Sherlock told me about his time with the cabbie. How he got the name Moriarty out of him. I was surprised that he was willing to step on the gunshot wound of another human being-serial killer or not.
It says more about Sherlock than about the cold-blooded killer he did it to.
As a soldier, I have experienced all kinds of pain. When I told Sherlock that I didn't have to use my imagination about imminent death, I could tell he was hurt by that. Already, my trauma was his trauma. That kind of pain was straightforward.
I don't like physical pain. Pain to me represents war and hatred. Pain is what prevented me from continuing as a military doctor. The pain in my leg-psychosomatic or not. Pain was a thief. Pain was an enemy.
The pain Sherlock routinely inflicted was different. He saw pain as a weapon, a tool, perhaps even a crutch. I wouldn't call Sherlock a violent person, per se, but he was no stranger to inflicting pain through his words and attitudes. He acted like he didn't care-and sometimes he didn't-but he always knew how he was wielding his weapon of pain.
Using pain as a weapon and a tool to get Moriarty's name out of the dying man was probably one of those acts that led Sherlock to identify himself as a sociopath. Perhaps the weapon part was a bit sociopathic. But the tool part wasn't. Sherlock was looking ahead. He was acknowledging that the pain of his one person would be a tool to prevent the pain of countless others.
Sherlock knew that if there were someone out there who was trying to get his attention by sponsoring other criminals and criminal behavior, then that man was a very grave threat to the world at large. There would be more pain to come than that of a man who was seconds from death anyway.
I have also learned to understand Sherlock's use of pain. I still don't always like it, but I understand its uses beyond war. And I have learned that I can use it as well.
I used my pain in my leg to shield myself from civilian life. To wallow in my shame and disappointment at mustering out with an injury. Sherlock saw through that in a New York-minute. I didn't mean to use pain in that way, but he used my psychological pain over my expulsion from the Army to show me just how addicted I am to adrenaline.
Sometimes I wonder if I should feel ashamed of myself for being so excited and pleased by the rush of danger. There are worse things, true. I do not kill for pleasure. I do not deal drugs to school children. The only person who is really hurt by my pleasure-seeking is me, now and again. And now maybe Sherlock.
But he's as bad as I am.
Addictive personality. That's Sherlock. Addicted to thought, deduction, drugs (formerly), smoking (supposedly formerly), solving puzzles, constructing his Mind Palace, and now me. Little old John Watson. An addiction of the Great Sherlock Holmes.
When we talk about his former addictions, he always assures me that I am far more beneficial to him than the others (excepting maybe the Mind Palace). We talk about his time on cocaine, my time in Afghanistan. Talking to Sherlock is much more comforting than talking to a therapist. I am much more open and honest with him.
Sure, he's judging me, but I'm used to that.
Maybe I'm addicted to him too. His mind, his atrocious manners, his sharp wit. When we slyly catch each others' eye to see if a joke or a snide remark landed, it's magical. I feel warm all over. Just seeing him smile is like a reward.
When Sherlock realized that first evening that I was the marksman he was seeking for the death of a serial killer, he understood a great deal about me. Of course, being Sherlock, he already understood a lot about me, but this was something more. I didn't want to inflict pain. Not even on a serial killer.
But if I was going to make the decision to use pain, I wasn't going to second-guess myself. My moral compass is as true as they come.
And my compass was pointing the direct opposite direction from that Sebastian Wilkes character. What a slime. The way he treated Sherlock made my blood boil.
He had called us for help. And he acted like he was doing us a favor. We needed the money, but he didn't necessarily know that. And no amount of money was worth taking his shit. I was so pleased when Sherlock put him in his place, repeatedly.
The type of violence Wilkes like to indulge in was the typical school-yard bully type. Single out the kid who is different-most usually smarter and/or less imposing physically-and hammer away at those differences. As if any college-aged man was ever upset about someone knowing he had been having sex the night before!
Jesus, what a prick.
When I met Sarah, I saw an opportunity to stave off my sexual tension all while continuing to build my relationship with Sherlock. It wasn't a very nice move on my part. Another type of violence, I suppose, especially since I was so violently in love with Sherlock already.
But I took him at his word that he was 'married to the Work'. I didn't want to come between them. I wanted Sherlock to choose me. As far as I was concerned, becoming his flat mate and tagging along to crime scenes already made me a serious competitor for Sherlock's attention. It was only a matter of time.
It was also inevitable that things with Sarah would be testy after our kidnapping and her near-death-by-spear experience. Once again, I killed for Sherlock, to save and protect him. And I would do it a thousand times over, always. The pain that he experienced when he found me tied to the chair and my life threatened by someone who thought that I was him is something he confessed to me much later.
His absence in the flat when the kidnappers arrived. His inability to get away from the assassin who had him by the neck. His anguish in not being able to comfort me physically after freeing me from my bindings. Sherlock's pain as reflected through anyone's treatment of me has become his most vulnerable place.
Therefore, he guards it quite zealously by guarding me twice as much.
In this instance, Sherlock's pain became a potent motivator. He finds comfort for himself in my protection. And I get that amazing, single-focused attention directed at me for increasingly ecstatic periods of time.
Sherlock rubbed himself against me between our abdomens. His head tipped back and his mouth fell open.
"Oh, John," he moaned.
"Sherlock," I whispered back against his pectorals.
After a few moments, he reached between us to tuck me underneath his perineum, rolling his hips to stimulate himself on me in this position. I could feel my pre-ejaculate rubbing against the fine hairs on his arse cheeks. My glans caught on his cheeks as well every time he pulled back from me. I couldn't suppress my own moan at the sensations of that warm, soft skin dragging across me.
At the sound, Sherlock brought his head forward and claimed my lips, quickly moving on to my neck. He loved to hear me vocalize. It fed his own arousal and led to even more vocalizations from him. My hands scrabbled to hold on to him as his rolling hips began to move faster and more erratically.
The expanse of his back was the subject of many hours' of exploration for me. His skin seemed to go on forever, and like an explorer I staked my claim on every inch for posterity. I particularly liked sitting astride him, while he lay on his stomach, so that I could place kisses on every vertebrae in that lengthy column. But in this position, I used my thumbs to skate down the xylophone of his rib cage toward the sharp points of his hip bones.
Sherlock was quite flexible. He surprised me on many occasions. With my hands on his hips in this position, he had arched his back impossibly. When I realized this skill, I suggested we position ourselves close enough to the wall so that he had something to stretch against. Nudging the bed closer to the wall, we left about a foot for my legs to rest on the hardwood. Then Sherlock could arch and stretch to his heart's content without actually falling off of me.
That was the first time Sherlock had experienced a multiple orgasm. The angle was more than perfect for prostate stimulation.
Tonight though, he wanted to stay close to my body as we worked ourselves into a frenzy. Although, grounding each other was as important as exploring new heights. And speaking of heights, the moment was fast approaching where the two of us needed to push this encounter to the next level.
Sherlock drew his lips from my skin and leaned toward the bedside table. Bottle in hand, he reached behind himself to spread lube on both of us. Experience had taught us that a sufficient amount of lubrication was enough for penetration as long as we were cautious and took our time.
That taken care of, Sherlock lined me up with his body and bore down. The heat this man could produce still astonished me. How did someone with virtually no body fat do that? He defied any biology I had every studied. The entrance to his body gave way fractionally as he pushed, and I simply held on. Sherlock liked this position because of the control it gave him.
He vacillated between wanting and conceding control in bed. Tonight it was wanting.
Sherlock's voice reached heretofore unknown deep registers when we were joined. The sound rumbled through his chest like thunder across a grassy plain. Where my skin touched his, the vibrations transferred to me.
His movements once I was completely seated within him were small and measured at first. At this point, he wanted to ease into his pleasure, draw it out. It was something that he needed to savor in a completely different way from his need to solve puzzles quickly. The deductions were multiple, tiny orgasms of his mind over and over until he was exhausted from the inside out. The electricity of his mind zinging from idea to idea was dizzying and very arousing for me in a completely different way than our lovemaking.
The slight friction between his body and mine was consuming for me. Sometimes I wondered where Sherlock's mind went during sex. Was he able to concentrate on the transport for this amount of time? He must. I had never once gotten the impression that he wasn't all here with me in the middle of the act. Afterward, his energy returned much more quickly than my own. He would be up and texting, calling out to me, as I burrowed into a pillow and groaned. I wanted to sleep.
Even when I was in control of the pacing, I respected his need for the slow burn. It helped me last longer too, to be honest. Ever since the first time we had consummated our courtship, I had had trouble keeping myself restrained. I had thought eventually this amazing relationship with this amazing man would settle into some sort of routine. Our domestic routine certainly had. And even our routines on crime scenes, during kidnappings. But in the bedroom, I was still like a teenager first experimenting with my sexual responses.
I crave this man and his body in ways I have never known before. He can set me off with a arched eyebrow or quirk of his quixotic lips. He sends flames dancing down my extremities if he sat too closely to me in a cab. I had 'accidentally' jumped him in public more times than one.
The smile that this thought produced caused Sherlock to pause in his movement.
"Really, John? You're still on about that alley with the mysterious sounds emanating from behind the bin?" Sherlock asked him incredulously. As if Sherlock himself didn't bring up details of our past at inopportune moments.
"I still say that was a person watching us, not some animal," I said with a finger pointed at Sherlock's chest.
Sherlock scoffed. "John, I think that I would have known if some vagrant was watching me take you in the dark," he replied.
"Mmmmm," I savored the memory. "Yeah. Perhaps a round two tonight for me?"
Sherlock smiled slowly and bent to claim a kiss.
"Yes."