...and we arrive at Sherlock and John. The chapters grow ever longer. Thank you again to everyone who has expressed an interest either by alerting, favouriting or reviewing. Especial thanks to Lyrium Flower, the vanquisher of adverbs everywhere, for Horselock, interesting ways to make moustaches fall off and late night perving, er, brainstorming sessions. Slash.
Five Times Sherlock Came In His Pants...And The One Time He Didn't
Five
There's a technique to breaking bad news. Trainers and practitioners alike are adept in arranging setting (somewhere quiet, no disturbances) and people present ('have you got someone you can bring with you?') before they even attempt the first conversational salvo that will segue into the eventual relaying of devastating information.
First a 'warning shot' is fired – a gentle lead-in containing a hint of foreboding in the hope that the target will slowly, slowly begin to acknowledge that what they are about to hear is something extremely Not Good. However it is also commonly recognised that the receiver of said bad news, simply by picking up clues regarding the carefully arranged setting (unless of course they happen to be complete morons) will often anticipate the outcome before the warning shot is even fired.
Sherlock always knows when John is about to tell him something he won't like. Not from the setting, which can vary from the unexpectedly domestic to the exhilaratingly surreal (John does not and has never given a toss if they are interrupted mid-relay of information) and it is variable whether other people are present although they are invariably unimportant.
John's warning shot is visual; a forced relaxation of the shoulders, a raising of the chin and the adoption of a painfully offhand expression; all of which Sherlock has internally termed his Not At Ease posture and is usually accompanied by a reciprocal stiffening of the posture of one Sherlock Holmes.
The day had been going so well.
Sherlock yawned his way extravagantly into the sitting room, bare feet slapping on the floorboards before throwing himself into his usual chair with a swish of cotton.
"Is there tea?"
"There was, Sherlock, this morning. Good afternoon. Sleep well?"
Sherlock picked up a nearby journal by way of a response and hunkered down further in his chair, darting a furtive look at his flatmate over the top. John had his back to him, busily folding a pile of clothes from a basket on the kitchen floor. To his consternation he noticed that he was slowly but surely drawing himself into the Not At Ease pose.
"So…"
"Spit it out."
John's shoulders rose momentarily and then dropped again. "Nothing exciting, really. Just…that woman I met in the supermarket-"
"Which one? Miss Tesco's or Ms Mark's and Spencer's?"
"Yes, very funny."
"Tell me, is there something incredibly arousing about a man who owns a club card?" Said Sherlock snidely. "Is the frozen food section some sort of undocumented aphrodisiac?"
John let out a long suffering sigh and turned to face him although the other man's gaze remained firmly on his journal. "Look, she's coming over in a few hours – Susie – she's, well I just wanted to ask you – oh, for God's sake, Sherlock!"
"I'm wearing pants."
"Brilliant. But the fact remains you're in a bloody sheet and it's two in the afternoon."
"Pants. That was the agreement."
"Will you please just put on some clothes? For the first time in ages a woman has actually expressed a desire to spend some time with me, and, despite what I've told her, wants to meet you as well."
Sherlock flicked his eyes up, skewering John with a stare which would have quailed lesser men. "What for?" He said sharply.
"God knows." John raised his chin defiantly and shrugged. "She's read the blog, told her a few other stories."
"You were trying to impress her," Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, "with stories about me?"
"Yes, it's all about you, Sherlock. Actually they were stories about us. I offered her the tale of the old man with the sore knee – my personal highlight of the week – but oddly enough she wasn't interested."
"Thrill seeker," snapped Sherlock, raising his journal again. "Why don't you show her your scar instead, she'll love that. Better still, tell her stories about people getting their heads blown off. Very romantic."
"Sherlock!"
"I am not your chat up line!"
There was a long pause where the air between them seemed to thicken and curdle, both men remaining frozen in attitudes of forced indifference. He's not reading that thought John irritably, resisting the urge to throw something at his sulky child of a flatmate. His eyes aren't even moving, the bloody drama queen.
"All I'm asking," he said, forcing calm into his voice, "is that you get dressed and try not to be obnoxious for five minutes. Can you do that for me?"
Sherlock grunted noncommittally, observing the way John angled his head away and clenched his jaw in the periphery of his vision. A vague pang of something like regret curled his fingers more tightly around the journal as his friend turned back to the washing, absent-mindedly rolling his shoulder as if his drawing attention to the scar had evoked a memory of pain.
The indolent afternoon light flowed through the flat painting streaks of warm honey into tufts of John's hair as he methodically folded clothing. A silence settled between them as Sherlock watched him, gradually becoming more comfortable as it stretched.
Lift, straighten, fold, place. Quick, spare movements, fingers deftly brushing down arms, straightening collars and gently piling with a final, decisive pat. He noted John avoided the pale patch on the kitchen table even though it had been thoroughly neutralised – it had taken him a few days to forgive Sherlock the death of one of his favourite jumpers through stray chemical even though he had offered to buy him a new one. No, John preferred worn-in, comfortable clothing, rumpled and familiar, much like John himself. Having witnessed him writhing around in the confines of a new shirt in an effort to 'wear it in' Sherlock had at the time considered experimenting on various ways of relaxing fibre but since said experiments could only be done on new clothing, specifically John's new clothing, he had quickly dismissed the idea as being potentially more trouble than it was worth. The smell of fabric conditioner drifted in from the kitchen, a scent he always associated with his flatmate – clean and strangely reassuring - usually tempered with faint undertones of antiseptic and shaving foam.
Smooth, fold, pat.
The few worn items of clothing Sherlock possessed that didn't get professionally laundered always smelt of John as well. After witnessing a pair of pyjama bottoms mysteriously and repeatedly appearing on the bathroom floor despite twice being hurled back into his flatmate's room, John had since incorporated any stray items including bedding into his own washing without comment.
Warm and content, Sherlock finally abandoned any pretence at reading and lounged in his chair, pulling the sheet up to his chin and letting a feeling of absurd domesticity wash over him. He watched John through half lidded eyes. It had been two days since the last case and although his brain picked at and prodded and pulled apart his current state of inaction, threatening to force him into whatever activity with which it might distract itself, right now, right now, he was quite happy to laze. It was better when John was around, easier to relax and just be; his friend was a reassuring constant with variables of baffling unpredictability-
"I'm not doing this, Sherlock! What are you, twelve?"
Sherlock blinked both at the abrupt noise and at having been caught staring, lost in idle contemplation.
"Glaring a hole in the back of my head will not make me change my mind. Get dressed or so help me I'll make you."
Eyeing the flush on the doctor's cheeks and the fisted hands, he hesitated, biting back an involuntary 'I'd like to see you try' and settling instead for a disdainful "Can't."
"Why not?"
"Everything aside from what you have on that table is at the dry cleaners'."
"I see." He watched John struggle with a number of replies, no doubt including his overused slave idiom, a few rude names and maybe threat or two. "If I go and get your dry cleaning, Sherlock," he replied evenly, eyes on the ceiling, "will you bloody well get dressed?"
"Fine."
"Fine."
He waited until the thundering footsteps on the stairs had reached the front door before heaving himself to his feet and wandering towards the shower.
Emerging later in a billow of steam wrapped in the same sheet - pointless to dirty a towel really when the sheet would be washed later - wet hair dripping down his neck, he noticed John had still not returned, Picking up shopping or chatting up some random woman he found in a tumble dryer, no doubt. They did seem to emerge from the woodwork when his friend was around but he could make them disappear just as quickly. Not enough backbone. Sherlock propped himself on the kitchen table, idly playing with a shirt collar and smiling grimly. The clean, fresh smell wafted up and surrounded him suddenly; without volition he was bending down to bury his nose in the pile of soft clothing, inhaling deeply, filling his lungs with the scent of-
The front door slammed and he jerked backwards, scattering clothes everywhere as John stamped his way into the living room. He stopped short, dropping the suit bags in a heap as he took in the scene before him.
"You did that on purpose," he said slowly. "You child. You utter bastard!"
For a few perilous moments John was so furious he considered seizing the nearby microscope and heaving it through the sitting room window. The sheet-clad perpetrator of crimes against washing must have picked up on this train of thought because his eyes flickered quickly over to his apparatus and back to the darkening expression of his flatmate with mild panic before he drew himself up fully and eyed him down the length of his nose.
"Accident," he declared, stepping carefully around him with one final sideways glance which John could've sworn was laced with guilt and which only served to stoke the flames of his anger.
"Oh no you don't," he hissed and grabbed the taller man's arm as he passed, fingers tightening viciously around a pale bicep.
"Unhand me!"
"Unhand me? What the fuck, this isn't the 1880's - I'm not done with you yet. You're staying here until I've finished talking!"
The response was a fearsome scowl, and, twisting quickly, the world's only be-togaed consulting detective shook John off to shuffle purposefully towards his bedroom. With a muted bellow John threw himself forwards and grabbed him by both shoulders, spinning him around and wrapping them both hopelessly in swathes of cotton until Sherlock, sinuously, thought the admiring part of the doctor's brain, managed to contort himself out of his grasp again.
Unfortunately his legs were still tangled and he went face down on the floor with a cry of annoyance, arms trapped awkwardly underneath his hips. John followed, flailing helplessly and landed on top of him. Sherlock yelped in indignation, bucking and throwing his head back, catching the smaller man squarely on the forehead. Eyes watering, bright lights exploding across his vision, John pitched forward as all the strength drained from his limbs, ending up with his face buried in the back of Sherlock's neck.
There was an instant of silence as both men lay unmoving and breathing heavily. John groaned into warm, shower-scented skin and started to lever himself up.
"Get off me!" Hissed Sherlock, with an attempt to roll out from underneath him.
"Right." John blinked once, twice and grabbed a bony hip, shifting his weight onto struggling thighs to pin him down. He slipped an arm under the frantically writhing man's neck and half-straddled him, jamming his knee into his flatmate's lower back, tightening his elbow and sinking his hand into damp, wayward curls. Sherlock, immobilised with his neck arched uncomfortably backwards, immediately stilled.
"You are going to listen to me, Sherlock and if I have to half strangle you to get you to do it I will," ordered John, punctuating his words with quick shoves into Sherlock's lumbar spine.
There was no response from the trussed man beneath him but John felt him stiffen slightly.
"Good, I've got your attention now," he said evenly. Sherlock squirmed and then gave a quiet grunt as an unforgiving knee pressed him harder into the floorboards before relenting. "Stay still Cleo-fucking-patra or I will hurt you," he reiterated, shifting to get more leverage.
"I don't ask for much," he continued. "In fact I don't ask you for anything." There was a faint gasp from underneath him. "And the one time I do you throw a ridiculous hissy fit and I'm not standing for it, Sherlock, I'm not." He loosened his grip, absent-mindedly letting his fingers run through the dark mass of hair; Sherlock took the opportunity to turn his head away slightly.
"Get off me," he whispered.
John leaned forwards, bringing his mouth to the delicate whorl of his now proffered ear and felt the long body shudder beneath him, coiled tight as a spring. "Shut it. In a minute I'm going to let you go and you are going to get up without making a fuss, you're going to pick up your bloody clothes and you are going to go into your bedroom and get dressed." There was a strained whimper by way of a response and John smiled grimly. "Then you're going to behave yourself for the rest of the afternoon," he told the mile of exposed neck, brushing his hand along the marble-white, damp column as if calming a skittish thoroughbred. "Or I'm leaving. Are you listening to me?"
"John, stop-"
"I will leave you alone with your bloody brilliant madness and your insomnia and your 3 am sawing and I don't care if I have to live in a cardboard box because I've had enough, do you hear me?" Sherlock bucked then nodded his head almost imperceptibly, heaving in a breath.
"Perfect. Glad you're on board. You ruin this for me, Sherlock," he tugged on his hair for emphasis, "you try to ruin yet another chance at something relatively normal for me and I will be very, very-" John tightened his arm as he gave one last hard shove with his knee, "-angry with you." Sherlock groaned raggedly and John felt him stiffen, pale shoulders rising clean off the floor as his back bowed underneath him.
Jesus, what the hell are you doing? John shook his head suddenly to clear the red film from his vision and yanked his arm away. Sherlock immediately went limp, head striking the floor with a loud thump.
"God, I'm sorry Sherlock, I didn't realise-" John shifted quickly, sprawling to one side. "Shit. Did I hurt you?"
For long moments there was no sound apart from their laboured breathing, Sherlock sprawled on the floor as if dropped from a great height.
"Sherl?"
John touched a bare, cool shoulder and shook gently. There was a sudden flurry of Egyptian cotton and Sherlock was up and striding towards his room, red-faced and tight-lipped, sheet bunched around him. He paused briefly to swipe the suit bags off of the floor and then disappeared. The resulting slam of the bedroom door made John flinch, rattled the windows in their frames and elicited a faint 'oh for goodness' sake, boys!' from below.
The adrenaline was draining away to be replaced by a throbbing headache and the uncomfortable weight of guilt on his shoulders. Bugger. You realise you've potentially made things a thousand times worse, don't you, you idiot? But he didn't have time to reflect and self-flagellate, not long until Susie arrived and he was nowhere near ready. Sighing wearily he rubbed his face and got to his feet, then slipped spectacularly on the floorboards nearly going arse over tit. He scowled at the small smear of something unidentifiableon the sole of his shoe. Damn him and his ruddy experiments.
"And if you're going to make a sodding mess on the floor, bloody clean up after yourself, Sherlock!" He yelled finally before stamping off in the direction of the bathroom.
After a long, calming shower interspersed with episodes of angry scrubbing John dressed carefully, regretting the clean clothes downstairs but unwilling to trail around the flat half dressed in case he had to deal with snide recriminations from his flatmate. He smoothed his hair down for the twentieth time realising he was all but hiding in his room, reluctant to face the man he'd manhandled into a headlock just for knocking the washing to the floor. You're going to have to face him sometime he told himself firmly. Knowing him he's doing exactly what you're doing. Unfortunately he's a million times more stubborn and can go several days without food so best to get it over with before he does himself an injury.
"Right."
Brushing himself down one final time he trotted downstairs pausing briefly in front of Sherlock's room. The door was shut and there was an ominous silence from within - he was almost tempted to knock but thought better of it, maybe leaving him to stew in there was the best outcome for now, all things considered. He entered the living room and stopped short in surprise.
Sherlock was sitting motionless in his usual chair, neatly dressed in suit and shirt. He did not look up as John came in, gaze fixed in the middle distance, elbows pulled into his body and hands clasped tightly in his lap. John folded his arms and waited for the inevitable verbal onslaught, mentally preparing a thousand comebacks, all of which would be neatly shot down like tin cans on a fence but he was going to show willing for the sake of pride if nothing else.
Sherlock, however, said nothing. He merely sat quietly, avoiding the other man's gaze and John found this far more unsettling than any snide personal assault. Moments passed and he fought down the urge to fidget.
Fine. Looks like you're going to have to be the bigger man here, metaphorically speaking.
"We should probably talk about what happened earlier," he began, and saw the lips press together, the mop of dark curls bowing expectantly to expose a length of neck as if awaiting the executioner's axe. Abruptly an image of Sherlock sitting before a fire, eyes too bright and hand clenched around a glass popped into his head.
"Sherlock?" He moved closer, noting the too stiff posture and white knuckles. "Are you okay?"
"What is it you want to say to me, John?" The reply was soft and so devoid of inflection that John felt an unexpected flicker of foreboding. You went too far you evil bastard. You've properly upset him. He approached the still figure and squatted down. Sherlock continued to avoid his gaze and as John searched his face he knew something was definitely wrong. He was used to his inscrutability – he'd pretty much seen all the masks Sherlock employed to hide hurt, worry, anger and occasionally impatience but in front of him now there was an oddly vulnerable expression he'd only ever seen once before and it took him a few moments to identify it.
Resignation. No, not just that. Resignation and…uncertainty.
Is he playing me? Suspicion wrestled with concern but the latter won out and he shuffled closer.
"I'm not going to shout at you again." He touched Sherlock's knee gently, peering up at him. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, alright? I lost my temper and I shouldn't have done. I didn't mean to. And I didn't mean what I said."
A small furrow appeared between the other man's brows, shuttered ice blue eyes tentatively resting at last on John's face, moving over his features, absorbing, categorising. His expression remained unchanged but John felt him relax minutely.
"I don't suppose we could forget this ever happened, could we?" He continued.
"I think that would be for the best," was the murmured reply.
"Good." John nodded. "Great. You're my friend, Sherlock, I'd hate to ruin that with one moment of madness." With a final stroke of his knee he stood up.
"Fine."
Sherlock dropped his gaze and angled his face away from him, for the briefest second looking so wounded that John not for the first time had to fight the urge to step forward and clasp that infuriating head to his body, to try and comfort this frustratingly aloof, fragile man. But he couldn't imagine Sherlock tolerating any of that, even though his own grasp of personal space was threadbare and the man was perfectly happy jostling him around with wild abandon. John knew he didn't want to risk worsening the situation even more and clenched and unclenched his fists nervously.
"And I'm sorry I pinned you down, it was uncalled for. Must have been unpleasant."
There was a pause, Sherlock tilted his head slightly, eyes suddenly as sharp and glittering as broken glass.
"Not entirely."
John opened his mouth, a puzzled expression crossing his face but before he could voice a question the doorbell rang.
"Doorbell."
"How observant of you," muttered Sherlock with a trace of his usual sarcasm.
"I, er, better get that. Susie. Um, listen, can you just-?" Seeing Sherlock draw more tightly in on himself he decided against saying anything else, and, pulling the doors across to hide the beleaguered kitchen, simply hurried downstairs.
The afternoon went well. Surprisingly well in fact which made John even more concerned than before. Sherlock was quiet and subdued, answering all of Susie's questions politely without any hint of his usual belligerence or condescension and if he caught any of John's pointed 'what the fuck?' looks he didn't acknowledge them.
John lingered a little before they left, waiting until his date had descended the stairs before turning back to Sherlock who remained slumped in the chair.
"We're just off now-"
When there was no response, eventually he shrugged and turned away from the postural equivalent of a door in the face, sighing inwardly.
"John."
He paused by the doorway and rested a hand on the frame. The silence that followed thickened the air making it electric, expectant as if before a thunderstorm. He tensed his shoulders, waiting for the heavens to open.
"Yes, Sherlock."
"I told you once I'm not an easy person to live with," the deep voice was quiet and even, raising hairs on the back of his neck. He kept his back to him, fearful that if he turned around whatever it was that had charged the atmosphere in the room would evaporate.
"I know."
There was another pause.
"I'm trying, John."
I suppose I should be grateful he thought as he ushered a garrulous Susie out into the warm evening, but the feeling of mild foreboding which had started as soon as he saw his friend as still as a carved angel in the fading afternoon light was steadily increasing. As the night wore on and not a single text message vibrated his pocket he found himself unable to concentrate at all on his dinner companion even though she was perfectly pleasant.
An image of Sherlock, shadows dancing along the planes of his face and eyes downcast kept rising in his mind. I'm trying, John. He remembered the sinewy warmth beneath him, dark hair threading through his fingers, the sounds that had drifted up from that pale throat.
He suddenly realised a few things simultaneously. One, he was really quite drunk. Two, he was re-living a tussle with a sheet-clad Sherlock with something approaching relish and three that Susie was eyeing him impatiently and he hadn't heard a single word she'd said for the last five minutes.
"I'm sorry, what was that?"
She drummed her fingers on the table. "I said it might be nice if all three of us went out next time. You know, so we could get to know each other? After all we're going to be spending a lot of time together."
"Who is?"
"You, me and Sherlock," she said with a smirk. "You said he was really difficult, I thought he was rather sweet. I think he likes me."
"What, Sherlock?"
"Yes," a sly smile in his direction. "Maybe he's got a soft spot for-"
"He's not interested." John blinked in surprise at the sudden venom in his voice.
"How do you know?"
"I just know." He checked his phone again. Nothing. Something's very wrong. "Look, I'm going to have to go."
"What?"
"Emergency. At the clinic."
"Seriously? At this time? You're going to go in that state?"
He stood up hurriedly almost overturning a chair in his haste.
"Thank you for a lovely evening – I'll, er, call you." He threw some money down onto the table and set off home, ignoring her indignant protest, heart beginning to pound in his chest. Could this be a danger night? He considered calling Mycroft but the flat was only a mile or so away. What started off as a brisk walk had turned into an all-out run without him even noticing and by the time he reached the flat he was gasping for breath, throwing open the front door and pounding up the stairs into the living room, inwardly bracing himself.
Haloed in lamplight Sherlock was standing by the window, hands shoved into pockets, eyes fixed on the street outside. His violin lay precariously on the edge of the chair. John frowned at the quantity of broken strands of horsehair curled across the wood.
"Back early."
"Er, yes," wheezed John, feeling suddenly foolish. Sherlock must have seen him pelting up the street as if the devil himself was after him. "I was….tired," he told his flatmate's profile lamely.
"Tired enough to jog home," observed Sherlock, with a faint curl of his lip. "No need to make excuses, that shrill torture of a voice for an entire evening would have sent a deaf man running."
John swayed as the adrenaline subsided and the circulating alcohol turned his limbs spaghetti-like. "Alright, I was worried," he admitted, taking a step towards him that turned into a hastily hidden wobble sideways.
"I assure you I am quite capable of spending an evening without you, John, difficult as that may be to believe."
"You're acting weirdly - well, weirder than usual -"
"More weirdly, I believe, is the phrase you're grasping for. Despite being deprived of your scintillating company, your fine taste in television and your incisive wit I've managed to struggle on through."
John threw up his hands. "There's the Sherlock we know and love. Well, the Sherlock we know," he amended pointedly. "For a moment there I thought he'd been replaced by someone who wasn't a complete twat. How wrong can you be, John."
"You must be drunk, you're referring to both of us in the third person. Not particularly cleverly I might add."
"Sod off."
John held his eyes a moment longer bullishly, navy against a blizzard of pale blue and black then abruptly all the fight went out of him and he staggered, dropping his head to massage a temple.
"Okay," he muttered. "Okay, I don't want to do this again. I'm tired, I'm drunk and I've had enough. I don't know what you're trying to do and I don't care anymore about whatever it is that's bothering you. Bloody sort it out on your own then."
He pushed backwards and made for the hallway, registering Sherlock whipping his head around to follow his departure.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm going to bed, Sherlock. I'm tired and confused and annoyed and I just abandoned a perfectly good date to come home and check on you."
"Oh just shut up, will you? I'm fine."
"You are not fine!" John exploded, ignoring his brain's frantic warnings to leave well enough alone. He took a couple of long strides through the room until he was right up against the other man, advancing until Sherlock was pressed back against the window. He tried to sidestep the sturdy, extremely irate obstacle but all attempts at escape were stymied when John grabbed an arm and held him in place.
"Is this the only way I can ever get you to listen to me?" He hissed, jabbing a finger into black cotton. "I am worried about you, Sherlock, stop being such a dick. First, you don't tear me a new one for having a go at you while grinding you into the floorboards, then you're - you're all polite to my girlfriend-"
"I hardly think that term applies now-"
"Shut up. Then for the first time ever you don't harass me through the entirety of a date and now I come back here to find you've snapped more bowstrings than you ever did after spending half an hour with Mycroft. What's going on?"
Sherlock scowled and advanced on him, trying to walk the shorter man backwards but John simply set his jaw and resisted, ending up with them pressing chest to chest, Sherlock flushed but relentless.
"Get out of my way, John."
"No."
He leaned down and John caught a waft of bottled Sherlock, camphor, cologne and something vaguely chemical. His eyes were wild, his teeth bared but his hand rested gently, almost tentatively on John's hip, a fulcrum to balance them both.
"Get out of my way."
"Make me."
Sherlock moved his head closer, eyes narrowing dangerously. "You can't out-think me so you've decided to bully me instead, is that it John? Grip, hold, restrain – are you enjoying yourself? Making up for the slights, the experiments, the running off without you?"
"Don't be ridiculous!"
"Is this you exercising your inner dominatrix?" His lips parted as he tilted his head, eyes on John's mouth.
"Don't you dare," John's hand clamped hard around his arm and Sherlock hissed involuntarily. "Don't you dare compare me to her, you bastard."
"I wasn't lying when I told you what a stimulating companion you are. Are you enjoying yourself, John?" He repeated softly. "How interesting. Perhaps you've more in common than I thought. She certainly seemed to think so."
"Just…leave it, will you? I am nothing like her!"
"You're right," spat Sherlock. "You're nothing like her. You're stupid. At least she had limits as to what she wanted from me – sex, subjugation, she wanted to claim me in the basest way possible. But you, you, John want this." He jabbed viciously at his head. "You want to creep in here, know everything, have everything and if I won't let you in you're going to smash your way in there until you have every single part of me laid open."
"Sherlock, no. I don't want…Sherlock I'm your friend-"
John tried to back away but was held fast by one long, pale hand and the silvery maelstrom of Sherlock's gaze.
"Are you, John?"
"Just calm down-"
"Don't tell me to calm down. What you did to me earlier-"
"Look, I've already said-"
"You humiliated me." Both men went still. "You held me down, you put your hands on me and you made me-" Sherlock drew in one shuddering breath that seemed to suck all the air out of the room and then shoved him away. "And now-" he faltered then shook his head abruptly.
"What?" John moved his hand from arm to shoulder, trying to catch the other man's eye. "I made you what?"
Sherlock turned his head to regard the hand resting on his shoulder, face terrifyingly pale apart from a hectic flush over those sharp cheekbones.
"Of course," he said bitterly, "tediously self-interested, just like him. I remember now why I decided it was all a waste of my time." He shrugged him off and turned back to the window. "Go away."
"Stop this. Just…stop. I'm completely lost. All I want is for you to tell me what the hell is wrong!"
He flinched as Sherlock whirled on him. "You enjoy being my blogger, my sidekick, my knight in shining armour." His lip curled derisively. "You made yourself indispensible, made me need you."
"It's called friendship, you idiot!"
"Friendship," Sherlock's eyes were intent on his. "You're not my friend, John."
John swallowed convulsively against the tightness in his throat and ducked his head, suddenly terrified that Sherlock might notice and gleefully take the opportunity to twist the knife further.
"Fine." He nodded several times in succession instead. "You know what? Sod you. I can deal with being told how little I matter to you once, but twice…" he raised a hand and started to back away as Sherlock took a step towards him, face tight. "I'm going to bed."
"John-"
"If you know what's good for you you'll just leave it." He left without looking back.
In the darkness of his room he pulled off his clothes and climbed into bed, shivering despite the warmth of the evening. Sleep. Everything would be clearer with a bit of sleep. He turned over and reared back as something brushed his face. Fumbling for the bedside light he flicked it on and stared in confusion.
There was a pile of clothes on the bed, neatly folded and stacked, a peace offering on the altar of his duvet. Too tired to move it now. Tomorrow, he thought muzzily. I'll sort it out tomorrow. He thumbed the light back off and closed his eyes wearily.
As he drowsed, a faint smell of cologne and chemicals drifted up towards him bringing with it the vision of a long white back. Sherlock's face was close to his, pupils blown wide and lips soft and parted. I wasn't lying when I told you what a stimulating companion you are. His knee pressed into warm flesh and he moved his lips into dark curls but this time Sherlock's moans and gasps and bitten off protests held a different timbre, one that in the heat of anger he'd missed before. The slender body writhing as he ground down rhythmically, whimpers becoming less pained and more urgent until it stiffened and shuddered violently beneath him.
John bolted upright in bed, flooding with heat at the memory, and stared wildly into the dark, only dimly aware of the sudden, painful stiffness in his underwear. The memory of ice blue eyes haunted him like a spectre - accusatory, angry, pleading, intense.
- you made me -
"Oh shit."