Sherlock covertly eyed John from behind his laptop screen. He had gotten adept at stealing glances at him during the time when he’d been in love with him, but unable to confess it. He wasn’t very good at understanding human emotion. It was impossible to measure objectively and often left no physical evidence for him to find. Empathy was foreign to him, though he found that using his observational skills, he was able to cobble together a passable facsimile of it.
Against his will, he suspected that John’s new therapist was a genius of Irene Adler proportions, at least if her sex advice was anything to go by. Her idea of allowing John to tie him to the bed had yielded mind-blowing results. There were still many areas where they struggled. John grew uncomfortable any time Sherlock was on top or backed him against a wall. He quickly resigned himself to the fact that if he wanted to be intimate with him, he would have to relinquish control of their sexual encounters. As much as he disliked the limitations this placed on their sexual activities, it was a small price to pay. The only thing that bothered him was John’s complete lack of awareness of his constraints. He didn’t seem to notice that they only had half a sex life.
John appeared to be getting better, or at least, he was now broken in a different way. He’d shared more of what had happened, only a few bits and pieces of information, but Sherlock was more than capable of filling in the gaps. There were some things he didn’t understand: chiefly, how, in the name of all that was holy, no one, especially his counselor, had never realized what was happening to John. Even as an adult, his facial expressions were transparent. As a teen, they would have been even more so.
He looked at John again. The case wasn’t closed. There were still more mysteries. He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and texted Mycroft. He would start with the counselor and David Fernandez then work his way through the rest of John’s teachers. He would get to the bottom of this mystery.
*
For the first time in his life, John was happy, but something niggled. There was a piece missing, but he couldn’t figure out the shape of it. Fragments of unhappiness filtered into their lives again. The first time he tried to give Sherlock a blowjob, he had a terrible flashback. He barely restrained himself from hitting him in the stomach. Later, he couldn’t remember what he’d seen.
He encountered another puzzle as he went about tidying the flat. He found a sheaf of papers, counselor’s notes. He didn’t remember seeing a counselor as a child. How could a counselor have missed the horrific abuse that he had suffered at home? He needed more information, but this time, he wanted to find it without Sherlock’s help.
He waited until Sherlock left the flat before he went to the storage locker. Harry’s key opened the lock easily enough. He dug through boxes at random, waiting for something to trigger him, but nothing did. It wasn’t until he began leafing through old pamphlets that it happened.
The page was open to a photo of the secondary school’s administrative staff. His eyes were automatically drawn to one of the men in the photo. He was middle-aged, with graying temples, heavy-set, and wearing thick glasses.
Fill: No Refuge from Memory: 19b
Sherlock covertly eyed John from behind his laptop screen. He had gotten adept at stealing glances at him during the time when he’d been in love with him, but unable to confess it. He wasn’t very good at understanding human emotion. It was impossible to measure objectively and often left no physical evidence for him to find. Empathy was foreign to him, though he found that using his observational skills, he was able to cobble together a passable facsimile of it.
Against his will, he suspected that John’s new therapist was a genius of Irene Adler proportions, at least if her sex advice was anything to go by. Her idea of allowing John to tie him to the bed had yielded mind-blowing results. There were still many areas where they struggled. John grew uncomfortable any time Sherlock was on top or backed him against a wall. He quickly resigned himself to the fact that if he wanted to be intimate with him, he would have to relinquish control of their sexual encounters. As much as he disliked the limitations this placed on their sexual activities, it was a small price to pay. The only thing that bothered him was John’s complete lack of awareness of his constraints. He didn’t seem to notice that they only had half a sex life.
John appeared to be getting better, or at least, he was now broken in a different way. He’d shared more of what had happened, only a few bits and pieces of information, but Sherlock was more than capable of filling in the gaps. There were some things he didn’t understand: chiefly, how, in the name of all that was holy, no one, especially his counselor, had never realized what was happening to John. Even as an adult, his facial expressions were transparent. As a teen, they would have been even more so.
He looked at John again. The case wasn’t closed. There were still more mysteries. He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and texted Mycroft. He would start with the counselor and David Fernandez then work his way through the rest of John’s teachers. He would get to the bottom of this mystery.
*
For the first time in his life, John was happy, but something niggled. There was a piece missing, but he couldn’t figure out the shape of it. Fragments of unhappiness filtered into their lives again. The first time he tried to give Sherlock a blowjob, he had a terrible flashback. He barely restrained himself from hitting him in the stomach. Later, he couldn’t remember what he’d seen.
He encountered another puzzle as he went about tidying the flat. He found a sheaf of papers, counselor’s notes. He didn’t remember seeing a counselor as a child. How could a counselor have missed the horrific abuse that he had suffered at home? He needed more information, but this time, he wanted to find it without Sherlock’s help.
He waited until Sherlock left the flat before he went to the storage locker. Harry’s key opened the lock easily enough. He dug through boxes at random, waiting for something to trigger him, but nothing did. It wasn’t until he began leafing through old pamphlets that it happened.
The page was open to a photo of the secondary school’s administrative staff. His eyes were automatically drawn to one of the men in the photo. He was middle-aged, with graying temples, heavy-set, and wearing thick glasses.
He had a flashback.