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Chapter 7: Catching (1)

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Lestrade did not just do what Mycroft Holmes told him to. However, he'd never gone up against him. Well, there's a first time for everything, he told himself as he crossed the threshold of the Diogenes Club. He knew the way to Mycroft's office by now, and knocked firmly twice on the door before going in uninvited. Mycroft was on the phone and frowned up at him.

"I will call you back later tonight."

He hung up quite suddenly and stood up to meet the D.I.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Where is John?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You'll probably have to beg Sherlock's, not mine. Where is he?"

Mycroft sighed dramatically and gestured Lestrade to a seat. The D.I. did not take it.

"He is perfectly fine, I can assure you. He should be back safe and sound in about six or seven hours."

"What in the world is wrong with you? You can't just go around kidnapping people!"

The British government frowned majestically and his lips curved into a contemptuous smile.

"I would advise you not to meddle in business you do not comprehend. It could possibly lead to disastrous results – both for you and the people concerned."

"I want to see him. Now."

"I'm afraid that's not going to be possible."

"Oh yes, it is. I will come back with police officers if you do not show me to him right now."

Mycroft shrugged.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Have you seen Sherlock? Have you seen him?"

"No. But tell me, I'm interested."

Lestrade froze, his face falling in disbelief.

"Is it what this is all about? Seeing how Sherlock reacts to John being kidnapped? Are you insane?"

"He doesn't think John's been kidnapped."

"No, he thinks he's left him, which is even worse! I can't fathom how he could possibly believe such an outrageous..."

Again, he stopped as something dawned on him.

"You took his belongings."

Mycroft smirked.

"You're getting better at this, inspector. Why don't you go and put your skills to use for something more important to the country than Dr. John Watson?"

"He's a British citizen, for God's sake! He's a person! You can't kidnap people as you please."

"Yes, well, you've made that point quite clear already, and I've told you I do not kidnap people. Now, if you could please be on your way, I am a busy man..."

Lestrade glared in exasperation.

"Fine. I'll just go around shouting his name until he hears me."

"That would be rather pointless, I assure you. You would only be sent away more forcefully than if you just left now."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because I care for my little brother."

"Oh, so you take away the only man who can bear living with him, who always stood by his side faithfully, who's probably saved his life countless times and wouldn't hesitate for one second to give up his own for him, all because you care for your brother?"

"Exactly."

"This is just preposterous!"

Mycroft looked at him icily.

"I do not expect you to understand. Now please leave, or I will have no choice but to call security."

Lestrade shook his head, his fists clenching and unclenching as he seemed to be debating something internally. That infuriating man could crush his career on a whim, and he knew it. Finally, he snapped. "Sod it! You're the one who leaves me no choice."

He took a deep breath and brought out his badge.

"Mycroft Holmes, I am arresting you on suspicion of the abduction and false imprisonment of Dr. John Hamish Watson."

xXx

John had given up demolishing the door about an hour ago and was now drowning in a sea of doubt and confusion.

What Mycroft had said was technically true. He did have sex with Sherlock the very day he'd been raped – even if there had been no penetration, neither in the morning with Moriarty, nor with him at night. He firmly believed what he'd done wasn't just sex, and if it had ended up being also that, it was because Sherlock had been more than willing. Or at least John still believed so before he was kidnapped and told a few home truths by Big Brother.

Now he wasn't so sure. Sherlock had never shown any interest in sex except with Irene Adler. John knew he cared about him, as he was his closest friend – the only one, according to him – but he never said or did anything that might suggest any further attraction. He cared for him enough to play Moriarty's little mind games and dance in the palm of his hand so John wouldn't be shot or tortured, but such devotion was perfectly conceivable in friendship. John should know. He'd been to war, and knew what true comradeship was. He had never shared such a bond as he had with Sherlock with anyone else, but it wasn't absurd to think a man would give his own life to save that of his best friend. This didn't necessarily imply romantic involvement.

Had he truly taken advantage of Sherlock when he was at his weakest? Was he glad to be the only one who could fix him, because he'd been the one Moriarty had used to break Sherlock down to pieces? John shivered. Maybe he was. Maybe he had taken advantage of him, cowardly persuading himself it was for Sherlock's own good when in fact it was all just for himself.

Mycroft was right too when he'd said that John must have enjoyed feeling needed and in charge. He'd enjoyed it. Even worse, he had been turned on in the basement as Sherlock was being psychologically tortured and brought to his knees, and the dance that had cost him so much had been beautiful and ridiculously arousing in John's eyes.

Surely he couldn't have been completely wrong about his way of treating the trauma... It felt so right when he'd done it, all of it... Okay, so lap dancing hadn't felt especially right at first, it'd been awkward and humiliating, but the moment Sherlock had dropped the gun and touched him, John had known he would do a thousand lap dances if it could give back to Sherlock his will to live. In fact, he would probably do anything for such an end.

Yet the thought did not assuage his guilt. He'd been so sure and determined this was the right thing to do when he was with Sherlock, but now that he'd been taken away from him, he started doubting himself. What if he was as despicable as Mycroft had described him?

He was suddenly roused from his self-deprecatory thoughts when the door was swung open and Lestrade burst into the room. John jumped to his feet.

"Greg? What are you doing here?"

"Destroying my career, I think."

"What?"

"Let's get out of here."

John followed him and resisted the urge to hug the D.I. As they walked briskly down the corridor, he asked:

"How did you know where to find me?"

Lestrade shrugged.

"A long acquaintance with the Holmes brothers."

"What in the world did you tell Mycroft for him to let me go seven hours early?"

"I think I just convinced him that Sherlock needed you more than he thought."

John felt his heart sink.

"Did something happen to him?"

Lestrade shook his head as they rushed into the police car waiting in front of the club.

"No, but I think it's high time he sees you again."

"What do you mean?"

Lestrade handed him his mobile phone, then his handgun.

"Here. Let's say I never saw the gun. Mycroft said he'd have the suitcase sent back right away."

"The suitcase?"

Lestrade sent him an anxious glance as he started the car.

"Yes. Your suitcase. With most of your belongings in it. Mycroft had it all packed yesterday."

"He what?"

xXx

Sherlock had felt very tired for once when he got back from the Met, but found there was nowhere he could sleep anymore. In his own flat. The couch he was so fond of and even his own bed were so full of memories he couldn't even sit on them without feeling John's hands on him, his heartbeats, his quiet chuckles, his scent... Of course, John's room was out of the question.

So he ended up falling asleep in a kitchen chair, his head and crossed arms resting on the wooden table. That's how John found him when he came running up the stairs and burst into their living-room.

"Sherlock!"

He turned and saw the sleeping figure jolt as he called his name. Their eyes met and Sherlock froze on the spot. His lost and innocent expression upon waking up and seeing John was immediately replaced with a mask of cold indifference. He straightened up and started to clear the table as if he'd been in the middle of a very complex experiment, and not sleeping off the pain of being walked out on.

"John. Nice to see you again. I was wondering when you'd come to take the things you'd forgotten. I took the liberty of gathering them and putting them on your bed upstairs. Hope you don't mind."

"Sherlock."

"Oh and remember to hand back your key to Mrs. Hudson upon leaving."

"Sherlock, I'm not leaving. Please, just listen to me."

There were many answers to that which crossed the detective's mind. Haven't I listened enough already? or What's the point? or You're not leaving? And so on. Too many words and emotions rushed to his brain and tripped it. He remained quiet and stared with eyes that were shut off from the world.

"I was abducted by your crazy brother last night as I was searching for you throughout London. He held me back all this time to prove a point. Fortunately Lestrade managed to convince him he was being a twat and I could come back earlier. Just..."

John's throat tightened as he saw the emptiness lingering on his friend's face. The damage was done. He wouldn't undo it with just a few words. Sherlock had believed all day long that John had left him.

He fell to his knees and embraced Sherlock's legs, burying his face in his lap, adopting a pose that was submissive, devoted and loving.

"You've got to believe me, Sherlock."

"You didn't leave."

"I didn't leave."

"Mycroft kidnapped you."

"He kidnapped me."

"I'm going to kill him."

"We're going to kill him."

He looked up at Sherlock and met his eyes filled with confusion, hope and fear. John pushed himself back up and straddled him, leaning in until their foreheads were touching, his arms around his back.

"Sherlock... how could you think I had walked out on you without saying anything? Hell, how could you think I had walked out on you?"

"It was only logical."

"No, it wasn't."

"You were gone. Your belongings were gone. You didn't answer your phone. Lestrade said he hadn't seen you, Moriarty said he didn't have you, Mycroft said–"

"Wait, you talked to Moriarty?"

Sherlock shook his head helplessly.

"Message. Website. Said he didn't have you."

"And you just believed what they all said?"

A flash of anger traversed Sherlock's gaze.

"Moriarty wouldn't have abducted you and then told me he hadn't, because the whole point would be for me to know. Lestrade wouldn't lie about this, and if he did I could tell. Mycroft... Mycroft."

His face darkened considerably, and never had John seen such hatred on his features.

"Mycroft could lie to me. I just didn't consider it because there was no motive. What did he tell you?"

John felt a shiver run down his spine, and he backed off a bit, feeling suddenly very out of place. Sherlock frowned imperceptibly.

"He wanted to keep me away from you for twenty-four hours to see how you'd react," John finally said, deciding it would be better for both of them not to hide the truth.

"Why?"

John shook his head.

"To prove a point."

This time, worry and annoyance were clear on Sherlock's face.

John swallowed and looked away.

"Look, Sherlock... I'm sorry if you felt like I was forcing myself on you. I didn't realize, I..."

"John. What are you saying?"

John bit his lip and tried to slip off Sherlock's lap to look him straight in the eye, but was surprised to feel a pair of long arms encircle him, refusing to let go.

"What did he tell you?"

"The truth," John let out in one breath. "I've taken advantage of you when you were at your most vulnerable. It made me happy to be the one who could fix you because I had been the one used to break you. I enjoyed being in charge. Even in the basement, I–"

"Stop. Stop right there. You said you wouldn't let Moriarty's stupid little mindgames get to you, that yes, you desired me in the basement, but did even before that."

"Yes, and all of that is true, but–"

"We both know you like being in charge and don't get to do it often when you're with me because... well, I like controlling too."

"Sherlock, that's not the same."

Sherlock pressed him closer gingerly, hardly believing he was allowed to feel this man again, to smell his scent, to hear his voice...

"Sherlock?"

"I'm worthless. While I was so foolishly happy to believe I had retained my mental capacities I was being tricked by my own brother and didn't even see it."

"Sherlock, you were tricked, as you said–"

"I shouldn't have been tricked!"

"Well, You shouldn't have believed that I had left. You know me better than that. Why did you think that?"

Of course, John knew. It was quite symptomatic. The fear of being abandoned, of being left alone behind as the other moves on... That fear was so insidious that it made you see it happen every time even the tiniest detail suggested it. Sherlock was so scared and so convinced that John would leave him sooner or later – and probably sooner than later – that he'd fallen for his brother's trick. John knew, and he knew Sherlock knew, and that this was exactly what Mycroft had been trying to prove. John bit his lip.

Sherlock was observing him closely.

"You're feeling guilt."

"Yes, brilliant deduction," John retorted, rather snappy.

"Why would you be feeling guilt?"

His voice was tinged with panic, as if he thought John had done something he was unaware of and which would justify the guilt. John just shook his head, wordless. Sherlock furrowed his brow and leant in until his lips were brushing against John's ear.

"Why..."

He bit the lobe and John gasped.

"Would..."

Another bite right under the ear sent shivers throughout John's body.

"You..."

The third bite, on his throat, sent a jolt straight to his groin.

"Be..."

The fourth, at the juncture between the neck and the collarbone, was enhanced with nibbling and sucking, and John whimpered as he thought of the lovebite it'd leave.

"Feeling..."

Bite number five fell on the right side of his throat near the jugular vein and the thrill and feeling of vulnerability it gave sent sparks down his spine – he couldn't hold back a moan as the heat in his groin became more distracting by the second.

"Guilt?"

John felt a sudden surge of panic upon seeing Sherlock's face loom over his.

His cry was lost under bite number six, which swooped down on his parted lips.

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xXx

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tbc