
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1659467.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_Holmes_&_Related_Fandoms, Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson, Sherlock_Holmes_&_John_Watson, Sherlock
      Holmes/Original_Male_Character(s)
  Character:
      Sherlock_Holmes, John_Watson, Mycroft_Holmes, Greg_Lestrade, Mary_Morstan
  Additional Tags:
      Self_Harm, Drug_Addiction, Past_Child_Abuse, Explicit_Language, Explicit
      Sexual_Content, NB_rape/non_con_underage_is_historic_references_not
      happening_now, Whump, Johnlock_Roulette
  Series:
      Part 1 of Beyond_Ourselves
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-05-19 Chapters: 9/9 Words: 20887
****** The Life and Death of William SS Holmes ******
by Teaandcakes
Summary
     The reprieve from Sherlock's Eastern European suicide mission turns
     out to be the trigger for the unravelling of the detective.
     At the same time, John's own life and plans fall apart. Is there any
     moving on from this?
Notes
     This is the first part of the Beyond series, there is planned to be
     one more part.
     There is some explicit content and hence there are warnings.
     Note, the explicit content is not johnlock in this part of the
     fiction...but the build up is there.....roll on Part 2!
     Please note the child sexual abuse elements are historic but
     discussed in some detail.
     This is my first fanfic of any description :-O and I had meant to
     start with a short modest ficlet but this monster totally took on a
     life of its own :-))
     If you enjoy this fic Please please do give kudos and esp feedback as
     I would be hugely grateful!! esp if there are aspects you really like
     or struggle with.
     This first part of the series is still brisk in pace: the subsequent
     parts do go much, much deeper: I hope you enjoy getting further into
     the action and also the ways John and Sherlock deal with the impact
     of both their pasts.
     NOTE: Feb 2016 : chapters 1-3 have now been re-edited by me to be
     better punctuated and easier to read!
***** Separation *****
As the small jet came into its final slow approach, barely five minutes after
it had departed, John's stomach lurched. The pale weak light of the dawn seemed
to fade back into grey. The plane seemed to blur, then come into focus again.
He shifted, weight transferring from leg to leg, hands behind his back, eyes
narrowed against the sun, blinding even in its frailest form.
He stood alongside Mary, his wife, his lips thin and strained, not speaking. He
didn't look at her, he couldn't. He couldn't believe that Sherlock had...and
then had not...he was angry, at Sherlock for saying what he said, for not
saying something else, but angry, too, with Mary. For wearing red, cheery
garish red, for manipulating them all. Most of all, for shooting Sherlock and
starting the chain of events that had ended here, with a fatal exile.
But no. The plane was almost down. And John was staring at the plane, which
landed and taxied and stopped. Back on English soil, unbelievably. Less than
ten minutes? The world seemed surreal.
The small exit door slowly swung open.
No one appeared.
Mycroft and his surly entourage started to fidget and murmur and fiddle with
equipment. Several checked their firearms. One spoke on a radio, to some
disembodied voice. Nothing. After five minutes of waiting, minions were
dispatched to approach the aircraft.
But just as they did so, Sherlock appeared at the top of the short flight of
steps, and slowly descended, staring straight at John as he did so, never
wavering in his intent flinty gaze. The officials melted away, now, only to be
replaced by several large gentlemen in ill fitting blazers and chinos,
following Sherlock down the steps. John hadn't seen them before. They must have
been on the plane already. They looked more Guantanamo than security detail.
His focus swivelled to Sherlock. John thought Sherlocks face looked wrong,
somehow. Sort of.....blotchy. It was never blotchy? For once John did have some
idea, but only some, as to why. The killing of Magnusson and Sherlocks
ridiculous evasive speech on the airfield Tarmac, yards away from the ridicule
of Mycroft and the competition of Mary, had told John that Sherlock had
apparently sacrificed everything for John's happiness. His career, his
reputation, and ultimately with this aborted mission, he would sacrifice his
life.
How much further Sherlock's feelings went, John had no idea, and he didn't feel
remotely comfortable thinking about it. He had not yet the slightest idea of
how to reconcile Sherlock's bizarre behaviour with the continuing question of
his own sexuality. Nor with the fact, the undeniable fact of his very pregnant
(assassin) wife, the one who shot and pretty much killed Sherlock. He was
finding it impossible to forget that, even to relegate it to anywhere other
than the front of his brain. He was aware she was sighing, standing getting too
cold next to him, clearly in a bad mood. Why? Why was she not glad?
Lastly, he was worried by the apparent reappearance of Moriarty - or someone
using his identity.
Sherlock was accompanied by the two bear-like security guards, their firearms
clearly and intentionally visible. John couldn't see the detective's expression
too clearly, other than it looked dark and remarkably glowering. He was led
away and put into the back of a car. It was only as the car turned to sweep
away that John caught a glimpse of his lowered head and that beautiful, ghostly
profile. The doctor blinked, and cleared his throat, and looked away. What the
fuck was wrong with him?
.............
Mary got back into their own car, their ordinary, neat, sensible car; a blank,
pursed expression on her face. She looked worried and tense and furious and she
fiddled with her red coat buttons continually. Occasionally she gave one of
them a vicious twist. There seemed little relief in her eyes, and certainly
pleasure.
Mycroft appeared silently at Johns side, gliding into view. The man was more
like a serpent than a human being, John concluded. Mycroft's expression was
impossible to read, tired certainly, but also as though he couldn't decide
whether to look happy or vomit up.
'My brother remains in secure custody. His release...will be a limited one,
allowing him to pursue Moriarty, or whoever is behind these messages, but
remaining under parole-like conditions. If he succeeds, if he identifies and
eliminates the threat, he is likely to be freed completely, and permanently,
even with a royal pardon.
'If he does not, if he fails, he will never be free. Prison with a life
sentence, since that is mandatory for murder, or back to a similar mission to
that envisaged previously. The stakes could not be higher, John, I need you to
understand this. Sherlock must be totally focused on the mission in hand, and
not weighed down by any...."baggage". For his sake, and for your own. I cannot
emphasise enough the gravity of the situation.'
John bristled at the term 'baggage'. Fucking cheek.
'Am I not allowed to see him at all, then, to speak to him?'
'No. I'm afraid that simply won't be possible. Not until this...is done. You
and Mary will be taken into our protection. Fake identities, a safe house, all
the appropriate trimmings. We are very practised in this. Mary will have top
medical care for herself and for the baby. She may well be safer than in your
own flat. Neither of you must see Sherlock, nor communicate with him. '
'But if I stay away from Sherlock, why is all the rest of the stuff, the safe
house,the security, needed?'
Johns hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles turned white. He wanted
to hit Mycroft. A lot. Not for the first time, but this time, he was really,
really close. He felt as if he was free falling into chaos, spinning round and
round as he hurtled downwards. It wasn't unlike his panic when Sherlock 'died'
falling from Bart's. He really didn't need to go there again. He swallowed,
trying to regain control of his temper, feeling the flush of red mist fighting
him before subsiding into sadness.
All the while, Mycroft stood quietly, clearly aware of the threat, but taking
no steps to move away or to protect himself. The man was clearly aware of the
power of physical performance and was not going to display any hint of fear or
weakness.
........
The minutes passed. John's temper had left him and now he was just drained and
hating the world generally.
'John.' Mycroft regarded him with a look that was almost soft, perhaps even
pitying. Probably pitying. This was Mycroft, after all. He answered John's
question as though time had not passed since he made the enquiry.
'You know why. Whoever it is who is 'back' is going to target Sherlock. They've
lured him back either to play with him, and I don't mean Scrabble, John; or to
reserve for themselves the pleasure of killing him, probably slowly and
painfully. But there is another possibility, that, as in the past, John, they
will target the only person whom Sherlock would do anything to protect. That,
Doctor Watson, is you. Perhaps they will do both? Then my brother will have
your company when they kill him, and kill you. They would enjoy that, I think.'
The umbrella scratched the Tarmac. A crow landed some way off, and cawed to
nothing in particular, the sound grating and harsh.
John had no answer for Mycroft's words. He knew the sarcasm was meant to add
impact to the words, to the threats he and Sherlock faced. He looked at the
floor, scuffing the Tarmac with his toe. He felt too hot and too cold now, all
at once.
Mycroft sighed. 'Your presence would put both of you at unacceptable risk. Both
because you are the key targets in all likelihood, but the risk is greater
because my brother will not maintain objectivity if he thinks you are in
danger.'
John eventually nodded. And grimaced. 'How long?'
'However long it takes us to catch up with this character. Could be a week,
could be a month? It might even be years, though I really rather hope not.
There are some foreign affairs that also require my attention.....so
inconvenient......You know, John, the more often the word 'democratic' appears
in a country's name, the more often I find myself having to offer help and
guidance. Ironic, don't you think?'
The discussion was over, as ever dictated by Mycroft. He glided away, and
stepped into his black limousine, which immediately purred away quietly.
John returned to his own (much less glamorous and distinctly low on purring)
car. That was the thing about the Holmes world, it just made stuff that
previously seemed perfectly okay and normal, into grey and dull and....he
decided to park that one right in his mind garage, now he'd decided he had a
mind garage to match Sherlocks mind palace...
'What was all that about?' said Mary, with an accusing tone. John struggled to
control his emotions.
'Its like this......'
***** That which cannot easily be erased *****
Chapter Summary
     John thinks it better that there is no summary.....he discovers the
     extent of Sherlocks disintegration.
The first week after the aborted exile was marginally bearable. John was
settling them in, working out how worried to be, about Mary and the baby, about
the birth, about Moriarty. He was also, inevitably, frequently distracted by
thoughts of Sherlock, where he was and what was happening to him. What was he
doing? Was he lonely, or buzzed. Did he miss John? But there was no news, and,
gradually, no news became the norm. The papers hadn't caught onto there being
more to the CAM story than a mystery assassin. Mycroft had made sure of that.
All was quiet and still, maybe too quiet.
The safe house itself was more than comfortable, if a little impersonal, with
its bland sepia prints on the wall and drearily utilitarian kitchen units. More
positively, the medical facilities and staff provided for Mary were undeniably
top notch. As a career Army and NHS medic, it bore little resemblance to the
challenges of his own work. No stressed, overloaded staff dealing with Friday
night drunks here, no bleeding out soldiers telling the medics they didn't want
to die here, that they wanted to go home, that they wanted the pain to
stop...It gave John the space and room to breathe, and he probably needed that.
But there was still a hollow gap inside him, and a sense of unreality.
John had managed to secure from Mycroft a promise to ring him weekly with some
kind of reassurance about the progress of the mission. Sure enough, on the
Friday evening of the the end of the first week, Mycroft called with reassuring
noises about progress. It appeared that Moriarty was indeed definitively dead
on that roof at Barts and that the media spree had been triggered by his
second-in-command, a disgraced ex-army sniper named Sebastian Moran, who had
previously been thought to have been eliminated in Sherlocks two year global
huntdown of Moriartys network.
How he had escaped was something to be looked at later; for now, the priority
was ensuring that it definitely didn't happen again. John was shown a photo but
he didn't recognise the man. He was good looking, in a thin-lipped kind of a
way. Harry had read the Famous Five books out loud to John when they were kids,
and her heroine George had always said not to trust men with thin lips. John
thought that was rubbish, what on earth difference did it make, but was
reminded of it now, as he stared at the frozen image of the man who was causing
all this chaos. He had to remind himself that he had thin lips too and on the
whole he was a good person. He wondered why Sebastian Moran was doing it?
Business, pure and simple? Or was there a loyalty to Moriarty that extended
beyond that? Who knew?
................
At the end of the second week, Mycroft didn't call as John expected. John's
phone stayed silent and Mycroft turned up in person instead. Which was, John
thought in hindsight, a Very Bad Sign.
Mary was having a long bath. Having reached the stage in pregnancy where
everything was just really bloody uncomfortable, the warm water provided
welcome if temporary relief. So John was alone in the living room when Mycroft
arrived and was shown in by one of the security officers.
John sat down and looked expectantly at Mycroft, who seemed to be looking
around the room, rather than at John. Eventually, Mycroft stopped peering at
his and Mary's lodgings long enough to look as if he might actually sit down at
some point.
'Ah John. So pleased to see you. I understand Mary is doing well. Good, good.
Yes, thank you, a cup of tea would be lovely.'
John made sure it was stewed, and 'builders' tea.' The pursed lips the tannin
produced was reward enough.
He propped his ever present umbrella, the one John suspected had a death dagger
in handle, against the chair and sank down gratefully. John provided biscuits,
all very superior. Not his biscuits of course; he doubted Mycroft was 'into'
Jammie Dodgers and Custard Creams. John had never been able to decide which of
the two were superior. The jam in the Dodgers was the stickiest jam known to
Science, (Sherlock had proved this in several experiments at John's personal
request), but Custard creams...well, they had the character of such sweet
chalkiness when the two biscuits were pulled apart and the filling licked off.
John knew this from childhood habit. He had not asked Sherlock to perform any
experiments involving licking and Custard Creams for reasons he preferred not
to analyse?
I am, I admit, glad that I find you alone.'
.............
Mycroft's voice jolted John back to the room, after his biscuit reverie. How
did he know this? Oh, yes, safe house, Mycroft, no doubt house is bugged to the
eyeballs. He should have known better than to wonder). He proffered the stem
ginger thins and sighed.
John sensed some tension in Mycrofts tone.
'How is the search for Moran going? How is Sherlock?' John found it hard to say
either name without wincing.
'The search, John, is now progressing rather slower than we would like,
unfortunately. My little brother.......how shall I put it?' An insincere smile,
not reaching his eyes. 'My brother's well being - or otherwise -
is......connected to that fact.'
'Connected? What do you mean?' John felt prickles of unease on the back of his
neck. (Keep calm, John. Maintain control).
'He is failing to maintain an....appropriate focus......on the task in hand'.
Mycroft pursed his lips in distaste. 'He appears to be losing control of
himself and of his self-respect. This is manifesting itself in a number of
undesirable areas, not least of which, John, is that he appears to have
returned to the loving and heady embrace of chemical stimulation'.
'He's back on drugs'? John felt his throat become dry and his head start to
pound. 'Fuck. How? He's supposed to be under close custody? Aren't your spies
capable of keeping him safe? Aren't you? Christ, Mycroft, you're supposed to
keep him safe!'
John ran his fingers through his hair and then realised he was clenching on a
strand of hair so hard, it had come out. He returned his hand to his side, but
then had to grip one hand in another to control the tremor which had chosen
this moment to appear for the first time in months.
Mycroft didn't miss the hand tremor, but chose not to mention it.
'My brother is, as you should know by now, John, extremely adept at fooling
those of less guile than him, and this unfortunately includes most of the
security services of the UK. More to the point, getting to Moran is requiring
contact with some highly undesirable elements of society. Which Sherlock is
perfectly placed to do, but at the risk of what has now transpired.'
John was breathing through his nose now, pale with anger.
'So you let him get involved with drug dealers, in order to follow leads to
Moran? Do you have any idea how stupid and irresponsible that is to a man with
his history?? Do you?? Do you even care??? This is a man who isn't allowed
anything stronger than paracetamol!'
John was really trying to keep a lid on his emotions, and it was a struggle.
What was it Sherlock said? Data, he needed data. Then he could explode. Data
first.
'Ok. So. What is he on?'
Mycroft sighed.
'Cocaine, morphine, possibly other substances. I have not detected heroin being
involved, though realistically that may be only a matter of time. Once he
starts, properly starts down this road, despite his protestations, my younger
brother really lacks the judgement to make any proper decisions. Before long,
we could be back to speedballs for elevenses and stomach pumps before the
dinner gong. Just like old times, in a way.'
Mycroft paused, and dropped the snarkiness (though that word would not cross
his linguistic drawbridge in a thousand years).
'And of course I care, John, otherwise we would not be having this
conversation.'
'Im not even sure why we are?'
John was panicking now, and he made damn sure that fact did NOT manifest itself
in his voice. This was where his army background came in very useful. He
decided to take a different tack. His voice was controlled; clear and calm and
steely.
'You mentioned 'aspects' in which his behaviour was 'undesirable'. Aspects
means more than one. The drug use is pretty much rock bottom, and I am now
seriously fucking worried, so what else are you going to hit me with? It can't
be any worse.'
Mycroft shifted uncomfortably on his expensively clad feet.
'Sex, John.'
...........
John looked at Mycroft as if he was an alien, newly landed and attempting to
communicate an "I come in peace" message. Not speaking alien, he struggled to
say anything for what seemed a very long pause.
'Sex? Sherlock? Sherlock doesn't DO sex. He's not interested in sex. Or
relationships, come to that, except in analysing those of others, mainly
unpleasantly, so he can point it out to them! What the hell do you mean?'
Mycroft stared at John for a moment, seeming to consider something.
'Im sorry John. I know your opinion of me, but please believe me when I say
that I would not be showing you this footage, if I felt there was any other
effective way to communicate the urgency of the situation.'
Then he sighed, set his jaw, and reached into his briefcase for a slim armoured
laptop. He opened it, switching on the screen which sprang into ghostly life.
Retinal scanning followed, and a one-time passcode, and then he was in.
Selecting a folder from the crowded but organised menu, he opened up a video
file.
..............
The footage was colour, and of remarkable quality for a surveillance camera.
John later wished it had been much lower quality, grainy and indistinct,
leaving space for doubt, allowing room for his brain to erase the images by
then etched like acid into his mind. But no, that couldn't be. It was clear,
and mercilessly sharp, and John watched helplessly, as footage of the alley
behind what looked like a nightclub, started to play. It was date-stamped two
days previous.
The alley was sparsely lit by a number of security lights from the club. There
was a fire exit door from the club building, some metal-grilled windows high up
on the walls, and several bulk waste bins further along the dank passage. It
was dark and raining hard, and the sodium lights glowed brightly through the
darkness.
Suddenly, the fire exit door swung open, and John held his breath as a very
differently dressed Sherlock appeared and walked slowly down the steps, his
head low. He stumbled once, but didn't appear to notice. His hair was slicked,
and he brushed it away from his eyes with his forearm. John had never seen him
do that all the time they lived together.
John stared at the screen. Sherlock was dressed all in black. That was OK. Some
sort of black T shirt. OK. Black trousers. OK. But ....black leather trousers?
And boots?
John gasped. Partly because Sherlock looked bloody good in the clothes, but
also because the outfit was so unlike his usual suits, worm over tight formal
shirts, and the ever-present Belstaff. They, they were formal and restrained.
This - this was worldly, and base and, well, overtly sexual. A black panther.
John felt an uncomfortable warmth start to pool at the base of his stomach. He
tried to will it away but he didn't need to; its progress was soon restrained
by fear of what was coming next.
Mycroft wouldn't be showing him this video footage to illustrate Sherlock's
developing fashion choices, unusual though they be, he felt sure. Dread lurked
in his gut.
..............
As Sherlocks face turned towards the camera, it came into full view and sharp
focus. His expression was strained, angry, his eyes pale and glittering. He
looked exhausted. Not healthy.
But around his eyes was what held Johns attention, a significant quantity of
smudgey dark grey eyeliner, the streetlight shining behind him giving him the
appearance of a very, very far fallen angel.
'Christ, what?......'
................
John had little time to react to Sherlock's appearance, before the fire exit
door slammed open and two young men appeared, one dark-clothed (more leather)
and one in lighter gear, jeans and white T shirt. They both approached Sherlock
together, quickly, almost threateningly. They engaged him in a pretty one-sided
conversation, which the soundless video footage didn't capture. John was
rubbish at lip-reading, (though he suspected Mycroft was probably an expert,
given his proficiency in all matters of language and linguistics). But he
didn't need to lip-read to understand this one.
Both the men were blond, one a little shorter than Sherlock and more solid in
physique (though that wasn't difficult, Sherlock looked even thinner than ever,
without John to bully him into any sort of regular eating). The other, the
dark-clothed man, was taller, very powerfully built, possibly ex-military. John
knew the giveaways. Definitely a squaddie.
After a few moments, conversation appeared to end and the dark clothed man
suddenly grabbed hold of Sherlock and shoved him bodily against one of the big
rubbish bins. John's breath seemed to catch in his throat. The man grabbed a
section of Sherlock's curly hair and pulled back hard, exposing Sherlock's pale
throat to the security light above. Then he leaned down, to the side of
Sherlocks neck and bit hard. John could see the broken skin and what would
become bruising, immediately the man moved away.
He didn't move far, though. Both men now moved back in together and light
clothes took a knife from his pocket, flicking out the blade and then swiftly
slicing down the front of Sherlock's T-shirt. Meanwhile, dark clothes had moved
in front of Sherlock, who was still slumped against the rubbish bin, and began
undoing the fastenings of his trousers, hitching them down to his pale bony
hips, the detectives cock springing free from its confines, already half erect.
There were no underpants to remove.
John was hypnotised with horror and disbelief. It was like watching all his
truths and foundations undo themselves, while he was silently watching. He
tried to regulate his breathing.
Light clothes moved to Sherlock's front and knelt down. He looked up at
Sherlock's face, got the nod he was seeking and without preamble took Sherlocks
cock into his mouth, and began to tease and suck, taking down half the length
and using a hand at the base to control the movement. Dark clothes looked
approvingly on and then unfastened his own trousers, shoving a hand down and
stroking himself slowly. Sherlocks head remained thrown back, and he looked as
if he was in a trance as he thrust strongly into the strangers mouth.
Johns expression had turned steely and defiant, as he fought to control the
rising tide of nausea in his throat. Until that nod from Sherlock he had half
believed that this was completely non-consensual. Now he knew that at some
level Sherlock was compliant? But why? It felt wrong, all totally wrong.
'What the fuck is he doing Mycroft? Does he know what he's doing? Is he so high
he's not understanding? Have they brought him here by force?' He prayed the
answers would make Sherlock more of a victim than a willing participant, in
what was clearly likely to take place next.
Mycroft looked down at his highly polished shoes and twiddled his umbrella
point into the rug that covered the floor under the coffee table.
' I believe he is being fellated by a man he has just met. And that they will
now proceed to full intercourse. He's not as high as he wants to be, I think,
and not so high that he doesn't know what he's doing. He's not been brought
here by force. I'm sorry, John.'
The dark Sherlock on the screen tensed and came. His new 'friend' moved away
but not quickly enough to avoid some of Sherlocks come decorating his face. He
spoke sharply to the detective. Sherlock licked it off. Which just made it all
so much fucking worse.
John bit his lip so hard he could taste the copper tang of his own blood.
***** Things go downhill *****
Chapter Summary
     Nope doesn't get much better for John just yet....
Things took a downhill turn, if that were possible, from there on. John closed
his eyes during some of the proceedings but helplessly saw the progression of
most of it.
Following the blow job, light clothes took out his erect cock and shoved
Sherlock's face hard down on it. Now John saw the first indication of refusal,
Sherlock shook his head furiously. John realised with shock that he wasn't just
refusing, he was clearly panicking and trying desperately to move away.
Outnumbered, his protests and struggle were in vain, as both men forced him
back down.
The fight gone from him, it seemed, Sherlock quickly brought the man to orgasm.
He didn't spit out the come, he swallowed it. Coughing a little. Eyes watering.
John looked away out of the window for a moment. He could hear the hum of
passers-by. None of them had any idea what an ordeal he was sitting through.
And it wasn't over yet.
It was dark clothes turn. If anything, he seemed to be in charge. He turned
Sherlock to face the bin and using a piece of cloth he removed from a holdall,
blindfolded the detective. John waited for Sherlock to protest, as he had over
the blowjob, but there was nothing. Sherlock seemed compliant now.
Then the man removed a small bottle from his bag, slicked his fingers and erect
prick, and shoved two fingers straight into Sherlock without any preamble or
warning. Sherlock's features contorted in pain, but he remained where he was.
Light clothes was looking on and smirking, using his phone to take pictures and
video footage.
Dark clothes clearly thought that was enough preparation (it isn't, it really
isn't, thought John) and lined himself up to Sherlock's arse and sank himself
in. Into Sherlock. Right in, one forceful move right to the hilt, causing the
detective to wince and groan.
He didn't use a condom and Sherlock didn't ask him to. Dark clothes moved
quickly, thrusting hard and fast, gripping Sherlock by the hip and pushing him
down by the shoulder. It doesn't take long. Especially when Sherlock started to
shout at him. Telling him to just get on with it, to fuck him, rip him apart.
John shook his head but dark clothes seemed only to find it an incentive - and
does so. He was now being so forceful, that the heavy braked bin, which was the
detective's main support, is being moved with each stroke and Sherlock's cries
were clearly audible. John couldn't see Sherlock's cock, of course, but he was
left with no illusions when he heard a roar of release as Sherlock came.
Dark clothes came soon after, suddenly and very loudly. The pair remained for a
moment before Dark clothes withdrew his softening prick out of Sherlock's arse
and moved away. Deprived of support, Sherlock slid to the floor amidst the
rubbish bins, trousers still slung around his hips. He looked exhausted, and
utterly miserable.
Nearly over. John rubbed at his forehead.
Light and dark clothes redressed themselves quickly and efficiently. Light
clothes tossed a small white packet into the detective's lap. And then, they
just left, leaving him on the ground like so much rubbish, the tiny white
packet untouched in front of him.
Sherlock remained like that for a few minutes, hunched on the floor. His face
isn't visible. John wondered how much pain and discomfort he was in, no way was
that a safe or comfortable encounter. Then Sherlock stood, wiped away what mess
he could from his stomach and chest, re-fastened his trousers, pulled together
the tatters of his Tshirt, and collecting the packet of powder, walked
hesitantly and slowly away.
Watching his stumbling progress was the last straw for John's stomach. His eyes
blurred by tears, he vomited without warning onto the living room floor. A
small amount of his puke splashed accusingly onto Mycroft's shoe, as if in
punishment for bringing this video here, to John, to burn itself onto his eyes.
Mycroft, impassive, retrieved a large white handkerchief from his immaculate
Huntsman suit, and delicately wiped the vomit away.
..........
After he returned from the kitchen with a cloth and cleared up the secondhand
remains of the last meal he ate, John rounded on Mycroft.
'Why exactly are you showing me this shit? You know. You know about
.....'stuff'. You know it's .....complicated..... with me and with Sherlock.
Why are you doing this to me? I don't need to know about this SHIT!'
John's hand made contact - hard - with the wall, purely as an alternative to
making contact with Mycroft's face. Particularly his nose or his solar plexus.
Either of which would have been more satisfying, but after the ASBO for
graffiti and the caution for chinning the Chief Superintendent, decking the
British Government seemed unwise at this moment.
Mycroft regarded him impassively.
'Several reasons, Doctor Watson.
Firstly, because you are aware, or you really should be aware, that my brother
is deeply in love with you... and has been for some time.'
'I ....'
John looked at the floor. What was he supposed to do with this information.
Now. Now. When it was all too fucking late?
 
'Please let me continue, John?'
'OK. OK. I don't think - I don't know that you're right. But this is not easy
for me. I just want you to understand how not easy this is for me. OK?'
Mycroft looked unsympathetic and continued on.
'Secondly, Sherlocks lack of focus on this case, which is vital to his own
safety and your own, and that of your....' He pauses. 'expectant spouse...is, I
believe, driven by his increasing desperation and inability to function in high
risk situations without your presence and support - and possibly more.'
John interjected with a strained tone to his voice.
'How do you know it's all to do with me. Why is it always me?'
Mycroft sighed.
'Because John, when, as an adult, Sherlock has been desperate in a crisis
before, he has headed solely for drugs. He has never undertaken any other types
of activity. I believe what he is currently doing is attempting,
unsuccessfully, to exorcise some demons, acting out some self-loathing. Both
the drugs, and the what popular culture might label the 'misery fucking'.
Let me explain why I think that? However I believe I can now hear Mary
approaching. This is not something I wish her to be privy to. Come with me to
the car, John. Tell Mary whatever excuse you like, to free you for an hour or
so. Bring your mobile so she can alert you if there is any crisis.
I will explain some of Sherlock's past and it may help to explain some aspects
of his behaviour. I would be grateful if you made some attempt to conceal the
fact I have shared this information, as it is not something we readily talk
about as a family and all records of the affair have been expunged from all
official records.
'It started when Sherlock was eleven years old.'
***** The death of William Holmes *****
Chapter Summary
     Sherlock's backstory. It's not pretty and please heed the warnings.
     Specific warnings at the end of the chapter in the notes
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
It started when Sherlock was eleven years old. Well, to be strictly accurate,
at that stage he was still William: - he hadn't yet decided on using his second
name. But we all know him as Sherlock now, so let's stick with that, John.
Helps the narrative flow.'
'Sherlock was an unusual child. We both were, in the sense that we were
obsessed with knowledge, with 'why and how' and observing the world than we
were in other children, (with whom for the most part we avoided contact). But
we had each other and our dog, a house and grounds to explore and we were happy
at home when Sherlock was a baby and very small. He and I were especially
close.
School was a different matter. I had the brain that allowed me to use school to
further my own studies and connections and come through unscathed. In addition,
I like to think of myself as self contained and emotionally stable.
Sherlock was different. He had the same unquenchable thirst for knowledge but
his personality was much more volatile and emotional - everything was always
not enough, it all had to be sooner, better, brighter. He got that side, I
think, from our maternal grand-mere, who was frankly certifiable, but a
remarkable woman. She raced camels in the Sahara and scandalised Parisian
society with her numerous love affairs with both sexes, though she ended her
days rescuing stray dogs in the Cote D'Azur. Sherlock inherited her passionate
personality, but without her focus. He wanted life to be as exciting as he
dreamed it, but wanted it delivered tied up with a bow, and unfortunately, life
isn't always like that. He was happy with me but school was a problem.
...........
There was adventure at home and companionship with me. We also had another
brother, about whom my parents simply do not speak, and I will not be speaking
further of him, except to say that he was older than I by a year, that he was
the heir to the Holmes estates and fortune, and that he died, when I was eleven
and Sherlock was four. My brother was twelve.
John stared at Mycroft. Another Holmes brother? Sherlock had never ever even
mentioned his existence? How did he die, and why wouldn't Mycroft speak of it?
One look at Mycroft's face told John that if he pressed this aspect of the
revelations, it would probably be the last thing he ever did do on this
Earth....he decided to park it. He had more than enough to worry about than a
hidden sibling who died over a quarter of a century ago, after all, and
Sherlock had been very small when it happened; that was unlikely to be behind
his current meltdown.
..........
Mycroft was off again...
We managed until I went away to Uni. Sherlock was by then very bored and
behaving consistently badly at school. But Mummy didn't want him to go away to
boarding school yet, because he was her baby, he's seven years younger than me
and they were very close, so he went to a day prep school instead, for what I
believe you call 'primary school' in the state sector. He didn't seem to make
friends, which I didn't either at school, but it didn't bother me, but I think
it perhaps did, him.
He was top in all the subjects that interested him like maths and chemistry and
drama and geology, but made no effort in others. It was tried to address this
but he would not co-operate, point blank refused; and eventually he won as
usual, and it was suggested that he instead further his studies in the subjects
he would actually work at. So my parents engaged highly qualified tutors in
mathematics and chemistry. I had gone up early to Cambridge, so I wasn't around
any longer on a regular basis to discuss the more complex subject matter with
him. It seemed the perfect solution.
At first things went well, I came back at Christmas after Michaelmas term, and
Sherlock was fired up and full of enthusiasm; he even showed me some of the
work. There was a makeshift lab in the old dairy and he was full of stories of
burnt lab coat sleeves and his fume cupboard explosions. He had marks round his
eyes from wearing his goggles so much. Honestly, I thought things were getting
better, excluding the final warning from the fire brigade that they would be
starting to charge for the 'excessive callouts'.
...........
But when I returned after Trinity term for the long summer vac (I'd spent the
Easter holidays abroad), things were as you would put it, 'not good'. My
parents had written a long letter to me before the end of Trinity term, wanting
to confirm I was coming home, as they said Sherlock had become unstable. They
told me he was not eating, was prone to extreme mood swings and was actually
apparently becoming violent. I was completely shocked.
I perceived in the space of a couple of months, my parents had gone from not
really adequately managing their younger son, to being more than slightly
afraid of him. They had no idea what was wrong and were desperate to reconnect
with him.
............
I got back late on a Friday afternoon at the beginning of July, to find
Sherlock nowhere to be found in the house. I tracked him down, camped out in an
old wooden summerhouse down by the small lake in the gardens. He was barricaded
in using garden machinery and fence posts, and had armed himself with various
makeshift weapons such as an eleven year old whose parents daren't give an
allowance to, might procure. Pitchforks, craft knives, an old scythe which
would probable kill from tetanus rather than blood loss it was so rusty, that
manner of equipment. He also had a large quantity of petrol in cans, which I
had no idea how he'd acquired, matches and rags and glass bottles and all sorts
of other siege gear. He was very thin, very angry, and when I got close enough
to see, there were thin knife scars in places he tried to cover. Some were new
and bleeding, and others were still healing. He looked wild, he was dirty and
clearly very scared. My parents told me he had been holed up there for two
days. The place stank, it was very hot weather, there was no toilet in the
summerhouse and he hadn't left it in that time.
Sherlock knew I was there, mainly remaining hidden but occasionally peering
round the door and staring, and then retreating back inside. He refused point
blank to come out, or to discuss what had caused the bizarre behaviour he was
exhibiting. He became completely hysterical when it was suggested he see a
doctor. By doctor I meant a therapist or psychiatrist, to discuss his
disturbing thoughts and feelings. He had never been a typical little boy, and
in that context some psychological disorder was perhaps a possibility.
But I quickly realised that Sherlock thought I meant a medical doctor. And he
was terrified. I have never seen anyone so frightened, John, before or since,
not even cornered targets in the course of my work.
...........
I didn't have any choice. In the end I tricked Sherlock into leaving the
summerhouse. I had called several of my colleagues from work for....physical
support, as he became violent and was still armed with his makeshift arsenal,
and we forced him into a car and took him to a doctor. The doctors (one at
first -but it quickly became more than one once they saw him) examined him,
they had to sedate him to do so. Following their examination, they immediately
called in the police.
We were all questioned all night. Father and myself, especially. They didn't
tell us initially what they had found that prompted it, but their choice of us
for their initial focus hinted to me that they believed Sherlock had been
abused, sexually, and almost certainly by someone he knew.
Once it became clear that Father had been away on business for the most part
for the past few weeks and I had been at Cambridge, both of which they verified
quickly, they turned their attention to other close male contacts of my
brother. It didn't take long to focus attention on the tutors.
Both were questioned. Their homes were searched. Nothing was found at the
chemistry tutors house, but at the maths tutors flat, they found some material.
Not explicit but inappropriate.
...........
Sherlock eventually told a police doctor the tutor had done things to him that
hurt. He wouldn't say any more.
This man wormed his way into my baby brothers affections and then
systematically abused him for weeks.'
John felt sick to his bones. His doctor persona took over, as a form of self
preservation. He needed to know, at the same time as railing against his brain
for needing to know.
'Mycroft, when you say he abused him, what level are we talking?'
'He raped him on a daily basis, John. There isn't a good way to say that, is
there, when discussing an eleven year old child? But that's the short version.'
Mycroft turned his face away from John, but carried on talking in a monotone.
'This man told Sherlock he was dirty and unclean and had led him on and tempted
the man, that he was a tease and a slut and a freak (John winced visibly at the
last word. He was going to have to talk to Lestrade about his officers using
that word the first chance he got). He convinced Sherlock he was culpable
because he sometimes experienced an erection during the abuse. He routinely
used food to stuff his mouth before he raped him to keep him quiet, covering it
with his school tie as a gag.
And every day, while this went on, John, he and my parents sat down to dinner
as a family and they knew nothing, and they shouted at him for refusing to eat
his dinner. Because they thought his biggest problem was his plummeting weight
and the fact he was not eating. And in the morning they did it again because he
refused to put on his school uniform and his tie was always missing or damaged.
And, then again because he couldn't possibly always have a sore throat or a
stomach ache and stay off school and miss tutor lessons as he pleaded. It was
only when Sherlock became completely unbalanced, that it all came to light.'
Mycroft came to a halt, his eyes closed and his hand smoothing over his hair
slowly and repeatedly. He still didn't meet Johns eyes.
............
John swallowed, to try to get rid of the lump in his throat and the bile rising
and burning up to his mouth.
'What happened to the.....this.....man......the maths tutor? '
Nothing. The police wanted to prosecute but some of the rape kit samples were
not handled properly, and contamination made them useless as admissible
evidence. Also they were two days old and Sherlock had been living rough in
that time.
Sherlock had refused to give a formal statement to the police, so they were
reliant on that physical evidence, and of course his abuser denied all
knowledge. He said that Sherlock was inventing it, was a disturbed fantasist,
and a practised manipulator. It was clear from the physical exam that Sherlock
had been abused, but proving who had done it needed Sherlock to testify. He
wouldn't do it.
Sherlock refused to cooperate with any further procedures. He came home and
shortly afterwards began cutting himself badly and refusing to eat anything at
all. He eventually lost so much weight, there was no choice, he was formally
sectioned under the Mental Health Act, and ended up being fed via a nasal tube
for some time, under physical restraint in a clinic.
.............
Once he appeared to have stabilised, he came home, but after two days he went
missing. He was missing for a month, and was found by chance by beachcomber who
discovered him living rough in a small boat pulled up on a beach in Devon He
was surviving on scraps of scavenged food from supermarket skips and discarded
chips in bins. He was collapsed from near starvation. I went down to see him.
He told me he wanted to die, and that we should leave him there, that we
shouldn't have come for him.
I'm not sure which of these events was the low point, John, it was pretty much
one horror after another.
'It nearly destroyed my parents. Mummy gave up her academic work, which she
loved, to care for Sherlock and my father also lost his ambitions. Now they
limit themselves to gardening and their bizarre hobby of line dancing, when
they are not gadding off on ghastly cruises to follow the winter sun.
Their sacrifice was, unfortunately, largely in vain. Spending more time with
Sherlock didn't make him any more controllable or any less distressed, since
he'd already decided to reject human relationships almost entirely. Love and
loyalty were replaced with a deep abiding bitter cynicism and distance. He even
changed his name, demanding to be called Sherlock and never allowed anyone to
call him William again. It was like William had died. I suppose, in a sense, he
had.'
Mycroft came to a halt.
............. The silence consumed both men for some time.
John broke it first. He wanted to get this conversation over with, since he
couldn't delete it.
'Lets just skip back. Where is the tutor now? '
Mycroft looked at John steadily.
'Jonathon Lang - the tutor - the child rapist - was holidaying in his canal
boat on the Kennet and Avon Canal three years later. Half term, time off from
his teaching duties.
Terribly scenic, lovely Wiltshire rolling chalk grassland scenery, and he'd
completed the Caen Hill long series of locks which is quite the highlight. His
last highlight, as it turns out, he moored up for the night, and the following
morning his body was found in the boat. It seems he had been asphyxiated by
carbon monoxide from a faulty gas heater. So important to regularly check those
appliances. The 'silent killer', they call it.'
'Was it really an accident, or was it you? Did you arrange it?'
'I can't answer that question completely directly, John, and it would serve no
purpose if I did. Except to say that I regret the painless and peaceful manner
of his departing this earth. Too comfortable. And to say "what would you have
done if it were your own brother or sister or child?"'
John nodded. He couldn't do otherwise. He almost didn't hear Mycroft murmur 'he
was the first man I ever killed'. But he did hear. And he nodded again.
...............
His head was processing all the shocking and disgusting detail, but his heart
was aching like it was going to press through his ribs and emerge out of his
chest and fall to the floor, visibly slowing and stopping. For a little boy who
wasn't popular and then found a hero, only to have his hero abuse him and take
his innocence and then try to blame him, over and over again. No wonder thought
John bitterly, that Sherlock disliked eating and never indulged in sexual
relationships. He felt slightly sick, now, at the verbal bullying he had
sometimes resorted to, to force Sherlock to eat. Good doctor, shit
psychologist.
'Why three years later? Why not sooner? '
'It took time to gain the necessary level of resources and expertise, John. It
wouldn't have assisted Sherlock if I had failed, or if the authorities had
become involved.'
For a man who had said he wouldn't answer this question directly, John thought,
that was pretty damn direct.
'What happened to Sherlock after he was returned from running away?'
'He took many months to recover at least partially physically and mentally.
Then went away to school, to Eton. He got academic challenge there, though he
was still pretty much friendless. He attracted people like moths to a flame,
and would acquire friends, but they lasted only days or a couple of weeks
before he did something that made them drop him, usually deducing about their
parents or their own private habits. Or not joining in with the rest, or just
being rude, lashing out. Which is ironic, since he told me he was pursuing
Magnusson because he preyed on people's secrets and exposed them. His murder of
Magnusson was a personal crusade, and there an element of self loathing and
making amends to his own childhood victims, I suspect.
He never forgave me for the fact that I forced him into the humiliation of the
medical and police procedures. He had an incredibly strong sense of dignity and
self containment, even as a very little child. The abuse destroyed the
protective walls which supported his fragile mental health, and the necessary
processes following the exposure of the abuse made sure they couldn't be
rebuilt, and gave him targets to focus his anger on. Me, usually.
I lost him, I lost us, John, the day I made him go to the doctor and the
hospital. We used to be pirates with our dog, playing down by the lake, and
then later as I moved onto other things, we were friends. Happy.
And then - after this - we were ....nothing. Distant and hostile and hating and
bitter and angry. It's better than it used to be but it's never been the way we
were. I don't think it ever will be.....I think he's too damaged. Sometimes I
wonder if it's damaged me too.
..............
He went up to Oxford, but he never came home in the vacations, just hung around
the labs, breaking into them sometimes. Or shuffling around the Parks. Actually
he broke into lots of places, either to just wander around at night, if they
were interesting, or to find out information he thought he needed, or just
because it was something to do, to distract himself. I had to do a lot of work
to park the charges with the police. His most common targets were the Pitt
Rivers museum which he loved because of the crazy mix of exhibits and their
bizarre nature, and the Ashmolean, though he did also break into colleges.
His unwisest choice was All Souls, which is a graduate college you have to be
invited to join, and whose members include a number of colleagues of mine in
'minor government roles'. That one was awkward for me. They don't take kindly
to intruders. He interrupted a Formal Hall night when he fell through a heating
vent into Hall. Several waiting staff dropped tureens. The President of
Patagonia suffered third degree burns, and a promising potential foreign donor
to the college was last seen squelching his way out of the porters lodge
muttering about the British and their standards of hospitality and 'was this
their idea of a prank'. Sherlock was rusticated for the rest of the term.
After Prelims at the end of the first year, where he easily achieved a first in
Chemistry, he seemed to lose more focus, the burglaries continued, but he also
started using hard drugs, and before long dropped out of Oxford altogether; he
turned into a full blown junkie. He ended up in hospital and then rehab on
three occasions after overdoses. The rehab just increased the sense of
resentment towards us his family, as we were the ones signing the papers for
him to be sent there against his will.
In hindsight perhaps Chemistry was an unfortunate choice of subject for an
addictive personality like Sherlocks. He had dealers both in Oxford and London,
initially other students both from the Uni and Oxford Brookes, but soon he was
onto proper drugs and proper London dealers. Lestrade was involved in all three
rescues and on the third rehab, when Sherlock eventually got some way to being
clean, Lestrade let him leaf through some old cold cases at my request. He was
extraordinary, what he could do with the cases, and they provided my brother
with a reason to get through a day without drugs.'
Another pause. Digesting the information.
..............
'Just a side question - did he ever try a relationship with a woman?'
John needed the full picture whilst the secretive Mycroft was for once in
talking mode.
'No. Never. My brother loves my mother, and Mrs Hudson, and is fond of Molly,
but even as a young child seemed to find women and girls a strange alien
species, and he never showed attraction to them, although he can admire and be
fascinated by a woman's mind. Which is ironic since that is exactly how women
regarded Sherlock - as a strange alien - although in a very different way.
Many - females - (Mycroft made it sound like something distasteful under his
shoe somehow) have been attracted to my brothers undoubted beauty - yes, John,
I am under no illusion about his visual charms, despite his frankly appalling
behaviour towards me - he took after Mummy, all darkness and dash.
It's said there was a scandal with one of our maternal great grandparents and a
Romany gypsy but who knows ? - anyway, the point is that Sherlock has been
chased by a great many women, and has never shown the slightest interest in any
of them, whereas men he has a level of connection with....the magazines I would
find in his school and college luggage....you may be interested or intrigued to
know that all of the material was homosexual in nature.' He paused. 'Some of
the material was of a 'military specialism'. Mycroft could not resist a smirk
at including this detail which he knew would throw John off kilter. Johns gaze
narrowed. Basically, Mycroft was reducing Johns relationship with Sherlock to
the summary 'it's the uniform thing laddie'. Whatever Sherlock felt, it was a
lot more complicated than a wank fantasy of John in desert combat fatigues,
that much he knew. Though it was curiously interesting to learn about that side
of Sherlock.....
..............
'Anyway, enough of that detail. You have the background you require now. I will
leave you to ponder its connection with his relationship with you, and his
current divergent behaviour; and then tomorrow I will return and ask you for
your help, in helping my troubled little brother.
Mycroft finished his story, got out of the limousine and lit a cigarette. Low
tar, John noted, so he meant to smoke it to the end, and he'd seen the rest of
a fresh packet in the car. This was Mycrofts version of letting rip, stress
wise.
He took one of the cigarettes himself, and exited the car, and lit it, taking
long drags and exhaling hard to try to control his breathing. He hadn't smoked
since Afghanistan, when it was one of the few pleasures. Now, he needed it to
relieve his stress and panic. In-out. In-out. Breathe....
He tried to put the video images to the back of his mind but they were tattooed
across his eyes and burnt into his brain. John wasn't sure they would ever be
erased. He hated Mycroft for that.
He thought he might hate Sherlock for it too, until the images of a small
frightened dirty skinny little boy, holding the world at bay with a knife,
starving himself deliberately in a clinic, and then overdosing in a back alley,
laid themselves like a blanket over the footage and burned it all to blackness.
Chapter End Notes
     Warning for description of historic child sexual abuse
***** John considers courses of action *****
Chapter Summary
     Baby Watson. An unravelling Sherlock. You have to feel for John.
John stood motionless outside his front door, for some time after Mycroft's car
had slid away into the dark and inky gloom. He couldn't process what he had
seen of Sherlock's behaviour, which disturbed John in a way he couldn't analyse
and didn't especially want to.
He acknowledged to himself at least this: he was more affected by Sherlock's
behaviour on the CCTV tape than it would technically warrant: Sherlock was a
mostly willing participant (perhaps excluding the oral sex); he was of age and
most crucially he was definitely not in a relationship with John. He was a
completely free agent. John had seen plenty of porn, and so wasn't shocked by
the sight of adults having sex; although his porn preferences had, to date,
been limited those involving man and woman, or occasionally man and several
women; rather than two men (or three in this case).
If Sherlock wanted to have rough sex with two men against a bin in an alleyway,
that was his business. Wasn't it? He wished he was more convinced by his own
conclusions, and also, that he had not seen the gift of drugs at the end of the
sex session. How consensual was the activity? Was Sherlock so readily addicted
because of his history, that he couldn't refuse an ultimatum? Why didn't he
insist on condoms? Did he know that sex wasn't supposed to be like that, or not
unless everyone was OK with it? He hadn't looked OK with it. Hadn't looked OK
with anything.
John didn't know, he just couldn't get past the nausea of seeing Sherlock
engaging in that way, with that expression of hate and utter misery. He decided
he was going to have to put this whole episode into a firmly closed box marked
'Do Not Open for Your Mental Well Being' for a while.
John couldn't anticipate what Mycroft was going to ask him to do about it,
anyway, and he eventually came to the conclusion, that whatever the urgency of
the search, right now, John had a baby coming. If his help was still needed
after the baby was born, fine. He would do whatever he could. At the moment,
despite the clawing dread in his guts, his child came first.
Mary - well, Mary was more complicated. He hadn't forgiven her, he wasn't sure
he ever would. At the moment he neither loved her nor desired her, his love for
her speared through its heart by her shooting Sherlock: he saw her now
primarily as someone who was precious solely because of the prize she carried.
The baby - his baby, a baby he longed for now more than anything else in the
world. The baby was all that mattered to John.....
.............
.....But then, again, like a whirling carousel in his brain, Sherlock's past,
the terrible trauma he had experienced, vividly came to mind. John had
encountered child abuse cases occasionally in his GP work, mostly physical
abuse but a couple involving sexual abuse too. Nothing on this scale though,
not where the victim was already, to be blunt, a fragile and vulnerable
individual psychologically.
No wonder it had such a devastating effect on Sherlock. It explained so much
that was strange and unusual about him. His reluctance to be involved in
relationships, his use of words as weapons to keep people at bay, his troubled
relationship with Mycroft and the latter's almost obsessive concern with his
brothers safety and wellbeing, even the clothes Sherlock wore like a uniform.
Formal, controlled, beautiful, luxurious. 'Look at this, world. Gaze upon this.
Appreciate it from a distance, for you will come no closer. I stay alone. This
is my power over you, and more than that, this is my protection. No, I will
wear these gloves when I shake your hand. '
And then John considered Sherlock's choked and emotional but reserved words at
the airfield, his removal of his glove to shake Johns hand which had made John
stare and stare, frozen for long pointless wasted moments; and Mycrofts blunt
assessment that Sherlock loved John. Loved him. Would kill for John. Would die
for John. His certainty about his priorities wavered.
............
How had he not known? John knew he normally had a good radar for sensing others
being attracted to, or emotionally connected to him.
But then a memory did creep in, of a time at Barts, during his medical
training. He'd had a house share with three other guys. Been close to one of
them, Miles, really good mates, almost like brothers. They talked for hours at
night. Yet he hadn't known that Miles was in love with him for months and
months. Hadn't known, until one day when John was six weeks into a very active
relationship with a sexy and enthusiastic nurse called Katrina, when Miles
picked a random and bizarre blazing row with John, about why he, Miles, had
again, as usual, had to buy new plates for the communal kitchen because John
refused to allow his large collection of very average crockery to be pooled
like everyone else in the house.
It wasn't about the plates. It really wasn't about the plates. They ended up
throwing punches, Miles collecting a broken nose, and John two broken fingers,
and while they waited in casualty to be seen, Miles told John that he was in
love with him, had always been in love with him, couldn't bear to not be with
him. John was poleaxed. Didn't know what to say. Should have seen it months ago
but never saw it coming. Miles, crushed by John's shock and his damning
silence, left soon afterwards on an international placement with a medical
research company. John hadn't seen him since.
................
So, John concluded, that it was indeed possible for him to be unaware of
another persons feelings. And he excused himself, by thinking Sherlock's
unusual personality and the protective shell he erected, would have assisted in
Johns ignorance. Still, he wondered, how had he not seen it?
John was tortured by trying to work out what he felt. Physical attraction, he
knew, his body betrayed him in the most obvious ways in the detectives presence
although he tried to conceal or avoid situations where this might be obvious.
His coats might not be Sherlock's Belstaff length but they did the job of
concealing the unwanted evidence. He avoided situations where he or Sherlock
would be less than fully dressed, that part much easier since he stopped living
at Baker Street though the ache he felt, even when he was first with Mary,
never went away. He was happy, but it was almost as if he was 80% of John. So
100% happy of that still left 20% empty echoing void.
Deep, enduring friendship and regard, certainly.
Love? Romantic, all encompassing, obsessive love? Here John struggled. He was
in love with Mary. OK, rewind, he fell in love with Mary when Sherlock was
dead. And then he was suddenly alive. And then Mary shot him. Pretty much dead
again. And now Sherlock was alive, here, apparently loving John? John groaned?
How could he choose?
He couldn't choose, he told himself. So he returned to his initial conclusion.
There was a baby coming. His baby. A baby who didn't choose the messed up
triptych of faked deaths, an assassin mother and drug taking detectives. The
baby was coming. That had made his choice. There was no choice. Not now. Maybe
not ever.
..................
Mary was sitting in the living room, thumbing through a celebrity gossip
magazine when John re-entered the house. Its pages appeared well thumbed and he
suspected it had been re-read a number of times waiting for him. She
contemplated him as he stalked in and headed for the drinks cabinet, pouring
himself a large, neat, scotch. Not his usual choice.
She knew they must have been talking about the search and about Sherlock, but
why had it taken so long? And why was only John privy to the discussion? Cold
fingers of fear crept up her spine and embedded there. She brushed her fingers
over her belly instinctively and protectively.
'John. I know you might not be able to tell me everything you and Mycroft have
just discussed.
But can you tell me right now, please, that you are NOT leaving this house to
chase after Sherlock Holmes when our baby is a week from due being born?'
She sounded brittle.
Johns fingers clamped harder around the glass. His voice sounded old and tired.
He felt old and tired and cornered.
'I will not be going anywhere, Mary. This search for Moran needs to go on, but
I can't participate until after the baby is born. Maybe even not then. '
'Is Sherlock in trouble? Mycroft came here. Did he ask you to help?'
John considered his answer carefully.
' Sherlock appears to have got himself into quite a lot of trouble. I can't go
into details.
But I'm not sure whether it is trouble he has fallen into, trouble which has
befallen him, or trouble which he is seeking out as a more interesting way to
top himself than the 'dull' methods he despises in those he reads about in the
newspapers.
Right now, you and I need a good nights sleep, and Mycroft, if he calls
tonight, will find my phone switched off. I don't want to discuss it further
tonight.'
...............
Of course it wasn't that simple. It never bloody was. John lay awake long into
the hours of darkness, when the only sounds that should have disturbed his rest
were the occasional police siren or fox bark. Mary slept beside him, quiet and
still, but John lay on his back, restless and troubled.
Tomorrow Mycroft would return, having left John to absorb the information he
had been given. He would ask John for help to rescue his baby brother from his
downward spiral of behaviour.
What the fuck was he going to tell Mycroft?
***** Meeting with Sherlock *****
Chapter Summary
     John tries to take some decisions. It doesn't really work out as he
     wishes.
Mycroft was nothing if not punctual. It must be easier to do that, John
thought, when you had black limos and minions on tap. He was feeling tired and
bad-tempered when Mycroft had left the previous evening, and the night had done
nothing to improve matters.
Now it was 8am, he was facing a Mycroft gaze across the coffee table, and he
didn't know what it was he was supposed to say.
Then suddenly, he did know what to say.
'I'll talk to him. If you can get him somewhere we can meet. Before the baby
comes. That's all I will do.
After the baby is here and everything's going ok, I'll do more. If I can. But
not until then.'
Mycroft bowed his head. He knew that for once, he didn't hold all the aces. The
baby did. He reflected silently that the survival and thriving of this yet
unborn child, a child which he strongly suspected might not be John's, might
directly lead to the wretched end of his brothers life.
Mycroft was of course considering whether the baby's parentage should be
genetically tested, but that would be difficult until it was born. And the
impact of a test ordered by a Holmes on John's willingness to assist Sherlock:
- well, Mycroft wasn't too sure on that? Nor on whether the revelation that he
wasn't the father, would automatically mean a break-up between John and Mary.
It should, and he thought it would; but the test results would need to be out
as soon as possible to avoid John becoming too bonded with the child. He
determined that this was the course that would be instigated. Naturally he said
none of this aloud.
'Thankyou, John. Of course. I understand the difficult position you are in, in
respect of ....Mary....and the baby.
I will make the necessary arrangements. Obviously the meeting cannot take place
here and will need to be a safe location.
Mycroft swept from the room, and back into the embrace of London luxury and
privilege. John sat, alone again, in the living room of the safe house, rubbed
his fingers over his eyes, and wondered what he was going to say to Sherlock.
He had so much information now about Sherlock's past, his dark desperate
childhood, and all of it Sherlock would hate him for having. This was a no-win
bet, John felt sure. Mycroft must have been desperate if this was his best
throw of the dice. He didn't much like being the gambling chip.
..........
The meeting was set up for the following day.
Then - an hour before the due time - it was summarily cancelled. Mycroft
telephoned, and murmured utterings about 'pepper spray....incapacitated
security detail......overdose.....Kings College Hospital.....stable now.'
So instead of meeting Sherlock in neutral, secure, sober territory; which would
have been manageable and offer easy escape routes once enough had been said,
John was to meet him in a heavily guarded private hospital room in Kings
College Hospital, as Sherlock came down from (it appeared this time) a generous
overdose of cocaine. Great. Just great.
John promised Mary he wouldn't be more than three hours door-to-door. She was
tired, but amenable to him seeing Sherlock, she knew he'd have to talk with
him. Though she knew nothing of why. John found the right room at Kings fairly
easily, and Mycroft ensured his smooth progress through the multiple levels of
security surrounding the patient.
John walked into the room.
..............
Sherlock was lying still in the hospital bed, his arms attached to various
drips and equipment, his head turned directly away from the door. John thought
he might be asleep, and closed the door quietly, but as soon as he started to
walk across to the chair at the side of the bed, Sherlock spoke, his rich
baritone sounding fainter and less commanding than normal.
'John.' His voice rasped oddly. 'Why have you come? You should be with Mary.'
He turned his face further down to the pillow, away from John, who couldn't see
his expression.
John took a deep breath.
'I came because we need to talk, Sherlock'
'There's nothing to talk about. You have a wife, and a baby just about to
arrive. I have a mission and judicial noose hanging over me. I'm apparently
finding it hard to concentrate, John, as you can see from my
current.....accommodation, without having to worry about what you are thinking
too. Go home. Leave me be. You know what I am, what I do. What I've always
been. Look after Mary and look after your baby. That's what I killed Magnusson
to give you. Don't throw it back in my face.'
John tried again. He was going to have to disclose some of the information he
knew in order to tell Sherlock why he could not do - completely - what Sherlock
was asking of him.
'Sherlock. I know about the drugs. We need to talk about those. When you're
feeling better. But I now know about the other stuff too. I know you are
embracing danger for its own sake at the moment, in other situations. Sexual
situations. Why?' John knew his phrasing sounded stilted and stuffy but was
only able to refer to the subject in that clinical, abstract way. Like a
doctor.
Sherlock turned his head and looked at John for the first time since he had
entered the room. John was shocked by the gaunt appearance of his features and
the empty hopelessness in his eyes. And the look of defiance.
His voice suddenly hardened and he almost spat out the words that followed.
'Mycroft has been showing you his collection of video nasties, has he? I
assumed he'd have footage of at least some of my tender assignations. I hope
you weren't too shocked, I know that Mycroft and The Woman have made me out to
be inexperienced in the ways of sex, but as you saw, it really couldn't be
further from the case.
Obviously as you remind everyone, you're "not gay", but perhaps there might
still have been some useful tips there for your girlfriends in blowjob
techniques? Or did you turn your head away in shocked heterosexual outrage and
disgust? Choke on your popcorn? Sorry if you didn't enjoy the movie. Close the
door when you leave.' Once he had finished speaking, Sherlock slumped back on
the pillow and closed his eyes. Dismissing John.
.............
John felt angry. So angry, he folded his arms, tucking his hands underneath his
elbows to prevent them from taking on a will of their own, and beating an in-
patient to a pulp in their hospital bed. He knew he had issues with anger
control, and here was not the right time or place, and Sherlock was not the
right target for his own failings, however provocative Sherlock could be.
'No, Sherlock. I didn't "enjoy it". Watching it. Watching you. Doing that. Not.
At. All. But not because I have an issue with gay sex or multiple partners or
casual encounters, I couldn't care less what people do if it's safe and
consensual and enjoyable. I don't even mind when they turn up at A&E with weird
objects wedged unfeasibly up their backsides, that they need doctors like me to
remove. It's all fine. But I mind, I MIND, Sherlock, because you looked fucking
miserable, coerced by drug-dealers, and like you were doing it because you
hated yourself too much to trust yourself in a loving relationship with anyone.
Now I am going to sit on this chair and I am going to speak to you, and I want
you to listen. If you want to regard it as an order, you can. I don't give a
shit. You once referred to yourself as my ex-commander. Now I turn the tables.
You will lie there, and you will listen to me, and you will not interrupt or
throw your toys out of the pram, because Sherlock, I do not have much time and
I need you to hear this.'
John drew his chair close to the detectives head and put his mouth close to
Sherlock's ear. He took a deep breath. He was about to take a big gamble.
'Sherlock. I know about Jonathon Lang.'
A silent violent cringe from the otherwise still figure lying in the bed was
the only reaction. John couldn't see his face.
'I know about the phobia about eating, the sex, the running away. I know about
it all, and why you are doing what you are doing; and I am here to tell you
that, baby or no baby for me to be concerned about, I also care about you, and
what you are doing now is killing me as fast as it is killing you and I want it
to stop now, Sherlock. Now.
NOW. '
Johns hand slammed down on the chair arm and the loud thump sounded around the
room.
John was prepared for shock or violent rage as a reaction. Instead there was
complete silence. The only sounds were John's breathing, and the beeps and
hisses of the equipment supporting Sherlock's body as he struggled to overcome
the chemical abuse he was throwing at it.
The silence lasted for perhaps a minute, John could see by his watch face. It
was incredible how long a minute of complete silence sounds, he reflected.
Then Sherlock spoke, his voice still low. Rasping. Cold, so, so cold.
'It was very kind of you to visit me John, though I must admit I'm disappointed
that you haven't brought any flowers or grapes. They are after all the
conventional gifts for a hospital patient and you are, after all John, a
very.... conventional ....man.....
Whilst I am very ...grateful for your concerns, especially as a doctor, I
suggest that you concentrate on your NHS funded and privately paying patients
in future.'
' I do not require, or need, your help with my issues, now or in the future,
John. I do not want to be your case study, charity fix-it or wank fantasy when
you tire of your lovely wife's charms. You have a new life, in all senses and I
suggest you return to it now, instead of indulging yourself in the delusion
that you can, in the parlance of the women's magazines your wife is so fond of
reading, Have It All. Perfect marriage and arm's length occasional friendship
with me. You can't. You made your choice, John. That was your right, and I
supported your choice. And now, as is my right, I have made mine. I don't want
to be your mate, John, your buddy. It isn't enough, will never be enough. I
should have realised that earlier. I'm sorry I didn't.
You express horror that my actions may be killing me. Do you really think that
this represents some kind of effective deterrent right now? If I desist from
these paths, is there some rosy future lying ahead that I'm as yet unaware of?
You threw my past at me as evidence that you 'understand', that now you can
explain me, explain my behaviour and as you see them, my weaknesses. Maybe you
can "cure" me.
John, you have no fucking idea. You knowing that, the things, that no one
should ever know, just makes the whole thing so much worse, so much more
unbearable. Perhaps you could let Mycroft know that, when he comes to reflect
on why he decided to break the last confidence between us I had thought
inviolable?
Now I am going to ring the call bell because I am finding this discussion less
than conducive to my early release from this place, which I require in order
that I may continue my life. My life John. Not yours, not Mycroft's. Not
seeking your approval. Mine. '
With that, Sherlock rolled over onto his side, facing away from John and
pressed the call button to summon the medical staff.
John didn't wait to be ejected. He got up, placed a hand briefly on Sherlock's
side, feeling the heat of his skin soak through into his flesh, then the flinch
away from him. He shook his head, then left the room.
Mycroft was waiting outside.
'Just give me a few minutes, please, Mycroft. Bathroom....'
John just reached the men's toilets before he, for the second time in the last
few days, and caused by the same persons behaviour, vomited violently.
He outlined the hopeless conversation to Mycroft in detail, and then, he left.
***** Baby Watson arrives... *****
Chapter Notes
     I have used some artistic licence with respect to Baby Watson's eye
     colour at birth, since I know that babies are usually born with pale
     eyes and that brown colouring likely wouldn't develop until a little
     way later. However I have reflected the fact that blue+blue can
     occasionally produce brown eyes so hopefully you will forgive me on
     the first bit!
John and Mary's baby was born three days later, in the early hours of the
morning, a tiny package of powerful lungs and helplessness. John, who had been
both brittle and quiet since his return from visiting Sherlock in hospital, was
present at the birth, at this so much more joyful occasion, at the emergence of
this tiny wonderful miracle.
The baby girl was a week premature but healthy, although small.
John loved her from the first moment he set eyes on her. His thoughts were full
of plans and hopes and dreams for his first born child. His angel. His Rebecca.
................
But even as he gazed at her blonde beauty, the doctor in John began knocking on
doors in his brain, and ringing alarm bells. Doctor John knew that while it was
technically possible for he and Mary, two blue eyed parents, to give birth to a
daughter with brown eyes, it really wasn't very likely. Maybe a one in ten
chance?
Mycroft didn't need to sneak a DNA test. John beat him to it. He took a hair
from his own head, and a hair from Rebecca's, when Mary was asleep. He felt
sick and guilty in almost equal measure both with the subterfuge and the mere
fact of his doubt. The results, when they came back, however, led him to shut
himself in a cubicle of the gents toilets to ring Mycroft.
'She's not mine.'
'No, John. She is not.' Mycroft didn't sound remotely surprised. Had he known
about Mary and Rebecca's father? John decided not to ask. But he could ask for
a favour, in return for not asking about that.
'I want you to do something for me. I want you to get me a sample of Mary's ex,
David's DNA. And - I also want a sample of Jim Moriartys DNA. '
John got the sample. The comparison test was done. The result was positive. For
one of the samples. But not the one John half expected.
............
Rebecca was not John's child. She was Moriartys. Jim Moriarty. The man - the
spider - who had forced Sherlock to fake suicide, wrapped John in a Semtex vest
and blown up buildings with blind terrified old ladies inside. That was the man
his wife had chosen to father her child and pass it off as John's. Jim.
Fucking. Moriarty. Moriarty was dead. How had he fathered the child? John the
doctor didn't take long to come up with the scenario, but it made him all the
more bitter because of the planning and organisation needed. This was all part
of the plan. She was in it up to her fucking eyeballs with Jim. Freeze his
sperm in nitrogen. Create Jim's legacy by impregnating herself at a credible
time for it to be John's. Double win. She gets a child to tie John to her. Jim
gets his immortality via the child. And if they do ever find out, well, all the
better, burn their hearts out. The longer they took to realise, the more
completely John gets destroyed. They just hadn't thought about the eyes....
...............
There was, in the end, no big confrontation; no dramatic showdown. John had his
dignity and precious little else right now. So John walked in, gave Mary the
paperwork, and let her read it. She started to try to speak, but John simply
pointed to the sleeping Rebecca and shook his head. Don't wake the baby. She
shrugged. Fucking shrugged. ................ He left Mary with the piece of
paper he had thrust silently into her face, unable to speak for the bitter
tears flowing down his face, and the choking feeling in his throat, and
consigned the baby under Mycrofts men to guard, and then, he simply walked out
of the hospital. Out of their lives. Mycroft was going to take care of Mary and
the baby's safety a very long way away from John (as he regarded himself as the
biggest threat in that regard right now), and would also arrange for a quick
divorce on the basis Mary had given a false identity. John had hoped for
annulment but apparently that required both parties to be in on the identity
fraud. John might have been able in time to forgive Mary for an affair, maybe
with David her ex, but not Moriarty. Not ever.
In time, Mycroft told him, Mary's skills were likely to mean a new role for her
as a Six field agent, providing she could convince her superiors that she was
trustworthy enough. Rebecca would have nannies and boarding school and ponies
and a completely false idea of what Mummy did for a living. And some mug would
buy the story and play daddy to the little girl John saw being born and had
thought was his daughter. Not John though. That life was gone.
..............
After sitting for an hour in a small park which looked as if it was made up of
a remnant of a bombed out site from the Blitz in WW2, John slowly took off his
wedding ring, and with reddened eyes, pushed open the door of the nearest pawn
shop which advertised cash for gold. He didn't care about the money, but the
presence of the ring on his finger was making him feel ill and he didn't want
to feel it in his pocket or see it on his bedside table. He accepted what they
offered him for the ring and walked out. There wasn't much left in his stomach
to throw up, but it betrayed him again (ironic, that) and John did the best he
could. He made sure to avoid the part of the gutter when the kerb dropped for
the disabled to cross the road however.
.........
Six hours later John was downing the dregs of his fifth pint, and slumping
against the upholstered back of the pub's less than comfortable seating.
Football broadcast from somewhere that wasn't Britain with very tanned and
sweaty players, was blaring out from the ceiling mounted TVs, and the noise
clashed with the jukebox playing happily to itself in the corner of the bar.
John realised he neither cared about the disallowed goal, the referees
parentage, nor whether cowboys really wore rhinestones. The beer wasn't the
best kept but it was doing the job.
His eyes closed. Just for a minute or two.
He awoke to a clap on the back. Lestrade. How the hell had Lestrade found him?
He'd intended to stay here all evening and then book into a cheap hotel. He
couldn't go home. Not to the flat he shared with Mary. Had shared with Mary.
And not to 221B, which would be filled with sensory reminders of the bitterness
between himself and Sherlock, always assuming it wasn't a fully fledged crack
den by now, of course. He didn't belong to either of those places anymore.
Lestrade wasn't looking especially friendly though, thought John. More stressed
out.
'Greg. All right?'
That was about as complicated a sentence as John could muster.
'I am. But you aren't. Come on, we're going.'
Lestrade shoved John to his feet.
'Going.....going where?'
'Where you can be of use instead of drowning yourself in self pity. Where you
can help Sherlock. And then where you can help us catch Moran before he catches
us.'
They reached the outside of the pub and John groaned as the familiar shape of a
black limousine pulled up silently. He looked at Lestrade. 'Why are you doing
their dirty work?'
'Didnt Mycroft tell you? I'm doing a bit of moonlighting for the dark side now.
Just as a hobby of course.' He laughed. 'Apparently he's paying me but it's
into some expenses account in the Cayman Islands. Not sure about all that
stuff. Hope it's not just a tax scam to pay for umbrellas and torture chambers.
Get in.'
------
The limousine took the men to Mycroft's house. Like the man himself, his London
home was tall, patrician and undeniably snooty. It felt more akin to a discreet
London hotel than someone's home, in Johns eyes, but since he was currently
technically homeless, and it was this or the Travel Tavern (nice comfy beds,
odd cross-section of society as fellow guests, questionable possibly pre-licked
boiled sweets at Reception), John decided to embrace his inner luxury slut and
go with the flow.
Besides which, he was exhausted as well as about as depressed as he'd been
since he had spent long dreary nights in the tiny army funded bedsit practising
putting the muzzle of his (loaded) Browning into his mouth without gagging.
Pretty low then....
.................
Mycroft wasn't there when Lestrade and John arrived, but that didn't matter too
much when there were staff on tap. A cook had already prepared dinner, leaving
it in the fridge, and it was a quick task to heat it up. Fragrant Thai green
chicken curry. It was delicious. John realised how hungry he was, it seemed a
long time since he had eaten...he couldn't really remember when he had. Maybe
he was mirroring Sherlock. There was lager too, ice cold. This kind of luxury
both John and Greg really did appreciate. Not quite like the fine wines and
rare Scotch Mycroft himself would prefer.
After dinner, the two men sat in the drawing room, surrounded by austere
panelling (the restrained kind of the 1730s, Queen Anne, rather than the over
the top embellishments of later decades), as the wall lamps glowed a golden
light in soft puddles across the room.
Lestrade and John drank their beers and chatted about football and politics and
other manly skirting around the edge topics but after an hour or so, that light
conversation was exhausted and Lestrade looked at John with tired, concerned
eyes.
'Mycroft told me about you visiting Sherlock at the hospital. I admire you for
doing that. He didn't tell me much. Not what you spoke about, I know there's
some stuff that isn't for general consumption, stuff about Sherlock, past stuff
- and I don't ask about that. '
'How do you know there's....stuff?'
'Just something Mycroft mentioned when we did the last rescue mission when
Sherlock OD'd - well, I should amend that, the last one before before you two
met. When he was younger. He said it I think, to add persuasion for us not to
charge Sherlock for all the offences. We were well outside our rule book and
Mycroft knew it. He said that Sherlock had been through stuff that would make
taking drugs not a weakness, but more as a totally rational decision to escape
his brain, as an alternative to committing suicide.
For all Mycroft can be a ponce and a smug git, the look on his face when he
told me that was chilling, and it did swing the balance towards sweeping it all
under the carpet. But also on that rescue, Sherlock got really uncontrollable
when the medics had to put the oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. I mean he
was high which didn't help but it was clearly more than that.'
...............
John nodded. He was glad Sherlock had Lestrades paternal influence as a rock.
'If it's any help so long after the events, Greg, you made the right call.
Sherlock is astounding that he's here at all, I think, given what I know now,
and it isn't stuff that is going to go away. Just stuff to work through and
deal with and hopefully manage. Thank you for not pushing me on the nature of
the events, I couldn't tell you anyway, but more than that, I feel Mycroft
telling me, and Sherlock knowing that he did, may have backfired spectacularly
and I wouldn't want you put in the same position. To be honest, I don't know
why he did tell me.'
Greg grimaced.
'Mycroft is fantastic at meddling in global politics when it's people he
doesn't care about. And he doesn't really care about anyone much. Except
Sherlock. And that's his downfall. He tries his best to protect his brother but
the fact Sherlock is his pressure point, his parents too but less intimately,
he feels more responsible for Sherlock, that clouds his judgement and vision.
To Mycroft, knowledge is always a good thing for him to have. Sherlock shares
that view. But sharing knowledge based on desperation is a dangerous game. He
must have felt the situation warranted the gamble.'
John grunted in agreement. 'Or in our case, not sharing it when they should.
For two years, Greg.
Anyway, aside from the fact Sherlock hates my guts and doesn't know about
what's happened with the baby....' At this Lestrade winced in sympathy, but
didn't ask and John suspected Mycroft had filled him in on that particular
subject....'he's really gone off the rails recently. The pressure of this
mission and how he's dealing or not with - other stuff - is bringing the damage
right back, and he's playing with fire. With the drugs, but also in his sex
life....'
Lestrade stared at John.
'I didn't know he had a partner, boy or girl, well, except for maybe you and
him....?
John sighed.
'We weren't...it wasn't like that. I know what people think, they've always
thought that. It doesn't make it true. And he doesn't have a boyfriend as far
as I know, hasn't ever, or a girlfriend. He seems to gain his fulfilment in
life through his brains work. Until recently anyway.'
Lestrade nodded.
'Well I've certainly never seen him with anyone, that way. But you, that was
different? Is different. You know he's mad about you, don't you? I mean, crazy
like I've never seen anyone?'
John sighed again. If Sherlock was in love with him he had a very strange way
of showing it, right now. He looked away, unwilling to see Lestrade echo
Mycrofts words.
.................
Actually Lestrade was worse to listen to, and continued unabashed.
'Have you not ever been at least tempted, you know, even for a fling? I've been
both sides of the fence, John, and well, I have to be honest, the mechanics
aren't that terribly different? And with a man as beautiful and passionate as
Sherlock, well....I'm not sure I know many of even the straightest of guys who
wouldn't be a little bit tempted? He's never interested back, is the problem
for them - but he's completely different with you.'
John yelled. He wasn't sure if anyone ever yelled in Mycrofts house but he was
doing it now. He hoped it wouldn't set off level Nine alarms or close down
Sector Z.
'Greg, please! Sherlock may be gay, looks like it pretty much....But I'm not,
he's never told me he has feelings for me beyond a close friendship and that's
the bloody end of it.' (It wasn't really the end of it, but John couldn't
explain to Greg what he couldn't yet explain to himself).
'Added to which, Greg, there's something you don't know. Right now, he's having
a lot of sex with a lot of people, ones he doesn't know, and not always
serially or indoors.'
.................
Lestrades eyes widened and his mouth opened and closed silently. He regarded
John carefully.
'Im not even going to ask how you know that but I'm assuming if you're sure
about that, it involves a nosy brother and a wall mounted camera, and now I'm
not sure that my dinner is staying down? I'm really surprised. To me Sherlock
must be seriously losing his grip for that to be his chosen path. Now I am
getting worried, I'll concede it. I'd better tell my patrols to contact me or
Mycroft if they pick him up for - any of that indecency rap then, to add to the
drugs.
John, I also ought to come clean, he's doing some stupid shit in the mission
too. We're taking out the ring of players around Moran, especially the
financial support and logistical backup, to try and get the network weakened
enough to break through to Moran himself.
Sherlocks supposed to be working with us, planning and executing raids and also
undertaking hits on marks that he and Mycroft have identified. Instead of that,
he's basically acting like a feral animal, using the information he's given and
blundering in alone and unprotected. I'm not sure if he's trying to prove
himself a hero, or this is another way of topping himself, or both, but we've
had to risk officers and agents lives twice since he came back, extricating him
from messes he's created doing this and my overlords are beginning to get very
twitchy. It can't go on. If it does he'll be locked up in a secure location
until this is over and I don't like to think what that would do to his mental
state.'
John looked at Lestrade and frowned. He knew what it would do to Sherlocks
mental state and it involved John attending another funeral, this time for
real. But he didn't see what he could do.
'I agree. But. What do you expect me to do about it?'
'I think that's a discussion we need Mycroft involved in. (Though I grant that
Mycrofts discussions rarely involve other parties doing much discussing).'
The two men looked at each other.
***** The decision *****
.........'Indeed it does, Gregory. But perhaps with the addition of the star
attraction, our smelly ragged trousered rebel.'
The door opened, and John looked on open mouthed, as an immaculately dressed
Mycroft entered, followed by a once again dirty and mutinous looking Sherlock.
For a man not far off forty, the resemblance to a naughty child was remarkable.
Mycroft looked around at John and Greg, and smiled that Mycroft small smile,
that one that didn't reach his eyes.
'Shall we get comfortable? I shall ring for coffee and tea, for those that go
in for that kind of thing. Or Scotch for the grown ups.'
Mycroft regarded his brother, who was slumped bodily on the immaculate cream
linen sofa; his dirty trainers already leaving marks which would be very hard
for Mrs G to remove, with distaste. He decided to choose his battles, and
ignore the provocation. He then fixed his attention on John, who was looking as
if he would prefer to be imminent roadkill than sitting in this room with Dirty
Sherlock.
..............
Here was the battle, thought Mycroft. Both of the 221B pair ranged against him.
His junkie whoring lovesick little brother with the self-esteem of a twig; and
his brothers former flatmate, the army doctor whose principles gave him the
appearance of having a stick up his arse, but who inconveniently didn't seem to
fancy anything else up there. The man who had the curious combination of a
mania for saving lives combined with a willingness to use sniper skills to rub
out anyone who was threatening Sherlock. And the man who still seemed to be in
denial about the relationship between himself and Sherlock: which pairing could
be the only thing to save Sherlock from being sectioned or sent to secure
rehab. Or worse.
Mycroft spoke.
'Doctor Watson. The last time we spoke you were unwilling to become immediately
involved in the operation to take out Moran and his cohorts, because of the
impending arrival of your child.'
Mycrofts voice lowered in tone and became slightly louder. He wanted everyone
in the room to hear.
'A child who turned out not to be yours, but James Moriartys.'
Sherlocks eyes widened and his mouth opened. He looked as shocked as John had
ever seen him. He stared at John. Stared, unblinking, just stared. John adopted
military straightness and looked dead ahead. He did not meet Sherlocks gaze. He
couldn't.
'Thankyou for that announcement, Mycroft. I think you may actually be a bigger
shit than I'd previously thought, and that's pretty good going, believe me.'
'John, given the....recent sudden change in your circumstances ...I would like
to ask you to review your decision and consider now assisting more directly in
this project?
(Sherlock was still staring at John)
'More specifically I would like to request, John, that you move back to 221B,
and that you work with Sherlock to regularise his input into current police and
security operations, to ensure his and others safety, as well as providing him
with the medical and moral support to ensure he does not fall prey to the other
unsavoury, and sometimes illegal, habits which have recently raised their
heads.
This will have a dual benefit of removing direct threats to your own lives, but
also the threats posed by Sherlocks own actions.
Will you do it, Doctor Watson?'
.............
Mycroft looked tense. Sherlock was still staring at John. Had he blinked at
all? John wondered if he was high? He didn't think so but he couldn't bring
himself to meet the detectives gaze or look at his arms, and so he had to go on
instinct. Not high. Just shocked and off kilter.
John looked at Mycroft.
'The last time Sherlock saw me he practically told me I was dead to him. Whilst
the current stony silence is an improvement, what makes you think he will
accept this big brother handler type arrangement? What's changed?'
Mycroft regarded John calmly now. He glanced across at Sherlock, who had got up
but almost immediately sat down heavily. Looking white and distressed. Chewing
his lip hard. Glancing at John. Looking away. Looking down.
'Everything. He is no longer way down your priority list, John. Whatever
Sherlock thinks or feels about life currently , the one certainty is that in
the last few years, the only thing that has consistently kept him off drugs and
emotionally stable is, bizarrely, the constant enveloping presence of one
Doctor John H Watson, living with him at 221...Bee.... (Mycroft always gave the
diminutive letter with such disdain) Baker Street.
He lost you John. You married, you expected a child, you had a child. None of
which he could compete with. You got exactly what you insisted you had always
wanted. Sherlock would not be willing or able to fight that, because he wanted
you to be happy. He supported you every step of the journey you claimed you
wanted to make, even though it destroyed him.
Now, John, it is clear that this perfect life was a mirage.
Not just because of Mary's lies, and her attempted murder of my brother, but
also because of the paternity of the baby. But perhaps most importantly, John,
the fact that before that last fact was known, you were staying with Mary
because of, and only because of, that baby. You already knew that suburban
domestic life was not enough for you, and that living with someone whose whole
existence was a lie, was impossible to sustain. Please do interject if I am
wildly off the mark, John'
..............
John didn't say anything in response to Mycroft. His fists were clenched tight,
his face equally tense. How could he? It was true. He craved convention and
railed against it once he had it.
There was a long silence.
He considered walking out, walking away, back to the Army flat. Back to a
bottle of whisky and the swift cold merciful conclusion of his Sig into his
brain.
Then, he remembered William who became Sherlock, who didn't eat and couldn't
deal with friends, and who nearly died so many times.
And instead of walking out, and walking away, he turned, and looked at Sherlock
for the first time. Really looked at him. Met his eyes. Beautiful eyes.
................
'Lets hear from the man himself then?'
Sherlock peered out from below straggling dark curls that looked as if they
could do with a very thorough wash. He now looked terrible, haggard, in shock.
His eyes flickered to John and then looked away, almost as though he was
embarrassed. The man who was never embarrassed. John thought his eyes were too
bright. Tears?
Staring at his (still very dirty but now on the floor at least) shoes, Sherlock
blinked a few times and then finally spoke. Very quietly. Almost a whisper.
'Come back - if you want to. Better at Baker Street. Your room is still there.
Some equipment to move out of it though, just spare stuff. Flasks, dishes.
Nothing decaying. I don't know if it will help or not, you being there. It
might be worse. Hmmm. With you there. Or better? I don't know. Finding it hard
to concentrate. Could help maybe. I don't think there's food there. Haven't
been...in....much. You might need to sweep the flat too for....mmm...stuff.'
Sherlock looked under his lashes at Lestrade as he said the last part, but
Lestrade was studiously consulting his mobile text messages and didn't appear
to have caught any of it.
................
John made a decision.
Partly as a doctor, Sherlock clearly needed the kind of care he hadn't required
for some years. Some of that was a doctors care. John could provide that better
than anyone. It would give him a renewed sense of purpose. And God, he needed
that right now.
Partly as Sherlocks former flatmate, John had realised while they had been
talking here by the fire in this London home, just how bloody much he had
missed 221B. It wouldn't be the same as before his marriage, before the Fall,
they were different people now, scarred by events, but he still craved it. A
big part of him was missing when he wasn't there, and he was going to slot that
part back in the picture.
Partly as Sherlocks handler, his right hand man, someone to cover his back when
things went pear shaped but also to try to prevent that crisis from happening
in the first place.
Partly, partly .....partly.....as someone who didn't really know how he felt
about Sherlock? Confused. That was as far as he got. He'd never really had to
confront his feelings before. Either he'd figured Sherlock wasn't interested in
any relationships involving physical contact, including with John, or he'd
figured he wasn't gay so it wasn't an issue anyway. That was easier. Now, now
was harder. He wasn't gay, but his feelings for Sherlock were no longer
strictly platonic. Maybe hadn't ever been.
For John, relationships of love were bound up with physical intimacy. He was,
he was told, a really good lover, and part of that was that he enjoyed both
pleasing his partner without always expecting instant reciprocity, and also
that he was considered fairly adventurous in bed. Not every partner wanted to
explore every aspect of Johns repertoire, but he was very good at finding what
they liked. A bit like Irene Adler (but without the aggressive public nudity
and non consensual drugging).....(he really must make sure Sherlock understood
that second one was still not OK as well, Baskerville had not been forgotten).
Now....now....he knew Sherlock did indulge in sexual relations, albeit not
under normal circumstances. He knew that Sherlock was, according to those who
knew him best, in love with him, and that his recent activities were likely
reflective of someone confronting a perfect storm of loss (John to Mary and
Rebecca), pressure (only being freed from a life prison sentence or fatal
overseas mission if he could remove Moran and co from the picture) and the
resurfacing of long hidden childhood trauma. John knew that he had no idea how
things would turn out. But he was going to take a gamble as big as Mycroft's
had been, sharing Sherlock's darkest secrets.
...............
He turned to Sherlock, ignoring Mycroft and Lestrade.
'No drugs, no...other stuff. No hiding places, no lies, not any more, Sherlock.
You and me, 221B. Two day old takeaways, fingers in the fridge, me buying the
milk, Mrs Hudson's frightening level of innuendo and 'spare' scones. You and me
trying to avoid being killed while getting the not very nice people. Sound OK?'
Sherlock looked up from the sofa where he now sat slouched and, John noted, was
possibly even grubbier and smellier than he'd thought. Also possibly he looked
a little ashamed, embarrassed.
'OK. Yes.'
He didn't smile but did press his lips together into a shape which John
interpreted as thanks.
Then he said it
'Thank you'
'Thats fine. But Sherlock, I do need you to do something for me when we get
home (John loved that word, 'home').'
'John?'
'Have a bath. In fact, have two. You smell like one of your experiments. That's
not a good thing. And if you want to experience porn, Sherlock, please hack in
and watch it on my laptop like you used to, for some wholesome smut, rather
than thinking you have to actually act it out in person with a cast of
thousands on Mycrofts reality TV channel?'
Sherlock had the grace to look away at this last part. It was a gamble on
John's part, but he really didn't want Sherlock covering up any part of his
issues which didn't have to be. There was enough that genuinely needed to be
concealed, for good reasons. So the rest needed to be acknowledged.
A small nod was given.
'Good. That's good, isn't it. All settled.' Mycroft looked smug.
Lestrade who had also said little during the whole discussion, just looked
relieved that no one had hit anyone and that he hadn't had to sit through the
gory details of what Sherlock had been up to. So things were pretty much back
to the kind of normal - which was normal only to these bizarre individuals, he
concluded. He drained the last of his beer.
***** Back to Baker Street *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
They didn't go back to Baker Street that night, since neither of the men could
face the huge psychological step without sleep and (in Johns case) a bloody
good breakfast.
He slept well for the first time in weeks in one of Mycrofts sumptuous guest
rooms, showered and shaved in an amazing bathroom, and on walking into the
breakfast room, was surprised to see a very clean looking, almost sleek,
Sherlock padding around. Very thin and pale. But clean.
He appeared to be planning to eat something too, as there was an actual piece
of buttered toast on his plate. (This promise later proved to be a little
hopeful, since when breakfast was finished John found the toast half buried in
a large indoor plant pot behind Sherlock's chair. But there were a couple of
Sherlock shaped bites out of it. Better than nothing. And less smelly Sherlock
made him want to sing.
.............
'Good morning, John.'
Sherlock sounded tired, his voice even deeper than normal but he sounded
calmer.
'Morning. Did you sleep?'
'An hour? Maybe a bit less. I don't like sleeping except at 221B, John.'
'Mmmm, no, you don't really sleep much there either.'
'But I could - there - if I wanted to. And there's my violin. I can play it.
Here all I can think about is that I'm not there. Or think of some new ways to
kill Mycroft.'
John laughed. Then realised he wasn't sure when he'd last done that. Laughed.
He shook his head wryly.
'Well be back there shortly. You can sleep, you should sleep. I will stand
guard outside, to make sure the baddies don't come. And there is milk to take
with us. Bread for toast too. And as long as there aren't drugs in the jam pots
at home, there will be jam as well.'
..............
It wasn't discussing what needed to be tackled, but it was a start. And it was
setting foundations back in place. Comfortable structures to provide a slender
raft, on which the hard verbal stuff, the painful stuff, could happen, without
everything else sinking at the first sign of a storm.
At ten a.m., a black car pulled up outside the house and Sherlock and John
climbed inside. John noticed a second car behind and opened the car window to
ask Mycroft about it. Mycroft waved his hand dismissively. No one had a more
dismissive, dismissive wave than Mycroft Holmes.
'Purely routine, John, we can't be too careful at the moment. They are my
people and they will be stationed outside 221B. I trust you are also equipped?'
John looked confused, then realised Mycroft was referring to his Sig, currently
safely tucked into the small of his back. Not pointing at the side of his own
head. A good call, he concluded. Things always seemed better come the dawn and
a full English.
'As always, Mycroft.'
'Good. I shall be over tomorrow once you are settled in so that we can discuss
strategy for dealing with Moran and co.
In the meantime, please do not switch on lights after dusk until the curtains
are tightly closed. I am trying to arrange for the window glass to be exchanged
for bullet proof glass but the house is Grade 2* listed and apparently the
glass is original hand blown and rare and the authorities are being sticky. I
shall progress it. I will let you know if that will involve a mystery case of
the windows all being broken by a sonic boom in the vicinity of Baker Street.
We have a whole sound department who love creating noises such as sonic booms.'
He smiled happily.
John had no doubt that he would.
He glanced across at Sherlock, who was frowning, and appeared deep in thought
and not in the mood for talking. Fine. He closed his eyes and sank back in his
seat. The car purred away.
.......
As the car pulled up to the kerbside by 221B, Sherlock leapt out and darted in.
John followed more slowly, as he had a holdall to carry, added to which his
limp had made an unwelcome return. Sherlock didn't appear to have noticed this
fact, and appeared to be sporting only the clothes he stood up in. At least
John thought, he didn't have to pay a taxi, as so often was the case.
There was no sign of Mrs Hudson, but it was a Tuesday and John knew that she
and Mrs Turner next door usually went off for an outing on Tuesdays. Both
pretended they did so for the other's benefit. Mrs Turner said it was good for
Mrs Hudson's hip for her to keep mobile, and a nice walk around a garden centre
was ideal for this; whereas Mrs Hudson said that Mrs Turner was obsessed with
ugly shiny house plants and she couldn't abide the nasty mildew-y spider
infested things. They always seemed to have a good time despite this approach.
John clipped up the seventeen steps and into the flat. Sherlock had headed
straight into his room, it seemed. John just stood on the threshold of the flat
and breathed in deeply. He felt light-headed. Not a panic attack, quite, but he
was wholly overwhelmed by the sensations flowing over him at being here, being
back. The smell of the place. Of science experiments, of beeswax polish, of
aftershave and cologne and dark wood and books - and of Sherlock.
He dumped the holdall on the floor, went into the living room and sat in the
armchair. His chair, with its muted mossy greens and tartan. Comfortable and
solid and enveloping with security and good memories.
John sat there, and the tension of the last few weeks started to unravel and
unwind. Quite unexpectedly, he found tears leaking from his eyes, and had to
brush them away roughly with his sleeve. Good thing Sherlock was not in the
room. He closed his eyes, the weeks of tension and trauma washing over him, and
starting to seep and escape through his pores into the room.
.................
'John. John.'
He didn't think he'd fallen asleep. Maybe a little bit then.
He opened one slightly sleep sticky eye. Sherlock was there. Crouched down by
his knees, his silver green eyes blinking close to Johns face.
John started, and struggled to sit up in his chair, slightly panicked.
'S..lock, what's up. Are you alright?'
'Tea, John. You promised tea. With milk. But you need to buy jam. For the
toast. For breakfast.'
John didn't dare ask about why the existing jams were not an option. The flat
hadn't been in as bad a state as he had feared, but the place was messy and
every item of crockery and cups it contained, appeared to be covered in a layer
of fur where it had been discarded.
'You want tea now?'
'Please, John.'
..........
The rest of that day was spent putting the flat to rights. Or rather, John
putting the flat to rights, and Sherlock lying like the lady in the lake on the
sofa, in his silk dressing gown and pyjamas, one pale hand trailing off the
edge and the other placed across his chest. He hardly moved, and he didn't
speak.
John had considered opening discussions, but beyond pointing at the full cup
and barking 'Tea. Drink before it's cold', he really wasn't sure where to
start. He had however noted by lunchtime that Sherlock's drug abuse seemed to
be catching up with him, as he was starting to exhibit some signs of
withdrawal. He also looked very gaunt with the light from the window catching
his face. Like a skeleton. John was pleased that Sherlock had drunk the tea
he'd made, as he'd added supplement powder to it to try to offset the lack of
food and nutrients.
................
It was late in the evening, perhaps nine or ten, before Sherlock really
stirred. By that time, the flat was in a much better state, and John's washing
up marathon had restored the concept of clean cups and plates to the universe.
Sherlock sat up, and regarded John, who was sitting in his chair, thumbing
through a car magazine. He didn't have a car. Nor did Sherlock. It must have
been acquired for a case.
'John, I want to explain.'
John slowly lowered the magazine.
'Now? You want to talk about this now? Not wait for a bit?'
'No. Tomorrow Mycroft will come, and everything will be about the mission again
and there won't be the time or opportunity. Also. Also,....I am conscious that
you may not have a good opinion of me from my recent behaviour, and I wanted to
try to explain so that even if you still didn't, at least it would be based on
a good understanding of the events.'
John nodded. He didn't want to think about what he'd seen, let alone talk about
it, but it was clear Sherlock needed to.
..................
'Mycroft has told me what he showed you. And I know it horrified you.'
'Not horrified, exactly. Upset, more than a bit.'
'He said you vomited.'
John said nothing. Nodded. Looked straight ahead.
Sherlock continued, looking towards the light streaming in from the window.
Traffic noise continued outside, people passing by, unconscious of the grave
discussion taking place a few yards above their heads.
.................
'The men I met, who you saw on the video, they were old dealers of mine from
Oxford. I was buying drugs from them and I was - paying - them for the drugs
they supplied.'
'I don't understand. Why could you not just pay them money like everyone else?
Or use another dealer?'
'Because at this short notice they were the only people I knew could supply the
purity of cocaine I required, short of processing it myself. Which I couldn't
do undetected with Mycrofts surveillance.'
'OK, but why the payment in kind? You have money. Pay them for the drugs.'
'Because....because that was the system we had. In Oxford. I didn't have money
then. Mycroft cut off my allowance, reducing it when I started getting pulled
in by the police too many times, and cutting it off completely once I started
the drug use. I - had to pay for the drugs - in other ways.'
John swallowed hard.
'Jesus. So. Let me get this straight. You used to turn tricks for these scum,
to get drugs at college; and now almost twenty years later, you're doing it
again? Why would they not take money this time?'
'They wouldn't take money, I offered them it, offered them more than the price.
They said they wanted a reminder of old times....I think they could see I was
desperate, like I was then.'
John looked sick.
................
Sherlock deployed bluster mode.
'Really, John, it isn't that big a deal. After all, you said you knew about
Jonathon Lang, so it really isn't a case of them deflowering a blushing virgin
by anyone's definition. And I went along with it, so it's not like they forced
me. Just transport, remember.' Sherlock smiled a twisted, insincere smile and
John thought he sounded like he had rehearsed this bit. Like a rhyme you learn
at school, to recite in class. It never sounds convincing. And that smile. He
never, ever in his life wanted to see Sherlock do that again.
John felt sick. So Sherlock didn't think (or convinced himself anyway) that it
mattered what he did, what he let people do to him, because he wasn't a virgin
when they did it, even though it was being raped as a child that was the only
reason that meant that was the case. Holy fuck. This was warped. His friend,
his..his whatever....was seriously screwed up.
He looked at Sherlock.
'The thing with the oral sex, that seemed to be the thing that bothered you
most. Is that because of Jonathon Lang? And is that why you dislike eating
too?' John recalled that the only times Sherlock did eat anything of substance,
it was generally from John's plate, and usually only once the food had been cut
up into small bite-size pieces. Small enough not to choke on when you didn't
want to swallow it, he realised. Why had he been so blind.
Sherlock looked small, defeated. He nodded.
'Sort of. I don't like things in my mouth at all, and the food thing is partly
that, but it's not just that. It's also about control and alertness. I feel
less sluggish if I don't eat and my brain can fully function, and I am the
master of what I allow my body to have, I am in control.
But yes, some of it is probably about him. I don't know why I have less issue
with other types of sex, which I don't normally do either, just because it's a
distraction, after all occasional masturbation can suffice to meet the need.
Its...it's the choking thing with the oral sex, it makes me panic and I feel
like I will black out. It frightens me, still. I'm really just a freak like
Donovan says, like Lang said, I think.'
..................
John couldn't believe Sherlock had opened up to this extent, had trusted him
with this information, exposed his pain and humiliation. It made him want to
weep.
He swung round and walked over to where Sherlock stood. He took him by the
shoulders and twisted him round to face him. The taller man looked down lower
than Johns gaze.
'Shut up, Sherlock. Just, shut up. Now listen to me. So far as I can tell from
everything I've learned, you've had two kinds of relationships so far in your
life.
First: being raped by someone you trusted and who was supposed to be your
teacher, at the age of eleven. Eleven fucking years old.
Second: having sex with men you don't love or care about, in exchange for
fucking drugs. Not consensual, Sherlock. Not consensual. If you're doing it to
get a substance you're addicted to, that's not consensual.
Sherlock, have you ever, ever, in your life had a relationship with anyone,
male or female, that involved intimacy with someone you cared about? I mean,
ever? Or is that it? Shitty crappy encounters with people exploiting you?
Sherlock looked at him strangely sadly.
'I have always regarded the combination of sentiment and the act of sex to be
best separated. So no, John, I have not done as you advocate. To do so would be
complicated and lead to a predisposition to weakness in dealings with the
individual concern. That would be unwise...' He paused
John interjected
'Especially for you?'
'Especially for me.'
.................
Sherlock bit his lip and looked away, releasing himself from John's grasp and
walking gracefully over to the window to gaze out at the unceasing night
activity of a West End evening. He was thirty-seven years old and he felt like
a small boy. He wasn't sure he wanted to expose that child again? He had been
packaged away for so long. He was Sherlock. William was somebody different.
Somebody dead.
John could see the conflict playing over Sherlock's face but had one final
question.
'Short of sexual activity, have you ever, you know, just held someone? In their
arms, maybe lying down but not doing anything? Gaining comfort? With someone
you care about and trust.'
'No.'
'Fine. Okay.
Just so you know. (here John took a massive breath and felt like the man on the
moon taking the giant step)
If you did ever want, you know, that, just a hug, then, well, I'm here.'
Sherlock half turned, and looked at John through the corner of his eye. He
looked quizzical, as though he was trying to determine the nature of the
statement and the motives behind it. He didn't look entirely sure of the
answers. More data needed?
'Uh...well....thankyou.....John. That's very kind. I shall bear it in mind.'
With that, Sherlock announced that he was now going to his Mind Palace, and
arranged himself on the sofa in the fin-de-siècle dying swan manner John had
become very accustomed to.
..................
John decided to beat a hasty retreat after so much baring of souls (Sherlock)
and opening skylights an inch (himself). Although perhaps Sherlock hadn't
really bared his soul. Only his arse, thought John gloomily. And that not to
John. He hadn't opened up at all about the feelings for John, which Mycroft and
Greg were adamant he possessed. And they hadn't discussed Mary and Rebecca and
how that impacted on John.
Still, it had been a gruelling conversation for both of them; there was a
mission to concentrate on, and perhaps now was not the time? The question was,
would there ever be a right time for them? Did the damage run just too deep to
be overcome?
John didn't have the answers to that question, just a burning anger at the
cruelty of people who lied and took advantage of others. To fragile adults, and
long ago, a lonely little boy. He and Sherlock were suffering the results, and
he wasn't sure how long the pain would stretch.
Time to sleep. To heal. To face tomorrow.
Chapter End Notes
     Note, this is the end of Part 1 of Beyond Ourselves.
     There is now a Part 2 which follows on immediately from this fic
     'The Fragile Life of Sherlock S Holmes'
     Kudos and feedback very welcome, ESP the feedback!
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