sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXIV

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Prompting Part XXXIV

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‘So there are no documents,’ John concludes, terribly unimpressed by the whole production. ‘You don’t actually have anything here.’

‘Oh, sometimes I send out for something...if I really need it...’ Magnussen glances at his watch, thoughtfully.

Averting his gaze, Sherlock swallows against the swell of curiously genuine despair beneath his ribs. An impulsive, poorly-considered decision, to have Billy alter the concentration of his sedative compound, and now it would cost them.

‘...but mostly I just remember it all.’

John shakes his head. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘You should have that on a t-shirt,’ Magnussen suggests.

‘You just remember it all,’ John repeats, as if stating the obvious will somehow impart greater clarity.

Sherlock feels Magnussen’s gaze settle on him with sly, tangible weight.

‘It’s all about knowledge. Everything is. Knowing is owning.’

Is that what he, himself, has been trying to do all this time, Sherlock wonders? As if by knowing John Watson, he could own some small, privileged part of him? But even as he think this, Sherlock knows better, knows himself. Knows he wouldn’t be fully satisfied until he owned the whole of John (until John owned the whole of him, in return, except John demonstrably did not want that).

Perhaps it only worked when one used that knowledge for ill-gain; perhaps Sherlock could have dedicated his life to the study of John, and never owned any more of the man than he did now. Yet Mary certainly knew all about the lengths to which Sherlock would go to ensure John’s happiness, didn’t she? And in so knowing, owned Sherlock as much as Moriarty had, in those last moments atop St Bart’s. (You don’t tell him. Sherlock... You don’t tell John.)

John’s protests, John’s incredulity wash over Sherlock, but run off the surface, unabsorbed.

(Off you pop. Go on. I told you how this ends.)

Magnussen stands, the movement pulling Sherlock from his frantic calculations, his increasingly desperate mental scrabbling on how he can possibly fix this for John. It never should have come this far, fix it, fix it.

‘Speaking of news, you’ll both be heavily featured tomorrow. Trying to sell state secrets to me.’ Magnussen tuts with disapproval, peers at his watch once more. ‘Let’s go outside. They’ll be here shortly.’

Magnussen turns to step from his “vault,” then pauses, his eyes scanning Sherlock’s face intently.

And Sherlock is overwhelmed, made too fragile by this unexpected blow, wrong, wrong, how can he have been this wrong, he can’t, he can’t think (‘Solve this!’ John’s voice snaps impatiently), and surely he has become utterly transparent, because the corner of Magnussen’s mouth twitches into a smirk.

‘Or, not so shortly?’

The worst bit of it, Sherlock supposes, is that pure hubris has brought him here. He’d thought Magnussen might take a little more convincing, might draw things out before agreeing to Sherlock’s terms, before revealing his precious vaults. Had thought he might even arrange time enough to have a glimpse for himself, whilst he was at it. (It’s all about knowledge. Everything is.)

But Magnussen isn’t like Moriarty, is he? For Magnussen, it isn’t about the game, isn’t about the challenge, or even winning. For Magnussen, it is about stacking the odds against every possible move in advance, and owning the board completely. It’s about ensuring that any game is lost, well before it’s even begun. Moriarty’s sense of fair play has made Sherlock complacent, and now look where they all are.

Adjusting his cuffs, Magnussen heads in the direction of the lounge. ‘Can’t wait to see you arrested,’ he tosses over his shoulder.

Sherlock ignores the barb, rooted to the spot by indecision. If everything he had fought to accomplish during the two hellish years he was gone, all the running and hiding and the sleepless nights spent in temporary bolt holes where the ~~solitude~~ cold penetrated so sharply it made his bones ache, had been for nothing...

The heat of John at his side is balm to the ugly bruise of futility located somewhere deep and secret behind Sherlock’s sternum, but a comfort Sherlock cannot allow himself to accept.

‘Sherlock, do we have a plan?’ John demands, his voice tight.

Sherlock doesn’t respond, his gaze remaining fixed on the floor. Only one plan, maybe, but it excluded John by necessity, and Sherlock took a moment to be thankful John had never extracted a definitive promise from him, upon his return, against continually keeping John in the dark about things he was better off not knowing. (It’s him I worry about—that wife! John Watson is definitely in danger...) One less promise to break, in the end, and it hardly mattered, as long as Sherlock kept the most important one.

‘Sherlock.’

It’s you, John Watson, he doesn’t say. It’s always you. You keep me right, and I—and I—

John turns and walks away.

Sherlock screws his eyes shut. Pathetic. He is utterly, ludicrously pathetic.

By the time Sherlock collects himself enough to force his feet in the direction of the lounge, Magnussen stands beside the minimalist glass end table and its decanter, another scotch in hand (Chivas Regal from the smell of it, most likely Royal Salute, Sherlock’s mind supplies, uselessly), and John is badgering Magnussen (equally useless).

‘You just know things. How does that work?’

Sherlock comes to a halt just beyond the threshold. Magnussen cuts his eyes in Sherlock’s direction with a glimmer of cold, amused knowing, before returning his attention to John.

‘I just love your little soldier face. I’d like to punch it.’

John stares back, clearly thrown.

‘But what I love even more is Sherlock’s arrogant little detective face—watching him swan in here with big brother’s computer, thinking he will be the hero to single-handedly bring the cruel Mr. Magnussen to justice.’

Sherlock flinches at the reminder of Mycroft’s words. (A necessary evil--not a dragon for you to slay.)

‘Ah, that is the face.’ Magnussen chuckles. ‘Bring it over here a minute.’

Sherlock steps across the room, reluctantly. Mycroft and the others will be drugged another twenty, maybe thirty minutes longer than ideal, but Sherlock can easily stall for that much time. The important thing is to remain level-headed, unaffected, and give John no cause at any time to decide drawing his gun is a more acceptable alternative to letting Magnussen play his twisted power games.

A grin tugs at Magnussen’s lips, as if in reaction to a private joke. His eyes bore into Sherlock, though his words are directed at John.

‘Now this...this is the fun part.’ He gestures at Sherlock with his glass. ‘Sherlock Holmes will do anything for John Watson. John Watson will do anything for Mary Watson. So when I tell Sherlock to lean forward a bit...go on, stick your face out. Please?’

Arms held behind his back, his right hand clenched tightly around the opposite wrist, Sherlock does so. He looks straight ahead, his gaze unfocused as he waits for Magnussen to make his heavy-handed point.

‘And when I tell you, John, to flick it...’

John huffs a humorless laugh. Sherlock can feel John’s questioning stare and forces himself to nod, once.

‘Flick his face. Come on. For Mary,’ Magnussen insists. ‘Just pull back your finger.’ He demonstrates, lifting his hand with the palm toward himself, tucks the tip of his middle finger beneath his thumb.

John shakes his head, snorts, shakes his head again, but eventually brings his hand to Sherlock’s face, flicks his finger sharply against Sherlock’s cheek. They’ve dealt much worse to one another—hell, John’s overreaction to Sherlock’s resurrection comes quickly to mind—but that was always between the two of them, their business alone. The addition of Magnussen, with an expression of smug anticipation and his scotch in hand, spectating, adds an element of voyeurism which makes Sherlock uneasy.

‘Again.’

John flicks him again; Sherlock struggles to remain absolutely still.

‘I just love doing this. I could do it all day.’ Magnussen smiles at the two of them indulgently. ‘It works like this, John. I know who Mary hurt and killed. You do not want Mary to come to any harm, naturally, so you will flick Sherlock when I tell you to. Sherlock does not want you to come to any harm, so he will let you.’ Gesturing pointedly to John’s raised hand, Magnussen waits for him to flick Sherlock before continuing.

‘As for Mary, I know where to find people who hate her.’ Another loaded pause, until John flicks him—‘Again,’—and again. ‘I know where they live; I know their phone numbers.’ Flick, flick. ‘All in my Mind Palace—all of it.’

Sherlock’s eyes burn into Magnussen.

‘I could phone them right now and tear your whole life down—and I will...’

Sherlock clenches his jaw so hard, his teeth ache.

‘...unless you flick Sherlock’s face.’ Flick. ‘This is what I do to people. This is what I do to whole countries...’ At Magnussen’s look, John scowls, flicks Sherlock once more. ‘...just because I know.’

Magnussen sips his scotch.

‘Do you understand now, John? I hardly need proof when knowledge of a thing is sufficient to have anyone I wish squirming in the palm of my hand, at the mercy of a whim.’

‘Mercy, right,’ John responds, nodding, but his gaze is on the floor as if collecting himself for a violent impulse; Sherlock has had opportunity to observe the signs, himself, often enough over the years. ‘No, yeah, I get it, no need for a t-shirt.’

‘Are you quite sure?’ Magnussen inquires, shifting his weight to loom over John. ‘Because I do worry my example might be too abstract. After all, I hardly make my way around Europe flicking countries, even if I can have their best friends do it for me! Maybe a more practical demonstration is needed to really...’ Magnussen’s gaze crawls deliberately over Sherlock, head to toe. ‘...Drive the point home?’

Dread settles in Sherlock’s gut like a stone. If Magnussen decides to threaten (or order John to threaten) life or limb, John is much more likely to balk and do something idiotic.

John shuffles his feet, darts a glance in Sherlock’s direction which Sherlock studiously ignores. John scratches an eyebrow with the edge of his thumbnail, shifts his weight again. ‘Really, really not necessary. I get it, you’re a massive prick who gets off on making people let you do degrading, humiliating things to them.’

‘Ah, that is good, John! Yes, and speaking of pricks.’ Magnussen enunciates the word carefully, clearly amused. ‘I wonder if you would remove yours from your trousers?’

‘...What the hell are you on about, now?’ John wants to know, with deadly calm. His every muscle is preternaturally still.

‘You seemed quite upset when I took a piss on the floor of Sherlock’s grotty apartment,’ Magnussen comments, seemingly apropos of nothing.

Sherlock can see the trajectory of this exchange, clear as day, and closes his eyes.

‘That is something else I do, just a little thing—I look for “tells,” and I use them to my advantage. So Sherlock is going to get on his knees,’ Magnussen explains, ‘and you are going to piss on him.’

‘Like hell I am!’

‘Come now, John, think of Mary. What is a little uric acid between good friends?’ Magnussen chuckles as he swirls the liquid in his glass.

‘Sherlock—‘

Slowly, with as much dignity as he can manage, Sherlock lowers himself to his knees on the stone tiling. ‘I’m sorry. Just...do it.’

‘You can’t be serious,’ John protests, glancing uneasily from Sherlock to Magnussen, then back again.

Sherlock responds by sitting back on his heels, bracing his hands on his thighs.

‘Ah, see? Sherlock does not mind. Only, if you would take off your coat, and...’ Magnussen gestures vaguely to indicate the place where Sherlock kneels. ‘I’d prefer to spare the marble. It’s imported, you understand.’

Sherlock inhales heavily through his nose. Magnussen means to humiliate him for his earlier presumption, that much is obvious. He has undergone much worse, Sherlock reminds himself. It’s just a dry cleaning bill.

As he works his gloves off a finger at a time, Sherlock sees John’s fists clench and unclench in his peripheral vision. John huffs, starts and fails to finish any number of arguments as to why this is unnecessary, wrong, sick, and in this time Sherlock manages to stuff his gloves into one pocket, to unwind his scarf and tuck it into the other. He removes his coat to reposition himself so he is kneeling in the center of it, lining turned down against the cold bite of marble.

Once again, Sherlock assumes the position, his spine held as straight as possible, shoulders squared. He keeps his face blank of all expression as he stares into the middle distance, internally cursing everything—Magnussen, for his proclivities; Mycroft, for purposely providing him such a tempting target; Mary, briefly, for ultimately providing the perfect leverage for Magnussen, or maybe for not finishing the vile man off when she’d had the chance; but himself, most of all, for having failed to see the obvious, time after time after time, since his return to London.

With a final, explosive exhalation through his teeth, John moves in front of Sherlock. Resolved and economical in his movements, he has clearly decided to face head-on an unpleasant task which cannot be avoided, anxious to get it over and done with, ever the soldier.

‘I’m starting to see why Sherlock speaks so lowly of you,’ John mutters, a transparent attempt to dissociate himself with insults, as his hands go to his belt. Tongue of leather through metal frame, tugged free of tine, pulled free of frame. Then the fly—button through hole, zip undone with a scrape of metal teeth that seems disconcertingly loud. John’s hands hesitate for just a moment, then, with a grimace, he reaches inside and pulls himself out through the placket of his pants.

It takes a couple false starts (John fighting his natural inclination against urination in the middle of someone’s lounge, with a rapt audience, on another person, on Sherlock; John deciding where to aim for the best chance of avoiding both Sherlock’s face and commentary from Magnussen), but John perseveres.

The splash of warm urine against the center of his chest, just below the open V of his dress shirt, shocks an involuntary gasp from Sherlock. The front of his shirt is instantly soaked, the tang of urine sharp in Sherlock’s nose (faint, underlying hint of Ceylon; Mummy was dead set on keeping all guests well-hydrated, and John had been anxious about the situation with Mary, so naturally he would have gone through more cups of tea than was his norm, even the “John Watson Does Not Want to Have This Conversation” norm). John’s urine wicks quickly down Sherlock’s silk shirt to the wool of his trousers with startling warmth and wetness, and it touches Sherlock’s stomach, the lee of his crotch, the tops of his thighs. Sherlock’s heart rate momentarily skitters, inexplicably, and he fights to keep his breathing deep and even.

Magnussen sniggers into his glass.

John urinates on him for approximately 5.5 seconds (approximate, because the initial surprise of it throws off Sherlock’s data-collecting abilities) before the stream abruptly peters off. (Had John emptied his bladder, or done a mental count of his own, having determined an optimal duration between what would satisfy Magnussen, and what was acceptable when unwillingly performing an act of degradation on one’s best friend?) John turns aside briefly to shake his penis free of any remaining drops of urine (doesn’t want to risk splash-back in Sherlock’s face, must not have noticed the splatter pattern which had reached the exposed skin of Sherlock’s upper chest, the droplet which caught against Sherlock’s suprasternal notch, seeming to sear his skin with heat for a fraction of a second before it cooled to match Sherlock’s external body temperature), then tucks himself back into his trousers with swift, business-like movements. Does up his zip. John’s fingers twitch for his belt when Magnussen’s words stop him.

‘Ah, John, I would not, just quite yet...’

John freezes, his left hand absolutely steady as it hangs suspended before his fly.

‘What’s the matter?’ John grunts. ‘Was there something wrong with the way I pissed on him?’

‘No, no,’ Magnussen assures him, ‘it was...quite entertaining.’

John continues to glare at Magnussen without quite making eye contact. Sherlock shifts minutely on his knees, the urine cooling quickly and becoming more uncomfortable by the minute. The sodden fabric of his clothing clings to his torso, his lap, and the sensation makes Sherlock’s skin crawl.

‘Only, now you are going to use your prick to slap Sherlock. In the face.’

John reels back, as if struck himself, his expression caught between outrage and disbelief. Magnussen makes a little “go on” gesture.

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut. Should have gone with his first instinct, should have had Wiggins keep the dosages less concentrated and quicker-acting. They could have already been gone from here, Magnussen already dead—because if there was one point on which Sherlock was absolutely resolved, it was that. Magnussen could not be allowed to leave Appledore, alive, and Sherlock would be the one to do it, but it necessitated witnesses so there could be no doubt; no chance whatsoever that John would get caught up in another one of Sherlock’s messes. That was the one unacceptable outcome of this altercation, and one which Sherlock would guard against at all costs. Everything else—Sherlock’s pride, his dignity, his own personal liberty--was collateral damage.

‘I’ll tell you right now, you are out of your goddamn mind if you think—‘

‘John,’ Sherlock snaps, warningly.

‘Sherlock!’ John snaps back, his temper good and roused. ‘I’m not going to cock-slap you across the face, and you’re just as loony as this sick bastard here if you think it’s all right to let one man cock-slap you just because another man with a Mind Palace full of—‘

‘So it’s better that assassins with a grudge come after your wife?’ Sherlock snarls. Why is John making such a big deal out of this, why won’t he let Sherlock do this for him, for the safety of his unborn child?

‘My sharp-shooter, ex-assassin wife? I think she’ll probably have a fighting chance, yeah, especially if we give her a bit of a heads up!’

‘Your heavily pregnant ex-assassin wife? I’ve told you before, it’s all transport to me, what do I care if you hit me in the face with your penis, it’s not like you’re doing it for a lark, or because I left biohazardous material in the refrigerator past expiry-date or destroyed your favorite mug accidentally-on-purpose again!’

‘Oh ho,’ Magnussen chuckles, ‘I had heard things, but confirmation is always satisfying. No wonder your little place at Baker Street is so disgusting.’

Sherlock grits his teeth, digs his fingernails into his own thighs as he attempts to regain control of himself. There is no need to make any more of a spectacle of themselves than they have done. Sherlock is usually better than this at ignoring John’s side of their would-be arguments and ensuring he gets his own way, regardless. If only John didn’t insist on being so pointlessly noble!

‘Just do it, John,’ he growls. Then, because one didn’t drag John Watson around to crime scenes and into (ostensibly) abandoned buildings and through scuzzy opium dens at all hours of the night for eighteen months without deducing a thing or two (Previous commander? “Previous” suggests that I currently have a commander.), Sherlock drops his voice a register and glares up at John intently.

‘Take your penis out of your pants and hit me across the face.’ Sherlock lifts his head, turning it just slightly to offer John an optimum target. ‘I want you to do it. For Mary,’ he adds, pointedly, his eyes fixed on John’s.

John’s pulse visibly throbs against the thin skin of his throat, his eyes wide, and a not insignificant bit bewildered. He swallows with obvious effort, Adam’s apple bobbing sharply.

‘And you’ve an excellent track record of wanting things that are any good for you, is that it?’ John needles him weakly, still attempting to stall, to prevaricate. (The fact that you know it’s going to happen isn’t going to stop it.)

Of course John didn’t know any better, of course he didn’t know, because Sherlock had done everything in his power since his rather unfortunately timed self-deduction in the midst of his Best Man speech to ensure John would never know. Still, John’s mouth unconsciously echoing the words Sherlock has been forced to ask himself, nearly every single day of these past few months, with John back at Baker Street, painstakingly making his decision to forgive Mary... It cuts more keenly than Sherlock would have anticipated.

‘My apologies. You are right, of course, John.’

Both their gazes flick to Magnussen with suspicion, and they watch the man shake his head, as if disappointed in himself.

‘It was a poor idea. So crass and uncreative, unbefitting of the esteem in which you two so obviously hold one another. But, I believe I have a more appropriate suggestion?’ Magnussen tastes his Chivas, his eyebrows lifted inquisitively.

Sherlock can nearly taste the swelling tide of John’s rage, the myriad insults and swear words that are dammed back with difficulty, but it seems John has finally learned no good comes of antagonizing Magnussen directly. Thank god.

‘What’s that?’ John is admirably self-collected, for all the disgust and hatred for Magnussen Sherlock can see seething beneath the surface. John has always had a wonderfully expressive face, and Sherlock finds himself unable to tear his eyes away.

‘If there is one thing for which Sherlock Holmes is most well-known, aside from his “deductive powers,” it is for running his mouth.’ Magnussen clucks his tongue. ‘Such unpleasant things he sometimes says, in his pursuit of knowledge, above all else!’ Smirking down into his glass, Magnussen shrugs philosophically. ‘Though, it is an...exceptional mouth, if one is interested in that kind of thing. I think I can see why so many of you little, stupid people let him run rough-shod over you.’

Sherlock’s breath dies in his chest as he wrestles with a sick certainty of what comes next.

‘What are you suggesting?’ John demands, voice utterly without inflection, and, oh, there is that bit of Captain Watson which Sherlock hasn’t heard since the night he outed Mary.

‘I am done suggesting, because I begin to tire of all this bickering. Instead, I am telling you, John, to stick your prick in Sherlock’s mouth. I am telling you that I own you because there are individuals a phone call away who would enjoy nothing more than a messy, messy end for your naughty Mrs. Watson. And I am telling you that if you do not fuck Sherlock’s mouth, I will do it for you.’

Sherlock closes his eyes, not wanting to see the revulsion on John’s face, nor the smug superiority on Magnussen’s. Wishes he could not be seen, himself. ‘No one to blame but yourself, thinking yourself so clever,’ he hears in Mycroft’s most patronizing tones. ‘But you’re really just an idiot after all, aren’t you?’

‘Sherlock,’ Magnussen drawls, the veneer of politeness still solidly in place, but there is steel beneath the words. ‘If you would lean forward and open your mouth, please?’

Just...transport, Sherlock reminds himself. Meaningless manipulation of the transport. John is certainly not doing it for enjoyment. They will forget what has happened here today, they will never speak of it, and it too will pass, water under the bridge, like all the other things they have ever refused to say to one another. He opens his mouth.

‘Sherlock—‘ John attempts, sounding furious and helpless all at once, but Sherlock doesn’t bother dragging the tired argument out any longer. Opens his mouth wider.

‘Any time now, John,’ Magnussen says.

‘Sherlock,’ John tries again, urgently, and Sherlock’s fingers tighten around his own knees as frustration threatens to undo his composure.

Calm. He must remain calm, for the sake of John’s overdeveloped conscience. Regardless of how idiotic John is being.

Think. John is a good man, a doctor (Do no harm), a soldier (In adversity, faithful) with strong moral principle. In John’s rather simplified mind, mutual sexual gratification is an act of physical affection. Therefore, it stands to reason that any form of sexual coercion is an unforgivable act of physical aggression and, as such, John needs assurance that this thing will not alter the fundamentals of their friendship. Tedious, but understandable. Sherlock can manage this.

And if concentrating on allaying John’s reluctance allows Sherlock to sublimate his own, well, that is his business alone.

‘John,’ he admonishes softly, in something as close to his normal, morally blithe tones as he is capable. ‘It is hardly going to be the worst thing I have ever put in my mouth.’

John huffs an aborted laugh, amusement and solemnity at war on his face (We can’t giggle, it’s a crime scene!), and the sound ignites a small germ of warmth in Sherlock’s chest, despite everything.

Strangely, Sherlock finds it is easier after all to hold John’s gaze with implicit trust as he leans forward once more, softens his mouth and lets it hang open, just a bit. Because Sherlock is nothing if not a masochist (and maybe a touch the sadist, too) when it comes to John Watson, and this is how he thinks he would have done it, had circumstances otherwise ever brought them to...something like this. Because sometimes, stumbling home after a case, adrenaline and the thrill of the chase, the thrill of winning burning through Sherlock’s veins like fire, the two of them equally high on the euphoria of it, it had seemed not only possible, but inevitable.

But that was Before, and Sherlock had smashed that all to pieces when he stepped off the roof of Bart’s. Instead, he has only hypotheticals and half-formed would-haves: would have relaxed his jaw just enough to provide an unmistakable invitation; would have let (made) John push himself through diffidently parted lips, cock forcing Sherlock’s mouth wider to accommodate.

This is reality, however, and the only reason John is even considering putting his (flaccid) penis in Sherlock’s mouth is because a power-hungry blackmailer is threatening the lives of John’s wife and child. And, god help him, Sherlock will take what he can get.

Not the OP, but liking this very much. Please don't leave us hanging here for too long!

Also not op but also loving this

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