
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1982565.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson, Sherlock_Holmes/Original_Male_Character(s)
  Character:
      Sherlock_Holmes, John_Watson, Original_Male_Character(s), Mrs._Hudson
  Additional Tags:
      Past_Rape/Non-con, Past_Sexual_Abuse, Past_Abuse, Past_Child_Abuse,
      Angst, Loving_John, Insecure_Sherlock, trigger_warning, Explicit_Material
      is_in_it's_own_Chapter, Explicit_Material_is_Skipable_without_missing
      Plot, Brief_Summary_of_Explicit_Material_in_the_Final_Chapter, not_too
      bad, PG-14ish, Not_even_as_bad_as_Law_&_Order:_SVU, Established
      Relationship, Better_Trigger_Warning_in_the_Notes, John_is_a_Saint, AU-No
      Reichenbach, No_Mary!, John_Loves_Sherlock, Sherlock_Loves_John, Don't
      call_Sherlock_'William'
  Series:
      Part 1 of Fluff,_Smut,_and_Time,_(Everything's_Okay)
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-07-19 Completed: 2014-07-20 Chapters: 3/3 Words: 3398
****** "Sherlock, can I kiss you?" ******
by Inactive_Account_(sassybleu)
Summary
      Running through his mind were the memories he tried so hard to
     delete, memories that still haunted him at night, that still made him
     hold back when it came to John and others. John so far had been fine
     with not consummating their relationship; he assumed Sherlock was a
     virgin, and simply wasn't ready yet. Sherlock didn't bother to
     correct him
     **Explicit Material can be skipped
     *This story contains a happy ending
     **Please read the tags
Notes
     Goal: 500 Words
     Disclaimer: I own nothing except my words. *Story had been updated
     and errors have been fixed.
      
     TRIGGER WARNING: Chapter 2 of this fic contains explicit material.
     Because of this, chapter 2 is skipable, and everything else can be
     read without reading it. There are no major plot points in the
     chapter, and you will not miss the story by skipping it.
     THIS MATERIAL CONTAINS: past rape/non-con, past sexual abuse, past
     physical abuse, past emotional abuse, past psychological abuse, past
     child abuse, and just about any other kind of abuse you can think of.
     If I missed any, please let me know in the comments so I can warn
     future readers.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Now *****
Chapter by sassybleu
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
John sat in his usual pub, foregoing beer in favor of liqueur tonight. He zoned
out thinking about the fight he'd just had with Sherlock. John had finally
brought up what had been bugging him for a while; Sherlock's lack of want to
John's touch. Sherlock, when in the mood, would wrap himself around John;
forcing the older man to either carry Sherlock around the flat, or accept his
fate and remain stationary. On the other hand, Sherlock would inch away from
any touch John tried to initiate. John had simply had enough after being backed
away from the simple act of a hug with the detective. He was starting to think
that maybe his relationship wasn't what he thought it was, that maybe it was
just convenient for Sherlock; someone to take care of him and give everything,
while giving nothing in return. Sherlock, being the one lacking in knowledge
when it came to emotions, didn't see the cause of John's frustration. When John
had yelled nonsense at him before storming off to the pub, meanwhile muttering
to himself while walking out the door, Sherlock simply assumed he was mad about
the elbows in the lunch meat drawer; and trying to be a better partner,
alleviated what he thought was bothering John.
John had been thinking about bringing up the issue for a while, but that Friday
evening had been the last straw. After trying to hug Sherlock, just to show him
he cared, the man stepped back again. After that, John snapped, and angrily
yelled fragments of his thoughts at Sherlock. When stepping closer, the
detective flinched and visibly drew himself back further, which only served to
anger John more. Grabbing his coat and wallet from the rack and table near the
door to the flat, he hurried down the seventeen steps to the street, and walked
to the pub he often visited with Greg.
Meanwhile, back at the flat, Sherlock sat on the center of their bed in their
room on the main floor. The man sat in his navy-blue dressing gown, drawn
tightly around him. His legs were drawn up, knee to chin, and his arms were
snaked around them like a child fending off monsters in the dark. Running
through his mind were the memories he tried so hard to delete, memories that
still haunted him at night. That still made him hold back when it came to John
and others. John so far had been fine with not consummating their relationship;
he assumed Sherlock was a virgin, and simply wasn't ready yet. Sherlock didn't
bother to correct him.
His family knew, but nothing was ever done about it. They're the type of family
to turn their heads, but all the while making sure that their reputation wasn't
at risk; the Holmes's knew to keep things quiet, and they excelled at it. As
Sherlock sits alone in bed, one of his worst memories centers itself in his
brain demanding attention, and like a kid and his parents walking by a toy
shop, he's dragged in.
 
 
Chapter End Notes
     Please leave me a comment and tell me what you think! I'm actually
     quite lazy, and don't usually go as far into detail with my stories
     as I did with this one. I hope you enjoyed it, thank you for reading!
     **Chapter 2 contains explicit material and triggers, please feel free
     to skip it as the story is perfectly understandable without it.
     4/13/15: Please do not duplicate or post this content elsewhere
     without consent.
***** Then *****
Chapter by sassybleu
Chapter Notes
     **EXPLICIT MATERIAL**
     This is the last warning I am giving. The following chapter has
     explicit material, and triggers. Please skip it if you need to, the
     story still makes sense without it.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
It always started with him calling Sherlock into his room for a 'visit'. One of
the Holmes's guest rooms at their estate had been converted into a permanent
living space for the man. The room had dark, Persian-red walls; and the floors
were a deep chestnut-brown hardwood. In the middle of the large room on the
wall opposing the door, lay a large king-sized bed with four posts that angled
up to form a point, with black, sheer curtains cascading down, forming a canopy
that completely hid the dark grey duvet. Against the wall opposite to the bed,
was a large black-leather loveseat, resting against the cream-coloured blackout
curtains that covered the nearly entire window covered wall. Diagonal to the
loveseat, in the corner, was a large armchair that matched the loveseat. A
short distance away, a coffee table that was black wood, with a marble top, sat
matching the bedside tables. The bookshelves that surrounded the rest of the
walls in the room were a black wood of the same sort, and were two meters high.
The bedside tables were furnished with lamps; and sometimes, if the man was
feeling particularly generous, lubricant.
Sherlock was only seven when it started, but it lasted well until he went away
to uni, and occasionally when he was forced to come back and visit. The man,
Sherlock's uncle, had a sound-proofed room; something he took full advantage
of. The man would start the 'visits' by calling Sherlock to his room, and
locking the door behind him. 
"Have a seat, William. You look exhausted."
Sherlock knew better than to talk. Talking only made it worse for himself
later. The man would take a seat in the armchair, while Sherlock sat stiffly on
the couch. He'd quickly kick his shoes off, and cross his ankles on the coffee
table. After a few silent moments, he'd ask,
"Why don't you come sit with me? You look cold."
Sherlock would toe off his shoes and wordlessly move around the table,
carefully climbing on the man's lap as he reached the chair. The man would
force the boy to straddle him, aligning his erection with Sherlock's lack-of
carefully. 
"You're such a pretty boy, William. Just for me aren't you?"
At this point the man's hands would find Sherlock's hips, and in a silent
command, Sherlock would begin to move. Not much, just small thrusts, only
enough to bring the man to full length.
After a while of this, the man would usually start to get angry,
"William, don't you love me? Why aren't you excited? Doesn't it feel good?"
Standing, he'd lift Sherlock with him, and while he had the opportunity,
Sherlock would look over the man's shoulder, his eyes quickly scanning the
bedside tables for lubricant out of habit. Praying that he'd see some, but
flooded with disappointment when he saw none this particular time. 
After carrying Sherlock over to the bed, he dropped Sherlock down in the
center.
"I'm only trying to be nice. You should be excited, you know how good it
feels."
After watching Sherlock's slacks remain loose, he'd gowl out a number.
"You have one minute to undress."
Though Sherlock had long learned to undress as fast as he possibly could, this
particular time was the shortest amount of time he'd ever been given.
Nervousness and fear took control of his senses, and he'd only been able to
remove his socks and belt by the time his minute was up.
Tsking at Sherlock's failure, the man stepped forward, and ripped the buttons
from Sherlock's shirt like he'd done so many times before. He'd ruined an
endless amount of shirts before Sherlock grew fast enough. Moving on to his
trousers, the man would open and drop them, taking his pants at the same time.
Sherlock, still unstimulated to the man's liking, would disappoint every time. 
At the sight, the man would jerk his hand outward, and tightly grip Sherlock's
limp member, painfully tugging back and forth until Sherlock mentally willed
his nerves to respond favourably to the contact. Once the man noticed the
change, his scowl would turn into a sick smile,
"I knew you loved me, William."
Turning Sherlock around, the man would push him face first onto the center of
the bed. The dim lighting filtering through the black canopy cast shadows from
the sides as Sherlock's raised skin showed scars from his past 'visits'.
Sherlock's uncle would pick up Sherlock's belt, then walk to the bedside table,
and pull out a long, thin knife, along with a bottle of whiskey from the small
drawer.
Striking him with the belt for a while, the man designed a pattern with the red
welts that swelled from Sherlock's pale skin. After moving to straddle
Sherlock, the man would pick up his knife in his dominant hand, and the bottle
of whiskey in his other. Taking his time, the man carved whatever came to mind
on the scarred flesh that lay before him, taking the time to pour whiskey onto
each cut, making sure it stung properly before he moved on to cut again. When
his patience wore thin, but before moving on to his next task, the man would
re-carve his name onto the scars that healed from the last time he'd opened
them. Across the top of Sherlock's back, running the length of his shoulder
blades, Sherlock had scars deeper than the rest from the repeated opening of
the skin. Each scar put together added to each other, until the name 'ROBERT'
was formed legibly.
Capping the whiskey, and tossing it aside onto the floor, Robert would move to
the side of Sherlock, and make him roll over. Sherlock, who had until them kept
silent throughout up until this point, let out a whimper in pain as the
alcohol-drenched cuts rubbed against the sheets. 
Straddling Sherlock again, Robert would lean down close to Sherlock's ear and
whisper,
"There you are my boy! Are you ready?"
And without further notice, he'd force his way in, moaning at the tight
friction, and chuckling at Sherlock's screams.
"Oh, you're pathetic, William! They never hear; and they don't care. I'm the
only one who loves you. I'm the only one who could ever love you. You owe me
for that."
Still clutching the knife, Robert began to move, thrusting hard and painfully
into Sherlock. Tears poured from his eyes as Sherlock cried and screamed in
pain. Soon enough, for the first time, Robert decided that Sherlock's back
wasn't enough, and began to carve along the contours of muscle on Sherlock's
abdomen, deeper than he ever had cut his back.
After some unknown amount of time, and excruciating agony on Sherlock's part,
he started to become dizzy from blood loss. 
Nearing his finish, Robert tossed the knife aside, and pressed his hands to
Sherlock's chest; rubbing his palms up and down the cuts, moaning at Sherlock's
whimpers in pain. 
Finishing with a cry of,
"Yes! William!"
Robert pulled out of Sherlock, smiling at the defeated look on the boy's face,
and his drooping eyes. Smiling affectionately, Robert sighed,
"You're so pretty, William."
Leaving Sherlock alone, Robert would leave to take a shower and dress for his
night out, meeting friends for dinner usually. 
Fading in and out of consciousness, waiting for the maid to come and patch him
up, as was the usual protocol for after, Sherlock's only thoughts were prayers;
that maybe this time, he'd just die.
Chapter End Notes
     Writing this chapter made me wonder how sick and twisted my brain
     truly is.
     ...Did you like it?
     4/13/15: Please do not duplicate or post this content elsewhere
     without consent.
***** In Progress *****
Chapter by sassybleu
Chapter Summary
     Things are still broken, and they will be for a while. But when John
     puts his mind to something, nothing will stop him, and with Sherlock
     on his side, my god, they're practically superheroes.
Chapter Notes
     This is the final chapter! It is free of explicit material, the worst
     you are going to get is a brief summary of the previous chapter (and
     it's PG-14). Sequel is currently in progress with the promise of
     fluff (and maybe some smut).
     Thank you liebling for reading, as always, and for encouraging me
     when my hand felt ready to fall of (seriously, I wouldn't have made
     it without you).
     Enjoy :)
See the end of the chapter for more notes
After cooling down for a while, and finishing his drink, John paid the
bartender and started walking home. In his mind,  John was going through the
different ways to convince Sherlock to talk to him; and if he's lucky, sit down
to do it. 
Unlocking the front door, John ran into Mrs. Hudson,
     "Oh, my! You're out late dear. Back for the night I hope?"
"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock and I had a small domestic. I'm heading upstairs
now."
     "Oh, I'm sorry dear, I didn't mean to keep you. I'm sure you boys will
work it out."
"I think so. Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson."
     "Goodnight, John."
And with that, John began his climb up the seventeen stairs to their flat;
pausing a moment to shed his coat and shoes off at the rack by the
door.Scanning the sitting room, John didn't see Sherlock in his immediate line
of vision, and assumed the man was in bed. Looking at the clock, John saw just
how late it was, and sighed as he moved to the kitchen to make some tea. After
the kettle started to boil, John swiftly prepared a mug for each of them and
walked back to their bedroom, shutting off the flat lights as he went.
Sitting in the center of their bed, Sherlock was still in his defensive
position, though now he was trembling slightly as he was dragged through his
memories, one by one; reliving the pain, the fear, and the embarrassment of
each one. His breaths were coming in shallow gasps, and he was close to
hyperventilating, only moments from losing consciousness. Sherlock's eyes, cool
grey at the moment, stared off into the distance, the telltale sign that he was
in another world. Seeing the sight, John quickly set down their mugs of tea,
all but forgotten at this point, and swiftly set off towards Sherlock, but
stopped short of the bed. Running through his mind, John thought about how he
could wake the detective, and bring him back without frightening him too much.
After a few minutes of internal debate, John sat down on the side of the bed,
leaving plenty of space between him and Sherlock, and placed a hand on the
young man's arm. Still in his nightmare, Sherlock leapt to action, hurriedly
undressing out of suppressed habit. John was stunned, and had managed to get
out of his dressing gown and t shirt before John stopped him with an
exclamation of,
"My god! Sherlock, what are these?"
The use of his name, the one he'd used ever since his first had been tainted,
is what snapped the detective back to reality.
     "John..." he whispered, his eyes red, and tearful.
Slowly, John reached out a hand and turned Sherlock around so he was facing his
back. What he saw made his breath catch in his throat, and his blood boil.
White lines of skin were raised in jagged patterns all over. The most prominent
scars were aligned to form the name 'ROBERT' across the top length of
Sherlock's shoulder blades. At the sight of the name, John's anger regrouped,
and multiplied exponentially. 
Putting on a tender face, John turned Sherlock back around, so that he was
facing the younger man, and looked to Sherlock's face; trying to make eye
contact with him. His attempt failed however when he saw the man's eyes shut
tight, keeping all sight out, but doing nothing to stop the few tears that
escaped from the corners. 
"Sherlock, look at me." John commanded in a soft, but stern voice.
Reluctantly, Sherlock opened his eyes, and blinked them to clear of the excess
fluid that immediately flooded them. The rational part of Sherlock's brain knew
that John would never hurt him; but the irrational part, the child in him, was
waiting for the pain to strike.
"Can you tell me?"
Meanwhile, in his mind, John was scanning through his memories, wondering how,
with everything that's happened between the two, he's never managed to see
Sherlock shirtless before.
Sherlock was still pale, with a light tremor that lingered still in his hands,
but despite his state, was determined to try for John.
     "They knew. My family... They gave him the sound-proofed room. Logically,
to keep it quiet from prying ears; but they really just didn't want to hear me
scream..."
Sherlock paused to take a moment and gather his thoughts, all the while, John's
hands bunched into fists in the sheets.
     "He'd use the belt first. When I was younger, before I learned...Crying
out made it worse. After he got tired of hitting me; he'd grab a knife, and
some kind of alcohol."
John made soothing noises as Sherlock stopped to catch his breath, which had
gradually sped up as he had been speaking.
     "He would cut me. And after each one he'd pour the alcohol onto it. Then
he'd turn me over... It hurt, John. Each time, when I was still young, I'd pray
that he'd kill me; so that I could just be free of it. And he'd tell me things
during; 'No one loves you William... I'm the only one who will ever love you...
Don't you love me? I make you feel so good...' He's the reason I use the name
Sherlock. 'William' is too filthy; it reminds me of what I am John. It reminds
me of how grateful I should be, that you let me be close to you... I don't know
why you put up with me."
Sherlock's eyes lifted from his hands to meet John's. John's anger was replaced
by guilt, that he hadn't known; sadness, over what happened; and love that he
was here now. John's face softened further and he replied calmly,
"Sherlock, I don't 'put up' with you. I love you; every minute of every day. I
love being close to you, and if I were able to, I'd be closer more often. I
will never hurt you, Sherlock. What happened to you is not your fault; and if
you'd like to try, I want to help you past this."
Sherlock had stayed silent through John's monologue, and at the words that had
never been spoken, but were freely felt, "I love you", he cast his gaze down at
his hands once more. Looking back up at John, Sherlock saw how true John's
words were. The love John had for Sherlock could be seen as well as the
sunlight at noon on a clear day. When John saw Sherlock look up at him, he
spoke again,
"Sherlock," he said boldly to anchor the man in reality,
"I'm going to hug you now. If at anytime-you don't like something, or you want
to stop, I want you to tell me. I want you to say 'Stop'; and we will, no
matter what. Alright?"
Hesitantly, the younger man nodded his head, his black curls bouncing as he did
so.
John slowly moved towards Sherlock, like one approaches a wounded animal. John
gently wrapped his arms around the skinny detective; before carefully placing a
hand on his curls, subtly suggesting that Sherlock rest his head on John's
shoulder.
After a few moments of Sherlock breathing deeply, with his eyes closed, he
cracked them open and moved his arms to sit on the bed to the sides of John;
unsure of if he was allowed to touch the soldier. John, noticing the movement,
and sensing his uncertainty, lifted the man's arms to wrap around his back,
before replacing his arms around the man, who was now mirroring his position.
Eventually, John began to move his back towards the headboard, letting go and
leaning back while Sherlock stayed still and watched. After settling in and
getting comfortable, John held his arms open towards the detective, and
patiently waited for Sherlock to move up, wrapping his self around the shorter
man, content to just be held awhile. 
While sitting there, John contemplated what had just happened within the past
few hours. While this certainly wasn't the first time John had held Sherlock,
it was the first time he'd been allowed to initiate it, and he certainly didn't
want it to be the last. He spoke quietly, so as not to disturb the silence that
surrounded them too much,
"From now on, before I try to touch you, I'm going to ask you first, alright?
You can touch me whenever you like still." 
Sherlock nodded shyly to show his approval, face still buried in the meeting of
John's neck and shoulder.
"Sherlock, can I kiss you?"
Sherlock pulled his head back and met John's eyes; the child in him waiting for
the ridicule about his weakness and hesitancy, while the adult in him was
telling it to be quiet. Sherlock nodded again, and felt his face pale slightly
as John brought his hands up to cup his face. His body tensed, waiting for the
man to take control, and shove his tongue into his throat, only to slowly
relax, when John softly pressed his lips to his own, keeping his touch light.
John noticed Sherlock's body tense at his touch, and watched his eyes slip
shut, but was relieved when he relaxed, the tension draining out of him like an
elastic band returning to shape. Pulling back after a moment, Sherlock let out
a breath he'd been holding, and wrapped his arms around John once more. John
happily complied with the unspoken request, tangling himself with the detective
once more, before lying back down, taking Sherlock with him. The air was thick,
and love filled all the open spaces like the darkness and loneliness that had
occupied it previously.
"You are amazing, Sherlock."
"We'll work past this."
Phrases of plans for the future were littered in John's speech, all of them
lasting long after Sherlock fell asleep, only stopping when John himself fell
asleep, his last words uttered,
"I love you, Sherlock."
Chapter End Notes
     Thanks for reading!
     ....Feel like leaving me a brief comment? I appreciate your opinions
     :)
     4/13/15: Please do not duplicate or post this content elsewhere
     without consent.
End Notes
     Please leave me a comment and tell me what you think, even just a few
     words helps me a great deal.
     Thank you!
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
