In which John is mightily enraged with Sherlock
Sherlock manages to say the 'W' word
Molly gets some unexpected but not unwelcome attention
Slashy slash and more Molly for Sweden :-P
(but I left the chocolate in the kitchen!)
Into the Thames
Sherlock woke with a start in an empty bed. His whole body ached, his head throbbed horribly and he found he was too exhausted to jump from bed as he would have done otherwise, so he slowly collapsed back into the sheets, the pillows. He tried to get a grip on the past 48 hours. Oh, god - the river. John is angry. John is going to fucking kill me.
"You're ok. I'm ok, everything's ok, in case you give a shit. They managed to drag Sudan out of the river. In hospital, much worse off than you, you fucking tosser." John rose from the chair, setting a book aside. He picked up a glass of water and something off the dresser and brought it to Sherlock.
"Drink this, and take these, they will help you sleep. You're to sleep for a couple more hours, doctor's orders. Ah, ah, just take them and don't fuck with me Sherlock, I'm so ready to fucking hit you, I swear to god I will hit you so hard you won't need any goddamn tablets to sleep."
Sherlock took the tablets and water. He swallowed, and opened his mouth to demonstrate to the doctor that he'd swallowed them. John sensed the bit of rebellion that was inherent in this little act and said so.
"That's very funny, Sherlock, but don't bother. If you've tricked me, it's your own problem."
John took the glass from Sherlock, and paused.
"I'm this close to not giving a good goddamn, do you know that?" The doctor headed for the door. Then he turned back to see Sherlock tossing in the bed, thrashing about.
"It's hypothermia, Sherlock, you're to stay warm." He pulled the duvet over his friend's shoulder and arm. But Sherlock caught his wrist.
"John – I know you're angry, but please don't, don't -."
"Oh, god, you stupid fuck, you know what? You've never been so fucking dead-on, mate, I am angry."
Sherlock gauged the doctor's voice with what little consciousness was available to him in that moment. Things were very bad here, he surmised correctly.
"Try to stay under the blanket, yeah? Do as I say and there won't be any trouble, I swear to you, I will fucking beat you up, if you don't. Now, let go of me, yeah?"
"John, let me -."
"No, don't say anything, just let the fuck go of me for fuck's sake."
Sherlock slowly released John's arm and the doctor fetched his book and left the room, leaving the door ajar. Sherlock began to reassemble and replay the images from some recent events.
He and John had tracked a violent offender turned drug trafficker turned racketeer turned arms trader to various locations. They'd broken in to various apartments and businesses, chased the target, a man named Sudan ('like the desert,' several of his associates had said) down several allies, lost him, tracked him again, found him again, got shot at by him, shot at him and lost him again. They tracked him to another location, got into a fist fight with him, narrowly avoided John getting shot in the head, lost him again. They had split up when Sherlock sent John into the Met to track some leads, while the detective followed the cold physical trail, texting Lestrade and John all the while.
Power station in Pimlico by the river. Need back up possibly on river as well as power station. Loading some boat here from van.
The target and some associates were loading a boat with the contents of a van under the cover of the evening's darkness, but not much else. Bald smuggling. Sherlock watched the events proceed from a group of bushes near the road. He watched the van back up to a make-shift dock near the river and then saw Sudan go into the bushes to relieve himself, he supposed. Isolated. Good. I'll grab him there, he'd thought, Lestrade's men won't be long, I'll just, I'll just. It's a good plan, I'll just.
Sherlock was starting to feel the effects of John's tranquilizers. He started to feel them, and then succumbed to them completely.
John brought his book into the sitting room and sat in his chair. He placed the book on the side table, and leaned forward, rubbing his face in his hands. Almost. Almost lost him. The doctor cast his mind back to the events of the previous evening.
Greg had received Sherlock's text, and John had read it, but knew it wasn't such a good sign.
"He won't wait for back up, Greg," he'd said to the inspector.
"I know," Lestrade had concurred, texting the consulting detective with instructions to stand by, and not take any action by himself.
"And he doesn't have a gun. And he's an idiot," John added.
"I know, I know" Lestrade was visibly worried but mightily focused on the target they'd been following for months now. He'd ordered back up as fast as he could, and then their police boat was pulling up to the power station without the use of light in order to maintain the element of surprise.
"There it is!" another officer pointed to a boat roped to a make shift dock. They made for the boat, about the same size as the police boat, when John and Lestrade saw a man being chased by none other than Sherlock Holmes. The two jumped from some bramble and start to race along the river, Sherlock gaining fast.
"We've got to take this boat, John, get in the rescue boat, and see if you can keep an eye on them."
John boarded the smaller rescue boat that was tagging along with the police and just as the two-man crew pulled out toward the shore to follow the two men on the bank, John watched Sudan jump into the river, and watched as Sherlock jumped in after him.
"Oh, bleeding bloody hell," John breathed, as every bit of sensory overload he'd had the day of St. Bart's hit him anew.
John had kept his eye on the pair in the water as Sherlock and the target struggled almost comically. Don't they know they're going to die if we don't get to them? He wondered, his consciousness struggling to make sense of what he'd just seen, what he was seeing. What the fuck do you think you're fighting over? It must be a purely abstract idea.
Then he lost sight of the target. Then he lost sight of Sherlock. Then there were 20 minutes of shouting Sherlock's name with no answer. He heard his voice turn from normal shouting to a wail of loss. John's body shook as he remembered those 20 minutes of his life again. He looked as his hands gripped the arms of the chair What will I tell Molly? What will I say to her? He had thought at the time. How will we – how – I can't, I cannot -..
Then John had heard a weak call, his name, Sherlock was calling his name from the dark. John and the crew were actually able to locate him, floating on a piece of slimy rubber and they easily hauled him into the boat. With the boat's equipment, John quickly disinfected and dressed a nasty gash on his friend's cheek and chin.
"Did you hit your head at any time? Did you pass out at any time?"
"No, I don't think so, no, ah – I'm fairly certain."
"What about this?" John indicated the scraping on his face.
"Oh, just on that stuff I managed to float on, it kind of flew into me, I wasn't able to deflect it – no, that didn't hit me, it grazed me – I'm all right, really -. John -."
"Ok, shut up, shut up. Don't say anything else. Just - try to take it easy."
But, when they'd gotten to the rescue station on shore, Greg approached them.
"Bloody idiot!" John had never seen Greg so enraged. His usual gentle stance was gone, and his body conveyed only a muscular violence.
"Like jumping off of things, do we?" He grabbed Sherlock by his now sodden jacket that he was still wearing, and hissed and shouted into his face. Sherlock's body, weakened from his late night swim, had been like a rag doll, his cup of tea sloshed out, and dropped to the floor.
"Do you know how many charges I can have you done for, for this, you fucking prat? Wilfully jumping into the river. Against my specific order to stand by?"
"Greg," John wanted to bash Sherlock in the face as much as anyone, but was a little concerned for his friend's safety in the hands of the enraged inspector.
"Do you know the chances of finding a man in the tideway after dark, you stupid cunt? Another stunt like this one, or anything close, and I'll do whatever I can to keep you locked up for as long as I can." Greg chucked the younger man back to his chair, the result of which was Sherlock falling to the floor, and three chairs falling over with a loud clatter. There was a group of people, crew members and station workers, who looked over at the violence, but seeing Lestrade, stood down.
"Get him out of my sight, John, before I kill him myself." He turned to John. "We'll go over the niceties in a day or two, yeah? When he can come in?" Greg gave John a sympathetic look, then turned to go.
John helped Sherlock back into his seat, and arranged for a cab. He spoke quietly to Sherlock as they waited.
"Huh, what about that, then? I think he cares about you. Isn't that nice? It seems as though he cares about you so much that he's furious with you. For risking your life. You know why, don't you? Because it would make him very upset to lose you. How lovely. I, I wonder - does that make you feel – at all - good? Or bad?"
"Ah, John -."
"No, no, no, it's rhetorical, really, please don't say anything, yeah? I just wonder if you give a good goddamn. How he feels. How I feel. How Molly would feel."
"John, I had to -."
"No, no, please, don't say any more. Do. Not."
When the cab had come, neither broke the silence the whole way back to 221B.
John's rehash of the previous evening's activities was ended for the moment by the slam of the door to the street. He recognized Molly's step on the stair. He stood when she came in, and she ran to him. She hadn't seen him since the morning and her blood chilled as she remembered his text asking her to run the bath, the night before. And not to worry. She'd thought that one of them had merely wanted a hot bath. Then they'd come in, Sherlock still soaking wet, and John with that terrifying expression of determined fury.
Molly had helped John strip Sherlock of his wet things, and helped get him into the tub, but had quietly stood in the bathroom while John alone washed and shampooed and rinsed an exhausted Sherlock. But she noted her husband's rage: it was the worst she'd ever seen before. Even when he'd been angry to find out that Sherlock had faked his jump off the roof, he hadn't been this angry, she knew. She exchanged a glance with Sherlock, and saw that he knew it, too. He hung his head, knowing not to make things worse by speaking or doing anything at all, other than what John told him to do, the rage was so deep. This would be very hard to get past. Sherlock knew it, as did Molly.
The pair got Sherlock into bed, finally, and Molly had crawled in with him to towel dry his hair, rubbing his scalp, kissing him, while John was silent, either seated in the chair, or pacing the room. Sherlock tried to speak to John a couple of times, but Molly hushed him. The only reaction John had to Sherlock's speech was to tighten his hands into fists, and Sherlock knew it was best to leave things until another time. The detective finally fell asleep in Molly's arms.
Molly noted one good sign, however. She saw that John was doing the caring, the washing, the decision making, dealing with it. He hadn't just thrown his arms in the air and left the building, which Molly had half expected when the two men had come into the flat and she'd seen the expression on his face. She'd spent the day at work hoping that John had had a chance to calm down since the night before, but apparently that hope had been in vain.
"All right?" Molly went to him, smiling into his face, trying to stay sunny.
"Hmm. That is, who?"
"You love. I know Sherlock's fine - in your care."
"Do you? I want to beat him up."
"Yes, I know, but he's fine, isn't he?"
"Hmm."
"How are you, love? John, talk to me?"
"Well, I can barely look at him. I gave him something to sleep, and I could barely – Ahaha. I just swore at him. I want to beat him up, I want to go in there and beat the crap out of him. He -."
Molly took him in her arms.
"Ok. He's all right. You got him out of there."
"He jumped, and I knew he was going to bloody do it – he made me watch him – and I just knew he was really gone this time – but -."
"Shh, you were wrong."
"Yes, I know, I was wrong, I was wrong."
In his mind John had been and was still replaying the moment Sherlock had jumped from the roof of the hospital, side by side with the images of the night before, jumping into the river. Over and over, he watched the wind take the hem of his friend's coat, his arms flailing in the air. Molly stroked his arm and when they came, brushed the tears away, and was patient as he let them flow for a few moments allowing the sobs to shake him, but then got control of himself. She was angry, too, and would be giving Sherlock a stern talking to, herself, but she knew her situation wasn't the same as John's. When Sherlock had jumped off the roof, he'd effectively tricked John, and taken Molly into his confidence. John would forever feel left out, though he was finally able to see his friend's plan of action in terms of its practical necessity.
"Do you think you can - forgive him – for this one?"
"Yes, of course. But - but I don't know - when. I just don't know."
"Oh. Well. I can understand that. That'll be ok. He's used to you taking your time, hmm?"
"Ahaha." John managed a weak chuckle for her, and kissed her. "Will you stay with him? He'll be up in – well, very soon, any minute, really. And – you know - be with him, if you like. But I can't – I can't sleep here tonight, yeah?"
"Oh, John, don't, love, – don't do this -."
"No, darling, I just can't – please – I think it will just be better if I'm – alone tonight – I'm ready to beat him up, ok? Let me just get through this? Hey. You know I'm not going to do anything stupid, yeah? Honestly, I'll be fine - I just need to decompress."
Molly considered. She didn't like to argue with John, he was her rock, and she liked to depend on him. But this was wrong on a lot of different levels, and she knew she was right. In the end, though, she let him have his way.
"I'll come home to you later," she made her deal.
"No, that's all right, I -."
"No, I will. I have to check on you, I can't leave you with it all night. And it will be easier to get ready for work there, anyway, I'll have more choices."
"All right. Call me, and I'll pick you up."
"It's less than a quarter of a mile, John."
"Molly, in the middle of the night? Call me. Full stop."
"All right."
Molly watched as John picked up his book, his laptop and packed them into his bag. He put on his coat, and she walked him to the door.
"You'll call me, if you're coming over?" His voice was all censure before any wrong doing. She smiled at him.
"Yes, I promise. And I am coming."
"Ok," he kissed her, and was gone down the stairs and out the door.
Molly sighed. And we'd just gotten to such a lovely point in our time together, such a lovely, loving point. How long will this go on? She wondered. She knew Sherlock would be ready to apologize, but it was John that they would be waiting for, to accept. She steeled herself, and walked into the bedroom.
"He's gone to yours?" Sherlock was fully awake and sitting up in bed, his fingers steepled under his chin.
"Yes." Molly stood by the bed, looking at her friend.
"And he's – he's sleeping there?"
"Well, yes. He's – you know, he's reliving it, Sherlock. He's reliving Bart's."
"I know, I know." Sherlock rubbed his face with the heels of his hands, and ran his fingers through his hair gripping it in fists for a moment. "Please - come to me – ." He held out a hand to Molly, without looking at her, not able to bear her reproach as well as John's. Molly slid into bed, and took him in her arms and he gratefully buried his face in her hair.
"I thought I could swim to him, the target, Sudan, and grab one of the pylons, but I misjudged the current," Sherlock began to explain. The explanation that he'd wanted to give John a thousand times since he'd been pulled out of the river.
"Because it was dark? On the river?"
"Probably, and - and I wasn't able to get to him in time to – to - but I did, I did get to him as I thought I could, I was right about that – I got to him, but then there was no time to – the current was too swift - I was -."
"You were wrong."
"I – I miscalculated."
"You were wrong."
"I-, Yes. I was wrong, I was wrong. Please, please forgive me, please say you'll forgive me, I'm sorry."
"Of course I forgive you. You're such an idiot." Molly kissed him and patted the bandage on his face.
"What's this?"
"War wound. I got a scrape, nothing important. John -. Oh, god."
"Yes, love. Sherlock. You're not alone anymore. Don't you see that? You'll ruin us, love if you don't stop doing these things."
"Yes. I see that, now, I wasn't – I was –." He kissed her mouth, tentatively at first, and then more deeply, when he saw that she would accept him.
"What will we do about you and John?" Molly's hands were in Sherlock's hair.
"I'll go over there this very minute and -."
"No. He needs some time and space. He's so angry, Sherlock, he's hurt, so deeply hurt."
"Yes. I'm – I'm sorry. I was - I was wrong." Sherlock whispered in her hair. "I'll do anything, Molly, tell me what to do. What can I say to him?"
Molly smiled as she heard him pronounce that hated word. She knew it wasn't easy for him to say.
"You'll tell him what you've said to me. It's just that it won't work tonight. He'll need a little time. You're so lovely though, he'll see you're repentant. He'll see that, I'm certain. I think that's all it will take. Real repentance, and a bit of time. For him."
"Ok." Sherlock hung his head, then pulled her close to him, kissing her.
Molly was moaning as she lay on her back, her legs in the air as Sherlock tongued her to a lovely state of insanity. She felt his fingers, now, dancing up and down her inner thigh, then exploring her pink folds, taking his time, before he pushed his fingers in, pushing her over the edge as she shouted his name, and John's. Her orgasm had barely begun before he hauled himself up to her level, and plunged deeply into her, fucking her harder than he had in some weeks, her knees over his shoulders. Her body completely took over and she felt as if she were looking down from outside herself, watching as she arched her back into the pleasure, bucking against her lover with all the strength she had, writhing underneath him. She heard herself keening out a litany of non-words as he reached his own climax, and finished, himself, moaning into her shoulder. Molly, John, John, Molly. John, John, John. They lay for some time in one another arm's and Molly would have liked to just fall asleep after this emotionally exhausting evening, and session of lovemaking, but she knew she couldn't.
"I have to go to him."
Sherlock was up out of bed before her, sweeping up his clothing, dressing.
"Of course. I'll walk you."
"Oh. He told me to call and -."
"And he would get up, wake up, get dressed, walk over here, and then walk you back. Don't be ridiculous, I'll walk you. That way I can see him. You see?" Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.
"All right. I don't think it will get you anywhere tonight, but I certainly don't disapprove."
"Perhaps not. But surely the effort will be noticed if not fully appreciated." Sherlock was dressed and tapped at an invisible watch, teasing her for her slowness in dressing. He smiled.
"Ok, ready, just my bag and my coat."
John opened the door as Molly was fumbling with the key in the lock, and he stopped when he saw Sherlock was with her.
"I don't want to talk to you, Sherlock."
"I know, John, but that's not going to -."
"God, shut the fuck up, shut up! The fuck do you think you are? You don't know how close I am to - ." John tensed up and balled his hands into tight white knuckled fists before he took a breath. He finally unclenched himself, his fists and left the door open, allowing Molly and Sherlock to come in at their own speed. John walked into the tiny kitchen and sat at the table, unembarrassed in his shorts and tee shirt, his fingers referring to a mug of tea on the table. He didn't look up at all as Molly and Sherlock came into the flat. Molly made eye contact with Sherlock, and went along into the living room to drop her bag. Sherlock stopped a few feet away from John, and waited for Molly to reappear in the doorway of the kitchen. She crossed her arms. She knew there wasn't a plan and was interested to see what Sherlock would do or say to make things right. She knew there wasn't going to be much use trying.
"I just want to say one thing, and then I'll go – I'll wait until -. Um. Anyway. - To do that - I didn't consider - you—or Molly. And I know that I can't behave in that manner - anymore – with you, both of you, in my life – in the permanent way that I want you, both of you, to remain – uh - in my life. I realize that – I risk you – when I risk myself, uh, that way. And I know it's not my decision to make alone. Ok. Ok. I have to go home now, and vomit, because that was about as nauseating a group of sentiments as I think I've ever uttered, but – I think that – I know that – well – they're right and – true.. John. I – miscalc – I was wrong, John. I was – wrong. I'm sorry. All right. Goodnight. Goodnight, Molly, love."
Sherlock saw that John wasn't going to make a move, so he made for the door, where he paused to look at his friend again, but John didn't look up.
"Ok." He said quietly, and was gone.
Molly was by John's side.
"Did you help him with that?"
"Well, I talked to him, we talked about it."
"Yes. Well, not bad, actually." John rose with a sigh and put his arm around his wife. She moved into his embrace, and they kissed. John tucked his face into the crook of her neck, just as Sherlock had done and breathed her scent deeply, then moved to kiss her again, more deeply, then he was touching her petting her, his hand under her blouse.
"Mmm, Molly, Molly. You've been with him tonight?"
"Hmm, yes."
"You smell like him. I can smell him on you, love. Ah, I can taste him."
"Yes?"
John was kissing her neck and squeezing her breasts hard, now, the way he'd seen Sherlock do to her. John had seen his friend treat Molly with much more physical roughness than John thought was appropriate, but saw how much Molly enjoyed it, and never complained about being hurt. He'd never felt the need for one-upmanship in this department, nor did he want to be a copy-kat. But tonight he felt compelled, to be more physically engaged, to be more aggressive: he was extremely angry after all. And here was Molly, all willingness and acceptance. He'd take it out on her. But gently. As gently as he could. He kissed her mouth, now, deeply, roughly, gripping her hard at the small of her back, his other hand in her hair.
"Molly - I – what did you do? What did he do to you?"
"He, he put his mouth between my legs."
John lifted her skirt, and pulling her pants aside, entered her with his fingers.
"Yes? What else? What else did he do?"
"Ah, John. He fucked me - hard - harder than he has in a while."
Molly saw what he needed and didn't demur. She sighed at the thought of another bout of rough contact, she was already exhausted, but wasn't going to leave John alone with his anger. And she relished the few moments when he was able to let go with her. Perhaps he would tonight.
"Hmm, all right. Come here." John moved into the living room and knelt to the carpeted floor, pulling Molly down with him. Pushing her clothing to the side, rather than removing any of it, he was inside her in only a few moments, pushing and thrusting deep and hard. He reached behind her back, and unclasped her bra, pushing it up, exposing her breasts. He tasted them rapaciously, tasting Sherlock's saliva on them, hungry to find other evidence of his presence. He pounded into Molly.
"Hard like this?"
"Yes, love, ah, John."
"Harder?"
"Y- yes."
John slammed into his wife with all his force, tried to get her to moan, cry out, which she did. He fucked her as hard as he could until she shed tears and then he backed down a bit. He slowed, taking more time with her, watching her, gauging her pleasure and managed to bring her off at the same time he came inside her. They lay panting beside one another on the carpet for several minutes.
"Mmm, sorry, did I – hurt you at all?"
"John, it was – you were - magnificent."
"Ahaha."
Molly rolled away and managed to stand.
"Come on. Jesus Christ, the pair of you - I'm going to be a wreck at work. Bed, now, come on."
She took John by the hand and led him to their bedroom. They got into bed and held one another, both of them already near sleep. But Molly couldn't let the issue go before sleep took her.
"How long? Do you think?" She asked, as she began to drop off.
"I don't know. I don't know."
"Days? Weeks? Months?"
"Oh, god. Not months. No, no."
"Ah, good." Molly paused not wanting to push it, but couldn't help herself. "Weeks, then?"
"Molly. I – well -. No, probably not."
"Ah. Well. That's all right. Not weeks? You're pretty sure?"
"No, no, not weeks, I promise."
"Ok, love, thank you. That's all right then – love you."
"Love you."
"Love him."
"Yes. Love him. The fucking tosser."
Sherlock left John and Molly's building and stepped onto the street, slowly meandering back to the flat, unwilling to go back to an empty group of rooms, an empty bed. He saw that while John wouldn't speak to him, he'd left the door open, and gotten control of his rage enough to listen to him. He supposed it was as Molly had predicted. Some time and space and things would get back to normal.
He entered the flat and smelled tea and biscuits. Molly. He noted how tidy everything was, military in its order. John. He could fairly see Molly in his peripheral vision, but he knew he only conjured her. In essence he could sense the life that existed in the flat until only recently. He stepped to the door of the bedroom, but couldn't bring himself to enter the darkened room. He backed away from the door as though it contained something sinister, but he knew it would be right again soon. He chose a volume from the bookshelf. The Winter's Tale. A wonderful mystery, almost completely indiscernible. He opened the little book, but only ran his hand over first page and closed his eyes. Patience.
I know it's a fairly narrow ship -
And it's not for everyone -
so if I offend, please forgive it.
But if you liked it a little, please, oh please let me know – thanks!
Next chapter - either more angst or make-up sex.
Very possibly more angst and more action for Molly!
Def'ly more slashy slash!