Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes © Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
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Part X —
Sex / Vengeance
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John had wiped over the table with his hand, leaving a clean smear in the dust. He'd opened the window, and Sherlock doesn't feel like the air was choking him anymore. Their apartment is lighter now—but the sunlight from the window only deepened the contrast. It makes kaleidoscope patterns on the floor, blocked momentarily by flying curtains. Insects eat moulded bread and sip curled milk. A feast meal, for those which tends all things rotten!
Sherlock makes them coffee.
John drinks it, even if it'd scalded a normal man's lips.
"You never used to take it black," Sherlock notes, sitting. "Too bitter, you said.
"Bitter, yes." John purses his lips. "It is bitter. But that's why I like it." He drinks some more. Some of the rot that'd plagued him had withered. Would the madness disappear, now that they neared their goal? "I overheard your argument with Mycroft. Not a pretty thing."
"My relationships are seldom pretty."
John leans back. "You did not tell him about me. I, for once, am glad you kept that promise, at least." Sherlock shrinks. "Don't fret. I think... I think I can trust you now. I know you have been operating on very little information. I know you so I know it's pretty goddamn hard." Little pieces of John, shining.
"I don't mind it that much. It's nice..." '...having a silent brain.' "To just trust, I mean. To let go."
"I see. Well, I still think I owe you something. Ask me whatever you feel like, Sherlock."
Sherlock thinks about John, screaming himself hoarse. He will not ask about the torture at the hands of Moran. Instead he regards the half-removed bandages and the distorted features underneath; a memento of his best friend's suffering. He will not ask about that.
"The men we killed. Who were they?"
"People involved. They'd done things... Horrible things, all leading up to your death. They were liars, also. I hate liars. One of them had dressed up as you. I don't know why. I shot him in the head."
"He deserved it. But... how many people have you killed?"
John's expression gains a hard edge, soldier like. "A lot."
Sherlock doesn't want to ask. He really doesn't. But he does, inhales, and speaks.
"Were you involved in the bombings, including the phone ones?"
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"Did you buy those mercenaries?"
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"Did you do it for me—?"
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John blinks hard, grits his teeth, and asks, "Do you love me, Sherlock?"
The question is so unexpected that it breaks Sherlock's world.
Hate, he understands. The intense, burning feeling that twists your chest whenever the name is mentioned. Mycroft has taught him all about that. It mixed so wonderfully in with fear every time Mycroft left him. But love? He knows the definition. But the feeling itself?
He stares at John, wide-eyed and open mouthed.
"Let me rephrase the question. Would you war with me to hell and back? Would you stay with me forever? Would you hurt yourself if it meant that I would live?"
"Yes," Sherlock says. And then, "I love you."
John exhales. Then he looks up.
In a split second, John has leant over the table. There is the collision of lips. The coffee mug tips. Hot coffee (black in the ambient light) spills over the table and drips onto the floor, pooling. John doesn't care. His hands are on Sherlock's shirt and he's forcing the man forward. This is a different kind of war, Sherlock realizes.
"I want to take this to the bedroom."
"I want," Sherlock echoes, but he doesn't say anything more.
John leads them, and Sherlock lets him. The road to the bedroom (hell) is paved with small battles (good intentions) of hands and arms and legs and feet. And most importantly, lips and teeth and tongues. Sherlock thinks of cheesy romance novels he'd sworn he'd never going to think about again. The floorboards under their feet creak. Sherlock is slammed against a wall, head crashing into a picture so it cracks the glass.
John's fingers are leaving blues and purples into his skin. It matches the purple underneath his eyes. Dark circles. They have grown into him and become a part of him.
John digs into the spaces between his jutting ribs and laughs quietly (and it is bitter, bitter like the coffee) as if their existence proves something. Sherlock is aware he looks like a dog that hasn't eaten or had a bath for ages. Ugly, like their relationship. John is muscled and strong. He easily pushes Sherlock into the bedroom. In the brief moment before he hits the bed, he sees ripped wallpaper, a nicely kept bed and sheets on the floor. 'This has been planned.'
A strange feeling pools in the bottom of Sherlock's stomach. Is it want? Lust?
"You're a virgin, right?" John asks.
Sherlock nods.
John laughs again.
It makes Sherlock shudder.
John guides him, pressing his back into the mattress. John is on top of him. One second they're kissing, and then John is chewing on his neck, near the pulse vein. Sherlock bites John's shoulder out of shock. It draws both blood and a moan from John. "Fuck, you know what I like." But otherwise he stays very quiet—like a working man, focused in his task.
(And yet... And yet there is something decidedly cold about all this.)
A hand is suddenly on his crotch, rubbing the area. "Hm. Soft. We gotta do something about that." John unbuttons and unzips every obstacle, expertly handling the limp cock with utmost precision. He has done this before. The focus begins at the shaft, moving up and down with slow, deliberate movements. Sherlock hardens. All he does is gasp, once, leaning his head down. It is then John shifts his focus to the tip, moving his thumb in circles. Teasing him... Testing him? Sherlock moans. Just when Sherlock reaching his peak, John stops all ministrations, drawing away.
He strips Sherlock his clothes, having no time for his own. Trousers, shirt, underwear, socks. Heaps on the floor, forgotten. The room is a bit cold. It numbs the pleasure. His feet are cold, especially. John kisses him before he can complain, flooding his mouth with salvia and blood.
Sherlock's lip is bleeding.
John grabs the back of his skull and pushes him down into the pillow. John looms above him, hands running down to Sherlock's ass. Short nails dig into his thighs. He has an expression made of stone.
('Isn't there supposed to be lubrication involved?' Sherlock is too afraid to ask. John knows what he's doing.)
There is a little pause. A little quiet before the storms. A little fear before pain.
John needn't say it. This will hurt, Sherlock.
It does.
John buries himself deep; giving Sherlock little time to adjust. It is slow at the same time, as if John is thrusting in forever. Sherlock trembles beneath him. Sweat runs down his jaw.
"John," Sherlock grinds out, teeth sliding over each other. He has heard the line "bite the pillow" before, but when he tries to, he starts groaning in pain instead. "J—John... Hurts..."
John abruptly pulls out, making Sherlock make a little "Ghh!" sound in surprise. He shoves Sherlock's body around, making him lie facedown in the bed. Sherlock's bony lower half is pointed upwards, while his chest touches the mattress. John doesn't appear to be afraid that he'll break. Sherlock tries to catch his gaze but John avoids it. 'Ah,' Sherlock thinks, 'I do not deserve it.' Is it easier this way?
But it doesn't feel like that when John buries himself a second time.
Sherlock feels as if he's being hollowed out. Emptied, even if he feels unbearably full down there. Will that feeling never subside?
Some flies buzz in the corner of the room.
"Eyes," Sherlock whispers, "I want to see them."
John bends over him, twisting to the side without exiting.
He's removed the bandages.
Completely.
Sherlock's eyes become wide. He doesn't have time to say anything because John is moving, thrusting in and out. The pace is a bit too quick, the grip a bit too tight. Is he bleeding? It all becomes foggy. John starts jerking Sherlock off again, making the detective curl into himself.
Spots appear at the end of his vision. It builds up in his lower belly, much like the strange emotion; an intense heat. It is a secret, how silently he comes. Sherlock near well collapses.
John is saying something but Sherlock can't hear it.
(Why did his brain rustle underneath the thick fog of emotion?)
"I love you," he murmured back, "I love you I love you I love you—"
[No matter how hard you pray, it won't come true. Faith does not prove anything. A simple stroll in the madhouse will show that.]
The chant sends John over the edge. He feels it. The strange sensation; a burning heat, an atom bomb inside him. John. He pulls out. Remains of their act slide down Sherlock's thigh.
He's too tired to grimace.
He passes out from exhaustion shortly after that.
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Sherlock awakens. He sits up, strangely cold. The space beside him is empty. There lies a phone there. He looks around.
And suddenly—
(it hits him too hard, too fast, too horrible to breathe)
He knows.
Sherlock wraps his arms around his head and cries.