AN: Thank you all for your R & R's! I appreciate you reading this so much. Sorry for taking so long to update! I've been busy with summer work and such. It's taken a lot of late nights, but I am happy to present to you chapter 3!
There isn't really a lot of John in this chapter- it's mostly Sherlock's POV.
Buuuuuuuuuuut, I've also brought in some more characters! Plot galore! Bask in its glory! :D
There are a lot of things that bring new warnings before you read this chapter, so please read this before you proceed.
WARNINGS: angst, male/male, confusion, lots of Sherlock-speak, dark themes, dom/sub themes, reference of a stimulated male body part, UST, blood play (kind of), drug use, plot, MorMor
DON'T LIKE, DON'T READ.
Do like, R and R, PLEASE!
Now, without further interruption, ENJOY!
Sherlock sighed deeply as he heard John's loud footsteps trumping down the stairs. He lifted himself up to sit on the counter, waiting for John to come into the kitchen and berate him. The kettle whistled softly, making the consulting detective cringe. The sound washed over him like a cold bath- he could never quite acclimate himself to the screech of the small object. He often wondered if it would be worth his time to engineer a different alert tone for the device. With the obscene amount of tea that John brews, the argument was becoming stronger with every day.
"Sherlock, where is my laptop?" He had to hide a smile. An array of odd sensations filled Sherlock's chest; warmth, comfort, near-excitement. It was terrifying.
"Why? Do you need it?" Sherlock tempted lightly, trying to fish a particularly strong reaction from John.
"Not really." The army doctor wandered into the kitchen, looking somewhat lost. Sherlock's brow wrinkled as he tried to identify the emotion tied to this particular arrangement of John's facial features.
Glazed eyes (still stuck in the after thoughts of the nightmare?).
Defensive body stance (emotional instability usually leads to an increased need for unconscious physical defense).
Eyebrows upturned a few degrees (questioning his own ability to retain his composure).
?
It was an entirely new combination of John's features.
Brilliant, Sherlock thought. He loved when John was particularly intriguing. Moments like this were simply marvelous.
"John, what was your dream about?" Sherlock asked, genuinely curious. Could it be that the horrors of Afghanistan still haunted him, even though he'd truly missed the rush of battle? John had long since become accustomed to gore and death. How could something that John took unconscious pleasure from still be giving him discomfort?
"Nothing," John answered sharply. Sherlock turned, focusing his cold eyes on the shorter man. It looked as if John had warped his stature on purpose; he looked even shorter than usual, and none of John's familiar attitude could be seen.
What had changed? It looks as though John had wiped his usual appearance away, making room for this drab personality. There was no life behind John's eyes; the dark orbs carrying only a sense of searching. For what, however, Sherlock had no idea. He seemed more numb than angry. Emotion was a tricky dilemma.
Requires more observation.
"You're acting different. Why?" Sherlock demanded, hoping that his persistence would reward him with some new information about John's personality. John turned to him, teacup in hand.
"Drop it." John's grip tightened, breath rushing into his lungs as he faced Sherlock fully; his voice monotone but unequivocally firm, jaw clenched tightly. His green eyes locked with Sherlock's solid gaze and they just stood there, stuck in each other's challenge.
Sherlock Holmes was able to see more in one second than most people would see in an hour.
His eyes roamed John's face, searching for any of his usual tells. He found none. Only the unyielding lines of a soldier ready for battle; face lightly creased by over-exposure to the elements, eyes dull with over-use, the lines at the edges of his mouth rigid and turned down in either distaste or emotional upheaval.
Sherlock Holmes couldn't tell for once.
There was something peculiar about the way that John held eye contact. It was different from John's usually reassuring glances. He was blank. Guarded. Sherlock couldn't gather a single thing in the twelve and a half seconds that it took for John to turn away. He was starting to become rather frustrated.
However, he knew that John could not sustain a facade of that intensity for very long. If he hadn't been Sherlock Holmes, he wouldn't have observed the one thing to clue him in to John's strange behavior.
As John's eyes left Sherlock's, John turned away, left shoulder leading his body. His eyes were downcast, but just before he was out of Sherlock's range of vision, a torrent of pain crashed over John's features.
Creased brow.
Tightly shut eyes.
Mouth set in a grimace.
Sherlock was quite perturbed. Where had this attitude come from?
"I'm going out," John offered quietly. He grabbed his coat and slid through the open door of the flat without so much as a meager 'goodbye'.
Sherlock stilled himself, listening for the door downstairs to open and close before bouncing off of the counter and launching himself into a nervous pace.
'What am I doing wrong? She told me that it would work to just...damn woman.' Sherlock chastised The Woman in his head. He had been not only confused by his feelings recently, but by John himself. Ordinarily, he could identify some type of catalyst for John's mood swings: a breakup, a trying case, a bad back. But John had left no clues. No hint as to why he was acting so strangely.
Could it be because of the draft? Sherlock pondered for a moment. Of course not. He knows about Mycroft. It would be ridiculous for him to get upset over something so trivial as a draft letter. He must just be upset about something else.
Sherlock thought on the subject for a few minutes longer before dismissing the ideas that had blossomed in his head. After all, it would be very difficult to make deductions about an ever-changing man when said man is not there to observe. He would just have to wait for John to get back. No matter; he had become accustomed to John's many mood swings. It would be resolved eventually, so he decided to move onto more pressing matters.
Sherlock wondered why his seemingly blatant demonstrations were receiving no recognition. Perhaps Sherlock had not made his attempts quite clear enough.
Upon John and Sherlock's first meeting, it was obvious that John had been attracted to the scientist. His body gave away everything; raised pulse, dilated pupils, increase of breathing pace.
At the time, it had just seemed like a nuisance to Sherlock. Why did he need a man, obviously infatuated with him, to share a flat? However, something made him take a bit of a different perspective on the situation. Would it be so bad to live with someone else? It took him all of 3 seconds to go over the appropriate data in his head.
Sherlock knew his faults- knew that he would be positively insufferable for a 'regular' man to live with. John's stay would last 3 days at a minimum and one week at a maximum.
A flat mate such as John would certainly give him a good amount of practice in dealing with, and cataloguing, people's intimate emotions. Sherlock would have the opportunity to closely observe a man affected by this strange human condition of infatuation, and he would be able to improve his acting skills in the process. After all, he never knew when it would become advantageous in a case to be able to mimic basic emotional tribulations, in order to produce the correct evidence.
It would be risk-free to allow the man into his home. He could see no downside, other than a few minor inconveniences of temporary dual occupancy (bathroom, kitchen, etc.). He was quite content with his calculations. He automatically began to sway the man to his will. Sherlock found that it was quite simple to control someone that is besotted with you.
Within hours of John's arrival, Sherlock had managed to drag him all over town, only to come up with no useable evidence for the case on hand. However, his perception had started to shift. He did not find John annoying at all. In fact, very much the opposite. Sherlock found that John's simple routine was captivating. He did not, of course, allow John to know that he was constantly observing him, but rather persuaded him to exhibit the things that he really wanted to witness.
John was unknowing of many things. Sherlock did not mind.
He was also astounded at the way that John reacted to his deductions. He had never before met someone who classified him as 'brilliant'. He had become accustomed to the cold hearted grievances and steely glances he received from the Yard. Sherlock decided that the compliments were something that he could get used to.
After a full week had passed, Sherlock began to get nervous. Why was John still in the flat? He complained enough about the experiments in the kitchen and the body parts in the refrigerator, so why was he putting up with it?
Sherlock was frightened at the prospect of John's continual living arrangements. He was much more disturbed at the fact that he wasn't trying to drive the man out. Since when had he become so sedentary as to acclimate himself to a normal, stupid ape? However, John started doing something truly enthralling.
Instead of letting Sherlock walk all over him in an argument, he began to hold his own. John stood up for himself when Sherlock insulted him, or did something extraordinarily outrageous. He also began to try and take care of Sherlock. At first, he had found John's concern to be constant nagging.
'Eat a meal.'
'Take a shower.'
'Get some sleep.'
John was not all talk. He backed his threats with action, forcing Sherlock's health into something resembling borderline livelihood.
Contrawise to his normal habits, Sherlock had enjoyed an entire week without getting a hunger headache. He never struggled through an experiment while suffering from shaking hands due to their lack of fuel.
Sherlock viewed his body as a vessel; transport. John viewed it as a challenge. The genius viewed the forced sustenance as John trying to get as much food into Sherlock's body as he could, regardless of the man's incessant denial. To John, it was just three normal meals a day. Of course, Sherlock NEVER got three meals a day, even when John tried his hardest. John was lucky to talk him into one full meal a day.
Sherlock found their lives intertwining far too much. It was almost painful, how entrapped he was in John's habits. He was horrified at himself. That was just it; the problem was that John's habits were manageable. He almost didn't mind the cajoling anymore. And he rarely took notice when John pulled the throw over his body, after passing out on the couch during a week long case. How had John managed to make him so compliant? He was nearly a civilian.
Sherlock shrugged roughly, attempting to shake off his strange train of thought. John had brought with him not only uncontrollable emotions and health benefits, but confusion as well. He wondered if John realized how he affected Sherlock.
Soon after the doctor's arrival, Sherlock's overactive imagination soared to new heights. Every night, he was taken over by vivid dreams of his new flatmate. It became routine to him: John during the day, John during the night, John during his sleep.
John Watson, a regular army doctor, had managed to invade Sherlock's every boundary in a matter of weeks.
It all started innocently enough. Sherlock would finally drift into unconsciousness, only to find himself reliving a row he had earlier with John. His over active imagination would provide him with just the right amount of detail to leave him wanting more of John. He was constantly yearning to observe him. He needed to hear John speak, to see his lips wrap around the words as he forced the air from his lungs to form a sentence. He needed to watch him move about the flat, to carefully begin to understand his slight limp (though the pain remained phantom, the limp remained). Yet, it still wasn't enough to quench his thirst for knowledge about John.
Sherlock thought the man remarkably difficult to understand, though his levels of normality began to expand in their everyday lives.
Suddenly, the consulting detective found that his thoughts quickly shifted headfirst from apoplectic plans of interaction (without follow-through) into the immensely different world of cogitation and subsequent action.
So he began to instigate conversations with the little army doctor after John got home from the surgery in the evenings. They were surprisingly decent exchanges, managing to stay in the particularly frustrating cusp between friends and acquaintances.
During a notably difficult case, John would stay awake long into the night, sitting with Sherlock in the living room.
Sherlock would lay or pace or tap or play his violin, thinking rapidly over every detail that he had been able to harness. John would just ensconce himself into the couch, watching him with rapt attention. It was of no worry, nor no appreciation of Sherlock's that this man would just so happen to be there, too. In that space. In his mind palace. He didn't even really notice it until a few weeks ago.
It had been around Easter and Sherlock had been working on a case. There had been a missing person's report, but it had not been normal. Not in the least. Lestrade had phoned him eight and one half days prior, giving him all of the important details about the case.
He had disappeared from a fairly populated part of town. The man was in his early twenties, recently acquainted to the 'love of his life'. Or at least, that's what the woman had called herself. Sherlock had dismissed it as emotional static. She had been inconsolable, ranting on and on about how strangely he had been acting earlier that day.
The man had last been seen leaving an apartment, walking across the street, and then- boom! Vanished out of thin air. The CCTV thread that Mycroft had managed to give him was proof- not too much, but enough to really jolt him into confusion.
Why had someone taken so much time and effort into making this man, this terribly ordinary man, disappear?
He feet stilled, bloodshot eyes snapping up to look across the room at his newest arrival. He drank in the sight of John's body draped over the couch. He had apparently fallen asleep while observing the detective at work. Sherlock glided over to him, running his eyes over the display.
Ordinary. Simply ordinary.
That's all it took for everything to click into place. John had, in a matter of unconscious moments, cemented himself into Sherlock's existence. Damn him.
He texted Lestrade immediately.
2:03 AM
It was the girl. SH
Ordinary. That was the key.
How had he not seen it before? Sherlock leaned in closely to the smaller man's face, searching the average features for some spark of difference. He did not understand what he saw that night, staring at John's sleeping face for hours. There were no words that he understood. But something about John had instilled a sense of self-preservation in the detective and it was making him sick.
His dreams had quickly become less innocent, taking on a velvet touch. It was torturous. He was afraid to close to his, to submit himself to sleep. Afraid to see what his subconscious rubbed in his face like a dog in its mess. His emotions were beginning to escape him, peeling away like dead flesh off an old wound.
Did John know that ten days ago, Sherlock had woke for the first time in his life with a raging erection?
He had stirred from a particularly interesting dream about John's pants only to find himself in an extremely compromising position. "Frustration" did not even begin to describe what Sherlock had gone through in the last week.
It seemed as if John had been dead set on driving him bonkers, what with the slight brush of fingers as they exchanged mugs, the sidelong glances that seemed to be beyond his mortal control, and the few but powerful moments when they would notice each other.
Just notice the existence of someone else in their vicinity. Sherlock would breath, and John would respond with his own inhalation. The consulting detective found it maddening. Why was he taking such care in noticing John's presence? Co existence was such a hassle. Especially when paired with the unresolved sexual tension that had been rapidly brewing ever since that night.
He fought the rational majority of his brain with difficulty; Sherlock had always looked at sexual attraction as a deterrent to The Work. He also viewed sexual situations as highly unsanitary and obnoxiously binding. How did so many people manage to juggle a sexual life on top of all the other needless rubbish they had brewing around in their head? It was a foreign concept to him. However, somewhere in his subconscious, his body had signalled to him that he needed to find a way to solve this tension and to free his mind to function at its highest capacity. John was stealing focus.
How in the world could he clear his mind? The thought alone was overwhelming. Sherlock often heard regular people talking about 'emptying their minds' and 'clearing their heads'. He could not imagine why someone would want such a thing.
At least, he didn't until he'd met John Watson.
Now, he decided that he would try his hand at...it. Whatever "it" tended to entail. He, of course, knew the mechanics of sex. Rather, he had no idea how to go about it. He recognized that his body needed some kind of release, but was unsure of ways to satisfy this obnoxiously human craving. He knew that John would somehow be the answer to his questions. Therefore, he went to someone who he thought perhaps could help.
Sherlock has spoken with Irene earlier in the week. He was still keeping her presence a secret from John. Nothing good could come of his knowledge of that particular event, so he decided that since this was quite clearly her "area" that she could help him.
"How do you seduce someone?" Sherlock sipped his coffee slowly, staring resolutely out of the window. His brow furrowed at her prolonged silence.
"Well, you could always parade around naked."
"That sure seemed to do you a fat lot of good."
"Touche. John, then? Well, of course. Why should I even ask?"
"That's a better question." He frowned at her. "Just...how?" She looked at him carefully, eyes full of something that he didn't quite recognize. It was gone before he could get a good analysis.
"Be domestic. John's normal." She grinned. "I'm not normal."
"No. You are not. Thank you for not helping." He stood quickly, wrapping his long coat around his lanky frame in one smooth motion. "Goodbye for now."
"Sorry." She nearly whispered it, but it was enough to stop him in his tracks. "Really, though. You have to get him close to home. Make him a cuppa from time to time. Acquiesce to his dinner plans. Angelo seems keen enough." She smiled deeper at the way his shoulders visibly tense. "Trust me, Sherlock. Just once."
He nearly turned back to her, but stalked off instead.
From then on, he had been trying to be domestic. That was the whole problem! It certainly wasn't working for him. It wasn't as if he could just call John's name and the man would appear.
He fell back onto the couch, harrumphing.
Fat lot of good that would do me anyway. I wouldn't even know what to do with him. He pondered the idea briefly before becoming overwhelmed. He resumed his thoughts on John.
Perhaps John's actions are a manifestation of his frustration, as well. He was hopeful that John would be able to explain himself. Maybe if he showed a bit of compassion, John would be a bit more compliant to his needs.
Normal. He scoffed. What good is normal, anyway?
"Sebastian?" the sing-songy voice echoed eerily through the large, dimly lit room. The voice bounced off the tall ceiling in a strange way, returning as a warped version of its original production.
The distorted call was answered by a heavy clanking of boots. The noise rang out through the shadows, accompanied by the shrill click of metal slamming together repeatedly.
"Pet, do hurry. Don't you want your treat?" The footsteps quickened, becoming thunderous as it neared.
A tall man with dirty blonde hair and thick stubble shifted eagerly into the small light of the lamp. He had a strong but wiry build, light on his feet, but ready for combat. He looked peculiar in his grimy state when compared with the immaculate man next to him.
James Moriarty laid luxuriously on his make-shift throne; Italian furs had been carefully laid out over one of the many hospital beds they had on hand. He wore a deep purple silk suit and an extravagant watch, its expensive logo printed in crystal clarity. Its glass face glinted in the dim light as he shifted, turning to face the rugged man.
"What do you have for me, darling? Tell me something good, or I will keep your treat for today."
The man's eyes lit up with a desperate yearning.
"No." He said in a panic, summoning all of his gathered knowledge. He could not survive without it. He knew that this knowledge was all that could keep him together. "I have been watching him closely. John Watson has received his letter and is beginning to feel the effects of it; I saw him talking with his housekeeper while The Man was out. It seems as though John might not feel so keen to go back to war now."
Jim sat very still for a few moments, as if taking the time to register the words would make it more believable to him. His eyes opened and Sebastian's heart stopped, but Jim continued to say quiet, merely locking his dead gaze. Suddenly, he grinned and leaned forward, palms up as he reached for Sebastian. The blonde's eyes closed in momentary bliss as Jim's hands caressed his dirty face.
The hot air around them seemed to pulse as surprisingly soft hands coasted over the sharp planes of the man's features. He softly traced the outline of his jawline, the dip in his lower lip, the curve of his brow. Energy seemed to seep through the gentle touch, flowing between the two men with a terrifying vigor. Sebastian's heart pulsed along with the flow of the encompassing air, breathing deeply as the scent of Moriarty's mint tea washed over his face.
SLAP.
Jim giggled almost impishly, staring at the emerging red splotch on Moran's cheek. Sebastian did not raise his gaze to meet the one that was fixated on his injury. Moriarty turned his head to the side, as if looking at his work from another angle. He abruptly struck out again, curling the fingers of his left hand, forcing deep scratches into the right side of Sebastian's angled face. His pristinely manicured hand was flexing in appreciation.
Jim laughed deeply as the soldier slowly met his gaze and locked their eyes together. Sebastian positively burned with need. It was delicious.
Cinnamon drops began to crest over the ridges of Sebastian's scratches, the blood leaking slowly but surely through the skin, globules of fluid growing larger and larger until the drops began to roll down his face, akin to tears. Still, the man did not shy away from their staring contest. His hands gripped the bed a little too firmly; furs twisting and unfurling as he abused the edge with his tension.
Jim lifted Sebastian's head with his hands, guiding the man's chin slightly up as he repositioned himself on the bed, giving himself a higher angle. He knew that this was about control. Sebastian loved a power play, and Jim was more than happy to provide it.
"Tell me." He beamed a bit madly, clutching Sebastian's head much tighter than was necessary. The man made no complaint. In fact, he very nearly purred at the firm touch, nuzzling his head into the palm of Jim's hand as his right cheek began to numb.
"You are my master. I am the slave. I need you. You could do without me," Sebastian rattled off enthusiastically, almost as if he was reciting a revered poem or bit of verse. "I need you, and I need it." His eyes were glazed.
"Very good." Moriarty stroked his hair once before sliding his left index finger along the raised planes of his servant's face, collecting a bit of blood on his fingertip. He slowly brought it to his closed mouth, wiping a bit of blood along the seam of his lips, making sure that Sebastian was watching him closely before allowing his tongue to dart over the appendage with sheer hunger burning in his eyes.
It was a lewd dance of crimson liquid, spreading over the man's thin lips in a sensual threat. The metallic flavor overwhelmed his senses, making him moan lightly before sucking the rest of the blood from his finger. Sebastian was spellbound, watching with sheer fascination as Jim maneuvered his bloody lips to form a sentence. Moran was barely listening.
"Would you like your treat now, pet?" He ran his finger across Sebastian's other cheek, leaving a wet trail across his skin. He blew on it lightly before standing. Sebastian shivered violently, following the man out into a crisp, white hallway. They walked for a short distance before Jim burst through the doors to a much smaller room than they were in before. He walked directly to the back of the room, turning to a painting next to a storage cabinet.
The abstract piece was shoved aside, and Moriarty's fingers flew over buttons as he entered the combination. Finally, the door popped open. Jim retrieved the bribe, holding it behind his back as he observed the man in front of him.
Infinitely pliant in my hands. He basked for a moment in his own genius before gathering himself.
"Sit, Sebastian," Jim ordered harshly. The man obeyed immediately, kneeling on the tile and looking up at his small frame. "Shake." He held out his hand and Sebastian locked their fingers together. Jim yanked his arm roughly, causing the man's body to propel forward, leaving him with only one hand to stop his fall to the ground. The man grinned wickedly and ripped back the sleeve of Sebastian's shirt, gently tracing over the tracks in his arm.
"What do you want?" Jim asked, a challenge burning in his eyes. "Be specific."
"I need The Feeling." He practically whimpered, tightening his fingers over Jim's. "And you."
Jim snickered. "Needy today, pet?" He lightly fingered the spidery veins in the crease of Sebastian's arm. "I think I can help with that." Seeming satisfied, he reached around and produced a small syringe from his back pocket. "Do you want me to count down?" Jim teased, closely watching the expression on Sebastian's face as he stabbed around the virtually non-existent blood vessels, looking for an entry point.
Sebastian shook with sheer anticipation. He managed a slight nod.
"Ten, nine, eight..." Jim emptied the syringe, earning a gasp from the man on his knees in front of him. He extracted the device, capping it before tossing the remains across the room. He left to a chorus of whispered appreciations and stray thoughts. Sebastian curled in on himself on the cold tile floor, mind racing with its fresh chemical enhancements. He breathed deeply, wondering if his high could be put to good use.
His senses were flooded. Literally, he was drowning in sensual awareness. He could taste the metallic twang of blood from where it had leaked into his mouth, laced with the salt from his skin. His nose was filled with the scent of must, mold, dust, and heat, blazing trails across his mind. His fingers were tingling- incredibly sensitive to anything and everything that passed its way.
He continued to evaluate, calculate, and catalog all of his sensual data until it was at a marginally manageable level. After about thirty minutes Sebastian was able to find himself and stand, legs already taking him on the familiar journey to where he knew Jim would be waiting for him.
The halls protested Sebastian's presence by tossing the noises he produced directly back at him, affecting his consciousness much worse now than it had been before. It threatened to overwhelm him, but he continued on. Eventually, he stood in front of the correct door. He straightened his fatigue before entering the room, eyes lighting up with all of the things that competed for attention in his sight.
He could see everything around him, just like his master.
It was beautiful.
The whole world opened up before him, showing him intricate places and ideas that he had never dreamed of perceiving before The Feeling. Jim cleared his throat, already lying naked on the large bed. He licked his lips devilishly and motioned for Sebastian's approach.
He obeyed his master.