A.N.: I won't be able to update for a while, so I hope you enjoy this chapter! Well, as much as it can be enjoyed, I suppose...
As always, reviews are very appreciated :)
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xXx
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Chapter 30: Breaking
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The blackness was thick around him. Opaque and sickeningly palpable, it shrouded and stifled him. Insidious, cottony, it was slowly but surely asphyxiating him.
Then suddenly it was ripped and Sherlock gasped, hissing, trying to catch his breath as he was hit by the stench of sweat and blood. He felt a hand on his groin and screamed.
The world tipped over and he fell into the darkness again. He hit the ground, hard. The black was back, slimy against his skin, gungy under and above him. He tried to move and moaned at the sound his body, drenched with perspiration, made against the rubbery, squalid murk.
"Sherlock I swear to God if you ever do this to me again I will kill you do you understand?"
He groaned. Yes, he thought painfully, his head throbbing. I understand, John. He retched and squirmed helplessly as a hand came to rest on his stomach and another on his mouth, choking him, silencing his upcoming shriek.
"Should we call it power play? I know you have a weakness for that... Not that it's your only weakness, mind you."
The black was ripped again and Sherlock yelped into the fist that was suffocating him, yelped as the blade entered his skin, tracing a line from his chest to his shoulder. Darkness was drowned in a carmine sea of sweat and tears and semen. The palm on his belly was burning him. He bit down on the hand in his mouth and tried to rip it off. His eyes felt bloodshot and all he saw was a crimson haze. He bit and pulled and bit again, struggling like an animal, howling like one, blind in this vermilion fog against his now laughing opponent.
"Ooh, playful, aren't we? Come here, beauty, make nice ripples with your belly. Or do you want me to go lower?"
Sherlock felt his body shake uncontrollably. He retched. There was a shot somewhere and he tried to scream a name.
"But something's missing, isn't it? You need eyes on you to get off, don't you dear?"
Sherlock heard a glass shatter and his nostrils filled with the smell of red wine mingled with blood.
"No! Not like this. It isn't like this that I want to be cut."
That voice...
"Yes, Mr. Holmes. I would rather get cut on those cheekbones of yours. Would you like to have dinner?"
Sherlock shook his head, no, but soon found he was bound to a chair. Gagged. Trembling. His eyes searched the room for John.
"Tut tut, be good. I'll be gentle."
Red lips. Blood red. Sherlock felt drugged. "I'll make you beg tonight."
A gunshot. He tried to stay conscious, fought the drug. The needle was piercing him. Another gunshot in the distance. "Twice."
JOHN!
He gasped as he felt the riding crop replace the hand on his stomach and trace his hipbone before striking. Once. Twice. A hundred times.
"Sherlock. Feel like experimenting?"
Red lips. Red blood flooding from the gash in John's shoulder. Sherlock started to cry.
"I'm here, Sherlock. It's me. Everything's all right."
John's blood. His voice. Everything was red like her lips. Like the blood from the gush. Like...
Another gunshot. Sherlock arched his back, groaning, writhing under the mouth licking and sucking his chest, his stomach, and lower... His scream died in his throat. His body was racked with spasms.
"You are very, very, very sweet, Sherlock."
The blade lacerated the crimson velvet and Sherlock found himself unbound, floating in a white pool under an endless white sky. It was cold.
"You should allow yourself to feel, Sherlock. Don't cut yourself off from sensations."
A hand came to rest on the crook of his back, another on his right buttock. Resting there, with the assurance of an owner.
"Don't tense, Sherlock. Just let go."
The hand on his buttock started to grope, massaging more and more deeply; the one on his back crawled up his spine and circled his neck, fingers drumming on his throat, then falling to his chest to pinch a nipple. A mouth bit down into his shoulder from behind, at the base of his neck.
"You're the only one binding yourself. I promise you'll feel better."
His nipple was hardening and twitching under the onslaught and his head rolled back. The hand on his buttocks parted his cheeks and teased. Sherlock fidgeted and whimpered. Then suddenly something felt awfully wrong. He opened his eyes and saw John standing in front of him. His gaze was not accusatory and he moved closer as the hands on Sherlock continued their ministrations. John was walking towards him in the pool of whiteness, smiling.
"Sherlock... I'm not leaving you. Not now, not ever. "
He was right in front of him and cupped his face. The hand on Sherlock's backside plunged in and Sherlock felt a finger penetrating him deeply. He arched his back as the other hand rubbed his nipple unmercifully.
"I love you," said John. Sherlock screamed. The pool was shattered.
"You're just confused. This is mere chemistry, Sherlock."
Mere chemistry
Mere chemistry
Mere...
"I admire you so much."
This time the whiteness was familiar. A sheet. Sherlock grumbled something. He tried to open his eyes but found that he could not. John's scent hit him, and he relaxed on the mattress.
"Your courage is dazzling," whispered a mouth over his, brushing against his lips before kissing him wildly. Sherlock let himself be impaled by the devious tongue and noticed he was blindfolded. He tried to bring his hands to his face to get rid of whatever was preventing him from seeing John's face, and heard the clinking of handcuffs.
"Relax, it's just me. Sherl–"
A gunshot.
"JOHN!"
"You're being so dull, even Johnny here is more entertaining than you. Oops! Is he dead?"
"John, John, JOHN!"
"Shh. Calm down, sweetheart. His heart is beating. Can you hear his pulse? Not that his heart is the only thing throbbing, if you see what I mean..."
And then hands were on him again. Again. Again. Through his confusion and the intensity of the pleasure and the pain he saw John's eyes, a gun, a blade... Red, black, white swirled. There was a hand on his left buttock and a hand on his stomach.
"He's watching, dear, he's watching! Let's do a nice belly dance to please him, shall we?"
Sherlock was shaking, from fear, disgust, exhaustion, fury, arousal, he did not know. He felt dizzy with nausea.
"Here. Make nice ripples. Goood, you're good! I think Johnny boy will agree. Look at his face."
Sherlock shook his head, shut his eyes.
"LOOK AT HIS FACE!"
The blade pierced his shoulder, the gun was pressed against his head, the barrel cold, so cold...
"Good," Jim nodded in approval. "Have you noticed how his face's been changing? At first he was irritated, then confused, and at one point he was almost annoyed with you, thinking you might just as well get it over with so you two could get out of here quickly. But then I said strip, and his attitude changed rather drastically. Didn't you notice?"
It was hot now, too hot, the stench of sweat was almost unbearable, his arm hurt, the hands on him were making him sick, he wished the gun would shoot him dead.
"What do you think, Sherlock? Was it disbelief? Rage? Anticipation?"
A gunshot. Sherlock was hit by a train of blinding light.
"You were beautiful, and I never wanted you so much," said the familiar, warm, loving and beloved voice. Dazzled, shattered, Sherlock briefly wondered if it was that of an angel.
Then he felt a sharp pain on his buttocks. And again. He winced and moaned, pressing himself deeper into the grass and the earth, trying to get away from the whipping. Soon he realized from the leather smell and the sensation that he was being flogged with a belt.
John's belt, he mused when a second one was suddenly wrapped around his neck and slowly, deliberately, tightened.
"Most people aren't comfortable with their bodies, you know."
As the whipping continued and the belt around his neck was tightened at an agonizingly slow pace, a hand stroked his back soothingly. It was warm and gentle, the skin rough rather than smooth. John's hand. Sherlock moaned helplessly. Then brutally he was turned around, pinned against the earth, and everything went black. John was straddling him and tightening the belt and whipping his inner thigh with another one and the burning sensation was so overwhelming Sherlock did not stop to think how such feelings and maddening touches were physically possible. He felt John straddling him, his leaking hard-on pressed against Sherlock's stomach, a belt being rubbed against his shaft and between his buttocks, flogging his thighs, tightening around his throat, strangling him...
"Maybe you're everything, Sherlock."
Then a gun was shoved into his hand, and he was holding John at gunpoint. His eyes widened in horror. He was hot and cold and his head was throbbing, a heartbeat was hammering loudly, heavily, driving him to distraction.
"It is loaded. Two bullets."
A shot.
"JOHN!"
"Don't make me hit Johnny boy again, Sherlock. Unless that turns you on too? Doesn't quite fit with the bashful virgin image, but then again, nobody would have guessed you had such resources. Well, nobody except me." Moriarty grinned. His teeth were too white, blinding. Sherlock winced. Jim pinned him with his gaze and his pupils were too black. Sherlock started trembling.
"Let's get on with the show, then!"
No, Sherlock shook his head vehemently. No, I don't want to, not again, I have to wake up, I have to save John I...
"I owe you a dance."
Sherlock froze, chilled to the bone. Then he turned abruptly towards the voice. John was standing on a black stage under a spotlight. Sherlock saw only him.
"Please let me dance for you, Sherlock."
No, NO!
"Shh. Johnny boy will do his best to please you now. Don't fret. Won't you dance with daddy, love?"
Sherlock felt himself being engulfed in the darkness as the spotlight became brighter and brighter. He had to squint to see John's body move on stage. He felt Jim's body pressed against his from behind, grinding his hips, thrusting in a poor mimicry as he was revoltingly flaccid.
"Move with me, Sherlock. Come on, be good. You wouldn't want Seb to shoot our star, would you?"
"Ngh..."
"Shh. Good, that's good. Move your hips up. Yes, that's it. What a fast learner you make. John must be delighted. Who trains you the best, love? Me, or him? Oh, don't whine." He put his hand on Sherlock's thigh, digging his fingers in. "Come on, you can get harder than that! Look at John. Here, wriggle your hips. Yes, like that. Good, you're good, Sherlock."
Dripping with sweat, unable to escape the touch, Sherlock only wished the other would remove his hand, remove his hand now, now, NOW...
"Sherlock, your stomach ripples! Don't you stop them like that, Johnny boy will be disappointed. Here. Yes, that's good. Oh dear, and you said you didn't know how to do this. You're more endearing than a professional, you know?"
Suddenly the room was filled with light and Sherlock recoiled, stepped back, tried to hide, anywhere, away from John's gaze.
"No no no no no, Sherlock! You got your treat, now be nice and show your pet how good his performance was," Moriarty said patronizingly, petting his inner thigh.
"Why are you so scared of involving your body in this ability you have to 'dance'?" John asked from the stage.
"Are you scared of losing all your control in front of Johnny, Sherlock? Silly boy... You know and I know you know, so admit it already! You're enjoying this. And you know why, don't you, love? It's because he's watching. Yes, Sherlock. That's why you are so pathetically turned on. Didn't you say it yourself? Every genius craves an audience. Now, come."
Sherlock screeched as he was torn apart by the white hot blade of the knife, crushing the stage and the spotlight and his own body in a contrasting chaos of black and white. Moriarty shot him in the arm. Sherlock screamed.
"You're nothing, love," Jim murmured as he caressed his bloody flesh.
"You can learn to work with your body and turn it into an asset, not a weakness," came John's voice.
"Nothing, nothing, NOTHING!"
Sherlock retched and came again, blown away by a chalky tornado of undesired hands and tongues and voices. His body was ripped and bleached in an immaculate swirl of light. A gunshot. His ejaculation stained the sheet with inky black. Sherlock fought and struggled despairingly, trying to find something to hang on to as he was swallowed by a blistering chiaroscuro.
"Iloveyousomuch-pleaseneverleaveme-sherlocksherlock sherlock..."
"Pl... please..Sh... SHERLOCK!"
The glare disintegrated the shroud. Disintegrated all.
"I'm here," cut in John's voice. "Don't slip away. I'm here, Sherlock."
Sherlock woke up without emitting a sound, but sitting up so violently, pushing away the sheets and blanket with such haste and disgust, that John was awake even before his partner had jumped out of bed, his complexion more ashen still than the mattress he was fleeing.
"Sherlock?"
The taller man took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair; his curls were wet with sweat. He tried not to retch.
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine."
"Would you like me to get you some water?"
"I said I'm fine, John."
He started pacing the room feverishly, gradually slowing down his pace, until he had got back a semblance of composure. He checked his pulse, and, satisfied, returned to the bed. He lay down still, on the duvet, not getting in.
"Sorry," he mumbled, his voice barely audible.
"What are you sorry about?" John murmured, moving closer to him.
"I snapped at you."
John chuckled quietly.
"It's OK. I know what nightmares are like."
Sherlock swallowed, not replying. John had a pained look and averted his gaze. No you don't, said Sherlock's silence. You don't know. But he did. John was not thinking about the typical ex-soldier nightmares; and it hurt to see that Sherlock considered his dreams far worse than anything John could have dreamt of since the Basement. It hurt to think he was wrong; and it hurt to think he was right.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock repeated, bringing a hand to John's face. John leant into his palm automatically.
"I said it's OK," he answered with a small smile. He was relieved to see it mirrored on Sherlock's lips. His eyes lingered just a little too long on his lover's mouth and before he knew it he was drawn to it, leaning towards it... He froze when he felt Sherlock's palm on his torso, stopping him. His eyes widened slightly and he drew a deep breath.
"Sorry, I–" John floundered.
"Don't."
"I didn't want to–"
"I know."
"Sherlock, are you really all right?"
Not moving even an inch closer, John took Sherlock's hand in his, stroking the palm with his thumb.
"I'm fine, John."
"Do you want to talk about your nightmare?"
"No."
They fell silent. Lowering himself, Sherlock moved closer until he could snuggle up to John's chest, resting his head on his uninjured shoulder.
"How are your stitches?" he murmured.
"How are yours?" John countered. Sherlock smiled and his nose rubbed against his partner's throat. Not daring to kiss him, John simply nuzzled his curls and wrapped an arm around the pale, bare body that glistened with perspiration. Sherlock stiffened instantly.
"God, I'm sorry, I just don't know what to do, I–" John began, removing his arm. But Sherlock clutched the hand that was holding his and put his other hand on John's elbow, interrupting his movement. "Stay," he whispered, and John wondered if there wasn't some urgency in his voice.
"Of course. I'm not going anywhere. I just don't know what to–"
"You don't have to do anything."
Eventually, John settled on caressing Sherlock's hair in as soothing a manner as he could, and stroked the back of the hand he was holding, calming its slight tremor. The smaller man shifted a little to fit more comfortably against his partner's body for the rest of the night but halted abruptly when Sherlock moaned and buried his face deeper in John's chest to stifle it.
"Sherl..."
John gulped as he realized what had elicited the groan. How could he have not felt it sooner? Sherlock was hard. Very hard. John smiled. Slowly, very gently, he let his hand fall to the nape of his lover's neck and down his back. Sherlock tensed and a shiver ran down his spine.
"Don't," he whispered hoarsely.
"But isn't it painful?"
"Just don't. Please."
Not knowing what to do with his hand anymore, John simply let it fall back on the mattress beside Sherlock's back. Suddenly he felt very awkward. It did not help that Sherlock's erection was still pressed right above his knee. His throat felt dry. He swallowed.
"What are you thinking about?" Sherlock asked in a small voice, feeling John's heart pounding against him.
"Anderson in a bathing suit."
"What?"
Sherlock moved back a little to look John in the eye. The ex-soldier let out a sigh he didn't know he was holding. Sherlock was frowning at him.
"Don't give me that look!" he grumbled, fixing his gaze on the door as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. Heat was rising in his cheeks, and he could feel it.
The next moment Sherlock was giggling. John was so surprised he looked at him again. It was a mistake. The light from the street came in a stripe through the curtains, falling on Sherlock's profile. He looked exhausted, and beautiful. And suddenly he stopped. The room fell dreadfully quiet.
Sherlock's gaze was lost, staring out in emptiness.
"Sherlock..." John murmured. He didn't know whether it was the light or the silence or his lover's trapped and broken-looking eyes, but he couldn't stop himself. In a second he was around Sherlock, hugging him, kissing him, caressing the back of his head and his neck protectively, wishing he could take away all his nightmares from him.
Because he was so engrossed in cosseting him, it took him some time to become aware of the trembling.
"Sherlock?"
"Don't... Sorry... I..." came the muttered, incomprehensible reply.
"What?" John asked, holding his lover closer, unintentionally brushing his thigh against his erection. Sherlock let out a hiss and recoiled before suddenly shoving his friend away.
"I can't. John, I can't. I just don't want–"
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have–"
"NO! It's not your fault, it's just... I..."
"What can I do?" John asked, his voice breaking.
Sherlock shook his head, then shut his eyes tight, as if fighting off threatening tears. Or concentrating intensely on something. It seemed to last forever, but finally he opened his eyes again. They locked with John's for an instant, before Sherlock looked down.
"I... I'm sorry, it's just... The nightmare..." He trailed off, bit his lower lip. Took in a deep breath. "I just want to lie down with you. Is that all right?"
"God, Sherlock, of course it's all right!"
"I mean no touching."
John's eyes widened and he hoped it was dark enough for Sherlock not to notice.
"...Yes, of course."
Sherlock groaned.
"No, not like that... I meant..."
He growled, getting obviously frustrated – whether with himself or with John, John did not know – and fell back on the mattress.
"Lie down," he ordered. John complied without a word, careful to avoid contact. He therefore jumped when Sherlock huddled up against him once more, nuzzling the crook of his neck. John could feel his warm, irregular breath against his throat.
"You can stroke my hair," Sherlock mumbled against him. John felt the vibration of his voice on his skin.
The fondness that overwhelmed John almost choked him. Deciding that Sherlock would not appreciate any outpouring, and that a profession of boundless love was likely to scare him away, he simply leant in, wrapped his arms in a loose embrace around his friend, and resumed caressing his alluring curls. To get rid of his now much unwanted hard-on, he tried to imagine Sherlock as a very small child, four or five maybe, or seven or eight, it did not matter. His fiery blue eyes, his wild curls, his pouting mouth, his cheeky grin... He was adorable. It did help John with his erection, but not with the urge he felt to smother the beloved face with kisses.
"What are you thinking about?" came the rather sleepy grumble.
John smiled. This time, he did not answer.
xXx
At breakfast the next day, Sherlock was very quiet. Every time John stood up he eyed him warily, discreetly, and he glanced at the living-room door. John wondered whether he was afraid John would go out, or that somebody would come in. Sherlock had been on edge since the previous morning and still refused to see Lestrade, or to let John out of his sight. But on the other hand he was incredibly attentive to John's mood and gestures and every expression; he had forced himself to eat something without John asking him directly, just from the look he'd got when he had pushed away the toast; he had gone into the bathroom alone and had not insisted when John had said he would shower later because he needed a good cuppa right away.
Well, perhaps that was only because Sherlock did not want him in the shower, John mused gloomily. He had told him it should be all right with his arm, as long as he was careful with it; he would be happy to help, of course, but if Sherlock did not want to be assisted, then he could handle showering alone. John had taken a look at the stitches and they were fine. He'd still given Sherlock some painkillers over breakfast because he had heard his quiet whimpers in bed every time he rolled on his bad arm, and he had grimaced when he'd woken up, as if the first thing he had registered was the "annoying pain", as he called it.
John hoped it had been that. The way Sherlock had recoiled when he had touched him was still fresh in his mind. He knew it was because of the nightmare, or rather, because of the bloody trauma – there was no way he could forget it. Still, to him this was just confirmation of his fears. He had been hurt and shocked by the rejection, but even if he was just trying to help, he should have known better: when he had embraced Sherlock and kissed him the first time, there was no denying that he had rather thrown himself at him, even though Sherlock had clearly told him he did not want to be touched intimately. He had hugged him spontaneously. He had kissed him out of sheer fondness and love. Without thinking.
That was one way to see it. Or, maybe he had just been thinking about himself, and about what he wanted. He'd been stupid. It had been so natural the previous night when they had gone to bed together, so natural when they had kissed and touched, that John had forgotten how raw everything still was for Sherlock.
"You know," he began casually, taking a sip of tea, "I was thinking, we don't have to sleep in the same bed all the time, if you don't want to. Many couples don't," he added when he saw the look on Sherlock's face.
"Is this because of last night?" he asked quietly.
"No! No, it's not."
He went up to Sherlock and sat next to him.
"You're still thinking that I would have never wanted the sex before the trauma, that you're taking advantage of me, and–"
"No!" John lied. "No, I'm not. It's just.. I wanted you to know it was OK. We don't have to share the same bed, and we don't have to... do it every night, either. We can do whatever you want."
"Whatever we want."
Their eyes met. "Yes," John said slowly, "whatever we want."
Sherlock looked down at his tea in silence.
"And what do you want?" he said eventually.
John considered this for a moment.
"I want you to be comfortable around me."
"So this is about last night."
"No! Well, yes, maybe a little. But actually I think last night was an improvement."
Sherlock stared. Something like fear flickered in his troubled pupils.
"You pushed me back," John developed, taking another sip from his mug. "It's true you just stiffened at first, but... You shoved me away."
"I'm sorry," Sherlock repeated for what felt like the umpteenth time. His tone was bitter and tinged with despair - or perhaps self-hatred? John could not quite pinpoint it.
"Don't be," he replied firmly, taking his hand in his and kissing it.
Sherlock's phone vibrated and John was about to move back to let him see what it was, but Sherlock held his hand tightly, conveying that he should stay.
"It's just Mycroft. He's been trying to call me since dawn," he stated flatly.
John frowned.
"Why don't you answer? It may be important."
"Yes, he probably needs me to save the country again. Though I'm surprised he'd trust me with that now, after the failure of last time."
"It wasn't a failure!" John protested.
"Yes it was. The Woman lost, but Moriarty won. He got what he wanted."
"Not all of it."
"Yes, all of it," Sherlock said grimly, his tone final. John just dropped it.
"Well... You should probably answer anyway."
"Don't want to."
"Why? You don't have a case."
"I don't want one!" the consulting detective exploded. John scowled.
"Fine," he said, letting go of his friend's hand and standing up. Sherlock caught his wrist as he turned.
"Are you having second thoughts?" he asked.
John blinked.
"About this," Sherlock went on. Then, more tentatively: "About us."
John smiled and without warning, swooped on him, crushing their lips together. Sherlock was so startled he gaped into the kiss, and sighed in contentment as John's tongue slipped in between his parted lips. He vaguely registered John's hand on the nape of his neck, running fingers through his curls, massaging possessively, holding his head in place. His other hand ran down Sherlock's throat, shoulder and arm, all the way down to his hand. John caught it and laced their fingers together. Sherlock squeezed the hand in his, tilting his head back as John pulled on his curls, moaning softly. John broke the kiss and Sherlock could feel the smile hovering on his lips, brushing against his own mouth.
"Never," John whispered, and Sherlock, more than a little stirred up, had some difficulties remembering the question. John chuckled and let go of his hand and neck before turning away, leaving Sherlock rather breathless, and hungrier than he had ever been at breakfast. On the table the mobile phone vibrated again. Sherlock glowered at it, then blushed, hard. He stood up abruptly, and followed John to the living-room.
xXx
Sherlock was bored.
He dared not voice it, for he was well aware that it was his own fault if he did not have a case presently. Lestrade was probably still struggling with his, and Mycroft must have been quite determined, because now he had started to text.
Since John had insisted, Sherlock had gone through the trouble of getting dressed, even though there was no reason he should go out. His blue dressing gown would have been just fine. But after last night, Sherlock thought he should be as compliant as possible regarding the unimportant matters. And putting on clothes definitely belonged to the latter.
"Sherlock, your phone keeps vibrating," John pointed out as if Sherlock hadn't noticed.
"Turn it off if it bothers you."
John shook his head. "Why don't you answer? Just send a text and say you're not interested?" he asked, coming over to sit on the couch, a cup of tea in one hand, Sherlock's mobile phone in the other, opening the latest message.
"Yes, why don't you, then?" Sherlock mumbled sullenly.
"Who's Mr. Farquhar?"
Sherlock arched an eyebrow.
"Am I supposed to know that?"
"Well your brother is mentioning him as if you did, yes."
The consulting detective shrugged.
"Just check the first messages he sent, then. He probably explained it all."
John did as he was told, but frowned. He took a sip of tea.
"Nope."
"Then he's trying to get me interested. Quite a pathetic attempt."
"Interested?"
"Yes, just being allusive. The case must be really boring if he hasn't sent a PDF file with all the information yet."
The phone vibrated.
"He just did," John informed him. He glanced at Sherlock.
"Delete it."
"What?! But Sherlock, what if–"
"I said delete it, John."
"Why? If you're not going to do it anyway, it doesn't matter. Or are you tempted?"
Sherlock's glower told John he'd hit a nerve. He sighed.
"Can you tell me why you won't take a case when you're obviously dying of boredom?"
"I'm not quite dying now, am I?"
"Sherlock."
They glared at each other for a moment, until John got tired of it and looked away. Sherlock repressed a smile of satisfaction, but his relief was short-lived.
"I can understand about Lestrade. But Mycroft?"
"John, won't you just drop it?"
"No."
"I don't take cases from Mycroft! You know that."
John thought about it and conceded with a nod. "But now it's different. If you don't want to take cases from Lestrade anymore, there's–"
"The website. Your blog."
"Are you waiting for him to send some guys to kidnap you and bring you to Buckingham Palace again?"
"No, this does not concern the royal family, or the government."
"Are you scared Mycroft might have seen the video?"
"John," Sherlock said, warning in his voice. Apparently it was not threatening enough.
"Because Greg told me he's destroyed it."
"And you believe him?"
"Of course I do! God, Sherlock, he is a friend."
"He is a police officer."
John clenched his teeth.
"You don't trust anyone, do you?"
"Strangely enough, I don't."
This was bad. Quarrelling with John had never been part of today's programme. Sherlock averted his gaze with annoyance and embarrassment.
They remained quiet until noon, at which point John stood up from the table, leaving his laptop, and went into the kitchen.
"What do you feel like eating? We don't have much but we could always order something or go to Tesc–"
"Not hungry."
"What?"
"I'm not hungry, John."
"But you're not on a case."
"I ate this morning. I'll eat tonight."
Sherlock expected an exasperated sigh, not the worried look on John's face when he came back into the living-room.
"What would you like to do this afternoon?" John asked out of the blue. Sherlock stared.
"There's nothing to do," he said.
"Would you like to go out?"
"There's nothing to do out."
Sherlock's phone vibrated. He growled.
"For goodness' sake won't you just turn it off?"
"It's your phone."
"But you are the one holding it. Scared I'll delete Big Brother's texts?"
John did not reply and simply read the message.
"What does he say, now? That he knows I do not have a case and am staying cooped up in my flat?"
"He's asking how you are doing."
Sherlock stared blankly.
"He's what?"
"He's asking how you are doing. If you arm still hurts."
Sherlock paled.
"How dare he be so patronizing?"
"Sherlock, he's your brother!" John yelled. Sherlock's eyes widened and he blinked. John looked angry. Very angry. "Now get a hold of yourself! You're acting like a child – as always, you'll say – but be reasonable for once! Mycroft is your brother. He's worried about you. He knows something awful happened to you a week ago, knows we've been having sex since then and that's a first for you, knows you've just been shot on a case that went wrong. He's worried, just like Lestrade was worried when he came with a case, just like he is probably worried now. People bloody care about you, Sherlock, and it's high time you got used to it!"
Sherlock was flabbergasted to be receiving a scolding from John of all people. Mycroft threatened sometimes, and Mrs. Hudson chided. But Sherlock could not remember the last time he had been given such a telling-off.
John was now pacing the living-room and ran a hand through his hair.
"Damn," he muttered, and Sherlock wasn't sure whether he was addressing him or himself. Sherlock did not dare speak a word, not knowing if the storm had passed.
"I'll answer that one for you," John grumbled, replying to Mycroft's latest text. A wave of tenderness washed over Sherlock. Suddenly he really did feel like a child. A pang of guilt twisted his gut when he remembered how loving, how protective John's embrace had been the previous night. How kind and selfless his stroking. He closed his eyes.
"John?" he said in a small voice.
"Mmh?"
"Won't you come and sit with me?"
"In a minute."
John finished the text and sent it before coming over. Silently, Sherlock gave him a hug. It was clumsy, but John loved it when he was all thumbs. It made him want to kiss him.
"Do you feel like experimenting today?" John asked softly.
The question surprised Sherlock. He hadn't really been thinking about anything; he had no plan, and the inquiry caught him off-guard.
"I don't know. Is there anything you feel like doing?" he finally asked.
John froze. Now he was surprised by the offer. It was the first time Sherlock had asked him what he felt like doing. Even before they'd started having sex, never had the consulting detective shown any interest in such things. During the past week, he had initiated boldly, had complied, had let himself be touched, had deduced John's kinks – but he had never asked, before they started any of their activites, what John had felt like doing. It gave the doctor a strange feeling in his chest.
"Nothing in particular," he said at last.
Sherlock sat back and eyed him.
"But you just thought of something."
John blushed slightly.
"It's nothing, really. There's no rush."
"What is it?"
"Well." John cleared his throat. "I was thinking, you know, that I'd like to try it too, some time."
"Try what?"
"What we did two nights ago."
Sherlock fixed a blank stare on him.
"No."
"What?"
"You won't like it," Sherlock went on rather curtly. John was astonished.
"What the... Can't I make up my own mind about that?!"
"But you won't like it, John."
It was a flat refusal. John broke their embrace and stood up abruptly. He tried to ignore how angry and miserable he truly felt, because it was silly really, this should not upset him so. But it did. It hadn't been easy to tell Sherlock, and it hadn't even crossed John's mind that his partner would react so coldly – that he would so easily, so simply, say No. And what for? "You won't like it?" How would he know?
"I need some air," John said, making for the door. As soon as the words were out of his mouth Sherlock was standing before him, blocking the way.
"Please don't," he begged.
"Sherlock, I'm not leaving!"
"It's dangerous."
"I just need–"
Sherlock leant in and pressed his lips to John with desperation, kissing him madly.
"I'm sorry," he murmured into the kiss, catching his breath briefly before crushing their lips together again. "Please forgive me." The memory of Sherlock's harsh words to Molly and his ensuing apology flashed across John's mind but he was soon drawn into the kiss again. "I'm sorry to be so... unpleasant... I..." John brought Sherlock down and closer, putting a hand on the nape of his neck. Sherlock stiffened but kissed back. "I'm just so bored, I... I'm..." He was silenced again.
When they finally broke away they were both panting. Sherlock's features were still stricken with fear. He rested his brow on John's. They closed their eyes as they tried to regulate their breathing. "I need a case," Sherlock murmured. "One I can... do."
xXx
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tbc