sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXV

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Prompting Part XXXV

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{TW in next chapter for OCD-type behaviour, and apologies if not portrayed accurately...not exactly OCD anyway, but not wishing to offend. Mycroft says 'start from scratch'...uh,thanks for the vote of confidence there, Mykie. I liked it better wen you were telling me to check my social security account. No, no I didn't.}

John's attempt at reading was not as successful as he had hoped. He looked at his book collection, a scattering of paperbacks in his room, and a few electronic books on his laptop, though he still preferred holding an actual book in his hands. Patterson, Grisham, Baldacci. He wanted to be taken away from all that for an hour or so. He tried for something less realistic-- almost funny how... no, not almost. Funny how crime novels had become too realistic for him-- as well as free of the sexual undertones that seemed to constantly bombard his head. Maybe Science Fiction? Or would that just be more sex, but on lunar colonies? Humour?

He ended up thumbing through a battered copy of Small Gods, which looked worn enough for him to have probably read it at least a few times. As promising a start as any. He was enjoying the first chapter, when he was momentarily distracted by noise from downstairs and paused.

The conversation was too quiet to make out easily, and he decided that whatever Sherlock was discussing was either about The Work-- and he would be given a full update if he was able to participate-- or about him. Sherlock deserved venting time. It couldn't be easy, living with John, when all John wanted to do was.... okay...read. Just...read.

The book didn't hold his attention for long, not with all the struggling not to hear snippets of conversation. "Of course I am!" Of course I am what? Repulsed, probably. He shouldn't try to eavesdrop, he really shouldn't. In turning his mind elsewhere, John thought of his meeting with Mary.

It hadn't been too bad. He had remembered a bit more, actually, and the gap had filled itself in in a rather disjointed way. She asked him if he remembered being captured. Where he was. What he was doing. He said he had remembered looking for something in his pack and being unable to find it. A duffel more than a pack. Then he remembered vividly the process of packing it. Packing to leave London.

It had been Anderson who had grinned like a maniac and insisted Sherlock was headed either through the desert or up into the Himalayas, with the desert seeming the more likely route, so his old canteen would come in handy. He also threw in a wool blanket, several extra pairs of socks, a makeshift first aid kit, a knife, a flashlight and batteries, flint and steel. His gun was in easier reach. At the last minute, he decided to stuff the whole duffel inside an innocuous looking suitcase... if someone was watching, let them think he was off to some medical conference instead of a trip around the world to find a dead man who wasn't quite dead.

John had explained to Mary how he had talked to himself the whole time, saying he was probably insane for trying this, but he wasn't going to sit around waiting. He neglected to tell her that he remembered his exact words: 'I'm not going to try and move on and find someone to replace you or write some sentimental memoir, even though I could make a bloody fortune off of your fine, dead arse. Always just a bit too clever, you are. You didn't research my sister, and if you had, you would have bloody-well known she was my sister, not my brother, you git. I don't know why you want me to believe your lies or how the hell you did it, but you can tell me all about it when I catch up with you.'

He told her he had packed. He told her he had almost left without informing Mrs Hudson he would be gone on an extended trip. He laughed as he remembered the moment, trying to decide what to tell his landlady about his absence. Conference? No, that would be too short. Cruise. Medical cruise. Was there even such a thing? He'd leave a note. He hated lying to her face.

He had been looking in his duffel for something, though, when he saw him. A man watching him. His training kicked in and he acted as if he hadn't noticed the glare of binoculars in the sun and quickly noted the position in the hills to his right. To the left was a somewhat Bedouin-looking camp where he suspected Sherlock might be. He was searching for... for his own binoculars. He didn't have any. It would be risky to attempt to get any closer to the man watching him, and it was likely there were others with him in the hills. The camp seemed too large-- he suspected Sherlock would use something less formal than an old army issue tent-- but he had likely gone from country to country and would probably have used whatever he could find for shelter. On the other hand, it seemed too small and informal for any place Moriarty's network would use. It lacked... infrastructure. He decided to head for the tent itself, reasonably confident the men in the hills wouldn't follow him because now he was someone else's problem. Someone would be stationed inside, and they would be the ones expected to take care of him. John was reasonably confident he could take on a man or two left lying in a tent on guard duty, bored out of their skulls, if they were unaware he was coming.

He made his move and scrambled down some rocks to the tent. It flapped open. No one was inside. It appeared to have been hastily abandoned. Odd. He simply cut open the corner of the tent and crawled out the other side. If he was lucky, binocular-man wouldn't realise he had moved on until he could get under cover again. He thought he saw rising dust in the distance, and headed toward it. And that was it. The memory faded out again. John was frustrated to have to let it go.

Mary had been on the edge of her seat. He had wanted to impress her with more of his story. Maybe more would return in good time. Talk turned to the next bit he remembered. Being rescued.

Sherlock wasn't exactly right. He hadn't talked much about him. It seemed as if that wasn't his story to tell. He told her he was bought, taken back to London, and left it at that. He said Sherlock rejected his advances, which was entirely true. Mary seemed to understand how difficult that was. That it hurt. John knew it wouldn't be something a rescuer would ever ask for, but...

"But it felt like a suitable reward?" Mary looked at John, and he looked back at her, seeing the compassion he so desperately needed.

"Yes. A reward, for his help."

"For saving you?"

"It's all I have to offer that's of any value. To most people, anyway. I don't understand why it isn't valuable to him." And that's when he saw it in her eyes too, although she wouldn't ask. Not directly. But she was interested. But then again, wasn't everyone, really? He smiled at her, and she smiled back. "John, you are a remarkable man. Any part of you is valuable."

As John headed home, he had felt worse than ever.

(Not OP, it's that person from before... :P )
I'm shivering. Poor John... I really like Mary in this story, looking forward to more. You wrote so much in such a short amount of time :o
Mycroft says: "uncharted island". Seems appropriate.

Thank you! Mary is such a hot spot...I'm glad you like where I went with her. She's leaving the story soon, I think, because I want to get back to John/Sherlock and I'm afraid she is a distraction. Very messy RL issues, so this week might be very slow, but I hope to get back on it soon. I try to keep it moving..thanks for noticing :) Its not already done and backlogged...wish it was.

{sorry so long a wait!}

For an entire week Sherlock rarely saw John without a rag in his hand. Perhaps this bit of sublimation was initially helpful, but it was getting quite out of control. By Thursday John had taken up baking, and Sherlock found it distinctly odd to see him so wrapped up in these pointless tasks. Food was meant to be bought --or, more often, bartered-- not baked... and cleaning was pointless. It wasn't laziness which led Sherlock to abandon such pursuits so much as having an intrinsic contempt for the inefficient use of time. Why clean, when it will only become untidy again? Entropy always wins. The real skill was in finding a way to work within its confines.

Sherlock hadn't seen John's hands pecking on a keyboard since... well, he hadn't seen John's hands at all, actually.

"John?"

"Just a minute, Sherlock, these are almost ready and I don't want the whole batch to burn." John slipped on two overly-large oven mitts and checked on a tray of tiny biscuits, releasing a burst of heat into the chilly flat. "Not quite there yet, but soon." John headed to Sherlock, who had been sprawled across the sofa mere moments before, but was now perched, alert, on one side. John mumbled, "Shoes," under his breath.

"Your hands, John."

The response was far too rapid. "I need to watch these." He turned back toward the kitchen. "Can't let them burn. Can't let any harm come to them..."

"John. It's only flour and sugar and butter... and possibly an egg. Come here... please?"

John shot a last quick glance at the oven before heading over to Sherlock.

Sherlock took a deep breath, and moved his legs from beneath him in an effort to sit properly. "May I see them, please?"

John held his hands out and turned his head to the side as Sherlock removed the mitts.

"This isn't just the cleaning agent."

"It started out that way. Drying out a bit with the cleanser and the washing."

"You have lotions. Every doctor has lotions."

"I didn't wantthe bloody lotions. I want it off. I want all the skin off. It's not the germs. And I know damage to the skin will only make that part worse. Beneficial bacteria gone. A scoop of Persil, and a scoop of neat bleach. I don't know how often."

Sherlock wasn't used to not knowing what to say. There was an uneasiness, which felt a bit like nausea. Like revulsion. Like...fear? Like anger. Impotent rage. That was it. He didn't want to hear Mary Morstan's likely excuse about things having to get worse before they got better. This needed to stop. John needed to be taken care of. And he didn't have the training, no, but it wouldn't matter. It wouldn't matter because he had... he had something. He couldn't even quantify what it was. But he was not going to be letting John back into that office, no matter how important it was to Mary to prove herself a valuable member of Mycroft's team, or that she was one of the Good Guys now. This was his John. And Sherlock would see to it that someone would be putting John first. That it turned out to be he who was doing it... well, that may surprise more than a few people, but, so what? So what. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what John needed. What he ended up saying was, "I don't know what to say. I don't know what you need."

"You can't fix me."

"She can't fix you, John. I researched a bit, and, I don't know what she did there, but she was involved with their business... very involved. She might have been active in reprogramming, or in memory modification. If you can tell me what she was asking you, I can piece it together more accurately. I'm fairly certain she would ask you first about actions she was on the periphery of, to see if she knew any of your captors personally."

"She offered to tell me. She offered to tell me, but she thought she would lose me as a client if I knew. She said she thought being honest was her best chance." John seemed unaffected, but Sherlock looked close to dumbfounded. "I don't know. I didn't want to know. And now... now I just don't care. None of it matters. She can't fix me anyway."

"I can do whatever you might need. I can learn."

"Oh, Sherlock, you can't fix me either. I just...can't be fixed." Sherlock blinked rapidly and locked eyes with John. "I'm not taking myself out, no. Can't do that. Not quite sure why, though."

"John, in time you..."

John spoke slowly and his expression was placid. Or possibly just detached? Sherlock needed more time to be sure. "Sherlock, please, not now. I... can we talk about something else? Can we talk about you? It might help me to be the one... actually doing the helping, for a change."

"You have to stop feeling like you need to do things for me. It's not your purpose."

"Unless I want to. Right?" John searched Sherlock's face for approval, as his own expression wavered between confidence and uncertainty like shifting desert sand. Sherlock's did much the same, but seemed to settle far more quickly.

"Want is subjective here."

"Yes, it is. I don't know what I want. And no one can guide me through this. Can tell me what my path to healing is. But now, I want to do this. And what I want is supposed to matter. And, I want, to talk about what you want right now. So... you usually don't? Want? You said you preferred to ignore it and eventually your body would provide its own release. In dreams?"

Sherlock wrinkled his mouth. He wasn't ready to discuss any of this again, and regretted ever having done so, but this was John's topic. So be it. Maybe he could glean some more information by what John chose to ask him. "Usually, yes. Usually I wouldn't be consciously aware of it. Or only vaguely so."

"Does it change? Cycles?"

It felt reassuring to hear a tone reminiscent of medical questioning coming from John. "Lately... when I bathe... I find myself responding to my own touch more quickly. I find myself wondering if I want to continue the touching. How it would feel. If I wanted to go past the perfunctory levels of mere cleanliness. I sometimes do, but it still feels hollow. Not like..."

"Not like it would be with someone else? Like with me?"

Sherlock hesitated. "Yes. With you. But that doesn't matter. Because I know it's not what you really want with me. And that's actually fine. I don't have to act on things just because I have..." he frowned, "fleeting feelings. I don't know if what I've experienced changed what I am or not, in terms of awareness, but as for you... I certainly don't know what you went through, John, but being forced to participate in entirely unwanted experiences hasn't redefined what you are. You have always been attracted to women, and given your... experience... it would make sense to feel safer with women now as well. It is entirely logical if you don't want anything to do with-- in a sexual context at any rate-- any men."

"With men." John glanced down at his hands as Sherlock suddenly sat bolt upright, concerned. "Sherlock... I ... don't know where to start. I agree that the experience doesn't make me something I'm not. In theory. But... Okay. I'm... I'm going to try and explain this, so don't interrupt me, because if I stop talking I won't ever start again and I need to get this out. And don't nod, or act like act like you know what I'm talking about, or what I am going to say next, because I need you to just sit there and listen. That's all." John sighed. Sherlock didn't move a muscle.

"They... they had no idea who would buy me or what they would do with me. I'm 43. I'm not exactly in my prime. I overheard one of them say I had no niche. Which I later figured out meant that anything that crossed someone's depraved mind, I needed to be ready, willing and able to handle." John chuckled, and it was just on the edge of manic. "So. So I had to be prepared, Sherlock. Like some Deranged Boy Scout of Sex. Ok, not a particularly good analogy for you, thank you for not saying anything just then. That's their motto. Be prepared. And, boy was I ever prepared. They made sure it was done safely enough, so my health wouldn't be compromised. I suppose that's part of their contract, because it wasn't done for compassion's sake. That basically meant that people were tested first. That... things... were sanitized. Think of the most vile thing you can."

John stopped for a minute. "I'm serious about that, Sherlock. That's not rhetorical. I really want you to do it, because I don't want to have to say any of the details out loud, okay? I'm sorry, but this is the closest thing to a full purge I can manage right now, and I need your help. So go ahead and think of something. Something you suspect might even be a myth, because... who in their right mind would truly find that appealing. Don't talk, just think." John paused. Sherlock's eyes shifted slightly and John continued.

"Whatever it is you are thinking of right now... whatever it is... I've either done it or something close enough to have been declared a reasonable substitute. So. To say I might want to avoid anything in a sexual context with another man. Well. Everyone. Everything. Has a sexual context for me. If I'm to avoid having any sort of relationship with everyone I was programmed to serve, you might as well put me in solitary confinement. And don't be surprised if I wank while I'm in there, because I'll be assuming someone is watching me and getting off on it, and that's what I should be doing."

"At first, I fought it. Then it became expected, something I had to brace for and endure. Then, it became a routine. After that, it became so incorporated into my life that I actually started to missit. Not that I wanted it, mind you, I just... it felt, off, when it wasn't there. Maybe because it was the only contact I had? Then, then I started to want it. To go days without it made me feel... almost sick. By the end of my training period, it felt like my purpose. My identity. I was actively seeking it out." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"I will-- there is no doubt in my mind-- die before I recover from all of it. Yes, the ones running the show happened to be men. Do you think I'm petty enough to blame just men for what amounted to training for the depravity of the entire human race? They picked something plausible to trade off on, for marketing purposes, and exposed me to anything they could think of, and they were a creative bunch. The worst part is, I still have the same sexual needs I have always had. You'd think since I hate it, the need would just go away. That I'd be very happy not putting anything in anyone and vice versa for quite some time. I don't know if it's the heathy part of me or the unhealthy part, but I still want to connect with someone who actually cares about me. I think it's the last bit of health, honestly, the part that wants to be cared about as a human instead of some fucktoy. You'd think it wouldn't be a sexual form of caring that I would still crave, you'd think it really wouldn't. But it is. My body is still connected to my soul. I do want to feel cared for. I need to feel loved. And there is only one way I feel capable of expressing it. I know there are other ways. I know it in my head. I don't know if sex is better than love, or worse, or different, or the same thing. I have no idea. I just know I don't want sex--right now, I think it's pretty safe to say-- ever. And I bet you do. And that is ... that is fucking hillarious, is what that is. Because I don't want it, but I need it. And you don't need it, but you want it." John looked down, and then forced himself to look directly at Sherlock.

"I have no idea what the hell it is we have--our relationship-- but you are more than just my friend, I can sure as hell tell you that much. You've always been more than just my friend. I'm going to strive toward some sort of health, but I don't know if I'm ever going to get there. Right now, sex is all around me. Everyone I see, they all want something from me, Sherlock. And I can't help picking up on that, whether it is true or not. And fuck if I don't still feel like I should provide the goddamn service for all of them. I am petrified. I'd rather belong to someone who actually cares about me. All of me. Like you do." John's gaze shifted back down again, toward the floor, and stayed there.

"You once said nothing I'd ask of you would ever offend you. See. I do remember that time. When I barely remembered who I was. I need to ask you if you will let me have sex with you, Sherlock. It wouldn't be horrible for you. Not a lot. Just... when you need that...please... let me help. And. And okay you can talk now."

****

{ Irene wants to know "what is for dinner?" Be patient! It's not dinnertime quite yet! I'm getting there!}

The silence wasn't entirely unexpected, but it hurt nonetheless. John waited while Sherlock processed. That was certainly nothing new. Having rather unexpectedly put it all out there, John found he needed... something. Even the most superficial, passing acknowledgment of how difficult that must had been to say out loud would have been welcome. Well... maybe not. Not from someone like Sherlock, anyway.

"Sherlock?"

The reply was barely audible, but John heard him just fine. "I've already failed you, John. So many times. The stakes are higher now, and I will likely only do so again. It was wrong to not share a bed at the hotel, wasn't it?"

"You don't know me when I'm like this. It's not fair to judge yourself so harshly when I didn't tell you how I felt. I need to be able to tell you and I can't always find..."

Sherlock closed his eyes and gently shook his head from side to side. "Wrong. And it wasn't the man with the beard. At the railroad station. He wasn't why you left the bench."

The "no" barely registered as a whisper. Possibly there was no breath behind the syllable at all, but Sherlock knew the response just the same. John's eyelids scrunched tightly together as if compressing them enough would somehow block his internal vision. "I need to... channel it. I need to feel safe. To feel like I'm safe." John stopped, fidgeted with his fingers and shook his head. The words were all wrong. "I mean.... like I'm safe to be around, not that I'm... that I won't harm anyone." His hand tightened on the edge of the sofa, suppressing a tremor. "Not again, anyway."

"You are not a threat to anyone, John."

John looked at his own hand gripping tightly. "If they knew... if any of them...anyone on that platform... even the..." John slowly met Sherlock's eyes and stared at him with a new and steady determination. "My having a little more constrictions placed upon my freedom would be a very good thing right now. Until I trust myself more."

"Don't be absurd. People are not responsible for the actions they undertake in captive situations. Self preservation is instinctual, and one need only look at recent studies in..."

"No! No, this is me. This is not a study. I'm not a case!"

Sherlock fell silent.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I didn't mean that."

"Don't be. And of course you did." Sherlock rose from the sofa. "And, as promised, I am not offended by your comment or by your request. However, it does prove me entirely incapable of what you are asking."

"You are the only person I can trust with this, Sherlock. You can handle it. Handle me. You can help me control these impulses."

"Controlling impulses is precely what I can't do, John. Look at me. I used to manage it all so well, not contaminated by any distractions of this sort, choosing to simply put it aside. Until Bagatelle. With you. And you... I can't even discuss this, John, how am I supposed to know what to do?"

"I'm so sorry. I've corrupted you somehow with my..."

"No, no, no, it's not that... it's just... what if I don't really want this? What if I only wanted it because I thought I couldn't have it? That it was safe simply because it was unattainable, and now I would have to somehow manage it all. To learn to say yes and say no and figure out what I wanted and talk about it and... It's not supposed to be like this. I'm reasonably confident sexual relations are supposed to be some sort of joyous relationship celebration of immense and incomprehensible beauty. Not the two of us struggling to manage this alien force that has superseded our very selves. This is probably the worst thing in the world for us to do, John. You know that, don't you? Logically? There is no way this is anything but crazy."

"We're idiots."

"Absolutely."

"Doesn't sound particularly romantic, does it?"

"You're the romantic. Have you read that blog of yours?"

John could feel the smile take over his face. "Ha. Do you intend to make a chart cataloguing our reaction time and response to various stimuli or something?"

"I might."

"Good. That's exactly the sort of thing I need."

"You're serious." Sherlock's lips were the only sign of movement. He couldn't have looked more bewildered. He had been about to remind John just exactly who he had chosen for this venture, and why anything he could instinctually come up with would have been tremendously unhelpful when the realisation that his approach was actually a good thing, or at least not a terribly bad one, had stopped him cold.

"'Course I'm serious. The idea of controlling this, managing it? Is appealing to both of us."

"This is almost plausible, John. I mean, vastly different approaches within our minds, but you are absolutely right. We both need to control this...thing."

"I think we can do it. Just say when."

"Truly?"

"Sherlock, I am so needing this, you have no idea." John flashed a tight grin which managed to be suggestive without being entirely crass. "But. It's not about it happening, so much as it's about knowing it can. When you need."

"All right."

"All right."

"No, I mean all right. As in why not now?"

Sorry I haven't commented in awhile, I just got busy and it got away from me. This is still so good!

no problem! still working on the next chapter. I keep thiking we will hit sexytimes, but the angst is finding its way back in yet again...

Glad you are still enjoying it!

"I hope you weren't expecting me to argue the point." John walked toward Sherlock, who was watching his every movement. "Here?"

"For practicality's sake, my bed has far greater surface area."

John grinned. "By all means, let's be practical," his tone just shy of actual mockery.

Sherlock shrugged it off and headed to his bedroom; John followed. At the doorway he turned back. "I don't have any sort of... "

"Tested. Came with the bill of sale, remember?"

Sherlock glanced around the room, looking slightly awkward, due to both the reminder of the "transaction" and his uncertainty of what to do next. He knew he was expected to command John to do something, but he had no idea what. He was far more nervous than aroused, yet he saw no reason not to at least try this. It would change things between them, certainly, but things were already changed. There was no denying John's anxiety level would be reduced, and he could gain valuable information.

John, for his part, was perfectly at ease and becoming more so. "I feel more centred, more calm, than I have any memory of ever being. I suggest you do whatever makes you feel the same way. Try and relax. Experience. Enjoy."

Sherlock gave a quick nod, removed his jacket and pushed off his shoes before scooting back toward the headboard. He then looked down at himself, as if momentarily jarred into remembering he had to actually, physically, take his clothing off...and began to unbutton his shirt in haste.

"Remove what you want, when you want. It's fine. No hurry. But I would like to get this..." John ran his hand down Sherlock's clothed chest. "I have wondered... what this fabric would feel like. It's almost like brushed silk, but not quite."

"You have?"

"You knew I was wondering. I didn't even know I was wondering, but you did... that very first day. A fleeting thought. Sometimes these things are worth following up on. Potential energy to kinetic."

Sherlock mirrored John, running his hand along his chest in much the same manner. "Reserve to active duty. And I wasn't that sure back then. There's always potential for error. Especially when dealing with the emotional."

"Don't worry about what you should or shouldn't do. I'll take care of you. All you have to do is let me. Touch me if you want to, I certainly don't mind, but I need this to be about you. Focus on the sensation. Soak it up. Let it feel good." John finished unbuttoning the shirt, leaving it draped on his frame.

{ TW: reference to torture. Mycroft says Vogon Poetry. My god I hope its not *that* bad!}

Sherlock lay back on the bed and closed his eyes, acutely aware of John moving around him. Shifting patterns of light and darkness, sounds, the warmth of breath. He found he was willing himself to stay present-- not mentally retreat to compare and contrast-- in favour of just observing sensation. Feel. Feel John's lips against his forehead. Tender and soft. Not at all the move he expected John to make first. Then further down his nose, this time more of John's lips, his mouth, against his skin. He opened his eyes to find John simply gazing at him. "Beautiful."

Sherlock grinned, his eyes closing again. "Awkward. Unpleasant. Acerbic."

John placed a kiss on his jawline. "Brilliant." His neck. Sherlock let out a tiny puff of breath. "Exceptional." John repeated the kiss, dragging his lips against skin, headed to the hollows of his collarbone, and ran his hand down Sherlock's side. "Amazing." He brushed it forward, to where he must have expected to find a growing erection, but hadn't. John shifted back slightly. "It's good. Kissing you. I didn't before. It's probably true, what they say about prostitutes not kissing."

"John?"

"Slaves don't have that autonomy." John shifted back some more, until he was barely on the edge of the bed. "We just do whatever you ask. Do whatever you want."

"John!" Sherlock sat upright, alert.

"It helps. Thinking this is why I'm doing this, doesn't it? Does it feel like penance? It's fine. I still want to." He glanced down at his hand, still resting upon Sherlock's thigh. "Even though you don't want me, I'll still take a pity fuck. I just figured it might help you feel more noble, to be reminded of that. That I do understand why you are agreeing to this... and that I'm desperate enough not to care."

Sherlock reached out and grabbed both sides of John's face, tilting it up until he could see his eyes. He knew his own were shimmering as he held his emotions firmly in check.

"That has nothing to do with this. I'm not doing this out of guilt. It's... my nature. My focus is in here," he tapped his head, just above where John has kissed him. "It doesn't mean I am doing this out of a sense of guilt, or charity. It means... that I take some time to react. To shift focus. I still need to lead myself there."

Sherlock stopped a moment and shifted gears. His voice taking on a deeper, richer quality. "I confess, if I were exploring you, it would be far easier. Right here is where I'd start." He gently placed his fingertips on John's Adam's apple. "Right at the hollow under your laryngeal prominence. The neck is our most vulnerable spot. Like all mammals, to expose it to anything, to a mouth, to teeth... I wouldn't think you'd let me do that, John. Given your complete free will. After what it led to, my not letting you know I had a plan to survive Bart's that day is rather unforgivable. After letting you grieve, never quite sure if any of the messages I tried to convey were all only in your mind. I couldn't do it. Couldn't trust you with our lives, and I couldn't simply because I am something you are not. A manipulative liar who doesn't deserve this sort of trust and honesty. And yet, you followed me. And suffered so much trying to get me back home. I'd been captured, John."

John broke away from his stoic stance to look more thoroughly at Sherlock's body. "Captured and beaten twice. Bones reset as best as possible. I have a system for such things, a place within my Mind Palace to retreat to. I perfected it in Tibet," Sherlock chuckled, darkly. "Thought not at the feet of some mystic in a Buddhist monastery, but rather at the end of a burning cigarette from a thug on the Bhutan border."

John's eyes darted to any visible skin. "Where?"

"No, no I'll show you later. It is healed. As healed as it will ever be. And I don't need penance. We each did what we needed to do to save the other. We suffered. Maybe I'm to blame for the whole sequence of events... being drawn into Moriarty's web when I should have simply gone back home and waited for a regular case to come along. Chased more dogs on the Moor. Maybe I'd get another like the one that made my name-- someone's stolen... wall hanging. Yes, I was sucked into it, bored. But that's my very nature. And yours."

Sherlock could see John begin to tilt his head back. "It's not yours to offer yet, I'm afraid. Still mine. But I give you myself freely. I responded ...well... last time. Physically, at least. This time I won't hold back."

John nodded and gently guided Sherlock backward onto the pillow.

"Your neck isn't just vulnerable and absolutely fucking beautiful, Sherlock. It's teeming with central and peripheral chemoreceptors acting as sensory extensions of the peripheral nervous system within your blood vessels... detecting changes in chemical concentration, heading back via afferent nerves and the vagus nerve to the vasomotor centre of the ventral medulla-- the segment of the brain which registers the most primitive of sensations." John stopped speaking just long enough to trace along Sherlock's neck with his tongue. "High capillary density. This is one of the areas of the body with the greatest blood flow-- densely packed with vesicles containing dopamine, ATP, serotonin, catecholamine-- all released during transduction. It all starts," John gave a hard suck as Sherlock gasped, "right here. I know about a lot more than just bum itch." John smiled as yet another memory had unexpectedly returned. So many lately... all disjointed and odd snippets without rhyme or reason, but by now he was completely comfortable with the strangeness of these remembered bits of conversation. Bum itch. Fragments of the absolutely ineffable life in which he had somehow miraculously been reinstated. "Maybe later we can explore the efficacy of my proprioceptors?"

"Proprioceptors? Movement, contraction and stretch of... oh. Yes. Yes, we could do that."

John relished seeing Sherlock a bit flustered. He pressed his momentary advantage and traced his fingers lightly down Sherlock's abdomen to find a strengthening erection straining up towards him, and let a wicked grin spread. "This is going to be so good."

Returning his lips to Sherlock's neck, he continued to drift his hands down, undoing the fly, slipping between trousers and pants to remove the outer garment gracefully, while Sherlock lifted himself up in cooperation. John plunged his hand beneath the band. One, or both, of them inhaled a deep breath. It grew shaky on the exhale. Sherlock.

"I've got you," John whispered as he continued to steadily work his hand, while exploring the rest of Sherlock's body with gentle kisses. Sherlock was silent, and John looked up to see him pursing his lips together in concentration.

"Don't try to be quiet. Just... breathe. Everything flows when you breathe." John watched as Sherlock made a conscious effort to relax into his body, only to tense up again when hit with an unexpected wave of pleasure. He was fighting each step-- probably without even realising it.

"It's fine to distract yourself, to let your mind wander."

"No. I don't want to be disconnected from this. I need to learn to be... here."

"I'm not suggesting you go far. Just...if you wander a bit, it's okay. You'll come back to me. You don't need to try so hard."

As Sherlock looked directly at him, John felt a shift. Something ridiculously... foofy? He couldn't come up with any words that fit, so he decided not to bother, but he could feel it all the same. He just kept up a steady motion, watching as Sherlock became less tense, more pliant beneath him. At the very beginning of a deep, resonant groan, John stopped all movement.

"You stopped. But nothing's wrong ... I would have seen it, if you had felt uncomfortable, physically or mentally. I'm fine, more than fine. And you knew that, too. You," Sherlock took a moment in an attempt to restore his breathing to a more regular pace and leaned forward. Why did you stop?"

"Because you were almost there."

Sherlock looked as if he had just fit the last piece into a jigsaw puzzle, only to find the finished product wasn't the waterwheel he thought he had been working on all along, but rather was a basketful of kittens. He blinked in silence.

"You've never tried this?"

"Starting and then stopping? Why would anyone ever choose to stop? I feel the building of sexual tension occasionally, yes, and then I relieve said tension. With a partner, dynamics would necessarily shift, and it could conceivably be over entirely too quickly, and then you'd have a refractory period to deal with, causing potentially awkward delays if one of you had achieved sexual gratification and the other had not. Depending on the activities you were partaking in, of course. But it was my understanding that, this time at least, you didn't wish me to reciprocate-- which, of course, I would, if you have changed your opinion on the matter-- but the fact that you have..."

"Sherlock. This has nothing to do with reciprocation. It's a technique. To make your orgasm stronger."

Sherlock blinked again as he pieced the biological mechanics together. Eventually, he turned to John and said, "I'm not sure I want that."

"The health concerns that you might spot online from time to time are greatly exaggerated. Sure, if you delay gratification a few times a day, for an extended period of time, you might see a little of the 'backing up the pipes' thing people worry about, but really, seminal retention isn't considered a true risk for enlargement of an already healthy prostate... and besides, it wouldn't be like I was delaying it for days. Unless you wanted to try using..." John stopped abruptly, noticing Sherlock had gone past the blinking stage, was no longer looking at him, and appeared to be in some version of his trance state. "Sherlock?"

John saw him appear to jump back inside himself, after having been floating in the ether, as he finally said, "John. It's fine." And as if to illustrate the fine-ness of it all, Sherlock reached behind John's head and pulled their mouths together in a deep kiss. "Now, where were we? Oh, yes. Here." He removed his pants and artfully tossed them across the room.

It was mere seconds before John discarded all his own clothing and started back up again, upping the ante with full body contact, as he positioned himself on top of Sherlock, face to face. Their bodies didn't quite line up, but John's thighs created perfect friction against Sherlock's groin, with John pressed firmly into Sherlock's stomach. The simple movement up as John kissed Sherlock's mouth and jawline and back down again to reach the base of his neck and shoulders was all that was needed to have him breathless again. The tiniest sound, the hint of a "j" on Sherlock's lips, and John was motionless yet again. The response was something in between a needy whimper and a sigh of resignation as Sherlock abruptly turned his head to the side, leaving John to whisper in his ear, "That's enough for your first time at this, I think. Besides, I'm not going to want to stop doing this once I get started." He left a sporadic trail of licks and kisses down Sherlock's chest and stomach, which convulsed beneath John's tongue.

Sherlock found his voice in a quiet whisper, with a hint of desperation. "John. John. The things you do to me... I just," as he interrupted his own loosely coherent monologue with a hoarse grunt when John took the tip of his cock in his mouth and was advancing... slow, steady, and relentless. Sherlock slowly drew in air through his teeth as John took a moment to breathe in the scent, his nose finally flush against Sherlock's stomach, before bracing against his arse and pulling in every bit he possibly could. Sherlock looked down at John and gave him a faltering smile.

John slid backward, keeping his tongue against the underside of his cock and wrapped his hand around the base, coordinating his movement... his hand gliding upward as his mouth moved downward. Sherlock's hips bucked and John ran his tongue expertly in a swirling circular motion around his glans, then delicately moved his foreskin back and forth with his lips. As he slid back down again, Sherlock squirmed sideways, as if he was wanting to thrust forward but was preventing himself from doing so. John grabbed both of Sherlock's hands and placed them on his head, pushing himself down on his behalf. "Ahhh hhhh John!", he shouted, now actively thrusting up, but unable to keep a steady pace, faltering. He frowned and shut his eyes. "Can't..."

John stopped only long enough to speak. "Can. Will. Just a little more."

Instead of increasing his speed or the intensity of his grip, John made his touch impossibly light. Traces instead of touches, which felt like a current traveling along his skin. His left hand still gently holding Sherlock's cock, John now rested it lightly on his stomach while reaching back with his right to the flexing soles of his feet. He traced a delicate line up his arch, ankle, calf, slowed down even more behind his knee, moved across to his inner thigh. For Sherlock, it was as if a lit fuse was moving inexorably up his body. A hand softly moved back down his belly as John quickly engulfed his cock to the root, while delicately tracing the other hand from his inner thigh across his perineum. A convergence of points, as both hands moved to where John's mouth was, had Sherlock wrenching forward with a raspy, broken shout which pierced the room... and John pumped every last drop into his waiting mouth. Sherlock collapsed backward. He absentmindedly glanced toward the floor, as if willing a piece of clothing to rise up of its own accord to clean up with, but John was already at his side, and as he came back to his body, he quickly realised he hadn't needed one. There was nothing visible to clean.

"Stay here. Rest. I'll be quick. I haven't done anything yet this morning," John stated matter-of-factly as he headed off to the shower. "It's fine if you fall asleep. I'll come join you," he said, as he closed the bathroom door behind him.

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Rating:
Explicit
Archive Warning:
Rape/Non-Con
Category:
M/M
Fandom:
Sherlock (TV)
Relationship:
Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Characters:
Sherlock HolmesJohn WatsonMary MorstanMycroft Holmes
Additional Tags:
SlaverySexual SlaveryPost-ReichenbachFuck Or Diebut not quite a fuck or dieclose enoughHiatusJohn WhumpSherlock Whumpeverybody gets the whump!Oral Sexobsessive compulsive-type behaviorSelf-Harmattempts at sapiosexuality
Language: English Stats:Published:2014-11-09Updated:2015-02-17Words:21978Chapters:21/22Comments:209Kudos:291Bookmarks:65Hits:6950
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Chapter 21

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Chapter Text

Sherlock tried to raise his head, but felt lightheaded, almost dizzy, and let it fall back down to the pillow. He was staring at the ceiling, and becoming increasingly aware of the sounds of the shower. Of John in the shower. Sherlock pictured John's hands lathering up the hair on his chest, the darker hair across his stomach...bracing himself against the shower wall, leaning on one arm, soaping himself up with the remaining lather while water beaded across his tanned body. Spent as he was, Sherlock was surprised to find the imagery still somewhat effective.

No. John wanted privacy. Wanted to leave... for just a moment. John didn't deserve a deductive voyeur, in reality or even within the confines of Sherlock's own fantasy. Not that he would actually mind, though, Sherlock reasoned. He frowned. There probably wasn't anything John actually would mind. But, in any case, Sherlock had quite a lot to think about, and he knew the best opportunity for analysis would correspond with solitude.

He glanced down at his own body, and felt... almost, cold. Almost... empty. Relaxed, reasonably content, loved and cared for, but... something in him just wanted, longed, to... to what?

God, he loved John. More than he'd ever been capable of loving anyone in his life. It certainly wasn't doubt about that, this unknown element. And as hesitant as he had been, it was good to have taken this step. It was a high unlike any other. He smirked. And he knew highs. Only he didn't seek them out anymore, preferring mental epiphanies to physical ones.

And here was its companion. Its corresponding low. It wasn't a bad crash, really. It wasn't even truly a crash at all. More of a contrast. A stark contrast. Disorienting.

And he had been right, of course. It was too much, too soon. But, John... John wouldn't have understood that. It would have hurt him. Next time... Next time. He smiled at that. Next time, John won't need to prove himself, and it won't need to be quite as intense. He'd have to figure out what constituted a reasonable wait between carnal acts. John shouldn't have to wait too long.

John would be back soon, and they would rest together. He pictured it-- his limbs wrapped up in John. It would be perfect. For all his lack of urgent sexuality, he still enjoyed tactile sensation. Fine fabrics, the warmth of a fireplace, even the soft velvet of that godawful overly-ornate fleurs-de-lis wallpaper.

The shower stopped, the door creaked, and there he was-- towel wrapped around his waist, and, yes, beads of water still glistening in the hollows of his neck, with skin rosy from the combination of a recent orgasm and a hot shower.

Oh crap. So much for the cut and paste. Well, it's going on my AO3 anyway. sorry!!

John smiled, perfectly at ease. "I honestly expected you to be asleep. You looked pretty knackered."

"I am pretty knackered."

John took off his towel and used it to quickly dry his hair before tossing it onto the bed and climbing in next to Sherlock. "Have you just been sitting here waiting for me?"

"Waiting and thinking."

"About?"

Sherlock turned toward John. This is when you should lie. When you should simply say, 'thinking about how amazing that was,' and give a goofy grin and close your eyes and snuggle into his shoulder. Certainly Sherlock was adept at lying. Instead, he found himself saying, "Cocaine."

Thankfully, he had enough sense to amend the statement quickly. "Not about using, John. Just, the highs. Horrible pillow talk. Sorry."

John processed. "No, don't be. It's... addictive? How you feel?" There was an easiness in his features that spoke of understanding. This was something John seemed to relate to. Sherlock found himself wishing he could simply nod and agree. This was an addiction for John, at least right now. Maybe that would change. Maybe it never would. He decided he could handle it either way.

"More about the highs, the lows. The balance."

"Oh. To be honest, not exactly what I was hoping to hear." John still smiled.

Sherlock did, too. "Well, to be honest as well, not exactly what I was meaning to say. After the most amazing sexual experience possible."

"Well. I wanted you to get your money's worth."

"Please. Don't."

John looked perplexed. "Don't what?"

"That was the worst experience of my life. Please don't treat it so lightly. I know mocking the situation feels better somehow... but, please, stop."

The silence seemed inordinately long.

John looked down at the sheet, focussing in on the discarded towel which was dampening the pillow. "You're... serious."

Sherlock spoke rapidly, waving his hands. "Yes, yes, of course I'm serious. If I was going to Iie, I would have lied right from the start-- about the cocaine-- don't you think?" He looked directly at John and defiantly held his posturing, until John finally met his eyes.

"More likely you wouldn't lie about the cocaine, then wish that you had, and then you'd lie about the next thing that came along."

Sherlock grinned.

"See, that's the look. The look you gave me during the Culverton Smith case when you'd been a lying little shit and had me damn near convinced that we'd caught the disease from that fucking ivory box and were both going to die... just before you decided it was worth your while to let me in on the secret. Not so glad that I'm getting more memories back now, huh?" John winked.

Sherlock's face was at its hardest, its most resolute. "Never. And I'm not lying this time, John."

"Why so serious? There is nothing to be done about it. I'm half a world away from them, and safe. It's over. Well, I mean, damage done, yes, but when you think about it, wanting to have a lot of sex is infinitely better once you consider the other possible outcomes-- especially when there's someone you don't mind having a lot of sex with, right?"

Sherlock got out of bed. For some reason, it didn't feel right to be lying there talking about this.

John sighed. "Well, it makes sense that you're not lying. You'd lie to get someone to do what you wanted without taking all that time and effort to explain. Or to trap someone else in their own lie. And if you were lying to get me to do something for you, you probably would be kissing my arse, not telling me I was pants at something and making me feel worse. That sounds more like... honest truth." John squared his shoulders. "I can do better. Just talk to me. Tell me."

Sherlock had been reaching for his dressing gown, but turned back toward John, abruptly. "John, God no. No, you didn't do a thing wrong. You were... beyond perfect."

"Right. That's why you felt so terrible. Perfect sex does that every time."

"I'm not talking about now, John. I've never felt anything that intense, I mean, on a scale of one to ten I'd give it a thirteen. And I was comparing it to... well... I wasn't talking about now. I was talking about when we first..."

"When you bought me." John stated plainly.

Sherlock heard the simple acknowledgement in John's voice, but it didn't stop his own stammer. "Yes. When I-- I bought you."

"I still do have a learning curve. Different people like different things. So, in all honesty, bravado aside, I'm not surprised that it paled by comparison. I didn't even know it was you."

"And I was hoping you never would. That by the time you'd recovered, you would have forgotten all of that." Sherlock felt it again. The utter despair of the moment when his only solace was in the painfully mixed blessing that John was too traumatised to know who he was. He froze in place, then willed himself back out of the memory. Lingering there was self-indulgent. He wrapped the gown around himself, facing away from the bed. "Or, barring that, at least forgotten my part in it."

"Why would I want to forget that you saved me? It doesn't make me turn into some damsel in distress. It's not like I'm starring in some porno where you rescue the girl from some deranged captors and then you get to have sex with her yourself as your reward."

"Isn't it," he scoffed.

"No. No, it isn't. Because it's you." John tapped the bed next to him to encourage him to sit back down. Sherlock merely turned to face him and drew a bit nearer. "And you could go your whole life without this if you wanted to." There was urgent look now. A pleading for understanding. "You think I don't know that? I do forget it sometimes. It seems so damn unnatural to me." John looked down for a moment, then pulled his gaze back up. "Sorry, but it does."

Sherlock just nodded quietly.

"But this wasn't for you. This was for me. And for you to think otherwise at any stage of this whole miserable experience is absolutely absurd. That you did anything to me I didn't want you to? Ridiculous."

"You weren't in your right mind. Then."

"Or now. Exactly. I'd say that you can't possibly know how much this means to me. Except you can. And," John's voice cracked helplessly as tears began to stream down his face. "And you do."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around him and let him sob. It was the first time he had done so throughout this whole ordeal. He saw every bit of what John was. The bravest, strongest man he had ever known, huddled in his arms. No less brave or strong for all of it... somehow even more so. And Sherlock joined him, bending his head down against John's neck. The two of them, crying, tangled in each other. I've got you, he thought. I've got you.

***Epilogue***

When the bell perched on top of the door jingled, Mycroft looked up from his salad in time to see Sherlock hold the door open for John, and smiled. Sherlock sat down directly opposite in the booth, returning the smile with a grimace. John slid in beside him.

"Why not our flat?"

"Because I am hungry, and because I prefer not to dine on Indian food delicately seasoned with the essence of human thumb."

John cracked a wry smile.

Sherlock didn't respond. He kept his eyes fixed on the small padded envelope sitting on top of a manilla folder on the table. John glanced at it briefly before turning his attention to the two brothers, who now appeared to be having yet another trademark conversation without words. He regarded the menu with exaggerated interest.

"You will both be pleased to hear that Aldebert Gruner is in custody. He had a small, red notebook on his person with several helpful notations. We were able to make quite a few additional arrests over the past few months."

Sherlock nodded. John gave Mycroft a quick glance before returning to the list of the day's specials. "Lunch is on you, then," John said.

"And just to catch up on old times, Sherlock, AGRA has a brand new member now." Mycroft tapped the file twice in rapid succession. "Goes by 'The Colonel'. He mentioned that you and he had a little heart-to-heart during your visit to Moldova." Sherlock nodded again, eyes still on the envelope. "If you were, in fact, such good friends, you will be pleased to know he came to work for us just in time. It seems a terrible accident befell his former place of employment... the very next day. Myriad ruined files, some of which he had been meticulously safe-keeping for years. The Colonel told me he was fortunate enough to have located a solitary backup copy which had been preserved for a few key items. He wanted me to give you this." Mycroft slid the package forward so it was directly in front of Sherlock, who only nodded once more in response.

Mycroft's phone buzzed and he looked particularly annoyed by the text. "Duty calls, I'm afraid. Looks like I'll have to owe you both a suitable meal at another time. Farewell. Good to see you, as always." He rose from the table and headed out to a waiting car.

"I believe I'm in the mood for thumb pag paneer, and it doesn't seem to be on here," said John.

"Always a favourite of mine," Sherlock replied. He slipped the package into his coat and they headed back up to 221B.

END

Re: END FILL 24/24 138 (John in slave auction) '

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Re: END FILL 24/24 138 (John in slave auction)

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