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Thursday, the tenth of June, eleven-forty-five and thirty-eight seconds p.m. by the timing of the Greenwich pips that always soundlessly tick away in the back of Sherlock's mind, he returns home to 221-B. He goes ahead of John. John had saved his life once again three hours earlier; this made seventeen times since the day they met. Sherlock has only saved John's life twice, three times if one counted the fact that John was suicidal before he had accepted the flat share, but the disparity doesn't bother Sherlock; John is a doctor, and is naturally more skilled at lifesaving. He also seems to take such enormous pleasure in it. At the police station, giving his statement, he positively glowed, his cheeks flushed from exercise and exertion, his eyes sparkling as he listened to Sherlock's explanation of events. He had claimed to have something better to do that evening, but still hurried along with Sherlock to investigate. If he hadn't come, Sherlock could probably have defended himself adequately, but having John there made the risk so much more fun.
Friend doesn't describe John Watson with sufficient accuracy. Sherlock frowns, thinking, Topic for further study: investigate Germanic languages for a superior word.
But later. At this moment Sherlock wants tea, tides of it, hot and brimming with milk.
Instead, as soon as he comes in and shuts the door, John Watson wraps his arms about Sherlock at the waist, pulls him in and down, and sucks Sherlock's lower lip into his mouth.
Startled, Sherlock freezes, staring. John lets go, steps back, eyebrows raised, but still grinning. "Do you fancy a go?" John asks, voice melding hope, confidence, and a vaguely oily desire.
Sherlock blinks at the question, flipping through his mental thesaurus. A "go"? A fight? A row? Opposite of a "stop"? A chance? A try? What sort of a —
"Oh," Sherlock says, realizing. Oh. Oh, that. John hasn't moved, still smiling, but a cloud has passed over his eyes, a cloud of disappointment, of steeling himself for rejection. It is hideous; it is horrible; it is deplorable; it is repellent. A corner of John's mouth quirks downward and instantly he changes; somehow, John looks . . . cute. Vulnerable and baffled, like a thoughtless young mongrel dog. Sherlock's heart rate raises itself a notch. He perceives tingling below his waist — dilation of the capillaries of the groin.
Me. My groin. This experience is happening to me. Sherlock glances down at John's crotch, wondering if it is happening there, too. A realization arcs through his mind. The repulsion Sherlock feels is towards himself for making John — for potentially making John feel negative emotion. Simply that. John means sex.
And sex is admittedly pleasurable, relaxing, and a marvelous tension-release that only works when it is shared. Something about having someone else there cubes its effectiveness. John is a great shag, a delicious fuck, fascinating to the taste, pleasant to touch, exquisite in the complexity of his scent — John, Liebhaber, Waffenbrüder —
"Yes," Sherlock says aloud. "Of course."
He voluntarily reaches out and grasps John's shoulder, pulling him in again, against his body, holding his heartbeat against John's shoulder. Involuntarily, Sherlock's mouth lowers onto John's neck, seeks out the pulse, presses his lips against it, hoping that it feels like a kiss. Sometimes he gets that wrong. Sometimes he doesn't. He likes John's taste after he's been terrified for his life; mere exercise isn't the same. Fear gives it a hint of sweetness as adrenaline causes an excited burning of loose sucrose molecules. Sherlock imagines a reality TV series about slimming fat people down by sending them on daily runs fleeing from rabid dogs.
But now, concentrating on now, dragging his mind into the present, Sherlock suddenly becomes aware of his nipples hardening against his shirt. John's body melds against his, groaning voicelessly and silently, and yes, he is experiencing vasodilation, too. His erection is hard against Sherlock's thigh. He is aroused. How strange. Sherlock doesn't understand this. And yet he does; the case, the beautiful little dilemma, easily solved, a life easily saved, his life slightly less easily saved, by John and his quick thinking and quicker reflexes — not as fast as Sherlock's own, of course, but he had been distracted determining just how long the ruffian would do in prison for property theft, extortion, fraud, assault, a lovely long list of offenses; who cared about a razor? It wasn't even a murder weapon yet, just a potential one, and Sherlock hadn't even seen it as a threat because it was just so silly. But John, John had risked himself, risked losing his own hand at the wrist, making sure the blade came nowhere near Sherlock, bending the assailant's arm behind his back without sound or effort, striking like a silent, dull-gold snake.
That's worth a bit of carnal pleasure, absolutely.
But John has never instigated before. But John —
"I need a cup of tea first," Sherlock tries to say. But John's mouth is in the way, all breath and saliva and pressure and hunger, and no words make it out of Sherlock's mouth, and soon even all of his own thoughts are locked onto John's erection and how he wants to free it, release it into the air and then trap it again inside his mouth.
They do it in John's room. Always. Sherlock doesn't like John to come to his room at all if possible; John is too disruptive and not perceptive of the tiny system and the immaculate order of Sherlock's things, even when in disarray; if there is a stray sock on the floor it is because Sherlock put it there and it needs to stay there until it is better for it to be elsewhere. Sherlock never loses a sock through carelessness, only through peril. So he herds John into his own bedroom, pulling his shirt off, undoing his trousers, trying to keep John distracted enough so that he would lay off all of the kissing. John is laughing, perhaps even at him, and keeps trying to kiss Sherlock on the mouth, and Sherlock is tempted to hit him to make him stop. Instead, he forcefully shoves John onto his bed, and gets on the floor, on his knees, between John's legs. John's erection is completely engorged, quivering, the tip still dry; he's gotten hard too fast to generate any pre-ejaculate, which is a shame as it tastes lovely. Sherlock takes the whole stiff organ entire, all of it, into his mouth anyway, nudging John's cock down towards his throat with his tongue.
"Oh, God," John moans, his words sprinkled with small fits of convulsive laughter. Sherlock sucks until the laughing stops, arching his back so that John's cock fits entirely inside his mouth, the head occupying the cavity at the start of his throat. Sherlock swallows firmly, trying to make it the glans go further. "Oh, God, oh, don't do that," John says desperately, combing his fingers through Sherlock's hair, pulling at the roots. It makes Sherlock's own penis hurt, aching, too hard against his own trousers. They will have to come off. He doesn't want to surrender his advantage, but he has to; perhaps he can stop John from kissing him.
But why would the man hold a razor when an acetelyne torch lay within his grasp? Why carry a razor when a gun would be better for carrying out the heist, meine Schatz?
The only sign of this continued rapid cognition that Sherlock gives is a flickering of his eyes in and out of focus. John never notices. The case was closed too perfectly, too simply. Standing up, Sherlock hastily disrobes. John crawls backward onto the bed, his cheeks bright scarlet red and his eyes half-lidded, his bobbing cock glistening wetly. He looks beautifully uninhibited, and despite the fact that he doesn't like it, Sherlock kisses John's mouth as he climbs on top. John opens wide, mouth and arms and legs, receiving him utterly, wrapping himself around Sherlock; and Sherlock shoves the head of his aching erection against John's navel as if he could get inside him that way. John's body is so beautiful, the whole of it fuckable, adorable, round and soft and linear and hard all at once, scars and silky-rough skin, taut pectorals, very slight softness at the stomach and quite a bit on the bum, divinely thick cock, eager anus, the narrow hungry mouth that never gets enough.
But at the moment Sherlock doesn't want his own cock touched. He doesn't even want to touch it himself; he just wants it to stop aching, and he wants John's cock back in his mouth. If his penis gets involved, he will lose himself in the sensation, and the loose threads of the case might slip through his fingers. He holds John down with his left arm, nibbles him down again, and slides the other hand up John's torso and neck, slipping his fingers into John's mouth.
"Oh, yeth," John lisps, mouth full, arching his hips. Almost too sexy; almost enough to make Sherlock lose himself. Instead he draws back, sucking gently but keenly. The safe had a thumbprint lock; why bring a cutting torch? It would take hours; better to just bring a finger print. Or — a finger. The woman who had brought him the case had all her fingers, or at least, she'd had them then . . .
John whines, and Sherlock remembers where he is and what he's doing. Fingers, yes, the ones in John's mouth, being sucked. Sherlock takes them back, points them, zeroes in on John's anus. He has to leave off fellatio for a moment to lick the hair out of his way so that he can slip his fingers inside. John grows repetitive. "Oh, God. Oh, God." Sherlock wishes he'd be quiet; all that praying and groaning is making his own penis ache more and more. This has to end soon or he'll lose control of himself. It could be good — could be bliss — but the case has returned to his mind. Solved, yes, and the guilty parties marched off, but something doesn't quite add up. Nothing the police would ever detect.
Without having to look or disrupt the machinations of his mouth, he pulls open John's bedside drawer and withdraws the bottle of lube; within seconds his spit-soaked fingers are slick and sliding into John's anus. John relaxes quite nicely, allowing in two of Sherlock's fingers at once, used to it now, practised. He does cry out a bit, "Yes; oh, God," and Sherlock is sorry that he can't put his fingers back into John's mouth to keep him quiet; John would be furious. Sherlock doesn't quite understand that; it's all the body, all of it equally filthy and distracting. And why bring a razor to a vault heist? Fingers. She had been wearing gloves.
"I'm going to come," John keens.
Exactly, yes, and not a moment too soon. Sherlock nods, increasing the intensity of his sucking, waggling his wrist up and down to open John's anus more; surprisingly it is not depth that creates the true ecstasy, but pressure and friction, manipulating the dense nerve endings of the anal passage and seeking out, up inside, the hot firm fleshy walnut of the prostate, gently prodding, shifting it from side to side with the tips of his fingers — Christ, the way John's moaning right now, Sherlock feels close to orgasm himself. How strange, this communion, wetness and scent and flavor and John's fingers clenching on the bedspread, as achingly beautiful as a Berlioz arpeggio. . . if he relaxes just a bit, the ecstasy will roar through him like wildfire.
Stubbornly, Sherlock resists, takes his mind back, just in time — edge weapon versus projectile weapon; silence versus short range and death, John's pre-come flooding Sherlock's mouth, churned with saliva, dripping down over John's balls and Sherlock's hands. John pulls Sherlock's hair and groans a long, guttural Nnnn-nnn.
Now, not pre-come at all; the real thing; semen, cooler and tart and glorious. Sherlock avidly suck-swallows it down and moves his fingers away from John's prostate to spare him the moment when joyous climax becomes painful sensitivity. He considers using his slick fingers to stroke his own ache out of him and onto John's thighs, or his opening, or his belly or chest — a creamy, ghostly little gift — he doesn't want to have his own cock inside of John for some reason — he wants —
Silence. He needs to think.
But John noisily groans a long consonant, legs spasming, pointed toes and gritted teeth and all. Sherlock licks his lips and sits up, lightly rubbing his fingers around the sensitive exterior of John's anus, and muttering softly, "It was a setup. Not for us; for him."
"Oh, God, Sherlock," John sighs, and he's wearing his crooked grin again, relaxed, face and neck and chest flushed deep rose. "My God . . . I've never . . . never come so hard . . ."
"Foster was meant to die," Sherlock whispers. "He was meant . . . as a message . . . I was meant to kill him . . . or you were." When he shakes his head in an attempt to gain mental clarity, he blinks down at his partner, and sees that John has fallen instantly and completely unconscious, still grinning, cock still hard.
Sherlock rises from the floor, heads to the toilet, still muttering to himself. "Who would send an inept safecracker to a likely death; who would want to cause a distraction . . ." He scrubs his hands with soap, rinses his mouth with blue alcohol wash, towels dry, dazedly returns to John's room and the hot, curled, sleeping form of the doctor. Springs up again, fetches his laptop from the sitting room, and then back to bed, back to John, but checking his blog, checking the police website, looking for anything else that could have been reported; a greater, more heinous crime taking place while Sherlock and John were distracted.
But there's nothing, and John is still smiling in his sleep, and the inside of Sherlock's head feels like shredded paper. Four nights without sleep, five days of no food but tea, jacked up on nicotine and adrenaline and figuring out which documents, which vault, where, how to get in.
He fetches his dog-eared copy of The Secret Army: The IRA, one of his favorite books; he's read it so many times it feels like singing along to a Christmas carol. Making no attempt to turn on John's bedside lamp, Sherlock leafs through the pages in the dark. He's not really reading, just reviewing, just touching the book, refreshing the facts in his mind yet again. He shan't sleep. He can't.
Moriarty. Must be.
Sherlock's erection wanes perfectly well on its own, and as dawn lightens the window, his eyes close and his brain slides into a different state of consciousness. He notes with interest that he has fallen asleep after all, book open on his chest, his legs entangled with John's.
We've solved only the tip of the iceberg. The game is still on. Thank God. I’ve missed him.
`/`/`/`/`/`
When Sherlock opens his eyes again, John's missing from beside him. It is three minutes past eleven o'clock, and the empty space has gone cold.
Madly energized, Sherlock springs out of bed, hastily ducks into his own room for a dressing gown, and bolts down to the kitchen. Seated at the kitchen counter, John, all but done with his breakfast, glances up from the newspaper and watches Sherlock desperately slapping on a nicotine patch and slapping the electric kettle on. "Tea," Sherlock grunts. "Need tea."
"Oh," John mentions. "We're out of milk. I've just used the last of it. Good morning!"
"What," Sherlock snaps. Now that he's stopped moving, the headache begins ramping up behind his eyes. He always has a headache after he's slept for the first time in days, especially if he hasn't gotten enough — which he hasn't — and if he's going through caffeine withdrawal — which he most definitely is. His brain is sludge, at war with itself, torn between the impulses to just go back to sleep, and his psyche's demand for novelty, dilemmas, discovery — he needs that ten times more than he needs anything else. "Except tea, except tea, except tea!" he mutters aloud, and his stomach returns an answering grumble. "Milk tea."
"Milk's out. Have to take your tea plain today. Anyway, I'm off to work." He looks deliciously well-rested and smug.
"Work! Rubbish!" Sherlock snatches up the newspaper and dashes it to the floor. "How dare you! You used the last of the milk, so it's your turn to get some! By your own rules! And I demand you fetch milk immediately."
"You can demand all you want," John sighs, mouth turning down at the corners. "Won't make it happen. Why don't you go down the shops and get your own milk? Your legs aren't broken."
"You're a thoughtless peasant!" Sherlock hisses.
John raises his eyebrows questioningly, his face deadly calm. "Stop being so fucking selfish," he says. "I'm off to the surgery; I'm covering for Sarah."
"I thought you were done with her," Sherlock declares, pointlessly examining the refrigerator. It contains no milk of any kind. "And on to the next bit. And the next, and the next."
"You should know," John says, standing, setting into the sink his plate that once held toast and Branson's pickle; Sherlock can smell that he's got another sandwich made with the foul stuff in his messenger bag, but only one so he'll be out till evening, and back home by supper, but he's wearing a nicer shirt than usual and also has freshly polished shoes in the bag, so he's planning on going out, smoothly clean-shaven so probably with a woman, late supper and a film — "You're one of them."
Sherlock emits a helpless scoff of surprise. Before he can come up with a sufficiently stinging reply — oh, how sluggish his thoughts are made by sleep! — John is out the door and down the stairs. Sherlock hovers in the kitchen, paralyzed with fury and deprivation; if only he'd gotten his tea last night, but John's lips were in the way.
The detective returns to his study, but without tea, he's still more fuzzy-minded than he likes. He ought to just drink it plain, but now it has become a matter of principle. Silence from downstairs indicates Mrs. Hudson is out, and her front door locked. He still breaks in, and searches her fridge and cupboards, only to come up empty-handed. Gritting his teeth at the headache, he pulls on yesterday's clothes and storms out to Speedy's down Baker Street.
It's unusually crowded with early lunchtime patrons; there's even a queue at the counter, half of them builders from the construction site around the corner. Sherlock seethes, wondering how to create a diversion and jump to the head of the line while no one is looking, but there is nothing at hand, and he can't fucking think. He tears savagely at his hair to distract himself and stir up some endorphins while he waits. A few of the seated customers stare at him, and he glares back hatefully until the punters look away.
After an interminable wait, Sherlock reaches the counter. A blonde girl wearing a red apron, hoop earrings, and a spotty complexion stands behind it, chewing gum. "Tea," he orders, "milky, two sugars."
She grimaces awkwardly, and Sherlock's mind spins like a roulette wheel. Seventeen; mother of one; not with the father; lives with her mum; was on the dole til recently. Natural blonde enhanced with chemicals; not dye, a sunlight-triggered lightening agent. Blotchy. Was at the seaside—"We've just run out, sorry."
"Wha—? How can you run out of tea?" Sherlock demands. "We're in Great Britain."
"You saw that rush, di'n't ya? Haven't a bag of the stuff. Ravi's gone down t' shops to pick up more. Won't be back for a bit though, will 'e."
"Imbecile," Sherlock says. The girl blinks uncomprehendingly. "A coffee, then. Coffee with milk. The price is one pound fifty; do you want me to ring it up for you as well?"
The blonde girl squirms. "Like, I'm really sorry," she says, "we've just run short of coffee, too. But all we have to do is make a new pot, right? It's already 'appening; it'll just be a minute."
"Milk! Just give me milk!"
"Believe me—"
"Oh, for fucks' sake, never mind," Sherlock says, and turns away. There is another caff one street away, and they probably haven't run out of tea, and how can he make John suffer for having done this to him? Wasabi on the crotch of his underpants. Shave his eyebrows in the night. Sabotage the television set.
"Wait, sir, don't leave," someone calls out; scowling thunderously, Sherlock turns back to the counter. A dark-haired young man, South Asian, rushes around the counter, handing Sherlock a hot paper cup. "Coffee with milk. First cup from the new pot. Whole pot ain't finished yet but I got enough to give you." The young man grins. London accent; Ravi's son, reading engineering in the States; back for holidays; engaged to girl here in the UK but in love with an American girl. "Might be a bit strong. But it's yours; no charge, and totally sorry for the inconvenience." A white American girl. He won't be coming back; his life is there now. Speedy's will be sold within five years. Investigate as investment opportunity for Mrs. Hudson.
Sherlock immediately takes a big gulp of the coffee, and grimaces. "It's terrible," he says.
"Sorry, mate," the man shrugs. He looks embarrassed, not meeting Sherlock's eyes. "Dad makes it better, but he's not here, is he. At least it's free."
"Tell your dad the truth," Sherlock muttered. "And end it with the girl here; you're only being crueler letting her think she'll have you." Glumly, Sherlock leaves, sucking down the coffee. He desperately needs the caffeine, and he's drunk worse things. His head's still achy, but the gears seem to be turning faster and more smoothly. Tapping the touchscreen on his phone, he sends John a text.
Got coffee from Speedy's. They are going out of business soon. You are a terrible flatmate. SH
By the time the phone's back in his pocket, he feels peculiar. Head floaty, then heavy. Sparkling spots before his eyes. Harder to breathe suddenly. He couldn't taste whatever is in the coffee. Midazolam, he guesses, or maybe amobarbital, or chloral hydrate; easily obtained, fast-acting, causes rapid unconsciousness and anterograde amnesia. Not so much swallowed as administered through the . . . he can't remember . . . mouth . . . membranes. The caffeine slams it through his blood-brain barrier faster. He drops the cup, watching rather than feeling it splash his ankle, thinking sadly, I still really just want a cup of tea.
He rushes toward the door of 221 as quickly as he can manage, but his stumbling legs feel like raw meat. He tries to shout for Mrs. Hudson, forgetting that she is out; the sparkles in his field of vision become dark strokes from a painter's brush. His field of vision shrinks. It's all happening too quickly for him to react. He wishes he could write a note; he could . . . with his phone . . . a voice note . . . "Midahhh . . ." he tries to say. His hands, gloves filled with wet sand, slip and bat uselessly at the hall carpet. Distantly he remembers he hadn't bothered with socks before going downstairs; his feet are so cold now, and a sharp pinch of pain pulls another moan from his lips.
And then everything is okay, everything is wonderful. Bliss. Rapturous relief and joy. Oh, God, yes; all is forgiven. He feels arms around him, settling and comforting him, and a voice that he doesn't recognize, but might very well be that of an angel, says to him, "Easy now . . . I've got you."
`/`/`/`/`/`
Analysis of hypothesis and deduction of its consequences.
All at once, Sherlock wakes.
He still feels good for a moment, until he tries to move and can't. Can't see, either. Mouth and nostrils dry; something in his mouth; skin cool.
He is bound, gagged, sightless, and naked.
Sherlock holds his breath for a moment, trying to orient himself by sound. He cannot understand what position he's in; he is not lying down, or sitting, or standing. He seems suspended. He isn't blindfolded, exactly; it feels, instead, that his eyes are sealed closed with adhesive bandages. Wherever he is, it's impossibly silent, no sound of traffic, or voices, or water pipes, or even electricity. He can hear himself start to swallow, and the churning of his stomach when he can't.
The inability to swallow swiftly becomes hell, blotting out everything else. Sherlock has always been interested in methods of torture, but this one had never occurred to him; it seemed like such a minor thing. There's a supple-but-solid plastic something that keeps his teeth from clenching, big enough so that he can't open his mouth any wider, strapped to his cheeks and the back of his head. He tries to thrash around in frustration, but he's got no more than a few inches of movement allowed him anywhere. As he moves he feels more straps, and hears material and metal singing in their minor strain. The straps are not tight, but he is strapped in an alarming number of places, each one of them placed so that his entire body is held quite still without causing him discomfort.
It's brilliant, really.
"Wakey wakey."
Oh, God, thinks Sherlock, furiously clenching his eyelids shut as if he could will himself back into unconsciousness, hit some sort of reset button. This should not have been allowed to happen.
"Did you miss me?"
The voice isn't shrill. In fact it's quiet, thoughtful, almost elegiac, definitively Irish for once. Dublin, city, suburban actually, not countryside. It is at least as much of a persona as all the others, if any of them ever was him in the first place.
Sherlock can move enough to shake his head, unmistakably, from side to side.
He is right there, so close that he can speak to Sherlock in a voice barely above a whisper, so close that Sherlock can now feel, on his shoulder, the warmth of another human body in the room. A lot of things become clear, then: Sherlock is facing downward, towards a floor with a thin carpet; the walls are hard and blank; Sherlock is approximately a meter above the floor. He smells traces of lavender, mint, ambergris, and musk. Sweat and leather and urine and Bumble & Bumble Molding Paste. Almost laughably, ridiculously wrong and awful in its pleasantness; his flesh sizzles with it, itching and tingling, cold waves of revulsion and anger spilling over him.
"I missed you. So I thought I'd have you round."
Sherlock makes a noise in his throat that he hopes will sound threatening. It sounds instead like a groan. He feels more and perceives more, moment by moment: his knees are bent, resting on or in something soft; the room is filled with artificially-generated white noise; the air in the room is pleasantly warm; his penis is hanging down, unsupported; his arm has a problem; his spread thighs are cooler than the rest of him, therefore slightly damp.
"Wet ourselves again, didn't we." Cooing, breaking into a softly indulgent laugh. "Oh, it's all right, ducks; you couldn't help it; you were very high. Not as high as I'm going to make you, of course, but . . ."
Enraged, alarmed, Sherlock wildly swings his fists, or his brain does; his actual body merely twitches, and the rounded edges of the straps dig into his skin. The problem in his arm is an IV tap, held in place with a single strip of surgical tape. Knees suspended and parted. When he hears skin rubbed against skin, his heart rate doubles.
"Oh, no, no, no, no panicking. Won't do you any good. You can't even hurt yourself; made sure of that." A hand, soft-skinned and warm, runs along Sherlock's body, pausing to firmly grasp a buttock. His flesh remembers what his mind does not; this has happened before. "Ooh, so nice. All that running about you do has worked absolute wonders for your glutes. Still not quite plush like your brother's arse, though; doesn't that soldier feed you?" Fingers placed in their previous demarkations. Sherlock has been at the mercy for a while.
The hand continues back up, trailing slowly to Sherlock's nipple. Sherlock jerks again, but the nipple is caressed with a fingertip. It tickles, and Sherlock risks gagging again. Fortunately the contact is brief.
"Don't worry . . . I'll feed you. I've got all you need."
Sherlock flinches again; he's got enough room to do that.
The sound of a quick sharp sniff; insufflating something, inhaling from a "bullet" dispenser. Cocaine? Fits the profile. Heart hammering in his chest, Sherlock struggles to think about something, anything else. “Ah. Ah! Now. Let me see those beautiful, terrified eyes.”
The adhesives peel off, and Sherlock slowly opens his eyelids. It’s dark and shadowy but for a light angling just up from the floor; Sherlock can’t discern walls or windows. However, he can clearly see James Moriarty, gleaming like an angel, his small slight form in a spotless white-T-shirt and loose white drawstring trousers, hands in pockets, bare feet pale against an indeterminate dark floor. A heavy bulge distorts the crotch of his trousers, a faint, translucent, liquid stain trailing down from one end. Moriarty looks at the wet spot, too, then back at Sherlock with a rueful half-smile. "I did have to come on your face a few times. You can't really blame me; you're hot when you're in a coma."
Sherlock grunts against the gag. Moriarty raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. "Ssh. You weren't out that long. I'm sorry about how thirsty you must be by now." The urge to swallow torments him again. Suddenly Moriarty breaks into a smile. "How d'you like my cocktail? Temazepam, goodly amount of carisoprodol, bit of diazepam; you know, just threw a party mix together to make you feel mellow. You do, I hope?" For a moment, his eyes droop closed, feeling whatever he just snorted take effect. Sherlock's grunts become groans of frustration. Moriarty's eyes open again, and he gives his typical wry half-smile. "I do try to be a good host."
He runs a fingertip across the flesh of Sherlock's left inner arm. Ignoring Sherlock's infuriated noises, Moriarty produces from his pocket a small syringe, holding up so that Sherlock can see it. Sherlock falls utterly still, staring at needle, the colorless liquid inside. "Oh, who loves it? It's all right; it's time for your gift," Moriarty purrs. "Your home away from home. Proof that I do know you and love you better than anyone else."
No matter what mental acrobatics he tries to do, Sherlock is unable to do anything to prevent the needle from sliding, neatly, expertly, into his stiff, white arm, the one without the IV line in it. He howls the best he can against the hateful gag, his body quaking with fury. "Tut tut, lover, don't whinge so; it's two of your favorites. Morphine and ketamine . . . oh, yes, I know you love your kit-kats! I can see you wearing a silly furry top hat and enormous trousers, raving the night away." Sherlock isn't yet so impaired that he doesn't roll his eyes at the absurdity of that image; he'd never, absolutely not, big trousers, never in a billion years.
Moriarty chuckles, bobs his head a bit to some unheard house-music beat of the past. "Good times, weren't they?" The criminal gently withdraws the needle, pressing a small square of white gauze against the injection site, and licks the droplet of blood left behind on the needle's tip. "Mmm. Delicious, of course. Everything about you is top notch." He caps the syringe, and slips it back into his pocket, the device clinking faintly against something else, something metallic.
Sherlock groans helplessly as the drugs wash into his bloodstream, his brain blossoming at their touch, shivering, nearly orgasmic. Sublime! He's missed morphine so much; ketamine, too, those amazing excursions into the black hole at the center of his mind, the collapsing visions on its shores. Muscles melting. His eyes droop closed. "I see it in your face," Moriarty muses, "the joy. From the morphine?" Without intent, Sherlock nods. "Yes. I like to see that I've made you happy. And there's so much more where this came from; there's no reason to rush our lovely time together. It's so good, isn't it? I can taste it surging through you. We're going to have fun. I've needed this. So've you."
Sherlock wishes that Moriarty would shut up and let him just surf that first wave of opiate bliss. The dosage is perfect, as far as he can tell; of course it would be. His eyes roll back under the lids, but only briefly; he is not overwhelmed. He is in a perfect place, insulated from everything by infinite space. He is an proton of hydrogen. He laughs at the thought, and Moriarty laughs, too.
Reaching into his pocket, Moriarty withdraws the bullet, a plastic screw-top cylinder filled with powder, holds it to one nostril, and takes a short, sharp hit. The other nostril gets the same treatment. Sherlock wants cocaine now, lusts for it; the only thing better than morphine is cocaine, and it's right there in front of him. The morphine makes him relax too much, makes him too sensual. Cocaine would wake him up nicely. He hates everyone and everything that have ever kept him from it.
"You want some?" Moriarty asks gently.
Sherlock nods, once, sharp and tight.
"You won't like it," Moriarty adds.
Sherlock narrows his eyes, and Moriarty smiles again. He looks almost human, the drugged glaze in his eyes disguising their shark-like deadness. His eyes are beautiful, really. He is a rare Irish jewel, a spearhead chipped from ancient basalt, etched with acids. "I see you smiling," Moriarty says. "Trust me. You can't have any of this. Not yet. Daddy has to monitor you very closely. Doesn't want anything bad to happen. Doesn't want to hurt Sherlock."
The nice moment is gone instantly, and Sherlock hates himself for giving into romantic fancies when he in the worst mortal danger of his life. Moriarty is dangerous; he is not beautiful. Or clever. The fact that he refers to himself as "Daddy" sickens Sherlock to the bones, and makes his mind spin with sick and horrible possibilities. Nothing is beyond Moriarty; nothing is beneath him. Sherlock should know; there is little he wouldn't do for a case, or even just to keep from being bored. Other people? Feh. Children? Animals? Family? Morals? They are nothing to him. He does whatever he needs to do. Moriarty does whatever he likes. How is that worse?
Sherlock sobs again.
Moriarty toys with the back of Sherlock's head, ripping Velcro, and removes the gag from Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock tries to gather enough spit to spit at Moriarty, but his mouth is dust-pucker dry. He can only rasp, "I will kill you . . . with fire . . ."
Moriarty only grins back. The bulge in his pants is now a rigid shape. "Acceptable," he says conversationally. "It’s the same fire with which I will burn out your heart. My own life is more than worth that pleasure. Us, consumed simultaneously by the same flame . . . Fuck, that's erotic, isn't it? Even you think so. The fire's building up between your legs right now. The gasp and twitch; why, yes, even you cry out when you come. You've had a taste now; you'll not soon be able to give that up, will you? But oh, the doctor . . . such a mild chap, isn't he? . . . He will never be able to give you what you truly want, will he? He doesn't understand. He can't. We don't want him to. We want him to stay good. Not like us."
"Do not," Sherlock growls. "Do not speak of him. You've no right."
His eyes have adjusted a bit more to the darkness. The space he is in is large, and he is nowhere near a wall in any direction. Above him, he sees the glint of metal of what might be chains, but he is unable to move his head much, and has to make do with peripheral vision. Moriarty occupies most of his field of view, the white trousers, the damp stain on the thigh. He looks even younger than Sherlock remembers. "Oh, Sherlock. Darling. I can do whatever I want. I could kill you in ten seconds. Or instantly." He angles his head a few degrees behind him; he's got some kind of black plastic crate on a wheeled platform, like a child's wagon, stacked with strange, lethal-looking instruments and a vintage, green-velvet-lined kit stacked with syringes. Elegant bastard; Sherlock had one just like it once, at university, late of a legendary Blackpool heroin addict of the 1940s. No one had ever seen it, known Sherlock had it. No one.
One day it had gone missing.
"I wouldn't put limitations on me. Not right now. Or ever, really." Moriarty clasps his hands and blinks cheerfully. "Okay. Well, then. Forget about the outside world. Shall we play? Do you like Amy Winehouse?"
`/`/`/`/`/`
John likes Amy Winehouse.
Sherlock is missing the part of the psyche that allows him to appreciate soul music—the raw, human innards, whatever makes someone's head nod in time with the beat—and previously he found it unbearable, hearing nothing but flaws and ugly self-exposure. Under the influence of Moriarty's ketamine-and-morphine cocktail, that synaptic gulf is bridged. Sherlock wondered that he was unable to hear the rightness in it before. He finally got it, like picturing the finished image of a jigsaw puzzle by watching all the pieces scatter onto the floor, half of them lost.
Love is a losing game.
Occasionally he is aware of Moriarty's fingers, coated with warming lubricant, probing his asshole, or Moriarty humming along with the music. Sherlock only knows that his own penis is terribly hard, thickened, throbbing and aching, eager. A warm wave of drug-consciousness swamps Sherlock, and he helplessly laughs into it, sighing, muttering, "Oh, fuck me, go on. Get it over with. God. I will die. I'll be dead." Not asking for it; despairing of it.
"No, you won't," Moriarty murmurs, giving Sherlock's cock a few rough jerks until his hand gets wet. "Oh, what a mess we've made," he sings softly. He has a fine, smoky voice. "Poor fookin' Amy. Should've never given her that first hit, should I?" He slicks that pre-come on Sherlock's inner thighs, gives Sherlock a kiss on the temple. Sherlock closes his eyes, relaxed, wondering why he's been so worried. Praying to a dark and nameless god that Moriarty will put the needle back into him, and make sure it hurts this time.
Sherlock hears the whistle that the car radio antenna makes as it slices through the air, long before he feels the pain that accompanies the cutting of his own flesh. Sherlock screams, but only because he's startled; the blow barely hurt. Moriarty grooves to the music for a moment, tapping the antenna against his fingertips. “Remember this?" he asks. "From your rough trade playtime days? Discipline only, no physical contact, no names. They called you the Mad Monk. You were so popular. They lined up with things to hit you with. Plum switches; loops of piano wire, and your favorite, the radio antenna. Remember?”
"You weren't there," Sherlock rasps weakly.
"Oh," Moriarty says, "how little you know; how much you assume." Another stroke, another and another, neat parallel stripes.
Sherlock groans, and his penis twitches so hard he briefly fears that it will snap itself off. "You can't have been—you'd have been a child—"
"And so I was." Moriarty strips his trousers off, leaving only his T-shirt on; his cock is huge for his small frame, hard and stiff but so heavy it can't stand up. Despite himself, Sherlock stares. "So wee, I'm sure you didn't notice me. Besides being a little preoccupied with your own goals. I was a dogsbody. No one ever noticed me. I went everywhere, saw everything, knew everyone, but I was invisible. It was a glorious year. I'm very good at maths, you know. Special study, I was. Shipped me over. Never did go home again. Sidney's a great school, isn't it? So many special cases."
"Impossible," Sherlock babbles. "You can't have—you can't—"
"Not impossible. Merely highly improbable," Moriarty corrects him, stepping close, and tapping Sherlock on the forehead with the heavy head of his cock. "I am a genius, after all." he adds. "Like you. But better."
"No . . ." Sherlock tries to plead, but Moriarty unceremoniously sticks his cock into Sherlock's mouth, silencing him. Somehow, the head of his penis tastes of caramel; salted caramels, the type from a small candy shop in Paris. The only candy Sherlock likes; he started out stealing them from Mycroft to hide them, then proceeded to eat them all. Sherlock feels a shiver of panic; how can Moriarty know that? No one knows that . . . no one but he . . . and his brother.
He pulls out before Sherlock can think to bite him, strokes Sherlock's hair, kisses him on the top of the head, moves behind him. "Now we'll do a bit of this," Moriarty says. "This, I've not yet done to you." The leather straps creak, and Sherlock shakes his head over and over, hoping again that he can make this experience not real.
With alarming ease, Moriarty's thick cock pushes into Sherlock, and waits there, just inside. Moriarty sighs, listening to Sherlock's groans. It doesn't hurt at all, and that just makes it worse. He wraps one hand around Sherlock's cheekbone, catching the tears that leak from Sherlock's eyes. "Ah yes," Moriarty murmurs, licking the tears from his hand. "That's what I wanted. Sweet sodomy. Giving you what you wanted, though you never, ever realized it yourself. I am the only one who can give you what you want; the only man in the whole wide world who can ever make this work for you."
Sherlock spits, "Fuck you. Bastard. This is rape. This does not work for me." His voice breaks off in a desperate sob; it feels so good, so fucking good, he hates it, he wants more, the opiate and the sex and the invisible leaden wings of ketamine pushing the world away. He wants arms around him. Being sodomized isn't enough; he wants to be held. He wants to die.
He wishes John were here, kissing him softly on the mouth.
To Sherlock's surprise, Moriarty pulls out, and doesn't penetrate him again; perversely, Sherlock sobs again, nearly hysterical; how can he miss that? How could it be taken away like that? Torture indeed, the loss of the thick weight inside him, the contact of thigh on shredded thigh, the warmth transmitted by that body, the male body of James Moriarty, the horror of wanting it. Sherlock feels that he has lost a layer of skin, all over.
"Oh, bother. You can just make things so . . . unfun," the criminal sighs. "Sherlock, don't use that dreadful word. Hate-sex? Yeah; I'll give you that. But, c'mon, you wanted this as much as I do. Look at yourself. Not what you wish you were, but what you are. You wanted to fuck me the moment you saw me—that's why you were so fucking contemptuous. I know you. I've known you for a long time. You think you're better than me, when you're just a swotty cokehead with no friends." Abruptly, his voice changes, flies across the country to a back room in Brixton, a black man's voice, a mimicry so flawless that it disorients Sherlock completely. "You's just being a bitch because you want me charlie. You'll get some later, I said."
A vampire. . . gulping souls entire, then dissipating into mist. Genius.
Moriarty again stands in front of Sherlock, this time jerking vigorously on his fat cock, pausing now and again to wipe his filthy fingers in Sherlock's hair or on his face. "Fucking bitch. You just want my fucking ching. You know you gotta work for it, whore." Sherlock tries to dissociate, and succeeds, his mind sliding towards the K-hole as fast as he can; but not before he feels Moriarty's semen splash across his face.
"Oh, God," Sherlock whispers. Smell. Texture. Carefully aimed so that a single swipe of his tongue would carry it to his mouth. It tickles.
At once James Moriarty's voice is softer; his own, if it is. "From the moment I first saw you I only ever wanted to come on your face . . . if you hadn't meddled where you oughtn't, you'd have just been a treasured wank memory. Now I'm forced to destroy you. But I want to play first. You're such a delightful opponent, you know. And you do as you're told. But—" His voice breaks petulantly. "You've been cheating on me. On me! With one of them. It's almost bestiality, Sherlock, to engage in coitus with something so beneath you. You needed a wake-up call; remind you what you really are. You're not alone, love. You have me."
Moriarty laughs quietly, indulgently. "I complete you."
He flicks something behind Sherlock's field of vision, and instantly, Sherlock feels different again. The K-hole is no longer a possibility; something else is going into his bloodstream. The surreality of the situation heightens, overwhelming him—the smell of semen, the jagged edges of Winehouse's voice, the aching space in his anus, the stinging stripes on his inner thighs, Moriarty's voice in his ear whispering, "We're together now. So take a little nap, and when you wake up, I'll fuck you properly."
Sighing, "Never," Sherlock blacks out.
`/`/`/`/`/`
Sherlock regains consciousness face-down, head throbbing, in a gutter, next to a rubbish tip. Not the first time such a thing has happened. In fact he had got a bit of a name for himself in his later days at Sidney for waking up in gutters at least three days a week. It's a nice touch from someone whose entire life is nothing but nice touches that usually end with someone dead.
Remember your uni days? I do.
He recognizes this tip; it's within a few blocks of Baker Street. Moriarty's odd lair could be on this street, or it could be halfway round the world. It is morning, before sunrise, undoubtedly taking advantage of quiet streets to transport and deposit him. Sherlock almost smiles; what a nice bloke, giving him a ride home after. Taken from home, returned home, remembering nothing of either journey.
Sitting up, he takes a moment to gain equilibrium, patting himself down. Probable concussion, no broken bones, several dozen places ache or sting. His clothing is ripped and somewhat bloody, but at least it's on, shoes and all. No socks, no scarf, no coat, as he'd left the flat. When he stands up, his gut somersaults, and he immediately folds in half and vomits. All fluids. No pills. God, he could use one right now; one, or ten or so.
When he wipes his mouth, his hand comes away coated in blood, both fresh and half-dried. His lips sting and his nose feels rotten. There is a handkerchief in his trouser pocket; unfolding it, he discovers five tiny green morphine tablets. He can't trust them. It breaks his heart, but he crushes them to powder under the heel of his shoe.
His phone has been replaced with a different one, containing one contact number and one text message.
So much more where that came from. Will call on you again. Thanks for the fun. <3 DADDY 02:21 AM
He'd love to vomit again.
Feeling his way along the walls, eyes half closed against the rising sun, Sherlock slowly, carefully staggers home. He'd love to put his fist through the front window of Speedy's, but he hasn't the energy. His keys are missing. The door to 221 is unlocked, anyway. He senses a group of people, more than he wants to see, all up there in unit B, waiting for him, and he hesitates just outside, breathing quietly until nausea settles a bit. Without the weight of morphine on his shoulders, he has no sense of balance. He needs it now. He's got some upstairs. He just has to get up there.
He wants tea, and this time he'd be fine drinking it black.
Lestrade, and Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson. No John. They all jump up and talk at once. Sherlock makes no attempt to decipher their chattering. It's just static. "Tea," he demands, a strained rasp of a shout, shoving past them. "Tea. Tea, tea, fucking tea! Right now!"
"It's made, Sherlock, it's made," Mrs. Hudson replies meekly. She hands him a hot, milky cup. He snatches it from her and gulps, then hands it back empty.
"Another. Where's John?" he grunts. He digs a faded, knitted-silk sock from the bottom shelf of the sideboard, and retrieves an unmarked pack of cigarettes and a box of wooden matches. He smokes, hands shaking, with the same desperation as he attacked the tea.
"John's out, looking for you," Lestrade says helplessly. "He hasn't stopped. It's been four days, Sherlock. Where have you been?"
Sherlock snaps, "It's my right to disappear for as long as I like." Four days. It felt like an hour, or a year.
"And come back, looking like you've been hit by a car?" Lestrade retorts.
Mrs. Hudson brings more tea and Sherlock sips this one more slowly. His stomach is boiling like a kettle, but the nicotine is divine. Now he wants just a taste, just the most minute bump or droplet of cocaine to make everything better, not these long faces and agitated hands. Their eyes glitter with questions. Disgusted, he lights a second cigarette off the first, only half burned away. "Get out," Sherlock says. "Go away." His voice is rough; rough from screaming. Four days. That means it's been eight days since he ate anything more substantial than semen. He is tempted to crush the lit ends of the cigarettes into his arm. "Have you gone deaf? I want you out! All of you!"
Lestrade grimaces, but edges slowly towards the door. "Call me when you're ready, right? If there's anything I can do for you—"
"That won't happen," Sherlock says, pointing at the door with one of the cigarettes. "Out."
Mrs. Hudson leaves, too, with one last worried glance over her shoulder, but Mycroft hasn't budged from the couch, as though he'd grown into it. There are crumbs on his waistcoat—pale yellow and beige, from Mrs. Hudson's tea biscuits and a cold beef sandwich on the wholemeal bread the landlady likes to buy because she fancies Jamie Oliver. The breadcrumbs are dry; the biscuit ones fresh. Typical of Mycroft's late night snacking habit. "I shall stay until Dr. Watson returns," Mycroft says crisply, glancing at something on his phone.
Sherlock sneers. "Your fat arse probably can't unwedge itself from the sofa. Go on, fuck off back to Guildhall; they've got something for you to eat there, I'm sure. Salted caramels and whatnot."
" . . . Salted caramels?" Mycroft repeats curiously. "Why would you think of that?"
Sherlock freezes, sick with the realization that he's said that out loud; of course his horrid brother will remember exactly the situation. He's already given away too much. "Look . . . just fuck off, will you?"
"You're high," Mycroft says quietly. By the red rims of his eyes, he has been up all night, at least, maybe multiple nights. The tea stain on his shirt cuff implies more than one. "I haven't seen you this spangled in a long time."
Sherlock says nothing in reply. He wants to lie down, but he also wants to scrub himself under scalding-hot water for two or three hours. But he also wants to lie on the carpet and hold himself and sob. But, more than anything, he wants to go back , out on the street, find cocaine or morphine. It won't be as good, as staggering pure as what he's had lately, but right now, that hardly matters. He just needs a bit. Just a bit, before the cramps come on.
Before either Holmes speaks again, the door bangs open, admitting John Watson, out of breath, sweat at the roots of his hair. The sight of him tears at Sherlock, rending him to pieces; gratitude and relief, flicker of desire, longing for comfort, but more than any of the others, a shame so heavy that Sherlock can't even keep his eyelids open. "Sherlock!" John shouts; everyone is shouting. "Oh, my God! Sherlock! Are you all right?"
Groaning, grimacing, Sherlock tears at hair, flinching as he touches sore parts of his skull. "Quiet! And get Mycroft out of here," is all he can say. He lights another cigarette, gulping the smoke, tossing the spent butt into the fireplace.
"Mycroft, please," says John softly.
The elder Holmes rises ponderously to his feet, his expression blank. He mutters at John, "He'll need careful looking after for a few days," but at least he goes away; he closes the door too loudly, but at least he's closed it.
The flat closes around Sherlock comfortingly, but not close enough. He shivers. One hit. One good hit. He would sell everything he has, or burn it to the ground, for more. And he knows there's none in the flat; he got rid of it all, even before John came. Mycroft made him, in exchange for . . . for what? What could have been worth that?
"I need two milligrams of morphine," Sherlock says. "Please."
"Sherlock," John says softly. He sighs. "Tell me what happened. And . . . I'll give it to you."
Sherlock shakes his head. More trouble; more wasting of his time. Standing, he puts out the cigarette, finishes the tea at a gulp, and treads carefully, hardly staggering at all, to the bathroom. He sets the bath tap running hot, strips off his ruined suit and shirt, carefully placing the impostor phone on the bathroom sink. When the tub has enough water, Sherlock lowers himself into it, splashes water over his face until it's less sticky, lights another cigarette, and soaks until the dozens of points of pain in his body sink away. He doesn't feel half bad, now. The bathwater has taken on an orangey tint as the dried blood dissolves.
John has followed, has watched. "Please . . . talk to me," he whispers. He hands Sherlock a tiny white tablet.
"Keep your voice at that level," Sherlock whispers back, taking the pill and slipping it underneath his tongue. "My head is in a state." He ashes his cigarette onto the floor. "I need to eat. Make four slices of toast with butter and jam and bring them to me here."
John hesitates a moment. "All right," he responds at last. "More tea?"
"If you would." Sherlock can't look at him. He sinks down, immersing his whole body but the hand holding the cigarette, and stays that way, blowing slow bubbles, until John's return.
The toast is perfect, thickly buttered and heaping with jam. He devours it and licks the plate. John carefully hands Sherlock a cup of tea, and Sherlock devours it, too. He feels more solid now, yet still lightheaded. John sits silently on the toilet lid, watching him, his face a map of concern. When Sherlock finally stirs, John jumps to fetch a bath towel and dressing gown. Sherlock carefully slides the phone into his pocket.
When Sherlock shuffles to his room, John again follows, and settles next to him onto the bed. "Moriarty?" he asks in a whisper, drawing the blanket over Sherlock.
Sherlock finally looks into John's eyes. He feared John would look pitying, or disgusted, but neither is the case; instead, he looks determined, grim, a soldier awaiting authorization to assassinate. Sherlock smiles. His John; his very own dear Watson.
John says, "You're drugged, aren't you? Besides the morphine, of course . . ."
Sherlock just sighs and rolls his eyes, too tired to try to explain. Still, no pity or anger from John. He looks accepting. "Wasn't your choice, was it?" he guesses.
Sherlock has to look away then. John knows. His very own dear Watson just knows. Mutely, Sherlock shakes his head.
John peels the robe back from Sherlock's nude body, murmuring, "I'm sorry, but I need to examine you and see if you need stitches. Lot of blood in the tub."
"Most of it was from my face," Sherlock says at last.
"Sounds like you bit your tongue."
"It's fine. I'm fine."
"Did he hurt you?"
"Don't be stupid," Sherlock sighs. He wants to just curl up in John's arms and have his head stroked and metabolize the toast and jam and never move again.
"Yeah, sorry. What was I thinking. Please, Sherlock. Let me take a look. I'll be quick, and then you can get some rest. I want to see what happened."
Sherlock couldn't resist him if he wanted to. He lies motionless, first supine, enjoying the gentle pressure of John's fingertips on his swollen nipples, the bruising around the base of his penis, the scooped-out bowl of his starveling belly and the spread wings of his ribs. Both inner elbows have been bandaged skillfully; when John peels back the medical tape and gauze, his mouth tightens at the sight of intravenous pock marks in each arm. "He's not a doctor," John says, "but he's been trained at how to set an IV. Oh, God, Sherlock," he gasps. "I'm so sorry."
Before John can conjecture further, Sherlock turns over and presents his back side. The pièce de résistance, undoubtedly; it still hurts.
John is silent for a while.
"Well?" Sherlock prompts impatiently.
"Ahem—" It sounds painful when John clears his throat. "A variety of shallow cuts, done by various methods . . . ahem, none deep enough to require stitches, but if I'm not mistaken, deep enough to cause scarring."
"Of course," Sherlock muses. "Any . . . messages? Roman numerals, perhaps? I know there's at least one burn."
"Yes," John replies tightly. "It's just a dot. Not a cigarette burn . . ."
"The lit end of a glass crack pipe," Sherlock suggests. "Raised in the center, yet not blistered?"
"Yes," John says again quietly. "I don't . . . I don't see any messages. I'm going to touch," he adds, gently, in warning, and his keen fingertips touch and slightly push apart Sherlock's thighs. Sherlock obligingly spreads for the doctor, showing off the damage. John's fingers make him hypersensitive, almost tearful, and yet, somehow, he feels his balls tighten, and his cock grow heavy. "Parallel cuts here," John says. "Very careful; neat. Strikes . . . from . . ."
"A car antenna," Sherlock whispers. "Used like a . . . crop."
"And," John puts in, his voice fractionally lighted by interest, "strokes from a cane as well, laid exactly in the center . . . between the antenna cuts."
"Yes," says Sherlock.
"He striped you."
"He pin-striped me," Sherlock corrects, and breaks into a grin of bliss and satisfaction. "Adding to the design."
"Why—how does he—"
"He knows everything, John," Sherlock admits slowly. "He's seen . . . everything. This place has been bugged since we moved in. Cameras, too. He's obsessed, and madly jealous." He laughs with barely a sound. "He's so jealous of you for having me. Search me. Search me for a message. There must be one."
"I think," John murmurs. "I think you're the message. All of you. He had you and then he sent you home. He gave you drugs. What drugs, Sherlock? Do you know?"
Sherlock relaxes into the bedclothes, rubbing his cock against them, groaning in sudden arousal. John's hands. "Morphine and ketamine, primarily . . . with cocaine to wake me up when he wanted me to pay attention, midazolam when he wanted me to sleep, or possibly play dead. He made me want it. Drugs. I mean, John, I always want it. I do not believe in recovery; I only believe in avoidance, self discipline. It worked; worked for years. Oh, God, when I wanted it, though. . . I'd do . . . most anything. It was nothing to me. He knew this. And the morphine . . ." Sherlock breaks off; it's too much. "There are things I've done, and I am glad to know them, but you . . . you, steady John . . . you may not be."
"Stop fucking protecting me," John says quietly. "I take you as you are. And I've seen things, Sherlock Holmes; I've seen things in war and at home that you'd struggle to understand. You have me as your friend," he says, and more quietly, so private and unsure even now, "your lover. Now, let me your doctor. You won't run me off."
Sherlock cannot speak; he nods into the pillow, glad he can't see anything. Placing his fingers at either edge of Sherlock's buttocks, John exposes Sherlock's anus, and sighs.
"That fucking bastard."
"That bad?" Sherlock asks, interested.
Behind him, John rakes his hand through his hair. "I'd need a speculum to really take a look inside," he says quickly, "but . . . you seem to be all right, just fucked all sideways."
Sherlock can't help the groan that emerges from him. "I'm tumescent."
"I can see that," John says. "It's not right. You're off your face. You'll feel different when you sober up. I'm calling in to the surgery, and taking you to a hospital. You could easily have broken ribs, internal injuries—"
"I don't," Sherlock says calmly.
"Whatever. This time, you do what I say."
"No," Sherlock says. "I want you to take care of me. This is for you and me." His eyes drifted to the ceiling at the corner of the room. "And thee," he adds to the unseen etherial audience. "I've nothing to hide. Not this. Because you'll never have this."
John brushes his lips against Sherlock's buttock, in one of the only places not cut or bruised. "Ah," Sherlock sighs. "Touch me inside. You can use your speculum later, but your touch sees. Knows me, now."
"Yes," says John. "I'll be right back."
"No," Sherlock says, "don't leave me." He stands up and pulls the dressing gown around his body. He wavers on his feet, weak with fatigue, relief, and pleasure. "We'll go to your room. Yours is better."
Rearranged naked on John's bed, John out of his clothes, too, and wrapped around Sherlock's cold, tender, bony body, John gently probes at Sherlock's anus with lubricated fingers while Sherlock rubs his thumb across the underside of his penis. "Inflammation," John says in Sherlock's ear, like a lustful whisper, "considerable swelling, but no broken skin that I can feel. He was careful."
"He's got a absurdly large penis," Sherlock reports, fingers slippery with his own pre-come.
"I'll kill him," John mutters.
"I'll kill him," Sherlock counters.
"Race you for it," says John, dead serious.
Sherlock laughs. "Ah, Watson," he says, "you are. A rare creature."
"I'm just an ordinary soldier."
"Ah — deeper — it doesn't hurt. I wish you'd put your penis inside me. That's what I really want. I want you to fuck me and shove my head down . . ." Sherlock gasps his confession, borne out of his mind on a swelling tide of orgasm. "John — yes — oh, John, please —"
"Oh, Sherlock," says John in dismay, holding him so tight it hurt, fingers clenched in the skin of Sherlock's hips, and — just as Sherlock had hoped — John's hard cock dragged against the whip cuts and slid inside him. Just as quickly, John had withdrawn, but not so quickly that he didn't soak Sherlock's backside with his ejaculate. Sherlock purred with joy, his hands sticky, at last firmly fixed in the present, in the very moment.
It is not to last. John quickly jerks Sherlock up off the bed and hustles him back to the bathroom, where John washes them both with the shower head and probably excessive amounts of surgical soap. "Jesus," John fusses, his face still flushed and hair askew, "I've just had unprotected sex with an IV drug user. I need my fucking head examined."
"No, just your blood," Sherlock slurs comfortably. "Don't worry, John; we'll outlive him. I'll make sure of it. We'll do it together."
"Shut up," John says. He towels Sherlock off without much gentleness, and all but shoves him back to his bed, the chaotic bed in John's room, and covers Sherlock's body with a blanket.
"Stay," Sherlock whispers, holding out one arm. "Please. I'm cold."
John sighs irritably. The sound is just so like him that it makes Sherlock laugh. He pats the bed beside him, and sure enough, John slides under the blanket and against him. "You owe me twenty quid for new bedsheets," John says.
"You can shoot Moriarty between the eyes. With an anti-tank gun."
Sherlock has his eyes closed — true sleep is near — but he can feel the pleasant vibrations of John chuckling against his back. Sherlock smiles, too, hurrying himself towards sleep before he remembers anything about anything. He only wants to be here, aware of now, being held in John's arms and his brain overflowing with neurochemical happiness. When reality resumes, he cannot imagine how painful it will be.
But what a worthy goal.
Kill him.