NOTE: This was a tough one for me to write. Trigger warnings for torture, abuse, and rape. This chapter is about consent and reclaiming agency, not fetishizing any of this, but I recognize this chapter will be a pretty heavy one to read if those are hotspots for you.
"I don't want to." Sherlock meets John's resolve with a peeved look. If it had been a fearful one - if Sherlock had looked one bit like further discussion would be a trigger for him - John would have backed off and saved the conversation for later. It isn't, though. John knows Sherlock well enough to identify the nuances of his sulks, and this one is pure petulance.
"Too fucking bad." John forces his arms down to his sides - a bit less threatening that way - and keeps up his end of the staring contest until Sherlock harumphs and rolls in the armchair to curl himself into a ball facing the opposite wall. Which means Sherlock isn't happy, but he's willing to at least listen.
"Do you want to start with how you knew about the case, or with what the fuck just happened back there between us?" John presses.
A shrug of Sherlock's shoulders and an indistinct mumble.
And John wavers a bit. "Look," he says, gentling his tone. "It sucks. What happened to you was fucking horrible and nobody should go through that, ever. If you want . . . something . . . between us, though, you're going to have to talk to me. Because if you don't, sooner or later I'm going to hurt you. I won't mean to, and I'll feel fucking horrible about it, and you won't want to tell me, and it will cause all sorts of problems. This is one of those people-emotion-relationship things and you're just going to have to fucking trust me that it's important to talk now."
"Your vocabulary of curses deteriorates when you're stressed," Sherlock says without moving. "You've said the word 'fuck' five times since Lestrade left."
"You're deflecting."
"You've spent too much time with your therapist."
"Sherlock," John groans. "Just talk to me."
"Fine." Sherlock spits the word as he unfolds from his Sherlock-sized pretzel of knees and feet and elbows into a more humanlike position. "What do you want me to confess, John? That I've wanted to suck you off for ages now? That I took less than forty-eight hours to regret having put you off at Angelo's the first night we met? Not that it would have mattered, since you've never missed an opportunity to point out that you're not gay, but by then it was too late and I realized having you as a flatmate was a good deal better than nothing at all. And now-" He breaks off and swallows sharply.
John raises an encouraging eyebrow, silently willing Sherlock to continue.
"Now I'm ruined," Sherlock says simply, the emotion abruptly gone from his voice. "Now some faceless adversary of Mycroft's has taken my body and used it all up and I'm broken. Even if you were gay, you'd deserve better than that. Better than leftovers."
"Christ." John aches with the need to wrap Sherlock in a tight hug, as if he were a child, but he knows Sherlock won't welcome that right now. Won't welcome pity, or comfort, or anything except confirmation of the lie, which John wholeheartedly refuses to give.
Sherlock hugs his own arms to his chest, turning away, toward the hallway and the safety of his bedroom. "Thank you for humoring me, at least," he says quietly.
"I wasn't."
Sherlock pauses, but doesn't turn around. "But you're not gay."
I was wrong. "And you're not broken," John counters.
Sherlock snorts and retreats to his room.
John refuses to let it end there, though - he follows, close enough Sherlock can't slam the door in his face. And Sherlock doesn't try, just flops on his bed face-down and closes his eyes, retreating from the conversation once again. The movement causes the lower hem of his t-shirt to ride up, baring a stripe of skin over the small of his back. John can't resist.
He sits on the edge of the mattress and drops his hand to rest lightly on that pale patch of exposed skin. He's tended to Sherlock's back daily as the burns healed, but now they're nearly gone and it's less like doctoring and more like actually touching. He nudges a bit higher, dragging the t-shirt upward until most of Sherlock's back is bare.
"You're not used up," he says quietly. "All of you - everything you keep trying to tell me is just transport - you're all still here. And your body is still yours to use or give away. The physical scars are almost healed, but the emotional injuries will stay there until you deal with them." He splays his palm and rubs tiny circles into Sherlock's lower back, still a bit pink and shiny with new-growing skin but otherwise back to its normal feel. Or what John imagines it would have felt like, if they had shared this level of intimacy before Sherlock's kidnapping.
"I don't know how," Sherlock admits, one level above a whisper.
"Talking helps." John keeps up the soothing movement, and Sherlock's muscles start to relax under his fingers. "This patch of skin, right here - what did they do?"
A long pause, in which he thinks Sherlock isn't going to answer. Then: "Burns."
John doesn't answer, lets the silence speak for him.
And Sherlock only pauses a moment before seemingly coming to a decision. "Three men," he mumbles into the mattress. "Two for muscle, and one shorter one who was obviously the leader. The two sidekicks liked stubbing their cigarettes out on my back, but that was mostly incidental. The leader was more thorough. Twice he used something heated and metal - I couldn't see what - and four other times he literally painted on an acid solution with a paintbrush. Four different solutions, presumably to test the effects."
The cigarette burns were obvious the first day, during John's initial inspection, and the rest tally up with the severity of the burns. The paintbrush even explains the unusually even distribution. John stills his hand. "Still your body, Sherlock. Not broken." It takes a bit more courage to nudge into the next question: "May I kiss you here?" He taps Sherlock's lower spine gently.
Sherlock twists, curling enough John can see how his eyebrows are drawn down and his forehead furrowed in confusion. "Why?" he whispers.
"Because it's yours. Your choice to give permission now if you want to. And because I would like to cover every inch of you with kisses." Prove to you you're not unlovable.
Sherlock licks his lips, then nods slightly.
John has to fold himself at an awkward angle to remain sitting on the bed while kissing Sherlock's back, but he manages. The t-shirt gets rucked up higher, cresting along the top of Sherlock's shoulderblades, but it leaves plenty of space for John to kiss and lick and lave with his tongue, until he's covered every burn mark and every scar and every shiny pink gleam of new skin. Sherlock lies quietly, barely even breathing. John eventually draws back and takes Sherlock's good wrist into his own cupped hands, turns it over and traces the uneven patch.
"Tell me about this."
Sherlock's eyes lock onto where their hands are nearly joined. "You saw the chains," he says quietly.
"Tell me anyway."
He nods, a minuscule movement, but it means he gets it and John has to work hard to force his own body to stay still. "Steel shackles," Sherlock says in a small voice. "They kept my feet chained together with only sixteen inches of chain, enough to hobble me if I were to attempt to escape but still long enough they could force me to walk up the stairs on my own to-" He takes a shaky breath. "-to The Room."
John can hear the capitals in Sherlock's voice. "Your wrists, too?"
Sherlock nods. "The bodyguards always dragged me there and back by the chain between my wrists. And you saw the bolt in the floor in the basement they locked the chain onto in between."
John runs his thumbs up and down over the sensitive skin covering Sherlock's tendons. No longer bruised, no longer showing any outward sign (at least in the unbroken wrist) of damage, other than a slight texture difference, invisible to the naked eye. "May I kiss you there?"
Sherlock closes his eyes. "If - if you want to."
John brings the wrist up to his lips and presses a tiny kiss over Sherlock's pulse. He lips his way around the circumference, nothing wet or erotic, just a quiet claiming. He does the same with the other wrist, even though it's in a cast and Sherlock can't feel it. And then he slides down the bed on his stomach so he can do the same to Sherlock's ankles.
Sherlock holds very still while John works, seeming to appreciate the seriousness of the gesture. His toes twitch when John reaches the hollows on either side of his Achilles tendon, but he watches silently until John sits back up again.
"Next?" John asks simply.
Sherlock swallows, then slowly flexes and points one foot.
"Tell me."
"Bastinado. I . . . started out trying to deduce what I could about the stick, based on the sound and the flex, but I was unable to concentrate."
"May I kiss there?"
A silent nod.
There should have been something more awkward about literally kissing Sherlock's feet, but there really wasn't. The marks on Sherlock's soles were the first visible signs of abuse to disappear - not surprising, given the method. The ability of the feet to heal quickly - as well as their unique trait of not habituating to pain, making each hit just as excruciating as the last because the nerves don't go numb - made bastinado practically a standard form of torture for thousands of years. Also a favorite of the Taliban, as too many found out in Afghanistan. John uses his tongue a bit more, this time, teasing at Sherlock's sensitive skin until Sherlock can't hold still, then switching to the other foot to cover every inch of that sole as well.
Finally he sits back on his heels and raises an eyebrow. Sherlock is curled onto his side, watching him, his face faintly flushed.
"Ah." Sherlock's expression takes a moment to come back into focus. "They . . . sometimes pulled me by the hair . . ."
"May I?" John asks.
Sherlock nods, eyes wide.
And John walks around to the head of the bed, settles himself against the headboard, then maneuvers Sherlock until he's lying flat on his back with his head in John's lap. John cards his fingers through those dark curls, massaging his fingertips into Sherlock's scalp, and Sherlock lets out a groan.
"Storing better memories?"
Sherlock closes his eyes and mumbles something unintelligible. John runs his hands over every strand of Sherlock's hair, digging his blunt fingernails into Sherlock's scalp to massage the tension out, and Sherlock eventually goes boneless. John finishes with a quiet nuzzle to the top of Sherlock's head, breathing in the delicate smell of his expensive shampoo.
"Tell me about the marks on your chest," John says, shifting again to kneel at Sherlock's side.
Sherlock's eyes flutter open, large and unfocused. "Do I have to?" he asks with a hint of hesitation.
"Of course not." John keeps his face open, willing Sherlock to see the truth he knows is written there. "This is about what you choose to allow me, Sherlock. If you don't want me to touch you there, I won't."
Sherlock dips his head slightly and licks his lips. His gaze skitters off to one side, alighting on one insignificant thing and then another inside the bedroom he's already memorized ages ago.
"Want me to stop?" John asks quietly.
"No." The response is immediate. Sherlock's good hand drifts up to rub his sternum absently. "I just . . ."
John waits.
"I don't know what it was," Sherlock admits in a breathless rush. "Damn fine consulting detective I am - it was right under my nose, and I was too out of it to deduce bloody well anything at all. The only reason I know it was always the same three men was because I never actually saw anyone else. The moment they got me into The Room, I just - blanked out. Almost every time, after the first few days."
"Hey." John leans down to press a chaste kiss on Sherlock's lips, then draws back to give Sherlock his space. "This was not your fault. And I'm going to continue saying that until you believe it."
Sherlock blinks twice. "They only blindfolded me when the leader was there. The rest - I should have seen it. Deduced it. It was my fault, John."
"Close your eyes?"
Sherlock frowns, but complies, and John presses a feather-light kiss to each eyelid.
"Not. Your. Fault."
Sherlock makes a soft little humming noise in the back of his throat, which makes John's heart swell. When he opens his eyes again, they're a bit clearer, a bit more like his usual self. "You can kiss the cuts anyway," he whispers.
And John does. He tugs Sherlock's t-shirt upward again, until it's bunched up near his chin, then he lowers his entire torso so he can kiss and lick and nibble every single one of those mystery scars. Most are down to thin pink lines; the ones which got infected are healing more slowly but are still greatly improved from before. He lingers a bit longer on the one which nearly slices across Sherlock's right nipple, breathing on the skin until Sherlock is squirming, then licking the cut and the edge of the areola together until Sherlock is murmuring incoherently above him.
"Please," Sherlock breathes.
So John closes in, centers on that little bud and concentrates his attentions there with careful little jabs and swirls and a long, slow rasp of his tongue over the tip which makes Sherlock arch off the bed. He reluctantly releases it to work his way down Sherlock's abdomen, paying homage to every rib and every muscle in turn. A little push of his tongue into Sherlock's navel leaves Sherlock gasping again.
"Shall I keep going?" John asks, thumbs already insinuating under the waistband of Sherlock's sweatpants.
A rustle of the pillow from further up the bed - Sherlock nodding. John sits up just long enough to ease the sweatpants down Sherlock's long legs and off into a pile on the floor somewhere, then scoots down to press his lips to a particularly vicious-looking cut on the inside of Sherlock's left leg just above the knee.
There's something obscene about this, about mouthing and tonguing Sherlock's nearly-naked form while he himself is still completely dressed and only a little hard, but seeing the full-body flush on Sherlock's skin is worth it. This is sex but not sexual, comforting but not comfortable. It's the only way John has in the moment to show Sherlock how much he truly is loved, and John is determined to do his best despite his inexperience.
He works his way higher. The cuts reveal a pattern, here - a quick line of perpendicular slashes high on the inside of Sherlock's thighs, both sides, looking rather like they were done with a boxcutter or a razorblade. The red marks stand out against the thin skin and John knows they probably hurt like hell for days afterward. He opens his mouth wide, covering as many of the marks as he can at once, hiding them from view under the weight of his own lips and skin and jaw.
"John . . ." Sherlock is squirming in earnest now, moaning and- oh. Very, very erect. John sits back and ghosts a feather-light touch, a millimeter away from actually brushing Sherlock's skin, all the way up from Sherlock's thigh to his bollocks and up the underside of his shaft.
"May I kiss you here?" His voice is lower, rougher than usual, but neither of them pretend otherwise. Sherlock bits his lip and nods frantically, his eyes wide.
I've never done this before. John quashes the instinctive rebellion in his mind - this is so far outside his previous experience he never considered the possibility it might ever be in his experience someday - but Sherlock's erection is a lodestone drawing his mouth down until he tastes the warm skin under his lips and then they're both moaning. John doesn't ask what Sherlock's captors did - there had been cuts here, too, but he knows it and Sherlock knows it and asking would be too much, right now, so he just presses tiny kisses up and down Sherlock's cock until he reaches the tip again and can't prevent himself from tonguing the little slit and sliding his mouth down, just a bit.
Sherlock gasps and bucks. The movement slides him further into John's mouth, catching both of them by surprise, but John continues the motion until he's impaled by Sherlock as far as he can go, the head of Sherlock's cock nudging the back of his throat and it's amazing, so incredibly amazing. Sherlock tastes like desire, warm and languid, with a salty hint of precome. The taste is unique to just him, just Sherlock, nowhere else in the world could possibly have that exact combination of chemicals and flavors and oh, it's magnificent. John explores for long minutes, cataloguing in a Sherlockian fashion which little movements make his flatmate twitch and moan and whimper and pant.
"John - I'm going to -"
John draws back, one last long pull as he does so. "Sherlock, there's one more. One more thing to tell me."
Sherlock's pupils are immense, nearly swallowing the irises around him. He stares at John, uncomprehending, then blinks and slowly rolls over onto his stomach. The contact of his damp cock against the sheet rips a groan out of his throat.
"Tell me, please," John whispers.
Sherlock digs his forehead into the pillow. "He . . . he raped me," he says, surprisingly distinct despite the muffling of the fabric over his face.
"It's good to define it. It's not your fault." John lays a soothing hand on Sherlock's back, over the tensed muscles.
Sherlock appears to deliberately relax, muscle group by muscle group, testament to his determination to see this through. "I never saw," he says quietly. "Blindfold. But I felt - heard him unzip, felt him push himself into me. He was laughing."
"I'm so sorry." It's inadequate, dreadfully inadequate, but it's all John can say.
"Please," Sherlock says. "I want . . ."
"May I kiss you there?" It's not something John ever thought he'd ask anyone - man or woman - but it's not awkward, it's really not, it's just Sherlock nodding into his pillow and then it's a question of logistics. John spreads Sherlock's legs apart, grabs the extra pillow - his own, now - to stuff under his hips, then runs his palms gently over Sherlock's arse. He starts with a kiss at the base of Sherlock's spine, soft and slow, then works downward in tiny increments. Sherlock says completely silent except for his quick, loud breathing, nearly panting. By the time John reaches the slightly darker skin, feels the texture change below his lips, Sherlock is panting in earnest. John takes it slow, not pushing, just teasing, and keeps going down all the way to Sherlock's perineum before working his way back up and settling in to focus.
"John." Sherlock's voice is strangled.
"Shall I stop?"
"NO."
John allows himself a tiny grin, one he's sure Sherlock can probably feel. Sherlock's hips are moving, rutting his erection into the pillow under him, but John follows the motions easily and keeps his tongue fluttering right there, right where it's making Sherlock writhe the most. The panting turns to gasps, then half-enunciated pleas.
"Touch yourself," John says, drawing back just enough to be heard. "Wrap your hand around your cock and come. Your body, Sherlock. Nobody can take that away from you."
Sherlock complies almost instantly. His hand snakes under his hips, the muscles in his forearm tense as he adjusts his grip, then John delivers a long, slow lick and Sherlock comes with a shuddering groan which sounds like it started in his toes and echoed throughout his entire body. Sherlock quivers for a long moment, every line of his body tense, then collapses flat on the mattress, hips still propped up on John's pillow. John levers himself back up, presses a close-mouthed kiss to the small of Sherlock's back, then lets himself collapse next to his flatmate.
Sherlock immediately turns to curl around him, limpet-like and warm. John is again struck by the incongruity of their positions - Sherlock, post-orgasmic and naked but for the t-shirt rucked up high on his chest, and himself, hard but not urgent, and still fully dressed except for his bare feet. He skewers his fingers through Sherlock's curls and holds the detective's head to his chest, reveling in the warmth and closeness and the relief of finally having the details out between them. Not gone, probably never gone, but at least no longer locked in Sherlock's head.
It takes several minutes for it to register that Sherlock is crying. Silently, except for his fractured breathing, but crying nonetheless. John's throat tightens. He wraps his other arm around Sherlock's torso, hauling him closer, and holds him until they both fall asleep.