a sip of the drink and walks towards his seeming admirer.
John wants to scream at him to stop, that can't he see he's walking into a trap and that the drink is obviously drugged, but he can't, he's not there.
He wonders where Greg is and how he could have left Sherlock alone like this. He knows that Sherlock can take care of himself under normal circumstances, but this is far from normal. John remembers how honestly helpless Sherlock was when Irene drugged him and he's got enough experience as a doctor to have a good guess at what the drink is spiked with and what its effects will be.
The man is seated in a booth at the back of the club, secluded from view by the walls of the booth on three sides and a structural support pole on the fourth, which effectively blocks the opening from being visible to most of the rest of the club. John knows it's the perfect place for an ambush, why can't Sherlock see that ? He sees everything, he has to know it's a trap, Greg has to know it's a trap... and just where the fuck is Greg?
Sherlock takes another mouthful of his drink as he sits down, laying the note on the table with a tap of his fingers and a knowing smile, which the man returns. They talk for a while, Sherlock continuously sipping from his glass. John sees him edging closer to his companion, laying his hand over the other mans' and leaning in to say something in his ear. Sherlock moves back with a smile but John can tell there's something wrong. Sherlock blinks a couple of times and shakes his head minutely before raising his hand to his temple. John wants to take the other man down, he wants to yell at Sherlock to get out of there but all he can do is watch, powerless, as the scene unfolds.
His companion obviously says something to him, but Sherlock shakes it off with a laugh and a squeeze of his hand, twining their fingers together. Sherlock gets a smile in return and is pulled in closer as the man untangles their fingers and moves his hand to the back of Sherlock's neck.
The man makes a swift motion with his right arm and John catches the glint of light off a blade. Sherlock tries to move out of the way, but the space is too cramped for an effective dodge and a thin, bright line of red appears across Sherlock's chest. Greg is there in the space of a heartbeat, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, and delivers a shattering blow to the man's arm. Greg, the knight-protector. Greg, who John knows would never put Sherlock at risk. Greg, who now cuffs the assailant and sends him off with the uniformed officers who have also magically appeared, and pauses, just briefly, to touch his fingers to Sherlock's face and whisper something in his ear before he follows the uniforms out of the club.
As John surfaces and the dream starts to dissolve he sees Sherlock's hand move to the spot Greg caressed and the heartbreakingly tender smile that adorns his face as his fingers touch skin.
The slamming of a car door and noise of the street wafting in through the open window permeated his consciousness, bringing him back to the living room and its familiar surrounds. He blinked muzzily at the telly and noticed that the Vikings seemed to have been replaced with one of the plethora of police procedurals that clogged up the airwaves these days. He tried to fix his gaze on the screen, wanting to concentrate on the plot, something, anything other than what his mind had just shown him.
But sleep is a cruel mistress and John shifted slightly as his eyes drifted closed again. Visions of Sherlock in trouble, Sherlock injured, Greg rescuing him and caressing him rising up unbidden to play across the screen of his eyelids.
The sirens on the telly began to wail. Despite their mournful sound, he found he could resist her no longer and, unwelcome and unasked, she drew him back down into her traitorous embrace.
As the vision coalesces this time, he sees Greg and Sherlock apparently alone in some sort of office. Sherlock is naked to the waist, perching on an uncomfortable looking chair, while Greg hovers far too close to him for John's comfort, considering the amount of skin that Sherlock has on display. John flinches with a different kind of pain when he realises that Greg is checking Sherlock over and cleaning him up. He's the doctor, it's his responsibility to deal with Sherlock's wounds, not some mere policeman with a mickey-mouse first aid certificate and ulterior motives. His longing to be there, to do something, is palpable and he shudders as the force of it hits him. Even so, the part of him that doesn't want to scream and rage and tear Greg away from Sherlock notices that the leather jacket is nowhere to be seen and that the area is as clean as possible. Greg is wearing disposable gloves as he tenderly cleans the nasty looking, but essentially superficial, wound on Sherlock's chest, murmuring constant reassurances as he works. Sherlock seems oddly quiescent, his eyes heavy lidded, accepting Greg's touch without apparent protest. John reminds himself of the spiked drink, but Sherlock doesn't appear drugged, he just seems to be revelling in the sensation of Greg's hands on his skin, which are lingering far longer than is strictly necessary in John's professional opinion. Greg strips off the gloves as soon as the wound is dressed, one hand returning to rest, skin to skin, above Sherlock's heart. He's whispering furiously, an intent look in his dark eyes, but all Sherlock does is smile as one of his hands shifts from his lap to cover Greg's where it is pressed against his skin. Their eyes meet and there is no mistaking the glut of emotions swirling between them. John is distraught, unable to do anything but reluctantly witness the evidence of a devotion that dashes the hopes he never knew he had until now. He wants to hate them both, but for all that envy consumes him, he can't even bring himself to feel that way about Greg, let alone Sherlock. Greg's other hand gently cups Sherlock's face and Sherlock leans into the caress, never once breaking eye contact. As Greg's hand slips around to cradle the back of Sherlock's head, he moves closer and closer until they are only a breath apart. John can't bear to see more so he almost breathes a sigh of relief as his sight greys out and he jerks awake.
John was up and out of his chair in a matter of seconds, trying to blink away the visions he'd seen. He turned the telly off with a violent click of the remote and threw it rather too forcefully across the room where it hit the desk and dislodged some papers.
John tried to calm himself as he paced backwards and forwards across the lounge. What he'd just seen was a dream, of course it was, but he knew it had been based in reality. The way Sherlock and Greg had interacted with each other tonight had made it quite obvious what was going on, John's brain had simply seen fit to provide him with a few more details, perfidious organ that it was. And it was still whispering insidious things to him, reminding him of all the little moments he'd witnessed between Sherlock and Greg at crime scenes - gestures, comments and looks that, with the clarity of hindsight, were laced with a great deal of meaning and feeling.
Even right from the start, the first time he met Greg, there'd been a subtle intensity in the way he and Sherlock had interacted, he just hadn't recognised it for what it was. How could he? "Oh but that's not how it stayed," his oh-so-helpful inner voice murmured. Damn bloody thing never knew when to be quiet. He shook his head, trying to deny the fact that he had known, observed but had conveniently pushed it all aside; it was less painful that way, rather than having to admit he had been aware of the truth all along.
As if it hadn't already done enough damage for one night the bloody voice inside of him would not cease its insidious whispering. "If you don't believe me, I can remind you - I can show you exactly what you saw." He was helpless against the flood of images that poured through the cracks in the wall he'd put up around those particular memories, and how could he defend himself against his own mind?
He remembered Sherlock whispering into Greg's ear at the Yard, low and intimate, at the end of the Connie Prince case; focusing almost entirely on Greg and barely sparing John a glance. He'd noticed at the time, had even tried to talk to Sherlock about it, but he just couldn't get the words out and it had ended up going the way so many 'discussions' with Sherlock did – badly – to the extent that they'd just ended up arguing about some nonsense thing. Then later, while they stood over the body of Alex Woodbridge on the Thames foreshore, he'd seen it again, the intensity of focus that Sherlock turned on Greg, even while he was insulting him.
John realised he'd unconsciously given up at that point and had opted to ignore what was in front of him, to squash it down and rationalise it away. It was as if his subconscious had decided that if he didn't acknowledge it, if he paid it no mind, it would stop existing. Right?
Wrong. Obviously.
He only had to look at where it had led him to realise just how wrong he had been.
He paused in his pacing as a sick wave of feeling overtook him and he slumped back into his chair. How had he never realised the extent to which his feelings towards Sherlock had changed? He knew he was good at compartmentalising and rationalising, skills required as a doctor and reinforced by the army, but he'd never expected that he would be able to fool himself to this extent.
Sighing, he dropped his head into his hands, it didn't matter what he felt anyway, it was clear that Sherlock and Greg were together and that his affection would be unwelcome. He would let Sherlock know it was fine, it was all fine, he thought with a bitter twist to his lips. He'd also offer to move out; it was the least he could do. The conversation could wait until daylight though; his wounds were a little too raw to want to scrape over them again so soon. In the morning he'd just have to take a teaspoon of concrete, and fucking harden up a bit, tell Sherlock what he had to and start looking for somewhere new to live.
Decision made, he turned, heading for the stairs and the room that had become his true home. Halfway there he paused, attention caught by the scraping sound of a key in the front door lock.
A/N 2: mandatorily has done a brilliant vid that ties in with this chapter; please go here (www [.] mandatorily [.] livejournal [.] com [/] 109366 [.] html) to view it. If you've read this chapter, I don't suppose I have to warn you that it isn't a happy, fluffy vid.