sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXIV

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Prompting Part XXXIV

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“Yeah, absolutely. Can I touch your pet, John?” Anna wondered aloud, voice quivering with chemical bliss. “He’s fabulous.”

At this, against reason, John felt a swelling of pride. He noticed he was petting Sherlock’s thigh absently. He stopped.

“Can they touch you, Sherlock?”

“My ears are off limits. But, yes.”

The girls began petting both of them. It was nice, soft hands all over.

"What are you into, other than the bootblacking?" Rose asked.

John balked, "That's an awfully personal question, isn't it?"

Sherlock whispered into his ear, "Remember where we are. Here, 'What do you do for a living?' is a personal question."

“Come on, Rose,” Anna gave John’s arm a final squeeze and pleaded now with her, reaching around Sherlock, hugging him on John’s lap, to hold Rose’s hand. “Tell Powder to invite John and Sherlock. They’re so pretty, and we need more male couples. We never get cute queer boys in the inner circle. Too many hetero vibes at Top Floor, they’re killing my buzz.”

“Please, Anna,” Rose rolled her eyes. “Nothing on God’s green Earth could kill your buzz.”

“My kind of girl,” remarked Sherlock dryly, snuggling into John. His insincerity was lost on the two buzzed girls, who only giggled.

“You don’t have a type of girl, Sherlock,” John said despite, perhaps because of, the dizzy heat that sprang through him at the friction of Sherlock’s body against his. It’s the girls he corrected himself. The girls and the booze..

“You should roll with us,” the girl in the pink latex decided abruptly.

“MDMA.” Sherlock sniffed primly. “Why would I want to do a drug that makes you love everyone?”

“Is coke more your speed?”

John glanced at Sherlock. He looked exceedingly uncomfortable, like someone was forcing him into a bath of cold water. The girls found Sherlock’s antipathy hilarious, for some reason. John didn’t think it was funny, not in the least. But, he was glad Sherlock wasn’t quick to pick up such a direct offer to use.

John answered for him, “Sherlock doesn’t smoke and he doesn’t do drugs.”

“Then be my friend on kinkspace,” said the girl in pink. “My handle’s RubberDolly, but you can just call me Dolly. You do have KinkSpace, don’t you? It’s a social networking site for deviants.”

“No,” Sherlock responded, getting out his mobile. His fingers flew over the screen. “But, I will in a moment.”

“Bad boy,” scolded Rose. “You’re not supposed to do that here.”

The other girls didn’t seem to care. Dolly said, “Oh, goody. I’d love to dress you two up sometime. You’d make such delightful little dolls.”

“I think John would look good in something military. Don’t you agree?” Sherlock asked, with a devilishly mischievous smile.

“Yes!” almost all of the girls responded.

“Tell me more about kinkspace,” John said.

Anna blathered, “Kinkspace. It’s the beating heart of Tribe. It’s where everyone goes. It’s the string that keeps us connected when we’re away from each other, living our other lives.”

Sherlock leaned in and whispered in John’s ear, “I have what I need.”

He climbed out of John’s lap and stood. The girls withdrew their hands. The sudden lack of contact was disappointing. The girls looked disappointed too, each and every one of them.

“My account is BloodHound, if you’d like to friend me.” It was strange to hear Sherlock talk about social media like it was something he went in for. He made a curt bow. “It was nice to meet all of you. But, John prefers when I get a full night’s sleep. So, I’m afraid we’re done for the night.”

Sherlock collected their bag. John followed him out. In the cab John laughed, punch drunk from endorphins and adrenaline, "There's something I never thought I'd do."

"What?” Sherlock shot him an unbelieving look. “You'd never been to a BDSM club?"

John mirrored Sherlock’s disbelief, "Had you?"

Sherlock didn’t answer. He steepled his fingers under his chin. It was obvious he wasn’t going to speak for a while. Finally, when they were approaching Baker Street and John was half asleep propped up against the door, he suddenly announced:

"Love-bomb."

"Excuse me?" John responded, stifling a yawn.

"Love-bomb.” Sherlock repeated with more intensity. “We were love-bombed."

I just wanted to say I love the hell out of this. Normally I avoid D/s because of power dynamics but I enjoy the roles everyone has in this, how in character John and Sherlock are, as well as the slow build.

I hope you finish it or post it on A03 eventually so I can bookmark it forever.

Thank you so much. Encouragement helps me write.

It's going to be a long one, but I've it all plotted out. I think it will probably take me about two months to complete.

I plan on posting it on AO3 once it's been beta'ed and I've filled out more of John's inner monologue.

Thanks again. <3 <3 <3

"We were love-bombed?"

"Yes, love-bombing is a recruiting technique used by cults: an attempt to influence a person by lavish demonstrations of attention. It's coordinated effort that involves long-term members' flooding recruits with flattery, verbal seduction, affectionate but usually nonsexual touching. Yes, we were love-bombed. You didn't go for it, did you?"

"No," John replied. It might have been a lie. Either way, he was too tired to tell Sherlock he was paranoid.

***

When John woke up he found Sherlock sitting at his computer. The detective likely hadn’t moved from that spot since the night before. He was still wearing the same suit, and that damned collar. It was more obscene in the morning light, if that was even possible. In the sunlight the dark leather gave his pale flesh a quality not unlike white marble.

John sat, and opened the paper, and fixed himself a cup of tea from the tray Mrs. Hudson had brought. Mrs. Hudson, if she had been up she had probably seen Sherlock in that collar. He would never hear the end of it. Why, Sherlock? Why. He didn’t ask. He read his paper. When he was finished and Sherlock still hadn’t said anything he gave in:

“What’ve you found?” he asked, putting his paper aside.

“Nothing,” Sherlock said excitedly. He didn’t look away from the screen.

“What’s good about nothing? Don’t you want to find something?” He leaned back in his chair. “Usually we want to find something.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Well, that would be useful. But, nothing is useful in a way. In early 2012 kinkspace changed it’s terms of use. Policy 23: all posts which could be considered slanderous are disallowed. Everything on the Tribe page dating from that time has been deleted.”

“Anything else?”

“Also, comments on other London based fetish group pages indicate that many boycott his parties for ethical reasons.”

“It could be that they don’t like the alarming number of drugs flying up peoples’ noses.”

“Could be.” Sherlock turned to face him. Conversations only merited his full attention when he was asked to walk through his logic, it seemed. “Could also be that they have an issue with his consent ethics. A rival group formed shortly after the deleted incident in 2012. The parties they throw have involved procedures to ensure that players are safe: a blacklist, a buddy system, wherein you and your partner both are banned from attending if one or the other violates the consent protocol, even an application process.”

Sherlock’s collar was distracting. Sunlight glinted off the O ring. John had the urge to tug on it. He busied his hands fiddling with the paper. “So?”

“So, if Daddea is hiding something, something he’s done here in London, that’s where we’ll find people willing to talk about it.”

John shook his head. It didn’t make sense. “How do you know that? If he’s done something, wouldn’t the victims just go to the police?”

Sherlock sighed, and explained. “No, statistically speaking, rape is both the most under-reported and difficult to prosecute crime. Three-fifths of victims go to the authorities and only three out of every one hundred rapists serve time in prison. Add on top of that the stigma of BDSM and Tribe members’ cultish behavior, and it is likely that no one has said anything to the police.”

“I see.”

“We’re going. I’ve filled out our applications.” Sherlock’s voice changed. It was thick with wry amusement. “The party is called Friendship is Magic. The theme is woodland creatures.”

John wanted to tell him again he was enjoying this too much. But, who was the pot to call the kettle black? Instead he said, “We have to dress as woodland creatures?”

“You be a hedgehog.” Sherlock turned back to the computer. “I’ll be an otter.”

The detective was even more difficult to read with his back turned. “You cannot be serious.”

Sherlock conceded, “There is no dress code.”

He had one more question. His questions for Sherlock would never end, so long as the intransigent fool lived, and probably long after.

“Why are you still wearing that collar?”

Sherlock kept his back turned, but reached to take the collar off. “Because it looks good on me.”

John laughed, as if Sherlock would admit that he had been so focused he had simply forgotten.

Including the hedgehog and the otter in such a way is pure brilliance!

Love Sherlock's comment that the collar looks good on him!

OP here again. I am practically inhaling everything you post. Please moar! Also, I love how John's slowly discovering he likes this for real. HNNG

Thank you, Nonnie! (hugs) I'm having such fun with this. I'm trying to write the power dynamic delicately. He'll start pushing more soon! Light feeding fetish, caning, pet play, creative humiliation, predicament bondage, needle play, and mouths being washed out with soap are on the horizon. Promise.

Not op but lord I love what you're doing here. This is amazing and I can't wait for the things you promise.

The club where the second party was held was different than the first. But it was still a far cry from what John had first expected. They waited on a line that stretched around the block before entering. John had been there once before, on a date. Then it had been a concert hall. This night, it was transformed.

There was what appeared to be a kiddy pool filled with glitter and lube. On the stage, instead of a band there was a contest taking place: the person to make the best show of wanking with a strap-on would win a dildo. There was a line of vendors selling everything from neon colored single tail whips to wands designed to deliver, according to the seller, electric shocks ranging from pleasant to excruciating. He demonstrated this on his partner in the booth by inserting the wand into her mouth, which was wrenched open with a gag. The muffled scream torn from her when he touched the wand to her hard palate roused a more than a strictly proper amount of curiosity in Sherlock.

“Get me a drink,” John said, half order, half question. He felt like he might need one.

Sherlock put their bag down near a white leather settee on the edge of the room, and did as he was asked. John sat, and did his best to make himself comfortable. Something more than being waited on made watching Sherlock walk over to the bar and return, cocktail in hand, viscerally satisfying. It might have been simple satisfaction at watching the uncompromising Sherlock follow his demands without question. It might have been something different. It didn’t matter. While they were on this case he would enjoy it as long as it lasted.

Sherlock didn’t ask to climb into his lap this time.

“I thought you might like a Manhattan,” he said, with the ease of a familiar lover. The way Sherlock slipped into characters sometimes was startling. To John, it looked like he had practiced his movements in a mirror, and that he was trying them on like a coat he was not entirely sure fit.

He did like Manhattans, sometimes. Between sips he noticed he was stroking Sherlock’s leg, again. He didn’t bother stopping himself. He was just keeping up the act. It was nice though: the familiar warmth contrasted with the foreign feeling of his sinewy musculature moving under his touch. Sherlock’s hand shot out and pinned down his fingers.

That might’ve felt nice too except Sherlock said, “Don’t.”

John’s pulse plummeted, quivering into the pit of his stomach. The empty space it left in his chest, unexpectedly, stung. He felt like he was years and years younger being rebuffed for fumbling sophomorically at the hemline of a schoolgirl’s dress. Don’t be ridiculous John scolded himself. Sherlock pressed John’s hand down into his thigh.

Sherlock didn’t look at him when he told him, “Light touch doesn’t feel right today. Squeeze harder.”

He did, and Sherlock leaned into him. It occurred to him then just how little the two of them touched one another, just how little he had touched anyone recently, with all his time taken up by Sherlock. So, they were both just touch starved. The warmth spreading through him, it was nothing.

“Same plan as last night?” he asked.

“Same plan,” Sherlock confirmed.

“The boots?”

“No. Something different. There may be some of the same crowd.”

“Then what?”

“I thought up last night’s. You think up tonight’s.”

Sherlock offered the bag. They probably should have talked about this earlier. Always the same story with Sherlock. John rifled through the bag. Generic kink parafernalia, none of it particularly called out to him. What could he do to Sherlock that was different? Was there anything he wanted to do? Perhaps, one thing had crossed his mind a few times. But, it didn’t require anything in that bag.

“Sherlock, go to loo and ask one of the attendants for a bar of soap. Nick a towel. Then ask the bartender for two cups of water, and an empty glass.”

Sherlock looked like he knew exactly what John was thinking. He probably did. In another time Sherlock would have been burned as a witch, John was convinced of it. But, again, he did as he was asked without question.

When Sherlock returned he sunk to his knees in front of John, and presented the requested items as though procuring them was some great victory. Naturally, Sherlock assessed the situation and found his voice quickly.

"You are planning on washing my mouth out with soap," he popped the 'p' at the end of the sentence, eyes flashing with his pronunciation of the word.

"Brilliant deduction, Sherlock."

"Hm," Sherlock responded. He never said 'yes' when he could simply hum out a noncommittal syllable.

John unwrapped the soap, dipped it into the glass of water, ran it between his hands until suds formed, and held it out to his friend.

"Go ahead," he prompted.

Sherlock took the soap in his hands. He squinted at it, head tilted and face scrunched the way he did when he was pretending to think over the best way to contradict someone. Sherlock shoved the soap into his mouth, looking for just a second like he had taken vindictive satisfaction in stuffing something someplace it did not belong. Then his eyes started to water.

"Don't spit it out," John ordered.

John shoved Sherlock gently, sat him back on his heels. Sherlock swallowed, gagged, and started coughing violently. He moved to get up. John put his hands on his shoulders and pushed him down again. Sherlock growled. His voice was rough with lofty derision though whatever he was trying to say was garbled around the soap. However, he sat back down, leaning heavily into John's hands.

Sherlock was touch starved. John was convinced. Looking at the pair of them people always came up to John, hugged him, patted him, when the last thing he wanted was for strangers to put their hands on him. It made his skin crawl. But, Sherlock, unapproachable and statuesque, was the one who craved touch. He would find any excuse to put his hands all over a stranger, to lean his weight into them, as though he had no concept of personal space. John wondered how long, before this, it had been since Sherlock had felt the touch of someone who loved him, even as a friend. Likely, it had been a very long while.

John squeezed his shoulders. Sherlock rested his head on John's arm and rolled his eyes dramatically. There was spit pooling in Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock probably didn't want to swallow again and risk triggering another coughing fit.

"Not yet."

It occurred to John that maybe Sherlock liked this. There was something about being humiliated that made a person feel small, like a piece of paper folded in half. When the world was too big, when there was too much to think about, it was comforting to be crumpled like that. With a person you trusted, it gave a fixed point to focus. It was fucked up, but maybe that was what Sherlock needed sometimes, though he would die before he admitted it, even to himself. Then again, maybe John was just telling himself that because he was enjoying this.

John put a hand in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock leaned into this too. John tipped Sherlock's head forward. Sherlock made a spectacularly undignified slurping sound trying not to drool down the front of his jacket, but it didn't do him any good. Dark, shining trails of spit stained his shirt and coat.

I really love the crumpled paper analogy. It really works for why someone I new Sherlock could be submissive

Thanks. If you like that analogy, there are more. I got the idea from Humiliation, a book of philosophical musings on that subject by Wayne Koestenbaum. Also, Sherlock's assertion that everything in the world is about sex except sex is from Oscar Wilde, and his idea that a fetish is a story masquerading as an object is from the book Female Fetishism. If Sherlock's going to be kinky, he might as well be well read. :P

The soap was slipping from Sherlock’s mouth. John tugged on his hair to right his head and pushed the soap back in, fingers breaching Sherlock’s lips. The inside of Sherlock’s mouth was hot and wet, pliant and open. The touch of it sent a coil of pleasure lighting through John. He pulled his hand back, and pushed again, then let go.

“You can rinse now.”

Sherlock spit the soap into the empty glass. He drank the entire cup of water in one long gulp. He climbed up onto the seat beside John and was distracted completely by the sight of his tongue in the mirror affixed to the wall behind them. He examined it with great interest for several seconds before announcing:

"Prolonged exposure to soap creates lesions on mucus membranes."

John put a finger to his lips, frowned to keep from smiling. He felt dizzy, giddy and a bit confused, and not from the alcohol. He picked his drink up and sipped it just to give his hands something to do.

"Of course it does, Sherlock."

"Hn," Sherlock responded with half his attention, as though it was too much to ask to be fully engaged with anything other than a thorough inspection of the inside of his mouth.

Sherlock's eyes flicked over him. The floor suddenly became quite interesting to John. Their scene hadn’t drawn the same sort of crowd as the previous night, and none of them approached. Maybe there was something to Sherlock’s cult pseudo-consperisory love-bombing theory.

Sherlock sat down heavily next to him. “No takers.”

“No,” John agreed.

“Should we try something else?” Sherlock asked, fiddling with his collar.

“Maybe we can find people to talk to the way people normally do,” John suggested.

“How’s that?” Sherlock handed John the collar and leaned in for him to put it on.

John obliged. “By sitting at the bar.”

“Fair enough.”

They made their over to the bar and sat in a silence that John would have liked to have broken had he been able to find anything to say. They sat like this through the rest of his Manhattan and the better part of one more.

Even though he liked Manhattans he didn’t like the cherries that flavored the drink themselves. But, Sherlock did. Sometimes, he would eat Maraschino cherries straight from the jar. He kept them in the fridge next to his science experiments.

Just to break the silence he took a cherry from his glass and offered it to Sherlock. “Here.”

Sherlock took the cherry with his mouth, almost nipped John’s fingers in the process. He pulled the stem between his teeth and tugged until the fruit gave. That greedy mouth with it’s razor sharp tongue, he could just-- He could-- John realized he was staring. He stopped.

Glancing down the bar John saw a heavyset man sporting a mohawk, a bright red tutu, fishnets and a pair of combat boots was also staring. Catching John’s gaze he smiled. Tight lipped, John smiled back. The man took this as a signal for him to approach. He had a friendly face, albeit dim eyes.

“Name’s Kiwi,” he said, sitting down beside them and putting out his hand.

John shook it, “I’m John, and this is Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement. Kiwi said, signaling for a beer. John signaled for another drink as well.

“Manhattans are like breasts,” Kiwi offered. “One isn’t enough, but two is just right.”

John laughed, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“That’s some scene you did with the soap. Outside the box. I liked it.”

John glanced at Sherlock. He nodded. John said, “We’re new around here. Do you know this scene well?”

“You might as well call me the mayor.”

Sherlock gave John a look, eyebrow raised, as if to say ‘We’re in luck’ and leaned in closer.

“We have a few questions.”

“I’ll answer anything if you’ll make him do that thing with the cherry again.”

Boys, girls, boys dressed like girls, they all seemed to gravitate toward Sherlock, and Sherlock seemed in complete control of this fact. From what John could see he could turn his charm on and off like a light switch, just so long as he didn’t actually have any semblance emotional involvement. John wondered at this fact for a half beat too long, open mouthed before saying, “Right, what do you think about Tribe?”

“I, personally, don’t have anything against them. Others do.”

“Cherry,” Sherlock advised, softly against his ear.

Ummm... Yeah. Do that thing with the cherry again.

Will you be uploading this to AO3 or elsewhere? I just ask because I am enjoying this so much and currently checking in everyday to see if it's updated.

Ahh. Thank you for saying so. :) It's on AO3. Same title, author name iamacamera.

Excellent! I can't wait for more of this.

Still, sometimes it felt like Sherlock, who seemed to think himself reason incarnate, eclipsed reason entirely. Living with him it was like his massive intellect, and massive capacity to, frankly, be a an enormous twat cast an inescapable shadow. John felt suffocated. He needed to get out. He needed to go somewhere and talk to someone normal.

///

When John met Mike at the pub, it felt like stepping out of one world and into another, a world where mates talked over a pint instead of running around fetish parties chasing murderers. It made his leg ache. When he sat, it was a relief, but was quiet for a little too long, he knew that. What did normal people talk about? He was forgetting. Maybe he had forgotten a long time ago.

Mike, bless his heart, put an end to the silence, "What've you been up to? Still playing detective?"

"Still very unemployed.” John pinched the bridge of his nose. Real person problems that real people had -- they seemed so small in comparison to what he faced with Sherlock, what he had faced in his life before this point and yet somehow they still felt more daunting than they really should have. He blamed the military for that. “Lots of bad telly with my landlady, endless grocery shopping. Sometimes, there's a case."

"Are you on one now? You look worried.”

Mike had always been perceptive. In medical school, he had always been the one people went to when they had problems. He was a bit of a He could always be counted on to give comforting but humorous bits of advice like, ‘Of course you’re crazy. You have to be crazy to be a doctor. If you’re not when you start studying, residency will make you.’

"I am." On both counts, he was.

Mike patted him on the shoulder, "I suppose I'll see it when it's up on the blog."

John shifted under Mike’s touch and was relieved when it was lifted, "Actually, I really don't think you will."

"No way this one can be cleaned up for the kiddies?"

"No way in hell."

"Why can’t you clean it up?” A smile crept across his face. “Are you two at it now?"

“I’m not gay.” He was, however, a broken record on this point.

“Yes, you’re heteroflexible.” Mike used air quotes around the word to illustrate his point. “You’re sure you’re not at it?”

"Nope." He wasn’t sure but he hoped that was the end of it, for once.

Mike nodded, "Alright, good."

Somehow that wasn’t the response he was expecting. There was nothing wrong with being gay. He just wasn’t. "Good?"

"I'll lose the St. Bart's betting pool if you two lovebirds don't hold out for at least another few weeks."

John shook his head, "The lot of you are deranged, truly."

"Maybe,” Mike shrugged. “Personally, I plan on using my winnings to quit my day job and become a matchmaker for misfits and misanthropes. What's the case?"

"Serial rapist in the BDSM scene and we're undercover, sort of, as a couple.” It felt good to say it aloud, even if it would invite more questions. He added, “Sherlock's idea not mine."

Thankfully, Mike didn’t question. He just said. "You have misgivings about that last bit."

"A bit, yeah," he admitted.

"Do you think Sherlock can find him out?" Miked asked now, suddenly sobered and serious.

Of course John did. "Given time, and more of our charade, absolutely."

Mike leaned in to John as if he was about to divulge some great secret, "There was a doctor in my practice, into that sort of thing. Anesthesiologist, specialized in chronic pain. He was a sadist. Can you imagine, a sadist specializing in chronic pain. Scum of the universe.”

“Yeah,” John replied numbly. Mike’s words carried more weight and hit closer to home than John thought Mike realized.

“I mean, that’s all well and good,” Mike back peddled. Maybe something in John's eyes had given him away. "Do what you’re into, just keep it at home.”

“It’s fine, of course.” Was it?

“Thing is, nobody knew he was molesting girls, boys, men, women, all of them right there in the practice. I didn't know and I worked in the office next to him for years. I had not a clue until I came in one morning and he was being lead out in handcuffs."

“Bet that was one hell of a court case,” John offered.

Omg, loving this so far!

"It was exactly that, hellish. My wife still teases me about it,” Mike admitted, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Calls him 'He Who Must Not Be Named’. In my opinion, for what it’s worth, you should do what you need to catch the bastard."

///

John spent the next afternoon in his armchair quietly reading over medical journals for what felt like an awfully long time. Sherlock was distracted looking at whatever weeks old blood samples he was studying, nose between his microscope sights.

“Did you ever hear back from Kitty, Sherlock?”

Sherlock mumbled something. He wouldn’t look him in the face when he said it.

“Come again?”

“A convention.” Sherlock waved a pamphlet at him and still didn’t look him in the eyes. “We’re going to a convention.”

“A fetish convention? What could people possibly do at a BDSM conventions?”

John stood and walked over to Sherlock to have a look at the brochure for himself.

Sherlock opened the pamphlet, studied it for a moment and pronounced disdainfully, “They take classes, apparently. Speed Negotiation: Fantastic Cruising Techniques. That might come in handy.”

John couldn’t tell if he was serious, “For what?”

“Questioning witnesses,” Sherlock replied, and John thought maybe he was being lied to.

He handed the pamphlet to John. He looked it over and frowned to hold back his laughter. Why was it that all this made him giddy? He steadied himself with a hand on the kitchen table. One night at a fetish party was strange enough. What would an entire weekend be like? Considering it made his head spin.

“Anal Sadism: Taking Anal Play to its Limits. Really? There’s a class on buggery.”

“Expand your sexual horizons, John,” Sherlock scolded, hint of humor under his jeering tone.

“That’s rich, coming from someone who considers himself above sex.”

“Kitty won’t friend me,” Sherlock complained as he changed sample slides. “I’ve never met her in person, so she refuses to answer my queries. But her profile has her listed as going to this event, first one in nearly two years. Look there,” Sherlock pointed to a spot on the pamphlet in John’s hand. “She’s teaching a class Beyond No Means No: Practical Strategies for Enthusiastic Consent.”

John looked. Two entries on the page were circled the one Sherlock was pointing to and another Climbing the Endorphin Ladder: Masochism and Techniques for Trance. What could Sherlock possibly want with that? This case was opening up more about Sherlock than he had ever imagined he’d know.

Instead of asking, John said, “We’re stalking a rape victim. You realize this is insane.”

“Alleged,” Sherlock corrected.

“Alleged rape victim,” John conceded.

Sherlock scrunched up his face as though whatever it was he was trying to hold back from saying physically pained him. It didn’t take long for him to break and further correct, “Survivor.”

“What?”

Sherlock gestured with the slides as though he was explaining to a child who needed visual cues, “Many prefer the agency affirming term survivor to the disempowering term victim.”

John held his breath for a moment before responding, “One, you’re an insufferable pedant. Two, that’s not the point.”

Sherlock put down the slides now, and turned in his chair to look at him, “Would you prefer we did nothing? If the victim were dead you wouldn’t have a problem going to go see them, would you? Daddea isn’t going to stop on his own.”

“You’re getting something out of this. Aren’t you?” he tried to sound teasing but the question came out with a tone more serious than he intended.

“Said the pot to the kettle.”

“This is going a bit far for me,” John admitted.

“Is it?” Sherlock snapped, suddenly. It usually took more than that to set him off. John was caught off guard. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been. “You always enjoy the thrill of the hunt. This is no different. Do I need to find someone else? Maybe Molly. I bet she’d enjoy this one.”

John opened his mouth but didn’t know exactly what to say. Sherlock composed himself. With a deep breath and adjustment of his posture, head held high and proud, he regained his usual mask of impassivity. They both turned their heads when there was a knock at the door. Mrs. Hudson popped in, carrying a tray of tea.

Loving the tension here.
( also, on a personal level, loving the victim vs survivor dialogue and Sherlock's losing battle not to correct John)

Interesting ...

“I’m going out,” Sherlock concluded.

He grabbed his coat and almost knocked the tray out of Mrs. Hudson’s hands on his way through the door. ‘Maybe that’s best,’ John wanted to say to his retreating back, but didn’t. Mrs. Husdon set the tea tray down on the kitchen table among the test tubes and beakers and blood slides.

“Had another domestic? I hope you two make up as well as you argue.”

John sighed and sat down heavily in Sherlock’s abandoned seat. “It was about the case.”

“It always gets complicated when you start playing with bondage, especially with ones who have a flair for the dramatic,” she advised, sagely.

She looked as though she wanted to say more. John did not want to know.

“It’s for the case,” he reiterated, even though he knew she wasn’t listening.

“Oh, yes, yes, for the case,” she winked knowingly. She continued, patting his arm. “He just needs a firm hand is all, dear. You’ll get the hang of it.”

///

John woke up to the stomach-turning sensation of falling, and sat up, pulse racing. When the feeling of ball rattling around inside his head didn’t recede he decided to go downstairs to make himself a cup of tea. He knew the path to the kitchen by heart, even in the dark. Except Sherlock always seemed lay a new obstacle in his path for him to stub his toes on.

“Shit.”

He flipped on the light. Sherlock had been shopping again, apparently. There were books stacked around the sitting room, a mess only Sherlock could find pattern in. John sighed, knelt and began picking the offending pile up, muttering the titles aloud to himself as he did, “Clinical Psychology: Anatomy of Masochism, Coldness and Cruelty, Female Fetishism, The Sociology of Deviance: Differences and Traditional Stigma, Scared Witness: Rape in Courts of Law, Intimate Partner and Sexual Violence Survey: 2010-2013. Lovely.”

One was resting on the arm of Sherlock’s chair, Venus im Pelz. It sat as though placed deliberately, there for him to find. Maybe he was imagining things. John picked it up anyway and flipped through it, awkwardly balancing the unwieldy stack of books already in his arms. It was entirely in German, save for translations in the margins in Sherlock’s compact handwriting. Sherlock’s first annotation read:

Many are familiar with the word “masochist” but are not familiar with the novella from which the word is derived: Leopold von Sacher-Masoch’s Venus in Furs.

Interesting, Sherlock never read novels. John turned the pages until he found Sherlock’s next entry:

I am nothing but a dilettante: a dilettante in painting, in poetry, in music. Above all else I am a dilettante in life. Love, which is the highest joy, simplicity itself, is not for us modern children of reflection. It works only evil in us. As soon as we wish to be natural, we become common. However, I have felt the lash. I am cured.

“Sie sprechen Deutsch?” Sherlock asked from the doorway, and John almost jumped out of his skin. The books dropped to the floor. John huffed in frustration. Sherlock continued speaking to him in German, as though he hadn’t just walked in and given him a fright, “Unglücklich. Venus im Pelz, geschlechtlichkeit definiert.”

“Right, I get it,” John replied, stooping to pick up the books. “You’re polylingual and I’m not.”

“Oh, don’t sell yourself short. You can say ‘Stop or I’ll shoot’ in Pashto.”

When John stood Sherlock was over him. He pulled Venus im Pelz from John’s hands.

“Pick up your books, Sherlock.”

“You’ve made a mess of them,” Sherlock complained, but did as he was asked for once and got on his knees to organize his books.

John decided he would supervise. He sat in his chair and nudged Sherlock’s flank with his foot. He stroked over his ribs with his toes. It seemed an appropriate way of expressing his affection. The detective was endearing, sometimes, even if he could be an annoying, boundary-bulldozing prat. Sherlock made no complaint. In fact, he stayed kneeling for a moment longer than was strictly necessary before moving over to the bookshelf.

That was an amazing quote... so much Sherlock in that little snippet of text.

Re: Fill: The Worst Man in London [7a/?]

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Re: Fill: The Worst Man in London [7a/?]

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Re: Fill: The Worst Man in London [7a/?]

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“What are you doing, anyway, writing a doctoral dissertation on sexual deviance?”

“Doctoral degrees, tedious, nothing more than useless baubles,” Sherlock said as he shelved.

It was quiet in the flat. There were hardly any sounds coming in from the outside. It gave John a dreamlike feeling, safe and cloistered, as though anything he said wouldn’t be remembered in the light of morning.

He felt brave enough to say, partly as a peace offering, a more neutral reopening of their previous discussion, and partly because he was genuinely curious, “This is personal for you. Daddea.”

“Excellent observation,” Sherlock replied, with a touch sarcasm and a tinge of something else John couldn’t exactly qualify, something, if he didn’t know better, he would say was vulnerable and human. Sherlock seemed a tad too preoccupied with his ordering of books.

John continued pressing, “Because he’s taken advantage of addicts.”

“He preys upon them,” Sherlock affirmed, voice suddenly neutral and distant.

“You care,” he concluded. It sounded almost accusatory. He didn’t mean it that way.

Sherlock turned to look at him, frowning, “I care about catching him.”

This gave John pause. He leaned back in his chair, brows knit with a finger to his lips. Then he asked Sherlock a more personal question than had ever previously crossed his mind in the presence of the detective, “You never went through anything like what he’s done to those girls. Did you?”

Instead of answering, Sherlock turned away again. His shoulders tensed visibly, but when they relaxed he asked without venom, “You’ve never done cocaine, have you? Or heroin? You’ve never even smoked pot. A doctor born for a purpose.”

“No, never,” he agreed.

“So, you wouldn’t understand,” Sherlock concluded.

Maybe he couldn’t. But, Sherlock was talking about this, actually discussing it instead of being utterly reticent and secretive. It was like witnessing a rare celestial event. John was awestruck. He leaned forward in his chair to listen, and felt compelled to take advantage of it, to keep Sherlock talking as long as possible, though he suspected he couldn’t keep this up for long.

“Make me understand.”

“The high is beyond words. The addiction, in terms you’ll grasp, having never experienced it yourself: it’s like being in love. The neural mechanisms are vaguely similar, though it’s so much more intense it essentially burns out those pathways, and it ruins you in the same way.”

“Like being in love,” John repeated, wondering at this statement from Sherlock.

“Yes,” he said with a tone of finality, as though he was closing the topic for discussion.

John glanced about the room. There were still books on the desk and on the floor. “You missed some.”

“Did I?” Sherlock said as though he didn’t know.

“Finish picking them up,” John tried, firmly, just to see what would happen.

Sherlock obeyed. It occurred to John that he found this more satisfying than was strictly sensible. It gave him a pleasant heady buzz. The only thing that could have made it any better was if Sherlock-- No, he cut himself off mid-thought, astounded at where his mind went unbidden.

“Do you still have my collar?” Sherlock asked, as though he knew exactly what John was thinking.

He dug the heel of his hand into his eye and stifled a yawn. “Stop it with the bloody collar, Sherlock.”

“Touchy,” Sherlock smiled that whimsical, feral smile of his from behind an armful of books. “You think it looks good on me, too.”

///

John repeated himself, thinking maybe if he kept repeating the same words to the man behind the desk like an incantation he would renig and give them a different answer, “No, no. You don’t understand. We need two beds.”

“We’re all booked up. No doubles, just queens.”

All of the bed and breakfasts were booked. All of the bed and breakfasts in Blackpool, of all the ridiculous places to hold a kink convention, were booked. They had been up and down the streets twice now looking for more suitable accommodations. It hadn’t occurred to either of them that this might be a problem until they were on the train, surrounded by their baggage, an hour north of London. It was only mid-afternoon and already it had been a long day. Sherlock was growing steadily more fidgety and restless.

Re: Fill: The Worst Man in London [7b/?]

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