Without warning, Sherlock shifted beneath him and he felt himself tumbling off the bed. Sherlock stood over him, livid. “What is wrong with you?”
Terror shot through John. He felt as though his body were being controlled by someone else. He scrambled away, knocking over a test tube stand. He cut his hands and feet on the broken glass, but he ignored it. Sherlock pursued him until he fetched up in a corner. He put his right arm up to fend off a blow and got his feet under him so he could fight once his opponent was close enough.
Sherlock stared down at him, his face both annoyed and perplexed. “Bloody Hell! You just ruined my experiment. You’ve set me back weeks now.”
John looked up in confusion. He didn’t expect to see Sherlock. He expected someone else, but he couldn’t recall who. Thoughts came slowly. He needed to be safe. He needed to be alone. Someplace that was his. As if in a trance, he got up and limped upstairs to his room. Sherlock followed him, asking questions, but John ignored him. He locked his door, sat on the bed, and stared out his tiny window.
*
Sherlock sat outside of John’s bedroom door, wondering what was happening on the other side. He’d completely lost his voice. First from the choking earlier that day and now from yelling at John’s door, initially demanding he come out and not be so tedious, then begging and apologizing. He’d already picked the lock on the door knob, but John had locked the inside-only deadbolt. The only way Sherlock would be able to get in now would be if he had a battering ram.
He ran what had happened through his mind. They had been snogging. He could tell John was a little tense, but assumed it was because everything was so new. It all changed when he touched John’s hair. He backed off when John pushed him away. He thought that perhaps John had realized that he wasn’t attracted to him after all, but then he’d grabbed him and held him down. Sherlock had been both turned on and slightly intimidated by John’s aggressively sexual nature. During the previous encounters, John had been playful. His hands had been gentle and he used only a fraction of his strength. Sherlock could have easily resisted if he wanted to. This time, though, John had given him no choice. He’d felt terrified.
He flipped John onto the floor and planned to give him an earful, but John had run from him in a blind panic. When Sherlock had cornered him, there had been something so feral in the way he crouched, with his arm upraised to fend off a blow, he’d taken a step back in fear. Moving like an automaton, John had retreated up to his room and shut the door. There had been a soft creaking of bedsprings, then no other sound.
He spent half the night pacing in front of the door, banging on it at irregular intervals with no response. He tried to formulate plans and strategies, but couldn’t compose his mind enough to get past Step 1: Make sure John was alright.
Eventually, he sat down and leaned against the doorframe to rest his eyes for a few minutes.
Fill: No Refuge from Memory: 9b/?
Terror shot through John. He felt as though his body were being controlled by someone else. He scrambled away, knocking over a test tube stand. He cut his hands and feet on the broken glass, but he ignored it. Sherlock pursued him until he fetched up in a corner. He put his right arm up to fend off a blow and got his feet under him so he could fight once his opponent was close enough.
Sherlock stared down at him, his face both annoyed and perplexed. “Bloody Hell! You just ruined my experiment. You’ve set me back weeks now.”
John looked up in confusion. He didn’t expect to see Sherlock. He expected someone else, but he couldn’t recall who. Thoughts came slowly. He needed to be safe. He needed to be alone. Someplace that was his. As if in a trance, he got up and limped upstairs to his room. Sherlock followed him, asking questions, but John ignored him. He locked his door, sat on the bed, and stared out his tiny window.
*
Sherlock sat outside of John’s bedroom door, wondering what was happening on the other side. He’d completely lost his voice. First from the choking earlier that day and now from yelling at John’s door, initially demanding he come out and not be so tedious, then begging and apologizing. He’d already picked the lock on the door knob, but John had locked the inside-only deadbolt. The only way Sherlock would be able to get in now would be if he had a battering ram.
He ran what had happened through his mind. They had been snogging. He could tell John was a little tense, but assumed it was because everything was so new. It all changed when he touched John’s hair. He backed off when John pushed him away. He thought that perhaps John had realized that he wasn’t attracted to him after all, but then he’d grabbed him and held him down. Sherlock had been both turned on and slightly intimidated by John’s aggressively sexual nature. During the previous encounters, John had been playful. His hands had been gentle and he used only a fraction of his strength. Sherlock could have easily resisted if he wanted to. This time, though, John had given him no choice. He’d felt terrified.
He flipped John onto the floor and planned to give him an earful, but John had run from him in a blind panic. When Sherlock had cornered him, there had been something so feral in the way he crouched, with his arm upraised to fend off a blow, he’d taken a step back in fear. Moving like an automaton, John had retreated up to his room and shut the door. There had been a soft creaking of bedsprings, then no other sound.
He spent half the night pacing in front of the door, banging on it at irregular intervals with no response. He tried to formulate plans and strategies, but couldn’t compose his mind enough to get past Step 1: Make sure John was alright.
Eventually, he sat down and leaned against the doorframe to rest his eyes for a few minutes.