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Chapter 25: Kneeling

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The rest of the ride had been quiet. John had thought they would discuss everything once they were back in the hospital room, but the staff made a fuss about Sherlock having left without prior notice, and the moment he was back into bed the detective pretended to be fast asleep. John repressed a sigh and told himself they would talk the next day.

That did not happen either. At dawn, Sherlock was ready to go, and they took the first train to London. They didn't have one moment of privacy that would allow them to talk, and when they finally arrived at the flat, Sherlock left almost right away, saying he had to go shopping. It surprised John so much that he did not even have the reaction to hold him back or follow him. Sherlock never went shopping; the recourse to such an absurd excuse only evidenced how adamant he was to avoid any kind of conversation.

John panicked a bit after an hour of not seeing his friend, wondering if he could have done anything stupid. Just when he could no longer take it and had started typing a text to check if everything was all right, Sherlock walked back in and headed straight to the corridor leading to his room. This time, John jumped to his feet and stopped him, grabbing his uninjured arm gently, and forcing the detective to look at him.

"Hey. How long are you going to run away from this?"

Sherlock's face remained inscrutable.

"Can I take a shower first?"

The question was so unexpected John blinked, at a loss. Then he paled. Had Sherlock felt sullied all over again just from standing in the same room as Moriarty? Did he now consider himself dirty?

The taller man must have caught the flash of concern in his partner's eyes, for he clarified:

"It's just a shower, John. I'll be right back."

Which also meant: don't come with me. I want to shower alone.

John stifled the urge to hug Sherlock then and there, and never let him out of his sight again. Instead, he nodded, straightening up unwittingly, the military stance back. Sherlock gave him a small, small smile and disappeared into the bathroom.

John noticed he hadn't even taken off his coat.

xXx

As the hot water poured down on him, Sherlock shivered. He had spent the whole night trying to process what had happened – this new confrontation with the consulting criminal, the role of Sebastian, what John had been told – and to draw the consequences. It was devastating.

First of all, there was the fact that John had been kidnapped right under his eyes, or almost, without him being able to prevent it.

Then once he'd joined the little party, Sherlock had been shocked into his own powerlessness. Moriarty was wrong, Sherlock did have the power for powerplay: he could use his own importance in the madman's eyes as a means of dissuasion. Yet it remained the case that if Jim had wanted John raped, or anything else for that matter, he could have had it happen. Sherlock had been well aware of his trick. But John hadn't.

The ex-soldier's first reaction was to choose death over such a humiliation, but then after having seen Sherlock's face, he'd changed his mind and seemed to have concluded that rape was not too high a price to pay if he could still be with Sherlock.

And that, the detective found intolerable. That John would kill a murderer to save his life or that he would be willing to give up his own life to save Sherlock's was still coherent as far as John's personality was concerned: he was brave, had strong moral principles and one could logically deduce that he would prioritize a comrade's life over his own. This was in line with what he was: a hero, whose sense of duty and honour took precedence over his own life.

John's first reaction had been in accordance with this portrayal. But not the second. The second showed how much he had changed – how much he was willing to change – just for Sherlock's sake. Not as a comrade, but as Sherlock.

And then Moriarty had to go and tell him what Sherlock's true intentions were. It made the detective wonder what the criminal could have possibly told his friend before Sherlock even got there. What sick games had he been playing on his mind? Sherlock had been too scared to ask John until now, but knew he would eventually have to find out.

The most urgent issue, however, was that John now knew what Sherlock had been doing through his 'experiments': namely, tying him down to him in the worst possible way.

Sherlock's arm was hurting. He ignored it, only careful not to pour water on his bandage. The water was burning now, but Sherlock was still cold, so cold he didn't know where it was coming from: he couldn't even feel the warmth of the vapor surrounding him.

He never intended to treat John as anything other than a human being. Sherlock had never questioned his right to manipulate people, as it was always for the greater good (that is, solving the case at hand), and not out of pure sadism. Nor would he feel any joy basking in his own superiority over others and exploiting their weaknesses for the sake of it. It had just never interested Sherlock. He could not derive any pleasure from it, and that was one of the many reasons he did not get along with his brother.

But there had been no case this time. No need to drug John to test a theory. No need to create a situation in which he would forget his psychosomatic limp, thus getting rid of it for good. There had been no greater cause – it had all been for Sherlock, and for him alone. The awareness of this was so sharp he did not even think of denying the fact when Moriarty so deviously pointed out to the doctor his lover's "method".

Yet this wasn't even the worse part of it. Admittedly, there had been a goal (getting John addicted to him), and a most selfish one. But even more despicable was the fact that Sherlock had enjoyed it.

He shivered under the shower, and tried to pull himself together. But it was true. He had revelled in John's helplessness, had relished it dearly every time the ex-soldier had completely lost it under Sherlock's ministrations: it had been so reassuring, so warm and calming, restoring his own confidence. Giving him the impression that the situation was under control. And it had been, to some extent.

But not anymore.

Sherlock stopped the water and stood there for a moment, letting the iciness wash over him.

John always thought of him first, but Sherlock had never thought of John before himself. John had broken himself down, had humiliated himself by lapdancing for Sherlock, exposing every corner of his soul, just to save him. He had accepted the experimenting, accepted the risk to be played with. He had said he would stop touching Sherlock if Sherlock did not like it, and had considered the option of the detective doing whatever he wanted to him, but John not even being allowed to touch him. He had even suggested they stopped having sex altogether, if Sherlock did not want it, and said he would deal with his needs himself; that is, he wouldn't go to someone else.

Ultimately, John had even accepted to be raped, just because he had seen the grief in Sherlock's eyes at the idea of being responsible for his death – or just of him dying. He had accepted a life as a rape victim – and to him, being physically raped by a man surely was nothing less than what Sherlock had to go through in the Basement – because it would mean a life by Sherlock's side; because thus John could still live to love and protect him.

And all this time, what had Sherlock done for John? Nothing.

Everything he'd done had come second to his one aim, had been part of the means to reach that goal: keep John by his side as long as possible. He had never pondered whether this could be profitable to John or not. He had not examined whether it could destroy him, or hurt him in any way. John had seemed happy enough, and so it was all fine.

It hadn't even crossed Sherlock's mind that he was doing something "bad". He could so easily see right through everyone that manipulating people had always been second nature to him. And since he never desired anything for himself, he had never felt the need to contemplate his motives before acting: it was all part of a logical, rational attitude that dealt with mysterious situations in order to elucidate them.

As he dried his body, Sherlock wondered for a moment if what he had planned to do after the shower was not, deep down, still a means to get John to stay. The doubt almost prompted him to give up the idea and to throw John out immediately; but there was still something to be done, something very important.

For once, there was another goal, a greater one, that came before 'keeping John'. Sherlock still remembered his friend's words just before the Pool incident: "You'd be so happy together." John felt left out when he considered Sherlock's and Moriarty's superiority, and he may even have developed an inferiority complex. Jim always humiliated him, and always scorned him; calling him pet, and this time, even treating him like a dog.

There was no way John could not have suffered from it, all the more so as he must have felt betrayed by Sherlock, and terribly hurt to hear the truth from the consulting criminal of all people. Another genius, who knew something about Sherlock – and John – that John hadn't even noticed, even though he'd been the one closest to Sherlock all this time. How could he not feel like an idiot?

What had left Sherlock truly aghast, however, had been John's lack of reaction. He'd thought for sure that he would be furious, and quite rightly so. That he would snap and shout and ask him why he had done it, whether he had only been playing with him all this time, if he felt better now that he had succeeded in fooling him...

But John hadn't said a word. He hadn't left, either. So Sherlock could only find one explanation: he must still be in shock. It must have been more hurtful than insulting. He must be more broken than indignant.

And so Sherlock did not think he could be forgiven. But he was determined to convince John that he was worth a thousand Sherlocks and a thousand Moriartys all together.

xXx

John had turned his laptop on in an attempt to distract himself so he would stop pacing the room waiting for Sherlock. He was worried beyond words. The shower was taking such a long time, but he did not dare go and knock on the door, for fear of crowding his partner's space too much. It was so hard to draw a line and know when he was being more oppressive than supportive.

When he heard the door of the bathroom open, he could not hold back a sigh of relief, but kept his eyes on the screen pointedly. It would be better if he let Sherlock come to him, rather than jump on him at the first occasion to force him into a conversation he was so obviously reluctant to have.

Consequently, John did not truly see Sherlock before he was standing right in front of him – or rather, kneeling down at his feet. Dropping the pretence, John pushed his laptop to the side and looked at his friend.

And froze.

Not only was Sherlock kneeling before him: he was also stark naked, except for a spiked collar around his pearly neck, attached to a leash he was holding out to John. His other hand was extended as well, presenting a bottle of lube. His face was unreadable.

"Sherlock, what the hell are you–"

"You're not a dog," the detective interrupted.

John's eyes widened. Was that what this was all about?

"Oh God, Sherlock–"

"No, listen to me. You're not a dog, and I never intended to treat you like one."

"Sherlock–"

"But what he said was true."

John fell quiet and searched the pupils of his friend. Sherlock did not bat an eyelid, simply going on.

"I manipulated you so you would become addicted to me: my body, my touch... Whatever worked out. I observed you, deduced your kinks and fantasies, explored your body always with the intention to control it and use pleasure to make you dependent on me. So you'd come back for more."

John's gaze was piercing him, but Sherlock did not waver. This was his punishment. He had no right to wallow in self-pity: he'd brought this upon himself, after all.

"But I never considered you as anything other than a man. I never thought of you as a... a pet."

He almost spat the word, and averted his eyes in disgust.

"No matter what he said, no matter what I did... Your worth is far beyond the concept of 'clever'." He forced himself to look back up straight into John's eyes. "You are the best man I have ever met. You are the only hero I have ever met." And I am certainly not one.

But he did not utter the words. It may have sounded like a plea, as if he were asking for sympathy. And Sherlock wanted none.

"I won't manipulate you tonight," he said, never unlocking their gazes. Then, in a definite tone: "Do whatever you want."

John did.

Sherlock did not see the punch coming, and it sent him straight to the ground. He breathed in deeply, trying not to gasp, because whatever was coming, he deserved it. But when he looked up John was gone. He came back a second later from Sherlock's room with a sheet and a blanket, gathering the detective in it very gently, holding his bandaged arm before bringing him to the couch. Sherlock wondered idly why he hadn't brought him to the bedroom, if he liked the sheet and blanket so much.

John then took the lube from him, but put it down on the table. He reached towards Sherlock, who did not recoil or wince. He just waited for John's gesture, accepting it already whatever it was – be it a punch or a strike. John's hand came to rest on his throat, and Sherlock made an effort not to close his eyes. He was stunned when John simply unleashed him, putting the collar away.

Well. Whatever he wants, Sherlock thought.

John stood up and went to the fridge, coming back with ice. Sherlock watched in silence. His mind must have been a mess already, for he did not deduce the doctor's intention before the ice was pressed to his face gently, where John's fist had hit him.

"I'm sorry I punched you. But you deserved it," he commented.

Sherlock did not answer. Something in John's eyes shattered, and he buried his face in the blanket, embracing his friend wordlessly.

John's consternation was so overwhelming it took him a while to find his voice again.

"Did you think I needed you to do something like that to know that I was a man and not a dog?" he tried to ask playfully, failing miserably. Then, since his friend was not responding: "Sherlock, please talk to me."

"I did."

John shook his head.

"Is that why you took a shower? To prepare yourself so I could have my way with you? Do you really think of me as such a man?"

Sherlock shivered, a flash of sheer fear traversing his troubled blue eyes. He hadn't meant to offend John.

"I wasn't trying to add insult to injury," he stumbled.

"Please, Sherlock..."

John wrapped his arms more securely around him, but not enough to make him feel trapped in any way, and sat back to look him in the eye.

"Don't let him break you again."

"He didn't break me! All he said was the truth. Only the truth..."

"Shh... It's all right."

"Of course it's not all right!" Sherlock bellowed, exploding at last. He pushed John back. "Did you even hear what he said?"

John's gaze hardened, and Sherlock faltered.

"I hear you. And I heard him."

"Then how can you not be angry?"

"I am."

Sherlock just stared, at a loss.

"I'm angry that you thought what I couldn't deal with was the humiliation of having been manipulated. You should know I'm used to that by now. I live with you, after all."

Sherlock squirmed, looking away to hide his confusion. Gently, John made him look at him again.

"Do you think you were the only one thinking all night? I've been thinking, trying to understand your reasons."

"John–"

"Just let me finish. You must understand, I was more hurt than irritated. Do you understand why?"

At the admission, Sherlock felt so ashamed he wondered how he could have ever thought that physical shame was the worse to deal with. This was so much more unbearable than being ashamed of his own body.

"Because you trusted me and I manipulated you," he let out in a low voice.

"No."

Sherlock blinked. No?

John took a deep breath and pressed Sherlock's hand in his.

"Because it means you do not trust me," he explained.

The consulting detective turned this in his mind for a second before grasping the meaning of it.

"You do not trust me when I say I will never leave you," John went on.

"Every single lover in history has made that ridiculous vow!" Sherlock snapped. "It is basic romantic rhetoric. I'm not saying you do not believe in your own words, but no one can reasonably promise such a thing. Uttering it does mean something – namely, that presently you are quite infatuated with me – but it doesn't tell us anything about the future."

"But Sherlock, don't you know me by now? Can't you tell that I'm not lying?"

"You're not getting the point."

Sherlock felt his hand become colder and colder the more John pressed it. This was not getting anywhere.

"Look, John... I think it would be better if you moved out."

"And I think you're just scared and it's fear talking."

Sherlock stared, incredulous. John brought his other hand to wrap it around Sherlock's, and started to rub it so as to warm it up.

"You're scared because for once your deducing skills cannot tell you for sure that I won't leave. In fact, statistically speaking, you are right to say that very few couples remain as such until the end of their life. You're scared because you cannot be certain, nor can you just believe me blindly: you're not one for faith, or even for trust. So you did the only thing that seemed rationally, scientifically likely to ensure I stayed with you for as long as possible. Chemistry, was it?"

The detective looked away, unable to bear John's gaze on him. With a gentleness and a tenderness Sherlock was not ready to face, John slowly sneaked under the blanket and embraced him, pressing their bodies closer, nuzzling up to him. He let the smell of Sherlock surround him, rested his head on the pale chest and let his heartbeats hammer the proof of the detective's life into his very flesh. And as he did so, he thought this man was worth all sacrifices.

"It's fine," he said finally, rocking their bodies together slightly as he stroked his partner's back. "You can keep doing it, since it reassures you."

After the first few seconds of shock, Sherlock felt himself suddenly fill with bemusement and indignation all at once. He choked, not knowing what to say, no longer even knowing what to do. John kept caressing his back soothingly, as if understanding the wrecking passions that were flooding him.

"How can you...?" Sherlock finally asked in a croaked voice.

"I'm already addicted to you, Sherlock. Addicted to the marrow. But it's true you're not psychic, and even you can't deduce the future for sure. So, if it reassures you..."

Sherlock did not know what to say. He thought John was being stupid, so blind, so foolishly in love with him... John kissed his chest and said:

"If it reassures you, I'm ready to go along with it."

"You do realize I'm denying your freedom as a person."

"No. I realize you are so scared of my freedom as a person that you want to train me so I will physically, necessarily be dependent on you."

"Exactly!"

"But you enjoyed it, right?"

Sherlock stiffened in the embrace and the air caught in his throat.

"You did enjoy it – touching, being touched – beyond just this crazy goal of yours, right?"

"I did..." Sherlock confessed brokenly.

"Then it's all fine," concluded John.

Sherlock did not comprehend how it could possibly be fine. He felt exhausted and overly thrown off.

John on the other hand understood perfectly the state his friend was in, as well as his mindset. He should have guessed Sherlock would react in such a way to the trauma. The detective did not even realize that his attitude betrayed his need for John, the desire to possess him all for himself, and to never let him go: something which was, in fact, much more romantic than any rhetoric John may have used. Sherlock did not understand the concept of love, so eternal love would definitely not make sense to him: but means to make John's presence by his side last as long as possible did make sense.

True, John still did not like Sherlock's "method"– at all. He wanted them to be equals, so they could share the same world; to understand and to trust each other. The fact that Sherlock felt the need to manipulate him only showed how insecure he truly was. But knowing that Sherlock's ultimate goal had been to keep him by his side, John could not help but feel warm inside. With time, he hoped Sherlock would come to realize he did not even need such means.

The only thing Sherlock was presently realizing, though, was that John had no idea of what he was doing. Or rather, he had all the elements and was well aware of the situation, but still acted stupidly. It did not make any sense.

"You were so angry when I experimented on you in Baskerville," Sherlock pointed out.

"Well, at that time you made me believe I was stuck in a room with a monstrous hound and that I was bound to die a horrible death."

"But it was to solve the case and expose the true murderer."

"This time," John continued, ignoring him, "you must admit the whole experimenting was a little more pleasant."

Sherlock stared. Was John taking him for a fool? The detective knew full well that the ex-soldier would not consider so much the nature of the means than the overall picture, and in both cases, it was undeniable that he had been completely manipulated. In fact, he should be even angrier this time, since the means used, even if more pleasant, had been much more intimate and so degrading too. Not to mention there had been no murderer to expose, but just Sherlock's own selfishness...

John was watching his friend's face closely, still pressing their bodies together and caressing his back, trying to becalm him. For once, he could follow the consulting detective's turbulent thoughts on his face, and interrupted:

"You know I can't consider it the same way. Before the Basement, I probably would have taken it quite badly, but–"

"Is that it, then?" Sherlock cut in. "You are pitying me?"

"Sherlock, no–"

"You think that because I was traumatized, it is only natural for me to be scared as you say and so you forgive me more easily because this time I have an excuse?"

"Sherlock, listen to m–"

"Oh now that explains why you're treating me so differently," Sherlock interrupted again, his tone acerbic.

"Sherlock!"

He jumped in John's arms and froze. But now he too was irritated, and fixed blazing eyes on his partner.

"Why are you so angry?" John murmured, stroking his cheek and ear.

Sherlock looked away, but John's hand continued to caress the back of his head and nape of his neck.

"You're acting like I'm a different person," Sherlock finally said between gritted teeth. His voice came out as a tremor. "Because he touched me, you–"

"No! No. It's just... Look, before the Basement, if for any reason we had begun a relationship – I mean, a sexual one – you probably wouldn't have felt the need to manipulate me, right? Or at least you wouldn't have felt bad about it."

Sherlock blinked, then retorted candidly:

"I don't know. I can't imagine us together like this before the Basement."

This time, it was John's turn to freeze and feel extremely cold.

"I thought you would thank me, you know, for having reduced Sexy to such a mess he'd fall right into your arms. And pants, incidentally."

"You tortured my best friend!"

"Which resulted in you finally being able to shag him."

"John?" Sherlock asked, slightly concerned.

But John did not answer. His gaze was lost in space, and his body growing colder every instant as realization dawned upon him.

Moriarty had been right, of course; so did this mean that John was indeed feeling guilty, and it was guilt that made him so lenient on Sherlock's behaviour?

He shook his head. No, the consulting criminal had been trying to confuse him, he should not let him win.

"What did he tell you?"

John started and looked up at his partner, who was staring at him intensely.

"What did he tell you before I arrived?"

John searched Sherlock's gaze for a moment. He could see nothing there but worry and anger mingled with fear.

"Basically, the same as Mycroft."

"And you believed him."

"Mycroft isn't Moriarty, Sherlock. He's your brother, and he truly cares about you, even if it's in a weird way. He acted for your own good. As for Moriarty... It's different, but in any case it's a bit hard to tell yourself you're not in denial when two geniuses have exposed your behaviour in front of you."

"But precisely, John, they're geniuses. You can't take their words for what they appear to be."

John shook his head.

"But it's true, you know? You just said so yourself. You cannot imagine us together before the Basement."

"It doesn't mean you took advantage of me!"

Their eyes locked.

"Is that why you are forgiving me this so easily?" Sherlock finally asked. "Because you think you are even more at fault than I am?"

"I don't know," John confessed, and something broke in his eyes.

Sherlock could not longer take it and leant in for a sensuous kiss. He wished everything wasn't so complicated; wished he could just touch John without having to worry about him leaving or his own body being disgusting, wished John could touch him without wondering if he was not a monster taking advantage of the detective's weakness. For once, Sherlock wished they could just both stop thinking, because it did not lead anywhere: he wasn't used to thinking not leading anywhere. So he simply deepened the kiss gradually until he felt John melt under him, and melted himself.

"Take me tonight," he whispered against John's lips when they parted.

"Sherlock, how is that relevant to anything?!" John protested, even though he was quite evidently aroused.

"If you take me tonight, you'll know that I trust you, if not each and every one of your words," Sherlock argued.

"But–"

"And you won't be taking advantage of me, since I am willing."

Sherlock repressed a shiver at the words. Whether he trusted John or not, this was terrifying.

John sighed, shaking his head as a small smile played on his lips. He kissed Sherlock, and replied:

"I would still be taking advantage of you, just like the rest of the time. You were broken, and I–"

"And you broke yourself down to pieces so you could be with me! Seriously, John, how did they manage to persuade you that you took the first opportunity to have sex with me? You always thought of me first, even during the sex. You never, never thought of yourself, but I–"

"Shh," John whispered soothingly, covering Sherlock's throat and face with light kisses and hating the tension animating his lover's features. He wished he had the power to dispel it all; wished he was smart enough to convince Sherlock that it was all fine. "I love you," he whispered, for lack of a better phrasing. "I want to stay with you no matter what. Obviously, for now you want me to stay as well. I don't see where the problem is."

"The problem is that you were kidnapped again because of me, were ready to be raped because of me, were treated like some inferior being just because you are with me, and all this time I was manipulating you in the worst possible way to make you stay with me. Don't you see? You're already addicted John! You said it yourself. You have to go. You have to go, while I can still give you the chance to."

"I see," John commented thoughtfully. "So is that it? You prepared everything for me to have my way with you so you could make it up to me for the past week, and then you intended to throw me out for my own good? God, you really deserved that punch..."

Sherlock shifted and tried to get out of the embrace, but John did not let him escape.

"Please calm down and try to see this with clearer eyes."

The detective glared.

"You beguiled me to share the flat with you by curing my psychosomatic limp and coaxing me with the possibility of danger. Danger, Sherlock. Since when has dangerous become not good? This isn't even the first time I have been personally in danger because of my association with you: I was kidnapped by the Chinese Mafia, strapped with Semtex by a madman, threatened by CIA agents just to make you open a bloody safe..."

Sherlock was trying to get away more forcefully with each passing second, but John held him back gently yet firmly.

"See? That's why it is obvious to me that the Basement changed you – and for God's sake, Sherlock, it is only natural, and nothing to be ashamed of! You're just uncertain for now, but your confidence will come back. It's already started to."

"Fine."

John looked up to him in surprise, tilting his head to the side.

"Fine?"

"Yes, fine. You're right. Perhaps I am a bit... I wouldn't say scared, but..."

He averted his gaze in annoyance, and seeing the light pink tinge spreading across his cheekbones, John had to resist the urge to smother him with kisses.

Soon however Sherlock turned his eyes to John again, and added:

"But I still want to show you that I trust you. That you are not inferior to Moriarty or to me."

"Sherlock. I can't do this."

Something shattered in Sherlock's pupils, and John groaned.

"Don't take me wrong, you idiot. I am still hard from just seeing you with that damned leash and collar, bare and kneeling. But I can't do this, because you don't want it for yourself. You are just using it as a means to prove your trust, and it would, in fact, really prove it. But it would be horrible on my part to go along with this. I want you to want it. Not for me, but for us."

Sherlock growled something incomprehensible, in which John still caught the word "stupid", and catching John's hand, brought it down to his own groin. His flesh was flaccid, and John tried to take his hand back, definitely persuaded that Sherlock could not possibly want this, and ashamed of his own feral reaction. But Sherlock held his hand in place, and closing his eyes, took a deep breath. Slowly, John felt him quiver against his palm, then rise and harden little by little.

Rendered speechless by the fascinating twitch, John stopped trying to remove his hand. He wasn't even stroking or rubbing. Sherlock was getting aroused from the contact of John's palm through the sheet alone.

"Sherlock–"

"I do want you," the detective cut in, trying to dissipate his embarrassment. "I want you, beyond any motive or interest." He paused, then forced himself to look up. "So won't you have me?"

xXx

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tbc