Chapter Text
"I loved you. I was a pentapod monster, but I loved you.
I was dispicable and brutal, and turpid, and everything,
mais je t'aimais, je t'aimais."
- Lolita, Vladamir Nabakov
In the taxi, John looks impossibly small. His body is pressed tight against the door, thumb insistently scratching at a safety label. He is fastidiously avoiding my gaze, but that doesn’t stop me looking and I can’t take my eyes off him. His decision had been a slow one; a lesser person might have been offended at his reluctance to return to his home and my faithful companionship.
His hair has begun to segment slightly, it must have been almost 2 days since he last showered. Usually I would be pleased; he’d smell better that way. Not like shampoo or face wash or soap, but like sweat and dirt, like London. Like John. John
But he doesn’t smell like John now. Not properly. He smells like institution. He smells like the legal system. When we get home, that’ll be the first little problem that needs rectifying. The first of many. There’s a tingle that spreads from my fingertips across my palms as I imagine John in the bath, sitting quietly as I wash him. The water would be so hot it would fill the room with steam, the tiny capillaries of his skin would blossom with vasodilatation. I would rid him of the outside world, clean away the jail cell and our separation so they left no trace on him and we could start again.
From the beginning.
Things would be different this time. Things would be so much better. Lessons have been learned and this time it would be perfect.
He’s pulled the sticker off the door now, folding and refolding it, the plasticised backing springing it back into shape each time. He’s not really looking at the sticker, he’s looking through it and it’s simply in the way. There are dark circles under his eyes almost like bruises. I want to kiss them, brush my lips across them and taste them.
“Why?”
It’s the first thing that he’s said since we left the station and it’s strangely jarring in the relative silence. I was rather enjoying the silence. He looks up at me as though snapping back into the cab from wherever his mind had taken him. His eyes look into mine for answers.
“I can’t live without you John. You know that, I’ve always told you that.”
John goes back to staring at the curled label in his hands. The woman on the label is stepping out of the taxi door and into moving traffic. She’s partially covered by a thick red line, almost cruelly striking her out. Maybe she just needed to leave in a hurry.
When the taxi stops outside 221, John yanks on the handle and launches himself out of the car. I almost think he’s going to try and run. I’d almost be proud of him if he did. I walk away from the cab without my change, don’t look at John, let him make his own decision. He knows; he knows there’s nowhere that he could go, nowhere thatI can’t find him and bring him home to me. I’d travel to the ends of the earth for him, I wouldn’t stop looking for him until I could no longer walk, until my brain collapsed in on itself and my lungs refused to pull in air. He knows.
I unlock the door and he’s behind me, heavy of foot and breath.
There’s a jolt of excitement as my key turns in the lock, anticipation throbbing through me. I step aside for him, a testing hand on his lower back, quietly asserting my presence and bringing him inside, bringing him home. I’m here, John. I’ll always be here. His skin almost ripples at the contact; he still wants to run. He wants to turn and take my wrist, crush it in his strong hand and twist my arm against my back, forcing me hard against the door frame. His shoulder would push against me, pressing my sternum painfully into the hard angle of the wood and he would breathe against my neck and it would make my hair ruffle as it moves across my skin. He would consider snapping the comparatively fragile bones in his grip before dropping it and walking out the door. He wants to but his soldier’s pride won’t let him. He crosses the threshold and I lock the door. There’s a satisfying slide of metal on metal as the outside world disappears behind us.
I keep my eyes on him as he contemplates the hallway for a moment, my hands behind my back almost fumbling as I connect the lock. I should have practised this beforehand. It was simple customising an electromagnetic lock; a few bits of coiled wire and iron hooked up to a power source with an encoded remote control, then embedding a metal plate into the door supports, GCSE grade material really. But knowing its purpose, testing currents and exerting a variety of forces, had made it a project that kept me entertained for most of a day. Really quite engaging.
There is a momentary hum of electricity as the connection is made, but John doesn’t appear to notice. The house is silent, save for the cars on the road outside and the creaking complaints of the stairs as John climbs up them, determined and steady. I watch him as he opens the front door, taking in every twitch of muscle and every darting glance. He arrives at home expecting familiarity and not entirely finding it. A poor facsimile of his memory, the subtle changes of which will become clearer in time.
He’s moved over to his chair and is staring into the middle distance. Evidently he does not intend to be forthcoming with the conversation. No matter. We have the time for him to sulk as long as he sees fit. Time is, most assuredly, on my side.
John’s been reading the paper for three hours. It’s two days old, but I suppose that doesn’t matter when you’ve been sitting in a prison cell. He has started at the beginning again seven times and hasn’t said a word. He’s snorted air from his nostrils twelve times in feigned amusement. He’s not really reading anymore. He hasn’t been for the last 142 minutes. But he’s also resolved himself to silence and seems to have decided that staring at the newspaper is a better use of his time than engaging my company. I’m almost enjoying this game; establishing the beginning dynamics before proceeding with the war of attrition to follow.
John will want to go to bed soon. He’s just been in his chair all evening, assuming, not establishing the new rules. He hasn’t noticed the lock on the front door or the lack of his personal effects in the living room. He’s barely noticed me. Tonight will be the beginning.
He gets up from his armchair, using the palm of his hand to try and rub the stiffness out of his leg. There is a dramatic yawn and a pointed lack of eye contact. He slowly, painfully slowly, climbs the stairs to his room. Each step creaks as he limps onto it awkwardly. I’m waiting. He always used to say I had no patience and he’s not even paying attention now.
There’s silence as he reaches the top, tries his bedroom door and finds it locked. I imagine the frown and the tongue that darts out across his lips and the pause before trying the handle again. The steps begin creaking as he descends.
“My room. It’s locked.” He’s leaning heavily against the door frame.
“Feel free to use my room.”
“Sherlock, I’m not a prisoner here.” There’s a waver of uncertainty in his voice and I suppress a smile through it.
“I believe your freedom is on my terms. Though I can return you to the Yard if you prefer. I’m sure they’ll free up a cell for you with a little notice.”
After a moment of silence, he limps over to the sofa. He folds himself in, lying with his forehead pressed against the back of the sofa. The curved lines of his back taunt me. I had supposed he wouldn’t return to my bed immediately but that didn’t stop me hoping. I can imagine myself pressed up against him, my chin in his hair, chest against his back and legs entwined. My hand would snake over his hip and dip under his clothing. I would run my hands over the skin of his stomach and rest my palm to feel the beat of his heart. I would pull myself tight against him and his body would be surrounded by mine. I would kiss the back of his head and we would fall asleep together.
He won’t be able to sleep on the sofa forever. It holds his shoulder in a way that will exacerbate the occasional muscle contractions he experiences and his leg will put up a fight at staying in a foetal position all night. Time.
He seems more resolute in the morning.
He ignores the breakfast I’ve laid out on the table for him. Doesn’t even comment on the fact that I’m making an effort to look after him now. He walks past the kitchen entirely and heads for the front door. He pauses for a beat as the latch seems useless, stays frozen with one hand on the turned latch and the other on the door handle. I watch him from the top of the stairs.
“Have you changed the lock?” He’s still not looking at me.
“No.”
“Has Mrs Hudson changed the lock?” He thinks I’m being pedantic. He thinks I’m toying with him and I suppose I am but this game is far beyond pedantry. I approach him. I’m not wearing shoes and he seems startled when he hears my reply from behind him. If I’m being accused of it though, I suppose I can indulge myself a little.
“Step aside, John.”
He doesn’t understand but does so anyway. Stepping back more than he has to, to keep me out of his personal space. I’m going to fix the distance between us. It’ll be resolved soon, but now is not the moment for resolutions. I push the lock remote in my pocket and turn the key. The door opens and John is trying to cover his confusion. Having the door ajar makes me nervous. It’s a whimsy and it’s too close to the outside world for comfort. John could run and leave me again. I’d probably manage to find him almost immediately within the perimeter around Baker Street but there’s a chance he could be missing for up to a few days. Maybe weeks. I lock the door again, reconnecting the circuit and exhaling more than natural breathing necessarily required.
I walk back up the kitchen as John tries the lock again and fails to open the door. I very much doubt there is anyone in the world more amusing than John Watson. He doesn’t see my smile, takes no notice of the fondness which I’m sure he would be able to see in my eyes if he would only look at me. He tries the door a few more times.
When he’s given up, he doesn’t ask any questions about the door. He simply sits at the table and eats the scrambled eggs that have certainly gone cold by now.
That afternoon, I leave a present for him in the living room. His laptop (around 15 minutes battery life, no charger) sits on the coffee table. There’s been some slight modifications but he probably won’t notice. Not for a while at least. I sit in my room. My laptop shows the image of his screen as soon as John powers it up. He began using a computer when his therapist told him to and he’s never really taken to it for anything other than necessity. He browses the same three websites, one of which is his email provider, with atomic reliability. I watch the cursor slowly track across the screen, opening the browser with the sites already open in the tabs. The doesn’t notice the additional full stop in the address bars. Of course he doesn’t.
There’s no way for me to suppress the smile as he begins to compose an email. It’s to Harry. He’s asking for help. How sweet. No one else would be able to read the desperation that leaks through in the white spaces between his words, certainly not Harry. John is relentlessly stoic about the whole thing while still managing to pass on Lestrade’s details and asking her to contact him at the soonest possible opportunity. So he’s noticed that he doesn’t have a phone anymore, interesting.
If he tries to look at anything outside his usual browsing practises, he’ll realise. He’ll realise that he’s not in the internet at all. That everything he’s been looking at is a mirror, gathering his information and transmitting it directly to my laptop. I estimate it’ll be at least 3 days before that occurs though. For the moment, he’s safely contained in his own virtual microcosm. Safe.
When he’s typing the last few sentences, his laptop announces its dying battery. He rushes to send it before his screen goes blank. The remote view window blinks closed and I look over his email that’s arrived in my inbox. His words so desperate and yet so hopeful. There’s no doubt in his mind that the email will bring his salvation. So naive.
’I need you, Harry.’ Well, that’s quite simply not good enough.
A few days later, a line is crossed.
As his laptop battery counts down, John begins to compose a new email. This time, he types Mycroft’s public access email in the address bar. There’s a lurch of anger in the pit of my stomach that manifests as pain. I’m curling over the laptop, hugging the psychosomatic spasms and staring at the words appearing on the screen, the letters of betrayal in black and white sans serif.
`He’s gone too far this time. Please help...`
The fact the email will never reach Mycroft is irrelevant. John has been foolish to appeal to him and he needs to know that his actions result in consequences. Obviously provisions have been made for this but I’m disappointed nonetheless. Maybe I’d been the foolish one, thinking that I could force him back into the relationship we used to have, make him love me again just like he used to. The decision to alter my approach eases the wrenching in my gut slightly. The remote screen turns black and I stare at the email, running my fingers across the screen, trying to press the words out of existence and leaving ripples across the pixels of the screen in their wake.
He’s eating the soup.
He hasn’t said thank you. He hasn’t said a word in the last three days, beyond strangled shouts during his sleep. John doesn’t appreciate my looking after him, my making an effort to tend his needs. Was I like this? Probably not. No evidence, better not to hypothesise.
The spices are visible on his skin, his complexion sanguine (in the old sense; but then, what's older than this?). It’s hotter than he would choose for himself but he still doesn’t comment. I’m sitting on the opposing armchair watching him. His nose is running slightly. His socked feet are aggressively grinding along the rough patch in the carpet beside the sofa. He’s resolutely staring at his spoon although there’s an occasional flicker towards me so I knew he’s keeping me in his peripheries. I don’t want to be in the peripheries anymore.
John hasn’t noticed the sedative.
When he’s finished, he rests the bowl on top of the little pile of crockery that’s gathering on the coffee table and sits back. He reads a book as his head begins to slump slowly to one side. He snaps it back a few times before giving in to sleep. John looks relaxed for the first time since coming home; artificially induced sleep suits him.
When I lay him out on my bed, some of the lines have smoothed from his face. His hair has grown out and the ends are beginning to wave outwards slightly, curling around his ears and cushioning his head on the pillow. There’s no tension in his shoulders anymore. He looks handsome. My most treasured possession.
Since he’s returned home, he’s kept his distance. He moved as though I’m a repellent magnetic force, keeping an endless void between us. I’ve held back. I’ve been patient. I’ve waited for him to come round to me, fisting my hands to keep them from shamelessly reaching out for him. I’ve waited long enough.
Beginning with his hair seems like a logical enough decision, and I sit beside him on the bed and run my hands through it. The tiny strands feel strangely integral to the image of ‘John’. If I pulled it out, examined it, it would tell a story. It would show me his age, race, DNA, detail any medication he’d taken while he was away, and a whole host of information about where he’s been, based on the ambient particles still clinging to the hair. The texture is exactly as I remember, but then it’s not as though I expect surprises. The opposite, in fact. I crave familiarity. I want to match the portrait in my head to the warm body in front of me. I want to visualise every part of him and overlay the image with perfect synchronicity. Because I remember it all perfectly.
I know you, John. I know you better than anyone else will ever know you; inside and out. Every line, every mole, every pore is committed to memory. Every scar, every mark. I have a map of you, John Watson, the perfect topographical representation of everything you are and have ever been.
I run my fingertips across his face, tracing the delicate lines across his forehead and around his eyes. There’s a new line, an anomaly, a mark of time and our separation. It runs over the procerus muscle between his eyebrows, obviously stress induced. I touch my lips to the crease, smoothing it for a moment but it folds back as I draw away. The new information is added to the map.
It’s almost not like touching John. John is strong and powerful and this feels impossibly fragile. One slip, one mistake and he could crumble to dust beneath my palms. I undress him carefully, undoing each button in turn, threading his arms out of the sleeves. Soon he'll see how I care for him. I fold the clothes neatly and stack them on the nearby chair where John will be able to see them when he wakes; see what I tried to give him.
Sitting next to him, the angle is uncomfortable. I shift to sit astride him, resting only a fraction of my weight against his hips. His chest rises and falls beneath me. An arm moves slightly. His eyelids flicker in REM sleep. Time passes. I’m held static, an impassive observer as we slowly become reacquainted. My hands itch, reminding me of their presence, urging me into action.
When we first met, his face was tanned, marked by military service and warfare. Time has passed, his skin has tanned and paled twice during the two summers since his medical discharge. It’s paler now, though it’s never really white. There are still the fading marks of sunshine dotted across the soft lines of his cheeks.
There’s time. I can examine him slowly, run my hands over the lines of his torso, trace each individual rib and run my fingers in the furrows between, closer to his heart. I can taste him, the light perspiration that clings to the hair under his arms, the salt in the dip of his throat. Moving lower, I realise I’m hard against him; too wrapped up in John to pay attention to my own body’s response to him.
His hand is slack in mine as I curl his fingers around myself. The shape of his hand envelopes me in blissful familiarity and I can’t breathe anymore as I move his fist within mine. It’s been so long since I’ve touched him, held him, embraced him. Missing him felt like a tight pain, crushing my ribs but now John has returned, the memory of the pain redoubles. How could I have survived this long without him? Why didn’t the crushing pain in my chest crack my ribcage and pierce my lungs? Why didn’t I drown without him? He can never leave again.
I fold over him, no longer able to hold myself upright, and press my face into his neck. It’s warm, it smells just how John always smells and I can feel his pulse beating strong and steady under my lips. My breath on his neck seems to quicken it fractionally. You will never comprehend how much I have missed you.
I can’t control my hips anymore, everything is trembling and shuddering, out of control. The slightest movement of John’s head and he appears to lean into to me, gently resting his head against mine and I’m surrounded by him. It’s too much and the room is loud as I spill myself over his chest. My limbs won’t stop shaking.
John looks beautiful; unguarded and serene and marked by me. My hands find their way into his hair again.
When he wakes, the first thing he does is pull against the handcuffs. He’s still naked and his muscles ripple and flex beneath his skin. My head is resting on his shoulder and I can’t deny myself the little indulgence of leaning over to kiss the shifting flesh.
The realisation is almost immediate and he thrashes for moment, throwing my head away from him, a loud snarl of anger echoing slightly around the room. The blood throbs in the veins around his temples and his back arches away from the mattress. He has all the majesty of a caged lion, straining against his bonds. John, the predator held captive.
When he stills, he huffs a few forceful breaths from his nose before speaking. “Sherlock.” He looks at me, hoping for an explanation before he has to form the words.
“Mycroft, John. I thought I could trust you and then you tried to contact my brother. So now we have to begin again.”
As my words sink in, ’tried to’, he pushes his head backwards into the pillow and stares up at the ceiling.
I leave him to consider the consequences of his actions while I go to make some breakfast.
He resolutely refuses to eat the cereal. I won’t force him to, not yet.
When I return to the room with my shaving equipment and a bowl of warm water, he stills entirely, fixing me with a stare that’s a heady mix of anger, frustration and a hint of fear. He’s silent as I cover the short hair on his chin with foam. I pause before touching his skin with the razor, listening to his quickened breath and feeling the strong beat of his heart where I rest my arm. When the sharp metal makes contact with his cheek, he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to draw into himself. Watching the long, smooth lines, clearing away paths in the foam is mesmerising. One finger motions to tip his head back and he complies silently. When I rest my palm against his throat, gripping lightly and pulling the skin of his neck taught, I can feel a tremor running through the core of him. He’s shaking beneath my touch, trembling in my care as I clean him, look after him. I want to lick the smooth skin that lies in the wake of the razor. I wait. Look how patient I am now, John. Are you proud of me?
“We’re going to do this slowly.” His eyes have been closed but as I speak they flash open and find me.
“Sherlock, please just unlock the cuffs. This is ridiculous, you can’t do this.”
“Evidence would suggest otherwise, John.” He looks powerful laid out on the bed, his chest taking in wide breaths and his arms muscular and straining. He looks as though he could snap the metal that binds him and turn it to dust, like he’s only remaining there to obey me, to prove that he can be trusted and be mine again. I run my fingers through the soft hair covering his left shin.
“Well, can I at least have some clothes?” He shifts his thighs, moving his legs at an awkward angle in some vague insinuation of covering himself. Nudity was not something that embarrassed John, the military has taught him well in that regard, but vulnerability was. The feeling of exposure, a total openness to outside scrutiny, was something that did not sit well with him.
“I hope you can, John.” It isn’t even a lie; I hope he’ll earn his clothing back soon. It will mean progress has been made. “I’m even willing to forget about your little transgression with breakfast, if you’re more cooperative from now on.”
“I suppose I don’t have any choice.”
“You’ve already made your choice.”
John rocks his head to the side, signalling the end of the conversation. He repositions his shoulder by rippling his spine against the mattress, incidentally shifting his flaccid penis against his leg. Every twitch, every flex holds my attention. John is a locked room murder crime scene with no clues and no motive. I can’t look away.