Chapter Text
John doesn’t think he’s ever felt worse climbing the seventeen stairs to 221B, with the possible exception of the first time he came up after Sherlock’s fall, but he isn’t even sure about that. The guilt he feels right now somehow seems even worse than grief.
Sherlock might well refuse to see him, and John could hardly blame him. There’s no excuse for what he’s done, for how he’s treated Sherlock. But he must at least try and apologise, if Sherlock lets him. Then he’ll remove himself from Sherlock’s life once and for all, so he can’t hurt him anymore.
His steps falter on the top of the stairs when he realises he hears music coming from the flat, something light and poppy that doesn’t sound like Sherlock’s taste at all. He knocks, feeling he’s lost any right he may have had to just barge in, but when he gets no reply he opens the door and follows the sound of the music to the kitchen, even though he’d rather never set his foot there as long as he lives.
In the kitchen, he finds Molly, humming to herself to the rhythm of the song and… cleaning the fridge?
She seems to catch sight of him from the corner of her eye and jumps, raising a nitrile-gloved hand to her chest.
“John! Oh my god, you gave me a fright!”
“Sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you. Um, is Sherlock here?” he asks, but he already has a feeling that he isn’t – there seems to be something missing from the flat.
“No,” Molly says and suddenly looks extremely uncomfortable. “He’s… gone away, John. I don’t know where, but he left in a hurry and I don’t think he’ll be back anytime soon, because he asked me to dispose of any body parts he had in the fridge.” She gestures to a large travel cooler at her feet, her face pinched as if in pain.
John feels cold. Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to him that Sherlock could remove himself from John’s life. That he could just leave. This is what John has done: he’s managed to drive Sherlock out of his own home. He made Sherlock run away from him.
He’s such a piece of trash.
“Oh,” is all he manages to say, feeling like he’s being crushed into powder by the shame weighing on his houlders. He can’t bear to look at Molly’s kind face, to stay here a second longer with someone who believes him to be Sherlock’s friend. He turns and starts walking away without a word.
“John, wait!” Molly calls after him. “I think – I think there’s a letter for you on the mantel.”
He looks towards a fireplace and indeed, there is a white envelope propped against the Persian slipper, with John written on it in Sherlock’s messy scrawl.
He gulps. He thinks of the letter he wrote to Sherlock after Mary died, all the terrible things he said in it. He takes the envelope with a shaking hand and puts it in his coat pocket. He’ll read it when he’s alone.
“Thanks,” he forces himself to say, and leaves.
*
Three days earlier
Sherlock sits at the kitchen table and thinks about the small plastic sachet of crystalline white powder that he keeps carefully taped to the underside of the outside sill of his bedroom window (very convenient hiding place: none of his “minders” would ever think to check there, and as an added benefit, it means he isn’t actually lying when he says there are no drugs in the house). He isn’t going to use it, he knows that, but he can’t stop thinking about how easy it would be and that, he has to admit, is a new low. He hasn’t used anything stronger than nicotine and caffeine since that day in Culverton Smith’s hospital, almost three months ago. He put himself through the wringer of withdrawal, made all the worse by the terrible physical condition he was in at the time, and he came out at the other end, weak and exhausted but determined to stay clean. Yet, he didn’t get rid of this last remnant of his secret stash. He’s always found it helpful to know that he had something within easy access… just in case.
He should probably bin it. Flush it down the toilet. He feels temptation gnaw at him to go check it’s all still there, open the packet to make sure it’s undamaged, fit for use. And that’s not a good sign, is it. He should get rid of it. If he uses again, even just once, he’ll lose John for good.
Except…
Except there’s no guarantee he hasn’t lost him already, is there? In fact, it’s likely that he has. He thought, after his birthday when John stood in the living room and cried and let Sherlock hug him and then they went out for cake, that maybe things would turn out okay after all, despite everything he had done wrong. That John would forgive him and they would, somehow, patch up their broken friendship. But it’s looking increasingly less likely that John is interested in doing that at all.
On Sherlock’s birthday it seemed that John softened towards him a little, but the effect was short-lived. They still see each other regularly, which is better than nothing, but it’s clear now that John only comes over when it’s his turn for Sherlock-sitting. Sherlock is no longer under 24-hour supervision like he was at the beginning, when could be glad he was allowed to use the loo unaccompanied, but someone still stops by to check on him every day to make sure he’s been a good little boy while left to his own devices. And that’s the only time John shows any interest in him – when he’s on duty. He checks that Sherlock has eaten and taken his medication and not taken anything not sanctioned by the NHS, and that’s all. He doesn’t want to talk about anything of import, (not Mary, not Rosie, not how he’s feeling or what he’s doing with his life), he doesn’t want to join Sherlock on cases and he listens to Sherlock talking about the ones he solved on his own with only half an ear. He’s morose at best angry the rest of the time, and usually comes to Baker Street via a pub, as if he couldn’t bear to look at Sherlock sober.
To make matters worse, there haven’t even been that many cases to give Sherlock something else to focus on. At first, he was effectively on house arrest imposed by his well-meaning friends, and too weak to run around the city anyway. But even as his strength returned, his enthusiasm for the work… hasn’t. It’s probably only due to the fact that there doesn’t seem to be anything interesting going on in the world and nobody has contacted him with anything more than a four for ages. It just doesn’t seem worth the trouble – not when there’s no chance of having John by his side. A part of Sherlock wants to tell John to stop bothering to come if it’s just a chore to him, but the rest of him covets every second he can spend in John’s company, whatever the circumstances.
He startles from his contemplation when he hears footsteps on the stairs. Molly’s on duty today, and she usually doesn’t come before six, so it’s unexpected to hear someone coming so early in the afternoon, but it becomes almost immediately obvious that this isn’t Molly’s tread. It’s John.
Sherlock jumps up automatically, trying not to get his hopes up and failing. If John has come here even though it’s not his turn, then maybe…
“John,” he says and he hates the eager, needy undertone that slips into his voice. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
But he doesn’t need John to speak to realise that his hopes were once again unfounded, it’s all clearly written over Johns glowering features.
“Molly’s cat is sick, so it’s me instead,” John says curtly, confirming Sherlock’s suspicion. “Why are you still in your pyjamas?”
Sherlock can almost physically feel all his hopes crashing down. Today is clearly a bad day. There aren’t any good days when it comes to John, not anymore, but there are days that are all right. Tolerable. But this clearly isn’t one of them: John is already pissed off, his morning shift at the surgery was obviously exhausting, he had at least three separate arguments and now he’s miffed that he has to stand in for Molly instead of going home to Rosie and that he’ll have to pay the nanny for extra hours. (Somehow, John has never found it odd that the woman he’s hired to look after Rosie while he’s at work is always available when John needs her to be and charges barely a third of the average hourly rate. He believes her story that she’s a well-off old lady with no family of her own who just wants to spend time around children. Or perhaps he doesn’t, perhaps he’s aware that Sherlock pays the rest of her fees, perhaps he agrees with Sherlock’s assessment that it’s the least he can do to make up for the part he played in making Rosie motherless.) He hasn’t slept well and he’s already had several drinks – Sherlock can’t tell how many, he’s found he’s unable to judge John’s alcohol intake accurately since his tolerance seems to have increased considerably since the stag night – but it’s certainly more than what would be considered socially acceptable at this early hour. All in all, not a good day.
He shrugs in response to John’s question, avoiding his eyes. He knows John sometimes finds it irritating when he’s exhausted from work but Sherlock seems to have done nothing all day, and when Sherlock knows John’s coming and he has enough energy and presence of mind to do it, he makes sure he’s properly dressed and appearing busy when John comes to avoid unnecessary anger triggers. No such luck today.
“Nothing on today, there was no point getting dressed,” he says and ducks his head, looking at the floor.
“Hm,” John says, a lot of judgment in such a brief syllable. “And I bet you haven’t showered or eaten anything today, have you? You know, you could at least pretend to take care of yourself when all your friends go to considerable trouble every day for the sake of your health and well-being.”
Anger bubbles up inside Sherlock: he’s not a child, he can spend his day wearing whatever he chooses and eating or not eating according to his whim. He never asked John or anyone else for their overbearing involvement in his life, he could have got clean on his own without their “help” that mostly amounts to nothing but an excessive invasion of privacy. He wants to tell John that his words sound rather self-righteous coming from someone whose drinking is evidently getting out of hand. But he doesn’t. One misstep and John will walk out of the flat and never come back, not even on forced visits motivated largely by guilt. He’ll take the criticism and degradation if it delays the moment when John inevitably leaves for good. He’ll even take another beating, if he has to. It’s not like he deserves anything better, anyway. He feels his cheeks heat and he doesn’t know if it’s anger or embarrassment.
“You’re right,” he says quietly, swallowing his harsh words, forcing himself not to raise his voice. No point in provoking John. He swallows. “Let me get changed then I’ll make some… toast.”
“Wait, not so fast,” John grabs his arm before Sherlock can move away. “Look at me. Are you clean?”
“Of course I am,” Sherlock scoffs, all the more needled by the question because of the amount of time he’s just spent thinking about cocaine. John’s eyes bore into his in a way that Sherlock used to like because it seemed to create a sort of connection between them, but now it’s obviously only because John’s checking the size of Sherlock’s pupils. John grabs Sherlock’s right wrist and pulls up his sleeve, examining the crook of Sherlock’s elbow for fresh puncture marks. Sherlock wonders if John is more observant that Sherlock gives him credit for, if he’s suspicious because he noticed Sherlock feels guilty.
“Do you want to check between my toes too?” he asks haughtily to mask any pangs of conscience he might be feeling.
“Maybe,” John says, fixing him with an icy stare. What’s got into him? He has no reason to doubt Sherlock’s commitment to his sobriety. Sherlock has been nothing but obedient.
“John. You know I’m clean.”
“Do I?” John’s grip on Sherlock’s wrist tightens painfully. “Then why did I just see Wiggins down the street, hm?”
“I don’t know! He wasn’t here! You can ask Mrs Hudson, no one came up all day!”
“She’s out,” John spits out. “Convenient, isn’t it?”
Sherlock groans in frustration and anger. This is even worse than if John had found the drugs Sherlock actually has in his possession, then at least it would be deserved, but this is not his fault. Surely he can’t be held responsible for the whereabouts of all of London’s drug dealers.
“Search the flat then! I’ll piss into a cup if you want.” Sherlock’s voice rises despite himself. “I’ve done every single humiliating thing you wanted me to do without complaint, I really think you could trust me by now!”
“Trust you? But I can’t, can I? Not when I can never know when you’re going to decide that a case demands you get high!”
“That’s not how it is and you know it!”
“Yeah, I know, you do it because you’re an addict just looking for an opportunity to get high and say you did to catch a serial killer!”
The sheer unfairness of that statement makes Sherlock see red.
“I only did that because I love you!”
The words are out of Sherlock’s mouth before he can think about them. The sudden silence rings loud in the flat, interrupted only by John’s sharp intake of breath as he stares at Sherlock, his nostrils flaring.
It was a wrong thing to say – of course it was a wrong thing to say, there is no scenario where declaring his love for John Watson could possibly be the right thing to say – but it was wrong on a whole different level than Sherlock could have anticipated, Sherlock realises that more than clearly as he watches John’s reaction, panic and fear bubbling up in his stomach. John’s not shocked or disgusted, as Sherlock expected – or more precisely, he is both these things, but they pale to nothingness compared to the red hot anger.
“You love me,” John repeats in a disturbingly calm, steely tone of voice, and his lips turn into a lethal smile that makes Sherlock’s blood run cold. “You love me,” he says again and for a moment he looks like he’s going to laugh as he takes a step towards Sherlock. Sherlock instinctively takes a step back, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He has miscalculated, badly. “How dare you say that to me, Sherlock, how FUCKING dare you?!”
Before Sherlock can notice what’s happening, John grabs fistfuls of Sherlock’s t-shirt, pushing him backwards until the back of Sherlock’s thighs hits the kitchen counter and his head slams against one of the cupboards. His vision swims.
“John, I’m so—“
“Shut the fuck up!” John shouts, so close Sherlock can feel his breath, droplets of saliva hitting his face. “You think you can manipulate me with some carefully chosen words, hmm? Tell me you love me, tell me you’re sorry! You don’t know what any of that means! You don’t pretend to kill yourself in front of someone you love! You don’t fake your death and then waltz back into their life like nothing happened! You don’t force their forgiveness by making them believe they’re about to get blown up in a train carriage! You don’t get high as a kite and throw yourself in the hands of a serial killer to make them take care of you! You have no idea what love is, so shut the fuck up!”
John keeps shaking Sherlock’s body as he shouts, his face inches from Sherlock’s, and Sherlock lets him. John’s words hurt worse than anything physical John could inflict on him, but John’s right. What right does Sherlock have to profess his love for John after what he did to him? He deserves John’s anger, his disgust, his hatred. That’s all he’s ever deserved. He lets his body go lax, waiting for the first punch to land. A broken nose is inevitable, he thinks. A split lip, a fractured rib, perhaps. It doesn’t matter.
The impact never comes.
Instead, John uses his hold on Sherlock’s shirt to pull his neck and head down, and crashes their mouths together.
Sherlock freezes in shock, his brain grinding to a halt. John is kissing him. Kissing him, not hitting him. How did that happen? The kiss is none too gentle, lips and teeth clashing together, one of John’s hands keeps a firm grip on the front of Sherlock’s shirt and the other finds its way to Sherlock’s hair, grabbing a fistful and pulling his head to the required angle. Sherlock gasps and John uses that opportunity to plunge his tongue deep inside Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock tries to kiss back as best as he can but he’s almost light-headed with shock at this turn of events, and the forcefulness and insistence of John’s lips and hands and tongue make it difficult for him to do anything, he can barely catch a breath. Then John presses closer, inserting his knee between Sherlock’s legs and his groin comes in contact with Sherlock’s hip and oh god, oh god, he’s hard. John is hard.
Sherlock’s knees go weak at that but pinned as he is between the counter and John’s body he has nowhere to fall and the shift of his weight only serves to align his hips with John’s. John groans and begins kissing Sherlock even more forcefully, pulling his head down by his hair for better access, and he rocks his pelvis forward, rubbing his clothed erection against Sherlock, who is by no means soft himself at this point, despite the bewilderment he’s still feeling. His head is spinning with it, guilt and fear and arousal and panic, he doesn’t understand but he yields to the onslaught like he would to the punches. He’s dreamt about this, after all (well, not this, but kissing John – yes). John groans deep in his throat as he bites down on Sherlock’s lower lip and Sherlock feels himself stiffen further.
Then John’s hand that isn’t maintaining a firm grip on Sherlock’s hair drops down between their bodies and cups Sherlock through the thin fabric of his pyjama bottoms, squeezing roughly just when John’s lips leave Sherlock’s mouth and attach themselves instead to the side of his neck, and Sherlock’s whimpering yelp has nothing to be muffled against. His whole body’s shuddering uncontrollably, it’s too much too fast and it’s wrong, it’s wrong, John’s not gay and he wants neither Sherlock’s love nor his body, so why is he palming Sherlock’s erection through flimsy cotton, here in the kitchen moments after telling him he didn’t know what love was? It makes no sense, it makes no sense, it’s wrong and John will hate himself and Sherlock after it’s over and their friendship will be ruined, except it already is, Sherlock has already done that.
Then suddenly John stops kissing him and his hand disappears from Sherlock’s crotch, and Sherlock has a split second to be simultaneously relieved and disappointed, then John thrusts a bottle of olive oil in front of Sherlock’s face, so close Sherlock has to lean his head back to see it properly.
“Is this actual olive oil?” John growls.
Sherlock nods dumbly as he tries to catch his breath, his confusion mounting. First rage, then kissing and groping and now John’s going to cook?
“Turn around,” John commands, his voice as hard as steel. Sherlock catches his eye, and just like that, he understands. John’s pupils are blown wide, but there’s no desire in them, just rage and hatred. Sherlock knows that look. His kitchen might as well be a mortuary.
“I said turn around!” John repeats, and Sherlock obeys. What else is there to do? He could leave, push John away and stop this, but he’s not going to do that any more than he would have hit John back. His limbs move uncooperatively but he turns his back to John and his hard gaze, and then he pushes his trousers down and hoists his dressing gown up, saving John the trouble.
The jittery arousal he felt just moments before is gone without a trace. This isn’t about sex, it’s a display of dominance, pure and simple.
It’s a punishment.
That, at least, is something he can understand. There is no need for his earlier confusion and panic anymore, and his mind is quiet and blank even as John forces his legs further apart and then pushes his upper body forward. Sherlock braces himself against the counter and stays still, not thinking about what’s going to happen, not anticipating, just… being. There is nothing else for him to do. He hears John’s laboured breathing, hears him unscrew the cap and let it clatter to the floor, the soft sound of thick liquid pouring through a narrow opening, the clang of the bottle being deposited on the counter next to his elbow. He keeps his gaze straight ahead, fixed on the line where the counter meets wall. There’s dust there, and crumbs, unidentifiable at this range but probably bread. He’s never given much attention to cleaning the kitchen aside from his scientific equipment, and Mrs Hudson can only do so much.
He gasps when the first finger breaches him, slick but uncompromising. He fights his body’s instinctive reaction to clench and resist the intrusion and tries to relax as much as he can. The finger moves in and out, in and out a few times at fast, rough pace but it’s not too bad. All too soon, however, it’s joined by another one and that burns a little, pushing at his inner walls, stretching him, working him open without finesse.
It only lasts a few brief moments and then the fingers leave him. He hears John swear as his oily fingers struggle with the zip on his trousers. He tries to stay still, tries to relax. He breathes. He’s unnaturally aware of the beating of his heart. He thinks, pointlessly, that olive oil degrades latex. It’s irrelevant: John lost the habit of carrying condoms with him a long time ago. It’s not good. Sherlock is (was) an intravenous drug user. He never shared needles, obviously, but John can’t know that for sure. (He can’t know that Sherlock doesn’t engage in this particular act with random strangers on a regular basis, really, but the thought alone is preposterous). John should be more careful. He shouldn’t be so reckless with his health.
Sherlock feels John shift behind him, feels a hand grip his hip like a vice, feels something slick and hot and big press against him. He has the presence of mind to stuff a fist in his mouth, so his cry is muffled.
It hurts worse than he thought it would, searing pain like being split open as John drives into him again and again and again, pummelling his insides. Sherlock imagines what this would look like to someone who came in now, John “Not Gay” Watson ramming his penis deep inside another man’s anus with animalistic vigour, and he wants to laugh hysterically at the absurdity of it. The noises he hears leaving his mouth sound nothing like laughter, however.
He doesn’t know how long it lasts, seconds or hours of monotonous pounding, but eventually John thrusts in harder than ever, burying himself deep with a strangled groan.
After the slapping of skin against skin has stopped along with Sherlock’s muffled moans, it’s quiet. There’s only the sound of John’s heavy breathing and the rustle of clothing as he pulls out, tucks himself in. Then words, just a few, Sherlock hears them but can’t interpret them, is unable to match sound to meaning. He wants to stand up, pull up his trousers and put it all behind him, but he’s frozen in place, unable to move, unable to think. It’s only when he realises he’s alone that he gives a full-body shudder and sinks down to his knees, his legs no longer able to support him.
He ends up on all fours on the floor, breathing raggedly. He retches, certain he’s going to be sick, but nothing comes up. Everything hurts. There are tiny droplets of blood welling up on the back of his hand where his teeth have broken skin. He didn’t notice. He can feel John’s ejaculate slowly trickling out of him – at least he hopes it’s just John’s ejaculate. He should clean up.
When his breathing quietens and his head clears a little, he stands up gingerly, leaning on the kitchen table for support, and staggers to the bathroom. Walking hurts. Undressing hurts. Climbing over the rim of the bathtub hurts. He doesn’t trust his legs to support him for too long but sitting is not an option, so he kneels down under the spray of water, leaning against the wall with most of his weight. He washes himself carefully with lukewarm water, towels off and puts on a dressing gown. He applies antiseptic on the bite on his hand and wraps it with gauze, drinks a few gulps of water from the tap and stumbles to the bedroom.
When he collapses on the bed and there are no more simple, practical tasks for him to do, the reality of what just happened dawns on him. Images flash in his mind – the hard look in John’s eyes, you have no idea what love is, the firm grip on his hips, the painful push inside him. And all of a sudden he finds himself crying, huge, wracking sobs shaking his body, tears flowing freely down his face. He wishes John had hit him instead, punched him, kicked him. Killed him. It would be strangely fitting, he thinks, to die at John’s hand, and better than this. Better than having his feelings and his deepest wishes used as a way to punish him.
He cuts himself off mid-sob when he hears a noise downstairs, the front door opening and closing, and for a second he’s frozen in terror thinking it could be John coming back. But no, it’s just Mrs Hudson returning from the shops. He hears her retreat to her flat, and exhales in relief. For the first time in as long as he can remember, he wants John as far from him as possible. The feeling is so incongruent with what he’s used to that he can’t quite wrap his mind around it, and it makes him cry all the harder. It feels like something inside him has shattered beyond repair.
He’s hurt John so much over the years in ways he can never make up for, atone for enough, John has every right to be angry with him and take it out in whatever way he sees fit, but not… not like this. Not like this.
Sherlock didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve having the only sexual encounter with the man he loves made into an act of violence. His love for John used as a weapon against him by John himself. He may deserve everything else, but not this. Why didn’t he realise it before the fact? He could have stopped John, he could have got away, easily… There was plenty of time to act between the moment when Sherlock realised what John was about to do and the moment when John actually did it. So why didn’t he? Is he truly so willing to let John do whatever he wants to him, regardless of consequences?
And why did John do it? Sherlock can’t fathom his reasoning or motivations at all. Anger and violent behaviour are well in line with John’s MO, but this? John often does things he regrets afterwards, but this is bound to leave behind not just remorse for hurting a friend but also disgust for engaging in a sexual act with a man. Why would he do something so out of character just to punish Sherlock? Will he be able to even just look at Sherlock after this?
If Sherlock can’t predict John’s behaviour as well as he thought, and if he can’t trust himself to stop John when he goes too far, even when stopping him would be in John’s best interest, then where does that leave them? Where do they go from here? Is there any future left for them at all?
He thinks about going to the window, but he succumbs to exhaustion and despair before he can muster enough energy to move.
*
John,
Your self-flagellation is unnecessary.
I am leaving London for a while. Please don’t attempt to look for me or contact me – I think some time apart will do us both good. I will get in touch when I return.
Give my love regards to Rosie.
Ever yours,
Sherlock