The strings never recoil, until they do
In which Sherlock is not punched, but he orders an execution and refuses sex, all of them NOT for the reasons you might think.
Mrs. Hudson doesn't punch Sherlock. She hides her tears and helps John take care of a fainting lab assistant called Molly Hooper.
St. Bart's was a great hiding place for their landlady, as it was a good place to frame a suicide.
"Oh, Sherlock, the mess you made," she says from time to time and every time more fondly.
Between the last tears, Molly looks up at Sherlock and smiles a small pretty smile. He knew then and knows now that the three people he has near now are not to be underestimated.
"I'm glad you're alive."
"So far, you're the first to say it."
"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson slaps his arm and pushes her small frame into his side.
"So when you said you needed me..."
"I did. You gave me the idea...partly. When you told me about your father's...look, when he was about to die... I ...I needed you to release the body to my brother as quickly as possible. You did very well."
"I could barely look at you...him...the body."
"I know. I counted on it."
He realises he sounds a little harsh,a little like a puppeteer making the strings recoil at will and he doesn't need her to tell him what to say this time. He just says it. "Mhm...thank you. For..."
"It's fine. I told you, it's all fine."
Which reminds him of something John said. It's exhausting how his mind now picks up and sorts references that all lead to John. He'll tell him that, later, and maybe John will see more into it than he can afford to read.
The same black car takes them to 221B Baker Street and as they move in the crowded chaos, Sherlock picks up on the movements all the traffic cameras make. Mycroft is still keeping him invisible.
After a cup of tea, the usual ice breaker or problem softener, Mrs. Hudson sends them off her cramped warm kitchen with a grin.
"You boys have a lot to talk about, I reckon. To catch up. Wounds to heal."
And she closes the door with a whispered to herself The mess you made, Sherlock.
John starts his way upstairs, hand running through his short, sand coloured hair.
"She wasn't talking about real wounds, like your bruise, you know."
"I understand innuendo, John."
"Been spending some time with the dead Irene Adler, have you?" John replies before he can think about what he says. Sherlock sees him recoil and stop to stare at him, a guilty, pained expression crossing his face.
"God, I'm sorry, I-"
"To answer your question, no, not from her. But I did have a few encounters with Miss. Adler."
"What?! But she's...isn't she? Mycroft..."
Sherlock lets John absorb the news and comments no further. He doesn't need to hear of another person who knew about him not being dead. John has a strange pull towards possessives. Absurd, because Sherlock is not one to be someone's, and troublemaking, for it seems John is reluctant to let go of his new attitude precisely because of his being kept in the dark. It's also a little flattering and Sherlock recognizes in himself the same feeling. The preconceived, irrational notion of mine.
"You know what? Forget it... to much information. Leave it at that."
Actually, Sherlock is just about ready to tell John about his encounters and maybe even the movement of the pawns on the game table. He is ready to tell John everything. And not just to gloat this time. Instead, at John's reaction and ascending form, leaving him downstairs, Sherlock takes the opposite direction.
"Aren't you coming up?"
He stops and almost curses out loud his stupidity. He fears his relaxation in John's presence makes him more and more exposed. And this time, a mistake like that would bring down not only him.
"I...if you want me to."
"You didn't need the invitation the other night. At least this time I'm sober and not half asleep."
As John takes his place in the chair, Sherlock keeps his distance and strangely decides to maintain the boundaries intact by taking a seat on the sofa. The thought of his other sofa, down there, in his other room, makes him appreciate this place even more. Not because it's home, that would be a too sentimental approach. It's because he's here again with John. And he can sit properly, dressed properly, and talk properly, unlike the other times when he found himself hidden under bridges, or rat holes, in disguise and talking foreign words of deceit.
"Why did you say the revolver is mine?" John starts after a good ten minutes.
"Because it is, obviously. It was made for you. It took almost two years and some considerable debt. Only you can shoot it. Only your left hand."
"You're making absolutely no sense. It's stuck in a police evidence room."
"Well, that revolver was only a copy."
"Still not making any sense."
"I'm going to ask you to kill a man with that revolver. Well, with its original. And you'll say yes."
John looks up at him with large questioning eyes and, yes, yes John, you see it now.
"Moran."
"Yes. Colonel Sebastian Moran. Ex-army, obviously. A marksman. Very good at it, but very unstable. Troubled past. I don't know how he managed to pass the tests. He did. But the past made him do things... A dishonourable discharge later, with serious mental issues and the very best training, he became a great catch for Moriarty. He collects arms and has a rather peculiar gambling addiction. And he was the one having you in his sight. Think about it if you need to-"
"Yes."
"I know this must be-"
"No, stop. I meant yes, I'll do it. Tell me when and where."
"Thank you."
"I'm nor doing it for you."
"Still."
"You're mad as a hatter, you know that?"
To his pleased smirk, John retorts with the best thing Sherlock can imagine "And it's catching, because I got it too."
Sherlock loves the idea of anything passing from him to John and John to him. He would give anything to quantify it, isolate it, analyse it and name it. But this would do for now.
"So where is the original?"
"Moran has it."
"Oh, that's obvious."
"Is it?"
"No, Sherlock, it's not." John smiles. "I'm trying to keep up with you, but you have to understand I feel like coming into a room in the middle of a conversation."
"Oh."
"Yes, oh. Now, can we take it from the beginning? You think you can manage to walk me through it without shooting at the wall?"
"I throw phones now."
"Of course you do."
They share a smile and Sherlock takes his thinking position. A statue of concentration, sharp highways of flesh and muscle condensed into a mass of perfectly alive and warm revenge. Before he can start his exposition, Sherlock sees the reaction he causes in John. A spark of something. It resonates with something inside himself.
"Moriarty accepted Moran's only ...disability. It was a way for him to ensure the man's loyalty. It was, and still is, in fact, Moran's only disadvantage. He has no conscience, he never hesitates, and loves to take lives. He has the money, the connections, the influence. It's all a game for him. He keeps count. The fact that Moriarty has him well supplied and even ensured the safety of his other, even more sinister pleasure makes...made Moran a happy man. Their relationship was a paradox. Moran hates authority and finds men...disgusting. To ensure his services and keep the man close was one of Moriarty's great schemes. He became the second in command of sort, if you can accept the fact that Moriarty needed one."
"And if he's gone..."
"The rest of the organization dismantles. Moran keeps the things going only completing previous games. He doesn't have the brains to come up with new ones."
"How can we get to him?"
"You will get to him. I never did and never will see him. But as of today, he thinks you are in a sort of vengeance mission. Well placed whispers convinced him you finally placed the pieces together and you know about him and the network. He kept an eye on you. It must be maddening not to know how you got to them. Now he believes you killed the man he had placed inside the Yard and Mrs. Hudson's shadow."
"So he has no idea you-"
"No. This is all made for you. If he even suspects I'm alive, he'll kill you. Or worse."
"Worse?"
"He'd do anything to make me come out."
"Like torture."
"Maybe, but that is irrelevant. He doesn't know I'm alive. He knows only what I want him to know. And he'll be there for you to look in his eyes when he'll die."
"And how can we make that happen? It's not like he's going to call me and invite me to tea. And my revolver is in police custody."
"Oh, but it's even better than tea. And I told you that revolver wasn't important. Moran will invite you to his favourite game. And he'll provide the toys. Like I said, he has a very violent past. From abuse to rape and torture, he saw it all. What he plays now is a game few favour. Top secret and taboo. They meet in random high security places and gamble on large sums of money."
"Target shooting? Hunting?"
"Russian roulette."
"How...you mean the real thing?"
"Yes. To the end. Of course, all the other players, except some suicidal fools, gamble only their money. They all have people desperate enough to play for them."
"Like...pawns?"
"Exactly. People who for a sum of money take the gun and push the trigger."
"And they..."
"They die. Yes. Because obviously, Moran never lost. Even if, like I said, he's the only one who gambles both his money and his own life."
"That's insane."
"A weakness, the only one we can exploit."
"How?"
"He knows he can't lose, for one. I'm positively sure he wishes he would, though, sometimes, but the thrill, in that specific moment, when he pushes the-"
"All right, stop. I get it. Well, I don't actually, but...How can he do it every time? It can't be luck."
"It's not. He has a revolver, the original of the one you saw. A beautiful, unique piece. A Spanish, 3 barrels, 18 shots, 3 firing pins, custom revolverhe uses in very match and even borrows, under close supervision, to occasional games. The revolver is modified for his left hand. No one knows. Well, obviously someone knows. So, for everyone else, the ...game's inspectors, we can call them, it works like a perfectly normal one. The weapon is checked every time. But in his hand, it never allows the shot. It's a masterpiece of physics."
"Wait. You said ...it's safe in his hand. You made the copy to fit your hand and mine. Right? Please tell me-"
"I told you, the copy was made to perfectly replicate the original."
"So you...Jesus, Sherlock. You actually …you ...this morning you were going to kill-"
"No, no, no! Why don't you just listen."
John leaves the chair and starts pacing franticly, pulling at his hair.
"You don't make sense. Really, beyond reason of a doubt, you've gone bonkers."
"No. It's all part of the plan. I had to see the revolver. And feel it work."
"How the hell could you tell? I never touched the god damn thing. And I should fire it to make sure it works. Not you."
"I...ahm...I just needed to see it and press the trigger. It's indeed perfect. The modification is undetectable. Two owners, two ways to make it stop delivering the bullet. You and me on the copy, you and him on the original."
"Tell me something? Did you ever held the original? Made sure it was modified?"
"Yes. Some two years ago."
"And you had it copied? To the core?"
"Yes. Well, except for the minor improvement I told you about." Sherlock thinks his explanation, the one he feels like he should convey, will not comfort John. Maybe it will make him doubt the plan. Doubt him. But it's the truth and it's brilliant. "I...I met a metal worker in India. He made the revolver after a scientific team took it apart. In over a year, the copy was ready. But we had only 24 hours with the original revolver. A physicist perfected the system to my specifications. But I had to be sure. It worked, so I have no doubt-. John, are you listening to me?"
John looks outside the window, but then, as a thought crosses his mind, he covers them and returns to the middle of the room.
"What were you thinking? Playing this game with him? Aren't you tired of games?"
Sherlock pauses. Tilts his head. "I wanted him dead. I wanted you to look him in the eye and kill him. I thought you'll appreciate the metaphor."
"I...we need to have a talk on what is too much when it comes to gifts. Fine. So the revolver has some sort of Bond activated control he doesn't know about? But the game will be a little boring if both our hands make it misfire. And how could you possibly know how my hand-"
"I know you. I know everything about you from the way you breathe after a fight to how you move after sex. And the other way round. I felt your hand. I...I hold your hand sometimes when you have a bad dream," Sherlock throws as explanation, sick of John doubts. And realises he said to much.
He doesn't say that he did that quite a lot, every time he heard the noises upstairs. He would creep inside the turmoil of John's room, sit himself on the floor and latch a finger onto John's trigger finger. He doesn't say that's his way of giving the security of a gun, so that John doesn't feel defenceless in his dreams. He doesn't say he did it after John shot a man for him and after Moriarty had them at the pool, and he doesn't mention the fact John says his name before pulling the imaginary trigger. "I know the exact pressure-"
He stops as he sees John standing there motionless. The soldier, his friend, looks like frozen in time, like everything in him shuts down at the same time, muscle by muscle, synapse by synapse. He just stands there, defying the laws of gravity by keeping himself together when all he is falls apart piece by piece. Sherlock panics slightly. And he has no one to ask if this revelation was a little not good.
"I'm sorry."
Nothing. John still looks at him as if he's the only real point of matter in space and time and at any given moment, he could explode into an universe. It's intoxicating for Sherlock. He moves to stand near John and almost expects him to throw another punch.
Careful and slow, like in void, Sherlock arranges his limbs to mimic John. They look nothing alike, outside or in. But they fit there, in that space, like none others. Only the two of them. Boundaries have no place between them. So Sherlock reaches to John's left hand, holding his big, blue eyes. He raises the dead hand, makes it pretend to hold a weapon and arranges his fingers to stand in a perfect shape beneath John's fingers. John pushes the trigger.
"Yes. That's it."
But then it's not exactly it, because the squeeze is more and more powerful and Sherlock is trapped in an unnatural angle close to him.
"Tell me to stop."
"What?" Sherlock asks back, idiotically, he thinks, because it's obvious what should stop, but then it's not so obvious any more, because John does more than hold his hand in a death grip. He closes the remaining space between them. And to that, Sherlock can't answer with a Stop. He forgets why the moment he feels pressure on his lips. That's when he does explode. A Big Bang of repressed feelings considered transport, variables forever excluded from facts, puzzles he hates and so calls them games, so he can love, bees...
"Bees?"
"What?"
"You mumbled. Transport, puzzles and bees."
"No, I didn't."
John looks at him, now more than a statue, a little more relaxed, far more than Sherlock can manage and waits, a smile on his lips.
"You kissed me. Again."
"And you point out the obvious. Again. I think I'll stop doing it, just because it seems to affect your-"
Sherlock roars. Almost sodding roars as he collapses onto John, fingers in his hair and skin, nose on his neck, on his face, on his eyes. A relentless, desperate search for answers, intimate as all his research are. He searches deeper, pusher harder, to invade this enigma of a man who can kiss him -twice- but can't forgive him and why, why does he need to be forgiven?
"Sher...Sherlock. Wait. Stop."
"No," he breathes in between sloppy, messy contacts of wet lips, because he's not done with this and this time, the need doesn't come with hospitalization and rehab. It comes with heat and responsive cells fusing with his. "You want me."
"Sherlock..." John sights in the mass of limbs from where they can be distinguished as two only by angles and sharpness and skin nuance. As John tries, and fails to struggle, Sherlock dismisses his attempt of bringing sense back into this by talking.
His plan will work, John will be there to see his killer shoot himself, confidence blown away in a beat of a heart. A plan brought together by attention to the tinniest detail. A detail that makes all the difference. Beautiful. A little like this kind of beautiful, when John pushes himself in his form, until they backtrack onto the sofa and he's not alone in his skin any more.
"God, I can't do this," John annoyingly hesitates when they are half way naked, clothes rumpled and out of place.
"You are doing this. I want you to," Sherlock pushes as he struggles with the last stubborn layer of protection John's upper body keeps. He finds his hands incapacitated.
"Stop trying to get yourself naked."
"Why?!"
At that, John laughs and uses the puzzled stillness of his body to back away and sit on the table.
"Have you even-"
"Yes, I had sex before. Not quite a necessity like now, but I'm not a virgin, so you can forget any noble thoughts you have."
"Jesus, that was not what I...you said it was transport. I thought you...don't like it, or find it ...messy. I didn't know you prefer-"
"It is transport, a way to release some chemicals in the body. I don't look for it, but I was curious-"
"Of course you were."
"-and it was always scientific. And I don't prefer anything, the selection was meant to help with the conclusions."
"The selection. So you...had...both?"
"If by had you mean had sex with, yes, I had both women and men. Paid for their services."
"Paid for...oh God, you used...of course you did. No emotion there. It was only for experiment purposes."
"Yes."
"And what did you...what do you..."
"It doesn't matter. Nothing does right now. The simple fact is: I want you; that never happened before."
"With them."
"Yes. And you want me. Like this. Just ...forget that stupid excuse you give yourself and-"
John kneels in between Sherlock's open legs and catches his face in one hand -left hand- to make him shut up and pay attention. Like he could just chose to disappear. Or be able to see anything else.
"Listen to me. I'm not making excuses now. But this is a lot to take in. What you said...about my hand and about me watching Moran kill himself, and you planning this for two, three years...it's the closest thing you'll ever do to show me you love me, right, you fool?"
Sherlock listens to the words behind the words and learns what is good and what is not so god and how the boundaries of those blur around them. He nods.
He knows he did something right from the way John looks at him. Unlike every other human being, he doesn't need the person in front of him to respond with a declaration. Because Sherlock knows. And he knew for some time now that John Watson looks at him with a completely new emotion that he can now define and for once, not push aside and catalogue as irrelevant sentiment.
This emotion is his. He never thought he'll need one. He can't believe how easy it is to return it.
"Come here," he demands and John moulds into him, hard and soft and warm, warmer as his last clothes are taken off his body and Sherlock can press into skin, not cloth. And he's uncomfortably hard, but pressing into John's belly is good enough, even as his pubic hair makes the other body retreat an inch before coming back hard on him.
"We can't have sex," a dangerously close to defeated voice of reason forms hot, moist words into the hollow of his neck.
"I don't want to any more," Sherlock straightens himself a little as he drags John even closer when the man recoils. "Oh, don't look like that, it's not a rejection."
"Thank you. You do wonders to my straight-man-fondling-another-naked-man level of confidence."
"Flesh is flesh. Why are you simple people so...simple and daft?"
"Oh, stop with the wooing already."
"John," Sherlock lowers his voice to a dangerous level, eyes clear as no naked man should possess. "I know for a fact you are not ready for this, on to many levels. You should stop it. I will, for once, listen to you."
As John rolls his eyes, Sherlock pushes into him, long, demanding, foretelling moves, nails planted in his back. "If you would be ready, I'd be inside you, or you inside me by now. So just shut up and kiss me. I still want to get inside you some way. But for now, this is safe and fast. We'll talk about the exchange of other body fluids next time."
"Next time..." John echoes numbly above his lips, in his mouth, in his mind.