Many thanks to my betas snogandagrope and ScienceofObsession, who hold my hands when I whine, are always on call, and give me great suggestions and encouragement. Actually, Science reminded me this week that I HAD AN OUTLINE, and we went over that and she contributed some lovely twists, so when we reach the thrilling finale of the story, you may thank her for all her wonderful ideas.
Sorry to be a day late. I think I'll start posting on Fridays instead of Thursdays. There's less RL demanding my attention on Friday. So: celebrate the weekend with a new chapter, y'all!
Chapter 6: The Morning After
John sits at his desk, staring blindly out of the window, tapping his fingers quietly, but vehemently, on the blotter. His laptop is pushed to the side, and there's a mug of tea cooling to his left. He's just back from a walk that he began over an hour earlier. Well, less of a stroll and more of an uncontrollable nervous breakdown with a certain degree of forward momentum that translated into walking as fast as he could. He'd brought his cane, as if his crippled sense of self-worth required a crutch; and now the heel of his hand feels tender and bruised because of the distress with which he'd clutched the handle. He keeps prodding it with his other fingers, focusing on the dull ache, recognizing that he is trying to punish himself by inflicting this small hurt. He curls his fingers in and digs his nails into his palms.
The walk hasn't done anything to assuage his conscience. He wandered aimlessly around the neighborhood, beating himself mercilessly over putting Sherlock in that position; skin heating and crawling alternately as he recalled every detail of the morning. The heat and strength of bone and muscle and skin, rubbing against him from neck to toes; and the melting lassitude of it, a strange syrup of arousal and contentment and an undeniably desperate frenzy. The wave of relief and lust that had flooded him when Sherlock first slipped his hand into John's pajamas to capture his cock. And the shame. The cold, heavy weight of shame that threatens to eviscerate his self-esteem. What he has done is so egregious, so wrong, so unethical that he can't stand himself. He molested someone in his care, not to put too fine a point on it.
John glances back at the man on the bed. Now that John is gone, he sprawls indolently across every inch of it, both feet poking out of the duvet, one arm thrown over his head, and the other resting on his stomach. His chest is very pale in the dappled shadows of the room, and John recalls the prickle of sparse wiry hairs against his shoulderblades, the flex of lean muscle as Sherlock's arm pistoned, wanking him off only in order to get him out of the bed. Oh, jesus, the overstepping of boundaries and betrayal of trust is enormous.
He knows this, and yet his body doesn't care: around that hard burden of shame in his gut, the rest of his body hums, alive, sated and stimulated.
As he sits there, he finds himself wondering about Sherlock: his history and his personality. He'd been awfully phlegmatic about the morning's debacle, which is an odd response to waking up to a near-stranger rubbing one off on your hip. How is it that he is so comfortable being used? John really knows nothing about him, other than he appeared in his bedsit claiming to be magical. And either he is, which John can't let himself believe (because, really, what next? Fairies? Flying?), or he isn't, in which case his disappearing act is impressively foolproof.
John lets his gaze rest on the muted black lamp, still on the corner of the desk. He reaches out and rubs his thumb briskly along the spout. It is cool and heavy and … simply too bizarre to believe. He shakes his head at his fancy.
John has let him stay with surprisingly few reservations, this tall stranger. Sure, there is a component of loneliness and attraction, but his instincts say it's more than that. He's been attracted to dangerous people before, and it didn't stop him from rational defensive behaviors. But Sherlock inspires none of that, only acceptance and curiosity. (And arousal, dammit. He needs to eradicate that). He's happily shared his space, his resources, his food, even, and on such a strained budget that they can hardly both continue to survive on it for more than a few more weeks. John determines that after a sincere apology (which isn't enough, of course, but what else can he do?), he's going to have a sit down with the man and question him thoroughly. Assuming he doesn't flee the flat as soon as he can.
He hears Sherlock wake up, lazily stretching and humming deep and contented, like a cat. John resolutely stares outside, to give the man some privacy. He can discern from the faint reflection in the window that Sherlock is sitting up.
"Would you like some tea?" he offers without turning around, and hesitant guilt flavors his words.
Sherlock huffs. "Stop being tiresome, John."
John swivels around, and opens his mouth to argue, but stops for a moment, arrested by the sight on his bed. The vest is gone, the corner of the sheet is twisted around slim hips such that he appears naked. He scrubs his fingers through his hair as John watches, and it bounces in a fluffy halo around his head; a chestnut anemone, moving in currents John can't perceive. Sherlock's piercing eyes glow nacreous in the slanted morning light, flat and reflective, and one thick eyebrow is lifted. John refuses to let his gaze travel; can't let himself dwell on the banded muscles of his torso, highlighted and emphasized by wandering designs of henna. Sherlock long fingers scratch absently at his nearly smooth chest, and John does not, does not, watch small pink nipples point in their wake.
He stares at his fisted hands for a moment, then looks back up. "Sherlock. What I did. I'm so sorry. I can't even- It was so inappropriate-"
Sherlock shoves to his feet, sheet falling away to reveal wrinkled gauze, and John grinds his teeth against the physical memory of the abundant textures within that wide waistband. "John, I said it was fine." He stretches, and John can hear the muffled snaps of popping vertebrae. "I am not bothered in the least, nor should you be."
John stands up as well, angry. "No! Nope. It's not fine, Sherlock. Jesus. That was not ok! I took advantage of you while you were asleep, for god's sake. It was molestation pure and simple and I ought-"
Sherlock looks exasperated. He sighs noisily and takes two steps forward, doubles up his fist, and slams it hard, directly into John's diaphragm. His full weight is behind that punch, and John's eyes fly wide as he stumbles back, off-balance and falling.
Even breathless and folding up in pain, John's reflexes kick in, and he grabs the arm that hit him, twisting it instinctively around and up behind Sherlock's back; so that Sherlock is swung around and immobilized against him, back to chest. Simultaneously, John reaches up to lock his other elbow around Sherlock's neck. It happens so fast that they are still falling, and tumble to the floor in a tangle of limbs.
Sherlock lies very still, on top of him, while John's brain catches up with his muscle memory and his body strains for air. The sharp ridges of Sherlock's shoulderblades bite into John's chest, and his head falls back, relaxed, over John's shoulder, soft hair curling around his ear. It's only a few seconds before John realizes what he's doing, and lets go of Sherlock's neck with an embarrassed recoil. He pushes him off, so that Sherlock can free his trapped arm.
He wheezes for a moment, as the paralysis slowly releases his diaphragm. When he can catch his breath, "Oh, fuck," he says. "Wait. I mean-"
Sherlock sinuously twists until he is sitting tailor fashion. He rubs his hand across his Adam's apple, and grins, broad and bright, at John, face alight and more open that John has seen before. "There. Do you feel better now? Have I met your need for punishment and abuse? Or do you want another?"
"What?" John is bewildered. This is not what he expected at all. He pushes himself to an elbow and looks up at the strange, faun-like creature sitting next to him.
Sherlock leans down until they are nose to nose. In John's mind, imaginary air leaps with imaginary sparks, and his eyes are trapped like little metal filings in the magnet of Sherlock's gaze. Those eyes are clear and guileless. "Do you. Need me. To hit. You. Again? Or are you alright with this?" His breath is warm and slightly sour from sleeping. "Can we move on, now? I'm telling you: It. Did. Not. Bother. Me. I don't know what else to say to get it into your tiny little brain. For gods' sakes, how do you mortals function constrained as you are by your ridiculous morals? Let. It. Go."
John shakes his head a little, more bemused than actually listening, and Sherlock twitches the corner of his mouth in a prelude to a smile. "Good," he says, as if John had agreed. "Now. A shower, if you don't mind. I am eager to see what the world is like today."
Keeping his mouth shut, John shows Sherlock the hot and cold taps, just in case, pointing out shampoo and conditioner, and then sits uncomfortably in front of his laptop, attentively reading his spam, and trying not to wonder if the henna will wash off.
When Sherlock exits later, he is damp and bare, except for a towel twisted carelessly around his hips. The henna, John notes immediately, does not wash off. Sherlock leans against the door and says, "You have questions."
John tries to get his tongue under control. "Yes, I do," he answers. "But you need to put on some clothes first. I can't talk to you practically naked."
Sherlock looks down at himself, lifting a hand to rub across his chest. "I'm no less covered than usual."
"Right. Fine. That may be true-" It is, in fact, true. With the exception of what his vest covers, and Sherlock has that off half the time anyway, there's nothing exposed to John that he couldn't look at straight through the gauzy trousers Sherlock normally wears. "But you need clothes anyway. It's a towel, Sherlock! You can't have a serious talk in a towel."
Sherlock rolls his eyes, a tiny flick that expresses volumes of facial expression, as if he is a minimalist, conveying an entire painting in one brush stroke. The air around him shimmers and gleams, John's eyes are dazzled and he can't quite focus, and then... Sherlock is covered from neck to toe in a sleek, closely fitted charcoal gray suit, with a deep aubergine shirt whose buttons strain across his lean chest. Shiny black shoes encase his feet, much more moderately pointed than his curly slippers; and the only skin John can see skims fine-boned hands and a sultry vee at his neck, dipping lovingly down around his collarbones and framing the delicate hollow of his throat. No drawn designs in sight on his slender hands. His hair has been tamed a bit, still curly, but sitting smoother, closer to his scalp.
John swallows hard.
"Jesus, Sherlock. We're going for coffee with my sister, not to the theater. That's a bit overkill, isn't it?"
Sherlock smirks. "Why do you say that, John? Because the way I dress affects you?"
John flushes. "No..." he protests lamely. "Just... casual would be fine."
Sherlock looks down at himself, smart sophisticated suit and all. "This is casual," he replies. "No jewels," he smooths his hand over his belly as he speaks, and John suddenly wonders if he's taken out the small jewel that nestles there. "No tattoos. Cotton and wool. Simple."
John has to laugh. "Well. There is that. You'll want a coat, before we leave, though. It's below zero out there." A cold front blew in overnight, he just read on his laptop.
"Of course. But first, your questions." Sherlock flings himself energetically onto the bed, bouncing back a bit and pulling up his legs. The cosmopolitan image is lost in pointy knees and elbows, but much is gained from the vibrancy and interest in the laser focus directed now at John. "Go on," he encourages. "Ask."
"Yeah. Ok." John says, glad it's become brisk and businesslike. "You claim to be a genie-"
"I am a genie, John," Sherlock interrupts. As if to prove a point, he languidly gestures with one hand and it suddenly bears a cigarette, smoke trailing sideways in keeping with his motion. It's got the same long filter he's used before, and John has a flashing mental image of Sherlock in the Roaring Twenties, where his slim beauty would be especially suited, haughty ennui sculpted on his face as he holds court.
"Right. A magical being who grants wishes, then?"
"Exactly. One wish. A single wish. Think carefully before you tell me." Sherlock sucks in smoke, releasing it only to pull it lazily back in through his nose. John looks away.
"That's impossible..." but John's voice is a little wavery at this point. Sherlock just transformed himself from naked to clothed, in what appear to be very expensive clothes no less, right in front of John's eyes. Not to mention the cigarette.
Sherlock smirks at him. "Obviously not. So what's your next question?" He carelessly taps ash over the edge of the bed.
"Oi!" John protests. He stands to retreive the other mug and tosses it to Sherlock, who catches it gracefully, one-handed. "Use that." He sits back down and worries his lip, thoughtful. "How can you possibly have that power?"
"Ah! Very good. The short answer is, I don't know. Unfortunately, I was paying less attention to the ritual than I would have done had I known it would be successful. Spells and alchemy. My opinion of it at the time was similar to your own, and yet... here we are."
"Wait. You mean this happened to you?"
"Did you imagine I was born this way? Full grown with the ability to grant wishes and live in a lamp? Of course not. I participated tangentially in a ritual for which I had nothing but disdain. I went with the intent of deriding my rival and proving that alchemy was no more than the vehicle of fools and dreamers. To my eternal sorrow," and here, he grinds his teeth, jaw muscles bunching and twisting; and an expression that's less sorrowful than tortured flashes across his face before it becomes flat and controlled, "I was wrong. It is rare indeed that I am wrong, but I chose a monumentally bad time to demonstrate such poor judgement."
John works his way though this story. "So, you had a rival, and he used … alchemy and spells … to make you like this?"
"Indeed. You have summed it up quite well."
"What happened then?"
"I will not discuss that." Sherlock is utterly expressionless, and his voice gets growlier, rough and angry. He puffs on the cigarette again, and allows the gently wreathing smoke to conceal his face.
John purses his lips and nods his head. Clearly that's a painful topic: No Trespassing. He can wait. And ask different questions. God, this is fully insane. "Right. You said earlier that planting tastebuds in the arseholes of my enemies was fine, but not world peace."
Sherlock gives a twitch of approval. "You were listening. Yes, that is true. The scope of your wish is actually quite limited. It can't involve others beyond certain small things, can't change natural laws such as physics and time, things like that."
"So... what if I wanted wings?"
Sherlock looks thoughtful. "I could do that. Functioning ones? Yes, I believe I could. Is that your wish, then?"
"No! Jesus. No, I don't need a great hulking pair of wings. Umm, what if I wanted someone dead?"
"No, can't be done. I can't make others die, disappear, fall in love..."
"So there are definite parameters." John is getting interested, and forgets to treat the topic like it's hypothetical. "Could you cure my injury?"
"Which? The shoulder wound? Because the other's already working itself out," Sherlock smirks. "I'm not sure. Partially, perhaps. It's something that already happened, and I cannot change the past."
John chews on the inside of his cheek. He can't help the feeling that this is a game, like a pub quiz. They are both enjoying themselves, he thinks. "What about living forever?"
"Although I paradoxically seem to be cursed with it myself, I cannot bestow extended life on others."
John's can't help but note the bitterness with which Sherlock says 'cursed', but they have a rhythm going, and he doesn't want to derail it. "Infinite wealth?"
"Not infinite, but certainly as much as you determine. That's a common wish."
"Huh." Here is an important fork in the road. John takes it without hesitation. "What wishes have you granted over this, I don't know, how long has it been?"
Sherlock ignores the latter part of the question. "What you would expect. Those relating to greed, and jealousy, love, insecurity. Sexual satiation, revenge, wealth, fear." He takes a long drag of the cigarette, pulling the cherry right down to the filter, and then lets it droop along his knee. "Sentiment," he sneers. "They are all inspired by sentiment. Petty. Short-sighted. Human."
John treads carefully. "Who was your last ... um ... grantee?"
Sherlock smiles, a surprisingly fond and genuine look on his face. "Mrs. Martha Hudson," he says, and even his voice reflects a deep affection. "That would be 33 years, 9 months and 17 days ago. I wonder if she's still in London?"
John immediately thinks that if they can find this woman, he will have some confirmation about the rationality of Sherlock's existence. "Perhaps we can look her up," he suggests diffidently.
Sherlock snorts. "You just want proof that I'm not at best insane, and at worst a charleton."
"Well," John shrugs and grins. "Yes."
Sherlock pushes off the bed, knees and elbows flying before he recomposes himself into a sleek and elegant man. He is clearly finished with the interrogation. "Let us be off to meet with your sister, then."
John reaches for his jacket. "Get yourself a coat," he reminds him.
Sherlock does his blurring at the edges routine, and never entirely vanishes, but as he resolidifies, his outline is markedly different. He wears a sweeping overcoat which flares dramatically behind him whenever he moves. A blue cashmere scarf is wrapped around his neck, and supple black gloves cover his hands. "Will this do?" he asks, in a tone lightly seasoned with sarcasm.
John simply nods, and goes to get his own jacket. It is bitingly cold outside, and he shoves his hands deep into his pockets. Sherlock does not seem to be affected. John supposes that a coat as long as a blanket may have that consequence. He can feel his own thighs slowly freezing, icy air sifting quickly from thin skin down into the bone.
He surreptitiously checks himself out in the first plate glass store front they pass. He is wearing sturdy khakis, a rust-colored jumper, and a wan green, miserably unflattering canvas coat. He hasn't ever felt insecure about his appearance before. But now... Now Sherlock is striding along beside him, dressed to kill, posh and superior in every way, and John hunches his shoulders forward a little, frowning at the cracks in the pavement. He feels drab and unattractive. Great. Like that even matters.
He will have to work hard to subdue the nigh obsessive attraction he feels for this fascinating enigma. He shoots a quick look up at his companion. Sherlock isn't merely walking, he's prowling, utterly involved in the people and scenery around them, unabashedly staring and analyzing. John reflects that Sherlock honestly does seem unaffected by the gratuitous wank, and sighs in relief.
It is good not to carry that burden, for the moment, because enduring an hour with Harry requires a lot of energy.