‘One sachet of this stuff,’ John spits in Magnussen’s direction like an accusation. ‘Really?’
‘One is all you were given,’ Magnussen agrees, once he seems to decide John’s comment is not rhetorical. ‘I thought soldiers were supposed to be resourceful!’ He chuckles to himself.
‘You said it yourself, his body’s not used to this sort of thing,’ John growls. ‘I’m going to do it—I am doing it,’ he is quick to clarify, likely in response to something in Magnussen’s face, ‘I’m doing it, goddamn you, but your sick curiosity won’t be satisfied if he’s in too much pain to even maintain an erection!’
Anger. John is angry, for his sake. For them being forced into this in the first place, as well. (In that case, he should be angry at Sherlock. Sherlock is the one who brought him here. All because he had wanted John along for another adventure, something to take John’s mind off the galling helplessness he felt, confronted with Mary’s duplicity and the tenuous state of their future as a couple, as a family. Instead, Sherlock had merely maneuvered John into position to be made helpless in yet another way.)
‘Hmm. Perhaps you have a valid point, John,’ Magnussen eventually concedes. ‘Well, Sherlock?’
Sherlock takes his hand from himself, presses his fist to his upper thigh, hard, pushing his knuckles into the bone of his femur. He is well aware that if he asks anything of Magnussen now, it will come at a price. (Magnussen only makes a deal once he’s established a person’s weaknesses.)
‘Sherlock,’ John says behind him, warningly.
Sherlock wants to think that if he was at all interested in making this easier on himself, he would ignore Magnussen’s goading. That saying ‘yes’ would be purely for John’s benefit, because it would be much harder on John, causing Sherlock pain, than it would be for Sherlock to endure that pain in the name of spite. But he doesn’t want to have to remember pain at John’s hands, not of this kind; because as much as he might wish, otherwise, Sherlock is under no delusions that he will not remember every moment of this. John will have no choice but to remember, and allowing himself to delete today’s events when John cannot feels unconscionably cowardly.
Sherlock carefully pushes himself upright, until he is on his hands and knees once more.
‘Another sachet, pl—‘ He coughs once, attempting to dispel the unnaturally husky quality to his voice. ‘Please.’ His brain feels like it is coming back on line, and he reaches for that sense of clarity, as he waits to hear Magnussen’s terms. Tries to wrestle back some of his usual self-possession, for John’s sake. ‘You’ve clearly seen the size of what John is, ah, working with,’ he adds (blathers), gesturing vaguely behind himself without managing to look at either of the room’s other two occupants, ‘so it should come as no surprise that it’s highly unlikely to fit “as-is.”’
Magnussen puts on a show of deliberating the request, drumming his fingers thoughtfully against the top of the sofa. Sherlock clenches his jaw. He will not beg.
FILL: Take What We're Given (Just Because You've Forgotten Doesn't Mean You're Forgiven) Part 4h
‘One is all you were given,’ Magnussen agrees, once he seems to decide John’s comment is not rhetorical. ‘I thought soldiers were supposed to be resourceful!’ He chuckles to himself.
‘You said it yourself, his body’s not used to this sort of thing,’ John growls. ‘I’m going to do it—I am doing it,’ he is quick to clarify, likely in response to something in Magnussen’s face, ‘I’m doing it, goddamn you, but your sick curiosity won’t be satisfied if he’s in too much pain to even maintain an erection!’
Anger. John is angry, for his sake. For them being forced into this in the first place, as well. (In that case, he should be angry at Sherlock. Sherlock is the one who brought him here. All because he had wanted John along for another adventure, something to take John’s mind off the galling helplessness he felt, confronted with Mary’s duplicity and the tenuous state of their future as a couple, as a family. Instead, Sherlock had merely maneuvered John into position to be made helpless in yet another way.)
‘Hmm. Perhaps you have a valid point, John,’ Magnussen eventually concedes. ‘Well, Sherlock?’
Sherlock takes his hand from himself, presses his fist to his upper thigh, hard, pushing his knuckles into the bone of his femur. He is well aware that if he asks anything of Magnussen now, it will come at a price. (Magnussen only makes a deal once he’s established a person’s weaknesses.)
‘Sherlock,’ John says behind him, warningly.
Sherlock wants to think that if he was at all interested in making this easier on himself, he would ignore Magnussen’s goading. That saying ‘yes’ would be purely for John’s benefit, because it would be much harder on John, causing Sherlock pain, than it would be for Sherlock to endure that pain in the name of spite. But he doesn’t want to have to remember pain at John’s hands, not of this kind; because as much as he might wish, otherwise, Sherlock is under no delusions that he will not remember every moment of this. John will have no choice but to remember, and allowing himself to delete today’s events when John cannot feels unconscionably cowardly.
Sherlock carefully pushes himself upright, until he is on his hands and knees once more.
‘Another sachet, pl—‘ He coughs once, attempting to dispel the unnaturally husky quality to his voice. ‘Please.’ His brain feels like it is coming back on line, and he reaches for that sense of clarity, as he waits to hear Magnussen’s terms. Tries to wrestle back some of his usual self-possession, for John’s sake. ‘You’ve clearly seen the size of what John is, ah, working with,’ he adds (blathers), gesturing vaguely behind himself without managing to look at either of the room’s other two occupants, ‘so it should come as no surprise that it’s highly unlikely to fit “as-is.”’
Magnussen puts on a show of deliberating the request, drumming his fingers thoughtfully against the top of the sofa. Sherlock clenches his jaw. He will not beg.