CHAPTER II:
FREEDOM
"Silence can mean anger, hostility, disinterest, or any number of other emotions"
"As always, John, you see but you don't observe."
A statement. Sherlock Holmes is not asking, he is stating. His eyes are not watching, his grey eyes are burning John's skin and his voice is not being listened to, it's killing John. He sees the white tears coming down those blue eyes and for a second, just for mere seconds, Sherlock fights the urge to stand up and run. He fights that unconscious urge which tells him to run after his husband and tell him everything is going to be OK, that he loves him and he has never stopped doing so. Sherlock wants to hug John, he wants to kiss him, but when a nose bleed appears in plain sight and when John hurries down the stairs and leaves, Sherlock realizes he cannot do it.
He just can't.
Family is the most important thing in someone's life; it's where we come from. And it is what we build with the person we love. Family is all we have in the end, and he remembers his old landlady's voice.
It was such a big mistake to invite Victor to come over. Stupid, Sherlock, stupid. Why come to Baker Street? Another cheap hotel would have done. But no, once they met in that cafe in the opposite side of the city, Sherlock hailed a cab and he took Victor to the flat.
They fuck on the sofa, because the bed is too cold.
As soon as Sherlock makes Victor follow him to his room, he is determined to strip his own clothes off his body, maybe, just maybe smoke a cigarette and then let the man touch his skin, his curls and fuck his body. However, as soon as Sherlock feels those wet lips on his neck a thought haunts him. He sees his shadow, he sees him there, lying dead on that bed, as in his dreams and can't handle it. He can't handle being fucked on their- his bed, and he insists on going to the sitting room and using the sofa.
Victor asks him if he can't do it because of his dead husband. Sherlock shakes his head.
"The bed is too cold."
They are wild, rough. The consulting detective does not like to be caressed or touched in any sentimental and romantic way. His skin has the traces of those old touches his husband has left on him, and he does not want anyone to erase them. Because Sherlock Holmes treasures those touches. He treasures them because he knows John will not touch him again. He has lost his chance a long time ago.
Stupid Sherlock, you know it. You heartless bastard, you know it but you know you are too cowardly to admit it, you are too cowardly to say it out loud. You are just too much of a coward to stop this, run to your husband and ask him for redemption and forgiveness.
Sherlock loves John, but his mind is playing a dangerous game. A dark, stupid and senseless game in which he is the man in charge of the strings of John's life. One false move, and John dies. His mind is playing a game which Sherlock will lose, because convincing himself that he does not love John anymore, means he has to shoot John with a gun aimed directly and indirectly to his heart.
Why? - you ask why he does this. Sherlock does this because he is Sherlock Fucking Holmes. He can't allow himself to have feelings. For him, those ten years married to John are nothing. He feels ashamed of his weakness, because for him, loving John and being loved by him are reasons enough to feel ashamed of himself. Sherlock Holmes should not have allowed himself the touches, the kisses, the ring, the promises and the 'I love you's'.
He blames John Watson. John is the only one to blame. He is the one responsible for those ten years of submission to his touches. Sherlock craved his touches, his kisses, his love. But now, he is the one making John suffer that feeling, that craving. John will feel the desire burning his own skin as Sherlock always did.
Is that enough punishment?
They are not facing each other. Victor is just lying against the soft and worn material of the sofa. He has pale skin, very pale, he is indeed as pale as Sherlock. So when the consulting detective buries himself deeper and deeper inside his lover, he faces that long and pale skin of Victor's back.
It reminds him of John.
Suddenly, he is not fucking Victor. The man in front of him is not Victor. The head is not dark, is blonde. Those deep moans are not Victor's. Those bony hips he is touching while he thrusts are not Victor's.
Victor is not Victor. Is John. And Sherlock is not fucking Victor.
Sherlock finds himself making love to John.
He grabs what he thinks is John's blond, soft and short hair and lets his own fingertips dance over that head. His cold touches on the man's bony hips are soft now and Sherlock presses his body to that large spine. His violent and wild movements are slow and caring, almost passionate. Victor turns his head to face the detective. This is not the usual Sherlock. And he sees that as soon as the man presses a soft and loving kiss to his lips and moans his dead husband's name.
John.
Victor moves away. He moves and he lets Sherlock know his mistake. Both naked and randy men look at each other and Sherlock asks him to leave. Then Sherlock Holmes dresses himself, takes a last look at the sitting room and storms out Baker Street. He leaves the ring on the floor.
John is going to see it.
A black car is following him, and this time he knows he will not avoid it. The brother will do it again, he will take him to his office to give him a proper lecture about marital life, the good behaviour John expects from him and the moral rules he is breaking.
Mycroft enumerates the reasons why his actions are harmful not only for him but for his husband and life as he knows it. The member of the British Government hands him a folder full of John's pictures: John walking down the streets, John doing the shopping, John arriving at his place of work, John sitting alone on a bench in the park, John eating alone at Angelo's, John fighting a strong nosebleed outside Baker Street.
Mycroft assures him neither of them needs to be a doctor to see that that man is dying.
"Do not stick your nose in where it does not belong, Mycroft,"
The older brother sits facing the young man and smiles weakly and bitterly.
"Sleeping with that old acquaintance, brother? Still frequenting those cheap hotels? Well, at least you are not injecting yourself,"
Sherlock twists his mouth, "Jealous?"
Mycroft collects the photographs from his brother's hands and he finally takes a long sip of his mid-morning tea.
"Jealous of you ignoring the only man who truly loved for who you are? Ha, no. Brother, you have to understand that neither your sexual life nor your sex partners are a matter of national importance to me,"
Sherlock's mobile announces a new text. Lestrade has a new case and he is more than willing to go to offer his own help.
"Stay away from us."
The consulting detective warns his brother as he stands up from his seat to leave. Mycroft manages to curl his lips. Somehow his little brother said 'us' instead of 'me and John'. He's thinking about them as 'us'. For now at least.
Let's see in the future.
Stupid Lestrade. Stupid Lestrade and stupid police officers of the Met. Stupid case and stupid witnesses.
Nothing was supposed to lead him to jail. He is not supposed to be there, behind those cold and ugly bars. He was helping Lestrade and his brainless team for goodness sake!
Lestrade warns him that he is going to call John first time in the morning. Sherlock answers back and orders him to call Mycroft, he certainly prefers to be taunted by his brother to get the papers signed instead of having his own husband there. Is he embarrassed? Sherlock thinks he is not. But it is all the opposite. He is humiliated by his own behaviour, he thinks he is not, he believes he is not, but he is. The D.I. shakes his head and tells him it is late and that his husband must be sleeping.
The consulting detective catches what Greg means. He knows Lestrade knows. Of course he knows.
But does John know?
Sherlock does not sleep that night, instead, he waits. He sits and waits quietly inside that jail for John to set him free. Wait, repeat that. Set him free? Yes, you heard perfectly. Perfectly well indeed. Sherlock needs John to set him free tonight.
After hours and hours just being motionless, thinking, cleaning his hard drive of useless data and files, he hears people talking. And they do it loudly, very loudly. Even from the jail, he hears people talking to John. And he also hears John talking to people. The last thing he hears is the rain.
It is raining.
Sherlock sighs and breathes loudly. Minutes have passed since John arrived, and Lestrade should have opened the door for him by now. He should have been walking free around the city long time ago, but John is delaying it. Of course John is delaying the moment in which he signs the papers to set him free, he is doing it because he wants to enjoy it, he wants to savor the moment and treasure it. Of course John wants to do that, Sherlock believes. The consulting detective thinks he is doing it on purpose, he thinks he will comment it to all his damn friends, to all the stupid police officers and maybe he will gain more dignity and he will speak to him and he will tell him. John will tell him he had to set him free, John will laugh at him.
And Sherlock thinks: if John laughs at him, he will tell him everything he already knows but chooses to forget. He will tell him about Victor, and about all the ones before him. He will tell him about the cheap hotels, the rough and wild sex, he will even tell him that he is not sexually satisfied with him anymore. He will tell him he wants a divorce, he will tell him he regrets their marriage - the civil partnership, he will tell him he wants him to disappear from his life. He will also tell him he wants him to be dead.
Lestrade appears, and he plays with the bunch of keys he has. He tries all of them, and Sherlock looks at John while the D.I. has all his attention on the keys. For seconds, they hold their gazes. They look into each other eyes and Sherlock smirks. He smirks and John looks down at the floor. John can't see him, he just can't see how his husband is looking at him. They have not looked into each other's eyes for so long, and when Sherlock does it and when he smirks, John wants to be dead and buried six feet under. It hurts him too much to see and know how much his husband wants to destroy him.
Once he is free from the jail, the three men walk together to Lestrade's office. The older man tells John the reasons why he had to be arrested while he hands him the papers John needs to sign. Sherlock screamed and harassed a witness and tried to steal some evidence from a police car. Here is where John makes a mistake. John laughs at Lestrade's comments and he says something he will not regret. He will not regret it, because he knows Sherlock will do things later, to get revenge. But when he only says "The usual," and Sherlock looks at him coldly, with a hatred no one has ever seen before, it is clear what will happen tonight. The D.I. sees this, but he does not say anything. John sees this and does not say anything.
John signs the papers, both are free to go. The doctor has played his part, now Sherlock will play his. So when the blonde man hails a cab and gets in, he is surprised when Sherlock follows him and sits beside him.
The car journey is long, and it is pleasant and devastating in its own way. But once they are inside Baker Street, everything starts as soon as John puts the kettle on. He is standing with his back to his usual armchair and Sherlock decides he is going to say everything. He is not going to keep it to himself anymore. He is going to let John know everything, even if he knows his own words are a death sentence and the man who will listen at them will die tonight.
Sherlock tells him everything. He starts saying all the things he has wanted to say. He yells at his husband all the things he had on his chest. He tells John the truth that John knows, but somehow has chosen to forget a long time ago. Sherlock tells John that he is useless to him, that he is nothing but rubbish, he tells him he has been looking for the excitement John had not been offering in cheap hotels. He tells him about the lack of sexual desire and he mentions Victor. He does not care for his language, but he enumerates all the orgasms he has had without him. Sherlock also tells him he's making his brain rot, that he has deleted him long time ago from his hard-drive and that he makes him feel sick. And he signs a death sentence by saying what he thinks he will not regret, but deep inside he knows he will.
Sherlock will regret it.
Oh god, he will regret it.
Sherlock tells John that he is already dead for him.
However, Sherlock wants to explode when he sees John smiling and falling on his worn armchair. It looks like he has not been listening, and for a second or two the consulting detective thinks his husband has gone blind, deaf and mute. Sherlock goes back in time, and he realises all the words and facts he has given John. They should have hurt him, John should be crying, on his knees begging at him to stop this and come back, be the couple they used to be. He thinks John should be asking him to leave Victor, asking him to be together again. But guess what, Sherlock Holmes? John is not doing any of it.
John is just smiling. And he smiles because he did not hear a word of what Sherlock said because he can't listen to all the things his eyes had not seen. As they say, eyes that not see, heart that does not feel. John had not seen all those things; therefore, his heart can't feel the pain Sherlock wants John to feel. This makes the young man convulse. He wants to make John suffer, Sherlock wants to make John feel like him, like the piece of shit he is, but John will not give him the pleasure. Because Sherlock does not know what else to do to destroy John. He is human, he must have a weak point somewhere. John is human, boring, he belongs to the average, he's dull and therefore, if it is not his heart, then what is it?
The detective grabs John by the collar of his shirt, he pushes his body and his light weight until John's back is against the nearest bookshelves. He makes John hit his head against an old and fat book and for the first time since they have arrived, John blinks and two tears fall from his blue but sad eyes. Sherlock raises a hand to the air. His fist and his bony, white knuckles are ready to hit John's face, but he stops. Sherlock stops his hand as soon as he sees John's eyes. Those blue orbs are wet, and begging for mercy.
The kettle is boiling.
He takes his coat and goes out, his mind his ruling over his heart and he's wondering what has happened to him.
AN's: Thanks to librarianmum for being my beta!
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