The Science Of Seduction

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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

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Chapter Ten: Boys-Friend

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Everything I've explained in this entry brings us to yesterday, September the sixth, which will definitely be remembered as the day I valiantly resisted strangling several persons that I had become close to in a fit of insanity. Insanity that they had inspired. Don't get me wrong, I love Sherlock like mad, but sometimes I wish he didn't make it his lifelong goal to drive me absolutely round the bend...|

It was darker than he'd expected it to be when he slipped through the second floor window of the abandoned warehouse. Inky shadows seemed to cling to him as he moved, knowing exactly where he needed to go.

John Watson did not take the abduction of Sherlock Holmes lightly. Not ever. When he located his errant beloved, he would make damn sure that anyone in the general vicinity would know suffering. Oh, yes. He would make them pay.

He tried to delve further into the darkness, but the shadows were clinging tighter. They were wrapped about his arms and legs and chest, grasping and sticking like spiderwebs as he struggled against them. Again and again, he slashed at them with his claws, but they only wound about him even further.

"John..." a voice called faintly. Inexorably drawn towards the sound, John felt his heart begin to race, and he struggled against his bonds fruitlessly. He knew that voice.

"John..."

"John..."

"John..."

Confused, John twisted this way and that. It was as though Sherlock's voice was coming from every direction at once, and it was growing louder and more frantic by the second.

"John. John. John!"

Gasping, John sat up in bed. His bedclothes were twisted around him, sweat making his shirt stick to him uncomfortably. He wiped his forhead with the back of one hand, then paused and drew it away.

It was sticky with blood.

Blood was everywhere, soaking through his shirt, staining the sheets, oozing between his toes.

John breathed through his nose, mind whirling. How? Who? Oh, god, who did I kill?

Two eyes stared at him from the other side of the bed. Sherlock was sitting there still, legs crossed, leaning back against the wall. Moonlight that was somehow crimson reflected off of ebony curls and a chalky-pale face. Too pale, too gray, too dead, and John realized that it wasn't the moonlight, it was blood that coated Sherlock head to toe, dripping from his sodden curls, spurting from his slit throat in a sickening splash.

Choking on panic, John tried to wriggle his way out of bed, only to tumble to the floor in a heap when the sheets tightened around his ankles. He wrestled with the linens, but they only grew tighter and tighter, and the blood was pooling around him, getting in his nose and mouth.

Sherlock's head lolled, his dead eyes staring as his mouth moved. Slowly, his pale hands twitched and crept across the mattress, fingers grasping in jerking, strange motions as the corpse of the man he loved dragged itself closer, jaw working as it spoke.

"John!"

Gasping, John sat up in bed. Sherlock peered at him through the darkness of the room, still sitting crosslegged beside him in the bed. John whimpered, rubbing his hands together furiously when he realized that his clammy palms still felt like they were dripping blood.

"Are you feeling well, John?"

"Er..." Blinking, John gazed up at his flatmate. "Well. Very well. Is the tea ready?"

"The tea has been ready, John," Sherlock sneered, tossing his flowing, copper-blonde locks over his shoulder. "You were just not ready to drink it."

"I want to drink tea, Sherlock. With you."

"I have drunk my tea, John, John, John. I have drunk my tea, and Anderson has drunk his tea, and we have drunk our tea, because we were ready when you were not."

Fury filled John. He wanted to leap up and tear off Sherlock's tiara and draw it into his own heart, but the blankets held fast around his waist and he couldn't move. So he snapped his teeth and clawed at the air as he shouted. "Anderson! Anderson cannot have tea with you, Sherlock! Tea is ours! Ours is the tea, and the scones, and the doilies. Ours is the tea, the tea is ours! The tea is us! We are ready to be drunk together, Sherlock!"

Sherlock stood and flounced from the room, pausing only to whack John on the head with his scepter, his glittering silk skirts swishing about him and fluttering with butterflies and rose petals. "I was ready to be drunk, but you were not ready to drink! Too late, John! Too late! John. John. John!"

"John!"

John did not gasp. He did not sit up. The very first thing he did when he jerked awake was kick at the bedding until it tumbled to the floor in a heap and lie there, quivering and wishing he hadn't eaten ice cream before bed. He always had odd dreams when he ate ice cream before bed.

As his heart rate slowed and it became apparent that this was, in fact, reality, John moved to sit up.

He couldn't. Something was wrapped tight around him.

He didn't panic, though, because he could see very well that said something was a certain consulting detective, who had managed to wind all four limbs around John and was currently breathing softly on John's jugular. Soft curls, mussed adorably and not soaked in blood or adorned with a tiara, tickled his nose and stuck to his lips when he wet them.

And his bedmate was not asleep, it seemed, because his eyes were tracking over John's face, curious and guarded.

"You were dreaming," Sherlock said quietly, slowly and methodically unwinding himself from John. The smaller man told himself that he didn't miss the contact, not one bit.

Clearing his throat, John nodded. "Er, yeah. Sorry about that."

"You could hardly help it."

"I know, but-," levering himself up onto his elbows, John squinted at Sherlock blearily as he cut himself off. "Were you shouting my name while I was dreaming?"

The detective reclined on his side lazily, raising one eyebrow at John as the fingers of one hand tapped out Ravel's Piano Concerto for the Left Hand on John's shoulder. "No. Why would I do something so foolish," he murmured, seemingly focused on the chords he was playing.

"Right."

"You were shouting my name, though."

Mortification filled John. He wanted to laugh, or roll his eyes, something, anything to brush it off, but all he could do was draw in a shuddering breath. "Oh," he gasped, staring at the wall over Sherlock's head.

"Mmm. You kept calling my name. Then you were sobbing about blood. Then you shouted something about Anderson and tea." Sherlock glanced up from his concerto to quirk his lips at John. "I can only hope you dreamt up some insidious plot to boil Anderson in a giant teapot."

Suddenly John could breathe again, and he laughed. He laughed far too loudly, and may have snorted once or twice, and Sherlock was staring at him far too amusedly, but it felt good. He felt as though he hadn't really laughed in years. He laughed until tears were streaming down his cheeks, until his body was curled in on itself so tightly that he couldn't draw in a breath and he was shaking silently. He laughed until he couldn't laugh any more.

Gasping for air, John grinned at Sherlock. "Thank you," he said quietly, lightly, imagining the words floating across the inches that separated them and alighting in Sherlock's curls like fireflies.

Right. Definitely no more ice cream before bed.

Intrigued by the way his gratitude made Sherlock's face glow and his eyes crinkle at the corners, John said it again.

Then Sherlock leaned over and kissed him, and John was left feeling small and confused and tired again. He drew back slowly, hating the thrill he got when Sherlock tried to follow him, hating himself for loving the feel of his bottom lip slipping from between the detective's teeth. Stamping on the urge to lick his lips, John sighed and slipped out from under the covers, refusing to meet Sherlock's eyes. He was terrified that if he did, he might cave and crawl back into bed and over Sherlock and beg for whatever kisses the man would give him. He couldn't do that, though. He was broken enough as it was.

"Sherlock...please stop doing this," he whispered, hands trembling. "It's not fair. I can't just let you take any more from me, not when you won't give anything back. And I don't want you to, not if you don't want to, and it's not fair. So please, stop."

There was a long silence, and John forced his eyes to meet Sherlock's. The detective was still lying on his side, rumpled bedding piled up around him, his expression inscrutable. There was another chilly pause, and then Sherlock was up and striding from the room.

"I'm sorry, John," he said airily, "but there seems to have been some sort of miscommunication. Rest assured," he added as he made for the front door, not even pausing to pick up his coat or scarf, "the situation will be rectified."

And then he left, slamming the door behind him, presumably to freeze to death, because it was three in the morning and he was only wearing a thin silk shirt and slacks. John was fairly certain the man was barefoot.

Nerves buzzing and tingling as though he'd been electrocuted, John shuffled about the flat. He started to make tea, but forgot to turn the kettle on when he decided to answer his E-mail instead. He stared at the blank screen of his laptop for a moment, finger resting lightly on the power button, when he realized he needed to have breakfast. He went back to the kitchen and peered into the fridge, only to forget why he was doing so. He slammed the door shut, staring at the appliance for a moment, before stumbling back to the sitting room and curling up on the couch.

He must have dozed off, because suddenly he was opening his eyes. His cell phone was ringing. Fumbling for it, John frowned at the display screen. The number was blocked. The only person he knew who called from a blocked number was Mycroft. Why would Mycroft be calling him?

Had something happened to Sherlock?

Swallowing against the panic rising in his throat, John brought the phone to his ear with a shaking hand.

"Hello?"

"Doctor John Watson," a voice rasped harshly.

"Who is this?"

"How much are you willing to sacrifice for Sherlock Holmes?" John's insides turned to ice, his breath freezing in his chest. "What?"

"I've been watching you, John," the voice breathed. John did not like the way it said his name, like an unwanted caress. He shuddered. "You are the one I need to have, the one who will complete my work."

"I don't...I don't understand. Who is this? What have you done with Sherlock?"

"Nothing, yet, dear John. I am The Hangman."

Tensing, John caught his breath and held it for a moment. He knew that moniker - it was the name the press had given to a serial murderer who had operated back in the eighties. He had murdered six men, all around John's age, all homosexual, all small and blonde. They had been horribly tortured - fingers and toes removed, skin peeled away from their bodies in great pieces, disgusting words carved into them with red-hot implements. They had been hanged post-mortem, dangled from various public structures as though being put on display. An artist, showing his work, John had thought when Sherlock had shown him the cold case file.

Eyes slipping to stare at the evidence box, sticking out a bit in the stack between the man fished out from the Thames in 1995 and the serial arsons in the West End in 2002, John felt the bile rising in his throat. Some smart-assed Yarder had scrawled a hanged stick figure on the label, its little 'x' eyes searing themselves across John's brain. He had looked at all of the pictures, read the post-mortems. He could envision far too vividly what would happen to Sherlock if he didn't do something, quickly.

"I'm not terribly interested in your pretty-boy lover," The Hangman was saying derisively, as though he'd read John's mind and was terribly insulted by what he found. "I'm far more intrigued by you, doctor."

Of course. Between thirty and fifty years old, between 5'5" and 5'10", blonde. He fit the physical profile, and most people seemed to think that he and Sherlock were lovers, so that would mean he fit that, as well. He could attempt to convince the man that he wasn't actually in a relationship with a man, but he couldn't lie about being in love with one. It would make Sherlock expendable, in any case, and that was unacceptable.

"What do you want me to do?"

He was somewhat surprised at how steady his voice sounded, firm and unrelenting. He hadn't even been aware of making the decision to be tortured and killed to save Sherlock, but then, it hadn't been much of a decision. Sherlock would always and forever be more important to John than anything else. No matter what happened, what torments John suffered, Sherlock would always come first.

So he gathered up all the evidence that the psychopath on the other end of the line specified, showered and changed into slacks and a blue dress shirt as requested, and waited. He was to show up at the statue of Achilles in Hyde Park at seven pm.

"No earlier, dear John," the man drawled. "If you're there any earlier than seven, your pathetic lover will be killed. For every minute after seven, I will remove one finger."

Since it was barely noon when the call came, John had plenty of time to wander about the flat. He made a cup of tea, then sat down at the table with several sheets of paper and wrote letters. One for Harry, one for Lestrade, one for Sarah. Then, fingers shaking and tears threatening to spill from his eyes, he wrote a letter for Sherlock.

When he had finished, he sealed them in their envelopes and placed them beneath Mort. Reaching up, John brushed the dust from the skull's brow and straightened the hat delicately. "You'll keep and eye on him, won't you," John whispered, removing the peeling sticking plaster and rubbing a finger over the chip on Mort's zygoma.

Then he began to tidy the flat. He knew Sherlock wouldn't. As removed as the man tried to be, John knew Sherlock cared about him. He would be upset at John's death, even if only a little, and even more upset that the man got away with the evidence that would have helped Sherlock capture him. As he tidied, John smiled. He picked up bits of paper and recalled balling them up and tossing them at Sherlock's head while the man played his violin. He rearranged the throw pillows and thought of curling up with Sherlock to watch Hetty Wainthropp. He shuffled Sherlock's experiments onto the Sherlock Shelf, remembering the argument they'd had about putting rotting body parts next to the butter.

He made dinner for Sherlock, sandwiches, and wrapped them carefully to set them on the table. Sherlock would notice them, of course, and John could only hope that he would eat them, if only for John. As an afterthought, John pulled out another piece of paper and wrote a swift note to Mrs. Hudson, asking her to look after Sherlock and make sure he ate.

Going up to his room, John made the bed, allowing himself a moment to bask in the memory of Sherlock's body wrapped around his, Sherlock's lips against his. He moved over to the unpacked boxes in the corner and pulled out the unlabelled one from his Army days. Digging up a marker pen, he scrawled 'Open Me' on the side for Sherlock and set the box in the middle of his bed. They weren't the memories John wanted to delve into before he died, but he felt that someone should carry them.

Finally, it was time to go.

The taxi ride was somewhat calming for John. It reminded him of that first taxi ride with Sherlock to Brixton.

"That...was...amazing."

"You think so?"

More memories bubbled up after that one. Sherlock leading him over moonlit rooftops. Sherlock gazing at him fondly when he'd realized who had shot the cabbie. Eating cold Chinese with Sherlock while they tossed ideas back and forth. Sherlock curling up with his head on John's lap. Soft violin music to carry away John's nightmares. Sherlock's complete disregard for the feelings of the general public. Sherlock's regard for John's feelings.

These were the memories John wanted to carry with him to the grave. He wrapped himself in them, layer after layer, paper thin, until they formed the strongest, thickest armor imaginable. Slowly, carefully, John built up his defenses, certain that he could bear whatever The Hangman had in store for him, if only he could hold on to Sherlock until the end.

He had timed it as perfectly as he could, and was somewhat relieved when he reached the statue as his watch beeped.

Seven pm.

There was no one there.

John bit his lip, shifting the boxes in his arms awkwardly. "I'm here. It's seven. Don't tell me you made such a big deal about me being on time so you could make a dramatic entrance, I'll be quite put out."

"No dramatics, John," a familiar, smooth voice said softly.

John dropped the boxes as Sherlock stepped out from behind the statue. He looked much the same as he had when he left the flat that morning - dress slacks, purple silk shirt, and...oh, he'd dug up a pair of shoes, at least. He looked supremely unruffled, if a little flushed, and not at all like someone who had been held hostage by a homicidal maniac.

"Sherlock..." John narrowed his eyes, his hands clenching into fists. "Sherlock, so help me, if there isn't a crazed maniac in Hyde Park about to murder me in exchange for you, I will be very angry."

Blinking, Sherlock tilted his head in confusion. "Correct me if I'm wrong, John, but the absence of anyone out for your blood is, to most people, a good thing."

John huffed. "Most people did not spend the last seven hours believing that they were going to be dead by day's end. Most people did not feel the need to write farewell letters to their loved ones. Most people, Sherlock, did not prepare themselves for certain, hideous torture. I am not most people, Sherlock. And I am very angry with you," he finished, his voice shaking. He knew that when it hit him, really hit him, that this had been a set-up, he would probably be screaming and throwing things, but for now, he was content to watch Sherlock fidget uncomfortably in the face of John's ire.

"I...wasn't certain how to go about this," Sherlock admitted, mumbling reluctantly.

Rolling his eyes, John threw his hands into the air. "Most people, Sherlock, would just call or text someone if they want them to show up somewhere."

"I am not most people," Sherlock said, daring a smirk. Seeing that John was not amused, the detective cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back in as non-threatening a position as possible. "I had to be certain of it, John. I had to know."

"To know what," John said wearily. More experiments, more toying with John for the sake of discovery. "What is it that you couldn't just ask me?"

"I had to know what you would do."

John regarded Sherlock coolly, crossing his arms in his Supremely Unimpressed Immovable Drill Sergeant pose. "If you don't already know that I would suffer any fate for your sake, Sherlock Holmes, then you're even more of an unobservant idiot than I thought."

Breath hitching, Sherlock's lips parted slightly and his cheeks flushed even darker. He swallowed, mouth opening further to say something, and he stopped.

John waited patiently as Sherlock tried several times to form the words. He had promised himself that he would not let whatever this moment was pass him by, and as excruciating as it was, he was going to keep that promise. Even though the chances of Sherlock's next words being "while I'm flattered by your interest..." were high, he wouldn't deny his flatmate the chance to speak his piece.

No matter how painful that piece was going to be.

The actual words Sherlock spoke next were somewhat more startling.

"God damn it," the detective growled, digging into his pocket for his cell phone. John felt a hysterical giggle rising in his throat.

They were on the verge of what was probably going to big the most major shift their relationship would ever suffer, for better or worse, and the man was taking a call. Typical Sherlock.

When he'd finished his texting, Sherlock didn't look back at John. He stared at the display screen as though he could force a response through sheer willpower.

John's phone chirped.

He wouldn't, John thought incredulously, pulling his phone out and pulling up the message. He would text me from two fucking feet away. Christ, if he thought I was going to take his rejection that badly, he could have just left me a message at home.

He looked at Sherlock's number for a moment, thumb hovering over the message, before he took a deep breath and opened it.

He blinked.

I love you. -SH

After a long moment, he tapped out a response. With his other hand, John pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing exaspiratedly. He sent it, tucking his phone back in his pocket and glowering at Sherlock in utter irritation.

The man didn't even let the message chimes finish before he was reading the text. John could practically see the words flitting through his insufferable brain, their meaning sinking in slowly.

I love you, too. Obviously. -JW

Sherlock put his own phone away and stepped closer to John. Leaning down, he brushed his lips over John's lightly, before turning and walking away. "Hungry?"

Sighing again, John trotted after him, reaching out to grasp Sherlock's hand warmly as they left the park. "Starving. Chinese?"

"Sounds lovely."

Maybe if we'd been more open and honest from the start, we wouldn't have spent the last two months dancing around each other like we did. If I had been perhaps a bit braver, and certainly a bit more patient, I would have spent those two months as Sherlock's lover, rather than his half-mad flatmate who pined after him like a fool. Then again, very little changed after that day. It was odd, really, how much it seemed to me like we had been together all along.

Posted 7 Sept 2011

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The End?

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A/N - O_O

! OMGOMGOMG! Finally!

But wait, is that an epilogue I spy on the horizon? Why, it is! How wonderful! It might even explain how the whole hostage!Sherlock thing might be the fault of Mycroft, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson...

Review, please! =3

Songs for this chapter: 'I Promise' (Simple Plan) and 'This Love' (G-Dragon and BIGBANG)

Peace.

Akiko