Lovers in Captivity 2/2
He wasn’t paying attention to John. There was a crime scene and it looked to be the work of a budding serial killer; someone petty and vicious but interesting. It was well known that serial killers didn’t happen often enough to keep Sherlock amused. The motive was the best part, difficult to suss out from the clues. Emotionally driven creatures were a bit of a hobby for him. In the same way that he used to collect insects as a child to categorize their differences and similarities trying to understand them.
John was discussing something with Lestrade, but there was an interesting smudge on the wall behind him. It was out of place, it looked more like soot than grime. Sherlock needed a closer look; there were no candles in the room. Bathroom maybe. Girls often keep candles in the bathroom, logical place to look. First, a closer look at the smudge.
Sherlock reached out to touch John on his way by. It had become habit for them at home and while Sherlock had sort of obliquely realized that John was behaving slightly differently here in public while Sherlock didn’t feel the need to do the same. He slid his hand softly across John’s back.
What John didn’t realize that if Lestrade didn’t pick up on the obvious clues Sherlock had left just for this very purpose he didn’t deserve to be a DI. Still, Sherlock hadn’t meant it quite like this. John stilled and leaned back into his hand as it rested in the centre of his back. He couldn’t feel the keyhole through the layers but he knew the exact spot.
“Move.” Sherlock commanded.
Lestrade frowned hard at him but wouldn’t say anything. John stepped out of his way, shrugging his shoulders in order to slip out from under Sherlock’s hand.
“Something interesting?” John asked, taking a step out of Sherlock’s space.
“If there is anything tell me. I would like to get on with my investigation.” Lestrade sounded irritated as par the usual.
“Your investigation was turning up nothing but leads and old shoes.” Anderson and the forensics pack had found a mess of shoe prints and were devoting a large chunk of their time and resources to analyzing the patters. Sherlock could have told you the prints were a result of a house party the young lady had thrown two nights previous and had been too ill to properly clean up after.
“If you have anything useful spit it out or get out, you know the drill by now.”
“Stop talking and I might be able to work.” Sherlock bit back. Of course it was John, whom always sort of faded into the backdrop in the past, which was proving to be unusually distracting. Sherlock brushed past him, John would be there later. It was four days until he would need to be wound up again. And all the blood in the world couldn’t quite seem to wash that thought from his brain.
Lestrade visibly bit something behind his teeth. The case must have been riding him pretty hard for him to get snippy when Sherlock hadn’t even begun the campaign to irritate him. It wasn’t as much fun if Sherlock didn’t need to put any effort into it.
“Is there a fireplace in this building?” Sherlock asked snappishly. Not a candle, no candle could make that sort of soot, wasn’t waxy enough.
“No.”
“What about downstairs?” John asked. Of course, houses like these in big student neighbourhoods were often older nicer houses converted into apartments in the upstairs and downstairs.
Sherlock flew down the stairs, coat threatening to tangle around his legs (he was good at dealing with that), Lestrade squawking behind him, shouting meaningless things about warrants and protocol. Sherlock hammered on the door. He had an idea.
There was a low moan from inside, ‘help’ almost too faint to hear. He hadn’t expected this, for the perpetrator to come in through the downstairs apartment yes, but for there to be someone else not so much.
“Lestrade, there is a severely injured victim on the other side of this door.”
“What? Really?”
“I’d advice calling an ambulance, and finding a way to get this door down. This is our mistake, every serial killer has one. He was distracted by Amanda upstairs and left this one alive.”
“Shit.” Lestrade swore softly and began shouting instructions at the PCs. Sherlock debated it for a moment. Decided that he wanted to see the apartment before they rushed in and destroyed anything of value. He tried the knob, but it was locked, automatically locking or had they locked the door behind them? Sherlock knelt next to the door, reaching into his coat for the dental picks he kept in a special pocket. He pressed all the pins down and twisted them until the whole mechanism let out a little satisfied click and he was able to twist the handle open.
John almost bowled him over rushing into the room.
It was a bloody mess. Sherlock appraised the damage. The only foot prints were going up the stairs, so they had spent enough time in here to get clean. He was getting more confident wasn’t he? Cocky, this was good. Once Sherlock had appraised the damage, a broken window latch and a knocked over vase implied that was how he gained entrance.
“Sherlock!” John snapped at him and Sherlock jerked at the sound, narrowing his eyes in annoyance that John would interrupt him when he was gathering vital evidence. “Pass me that jumper.”
Sherlock looked at the victim, silently surprised that she was even alive. She’d been bludgeoned to the head multiple times. Left naked and in a pool over he own blood. John was murmuring to her in a low voice, assessing the damage with steady hands. Sherlock huffed and tossed him the jumper, he had assumed that John was perfectly capable of handling the injured woman on his own. Clearly his faith in the doctor’s skill was over-estimated.
Sherlock was looking at a closet (the girl had a boyfriend who wasn’t present, had she been stalked before hand? The body upstairs may have just been a lucky shot for him, the girl down here he had cleaned up after, the intended target. Why the soot?) when the wail of the ambulance cut through the evening.
“Hear that? Help’s on the way.” Sherlock wasn’t sure why he was listening to John. He moved across the room to the half-boarded off fire-place, it may have been the source of the soot. There were clear indications on the carpet that there used to be a small table pushed up where the fireplace was more decorative now.
Something interesting?
The sirens came to a crescendo, sound threatening to break his concentration. Sherlock was half in the fireplace when the attendants rushed in their boots trampling and heavy on all possible delicate evidence there. He made note of them, watched as John ducked out of their way. He came to stand just off of Sherlock’s right.
“I think she might pull through.” John said.
Sherlock hummed, good, she might be able to draw the attacker. Of course the human mind was usually a fallible thing and the chances of a useful composite were low. Besides Sherlock just needed some more time with the scene...
~~
Sherlock blinked and four days had gone by.
He had no doubts that John was there the whole time. He’d been having episodes where he would lose himself in thought and continue to talk to John even when he wasn’t there. As if he’d finally got used to speaking out loud. Gotten so used to having John in his space that he simply continued to act as if he were there even when he wasn’t.
Half the reason he always kept his thought process to himself was because Lestrade hated it. Of course Lestrade never got that awed and amazed look when Sherlock talked him through some simple inferences.
There had been a chase across London, Sherlock had stumbled upon him in an attempt to murder another girl, Sherlock had thought it was his house the clues were leading him too. As it turned out Sherlock was right about the stalking, it was chronic enough that the traces on his shoes led them here rather than his own abode. It was always something wasn’t it?
Two days of running around only to culminate in Sherlock tackling the man to the ground while John helpfully jumped on top of the pile the two of them panting and pinning him to the ground. He was disarmed and tied with John’s belt while Sherlock phoned Lestrade and told him to send his men in. In the giddy rush of it all Sherlock kissed John’s temple, wet and hot with adrenaline-tanged sweat that was tart on his lips long after he licked his lips.
After that they ate as was customary. John had been tired; the signs were obvious, pallor with marked swelling under his eyes. Sherlock kissed the flutter of his eyelashes and jerked him off while he bit off curses and demands against Sherlock’s collarbone. He’d been too tired and too eager in equal parts to put up more of a token protest. Then they tried the blowjob thing again.
Now Sherlock was awake and staring at John eating his breakfast.
“I want to see the key.”
John gave him a little amused smile. “Was it too much to expect you to forget about that?”
“I never forget interesting things.” John just grinned softly at him. If it had been anyone else Sherlock might have been confused by the expression but this was John, this was John looking fond. It was disturbingly almost the same look he gave puppies.
“Okay fine. I’ll bring it back.” He said simply, neither happy nor sad about this.
Sherlock followed him all the way to Harry’s out of habit. John was reassuringly easy to follow; Sherlock knew how fast he liked to walk (versus how fast he had to walk to keep up with Sherlock’s longer and often impatient stride). Sherlock knew that John preferred to keep to one side of the station rarely using the other gates in and out of the subway unless there was a sizable cue.
Sat in the cafe and sipped tea watching Harry’s building. He was thrumming with excitement. The thrill of something entirely new and exciting. After memorizing the feel of it under his hands and tongue he’d come to just accept it as there. It was physiologically impossible and if John had been one of the bodies in the morgue Sherlock would have been delirious with the implications of it.
The idea of John being dead was both fascinating and uncomfortable. So Sherlock picked at the thought while he sat sipping his too-hot tea. He imagined all the different ways John could have been murdered, all the different ways Sherlock had already almost gotten him killed. That thought sat uncomfortably. If John was gone there would be no more tea, no more of those kisses Sherlock was just beginning to get used to.
John was coming out of the building and Sherlock left the rest of his tea half-drank as he followed him down the street. Sherlock was actually a little pleased that John didn’t really look shocked when Sherlock stepped into place beside him with a casual brush across his elbow by way of greeting.
“I should have known.” John said tiredly.
“Yes.” Sherlock hummed in agreement. He should have. “Do you have it?” He was all but bouncing as he walked.
“Sherlock.” John said with a bit of unexpected gravitas.
“Can I see it?” It wasn’t a question, it was a demand and he cut John off with a curt tone. He wanted to feel it between his fingers and explore the little teeth. He’d imagined what kind of key would fit there while he fingered it.
“Sherlock.” John grabbed at his elbow. Sherlock reacted to the touch, “listen to me.”
Sherlock sighed and used his body to back John into a doorway. The door was green and freshly painted the paint strokes uneven, taken with the flower pots, clearly an elderly couple that lived there. It gave them a little privacy from the people wandering down the pavement. Sherlock’s coat all but hid John’s shorter body from sight.
“What?” He was going to flag a taxi and it was going to take them straight home. John was being unnecessarily bothersome again. John tilted his head back looking up at Sherlock defiantly.
“There is only one key.” John said and Sherlock thought about that. “I need you to understand that.”
“That’s kind of stupid.” Sherlock’s mouth twisted.
“I’ve tried to have duplicates made but it doesn’t work. I’ve never been able to figure out why. Do you understand what I mean Sherlock?” John had that ‘at attention’ air the kind of face he pulled when he was trying to make a point.
“Yes of course, let me see it.” Sherlock hissed. John looked like he was about to say something else pointless so Sherlock pressed a hard kiss to his mouth and bit the words away. John didn’t say anything, he did make a shocked sort of sound, hands coming up to Sherlock’s arms to push him away. While he was distracted Sherlock slipped a hand inside his open coat and lifted the key from the inside breast. John should have seen this one coming too.
“Not here.” John hissed, face pale except for the bright flush. They were young and in a trendy part of London, no one was going to pause at two men kissing. He gave John a grin and examined the key he’d pulled out of his pocket.
It wasn’t a key like for a tumbler lock. He couldn’t pick it the way he’d had the girl’s door from days ago. It was more like the types of keys to wind up old clocks and toys. There was a small peg on the end that clearly fit with something mysterious inside. The handle was intricate, beautifully carved but without all the usual tool marks associated with metal work.
Sherlock wondered if he could shine a light into the key hole and maybe set up mirrors to get a good look what was inside. He wanted to know. An MRI might work as well, X-rays?
Sherlock strode past him and hailed a taxi, John dogging his heels eyes fixed on the key with obvious worry.
“Where did it come from?” A black taxi separated from the pack and stopped in front of them. Out of amusement he noted the driver. The odds of two murderous cab drivers were slim admittedly. Mostly he was too absorbed in the key. The head had been what made the scratches on the hole obviously. It would be completely impossible for John to get the key into the hole and wind it himself. Someone must have always done it for him. Harry? Couldn’t possibly have always been Harry. What about when he was serving?
“I was born with it.” John sighed, resigned but still weary. As if Sherlock were going to drop it down between the seat cushions or something else equally idiotic.
“How?” There was one long thin and faintly wavy hairs wrapped around some of the metal-work. One of Harry’s obvious as it was a faintly darker shade than John’s own.
“It was in my mouth.”
It was a story as if out of a fairy tale. Somewhere there was a witch and a hidden moral in here. Sherlock slipped the key into his own pocket much to John’s distaste. “Have you had an x-ray?”
“Yes.” Right, that was a stupid question. Psychosomatic limp and bullet to the shoulder. “Nothing shows up.”
“And if you don’t wind it?”
“Progressive central nervous system failure.”
“Interesting.” Sherlock smiled widely.
“I don’t think so.” John said giving him a dark look. Sherlock kissed him again because it was indeed a lot like Christmas.
~~
“Hold still.” Sherlock admonished, digging his fingers into John’s hips to still their shifting.
“Sherlock.” John tried to be stern but it didn’t quite work, not that Sherlock would have listened to him anyways. John very rarely had anything of importance to say. “Please.” He groaned only a step above whining.
“Still.” John groaned and shifted on his shoulders. His back was warm and flushed, his hairline beginning to shine with sweat. They had been on the couch, John pinning Sherlock into the cushions and lazily licking into his mouth while shifting against the sharp planes of Sherlock’s hips.
They had been winding each other up all morning, figuratively as John wasn’t due any time soon.
Sherlock bent over his back, ignoring the instincts to push and push and push until he’d managed to crawl into John. Or at least fuck his way into a few moments of mindless pleasure. John’s shoulder was warm under his own flushed cheek, and Sherlock didn’t even bothered to check which shoulder it was because that wasn’t the most interesting part of John anymore.
No, there, there, there. John shivered as Sherlock shifted his feet, his hips pushing forward without conscious thought seeking the tightness and heat. He had taken his time lying on his back John perched on his chest gripping the head board and watching him with wide eyes and Sherlock stretched him open with his fingers. When John had rolled onto his side he was well-stretched and ready, letting just sink inside.
Sherlock pressed a kiss to that little spot. Where against all possibilities the scratches were healing the metal smoothing out over time. Sherlock used a delicate touch when he wound it. He didn’t ruin everything the way Mycroft implied.
“Sherlock!” John groaned, trying to dip his hips and goad Sherlock into movement.
He considered not doing as John wanted, but he had never been good at denying himself anything he wanted.
It seemed no matter how often they did this Sherlock wouldn’t or couldn’t get board of it. Between cases before the ennui could rob him of the will to do things, Sherlock would test the edges of John’s stamina. Even now, each moment was new. The play of Sherlock’s bedroom lights over his shoulders and the knot of scar tissue there. The way his thighs flexed and shifted as he tried to fuck himself back on Sherlock’s cock. Even that wasn’t new, but it was delightful.
John arched and wiggled and tried to dictate the pace no matter where Sherlock put his hands to try and retake control of the situation. He scraped his teeth across the faint rise of the scapular arch with his teeth when he came. The rush of endorphins was a particular and short-lived high; particular in a way that Sherlock found himself completely addicted to.
“Please.” John bit out. What or who he was asking was redundant as Sherlock continued to fuck him, pushing himself deeper into the sticky mess he’d made. The sensation was sharp and verging on too much for his screaming nerves so soon after his orgasm. John was jerking himself off moving under Sherlock to push into the tunnel of his fist.
John came with a bitten off curse. Sherlock pushed him through it. Finally collapsing in a pile, keeping John trapped under him despite the tackiness of their skin sticking together.
Capable fingers, John did lots of things with those fingers, carded through his hair, pushing it off Sherlock’s forehead while they kissed lazily in the aftermath.
“You know,” John said, with a sigh that indicated that Sherlock was heavy and John wasn’t fond of being squished but had grown resigned of reminding Sherlock about this, “I’m going to develop a complex that you only like me because I’m a medical mystery.”
“Perish the thought John.” Sherlock sniffed, ignoring the fact that he was essentially sniffing against John’s hair where he was resting his face. “It’s not the only reason.”
John giggled, and Sherlock clutched him tighter because he didn’t like the space between them.
~~
Irene was a fascinating person. She knew Sherlock’s habits well and played them against him. He could admire the strength and fortitude in a person. That she was a woman was as irrelevant as John was blond. He wasn’t sure why Molly was making a fuss about that of all things. She also dyed her hair but this didn’t seem to be an offence.
No, she was upset that Sherlock was getting close to a woman.
There hadn’t really been anyone else like her before. She displayed her intent in garish and an exaggerated fashion that said she would be disappointed if Sherlock fell for it the way the rest of the world did. He couldn’t be the only one who got bored after all. Moriarty had proved that.
She made John nervous, but Mycroft made John nervous so that wasn’t a good measurement at all. Without his measuring stick for things that were good/not good Sherlock simply took her as she was. An exquisite human being who commanded emotions the same way Sherlock commanded facts.
“And what of John?” She breathed, looking at him her pupils dilating.
“John is.” Sherlock said simply, touching her wrist and measuring the pulse with the pads of his fingers.
“John is what?” She was of course referring to John’s loyalty and admiration and all those things that were tangled up between them.
Everything? Fascinating? “Due home any minute.” Sherlock said at last, letting her hand drop. It was time to wind him up again tomorrow. It was the only thing that could give Sherlock pause when there was a case on.
It was impossible to tell if she was disappointed or not. She was interesting. But she wasn’t John, and she couldn’t be him; her will was too strong. She was too independent. At least she was interesting for awhile and Sherlock wasn’t going to forget anything about her.
~~
Sherlock began hiding the key.
At first John seemed a little worried about it. That phase passed quickly when Sherlock wouldn’t budge on the subject. At first he searched for it but the key was small and there was a lot of stuff crammed into their flat. So many hiding places. Eventually he just gave up and Sherlock didn’t question the decision. Now John simply trusted that Sherlock would have the key when he needed it and give it back to John when he needed him to.
Listening to John terrified in the Baskerville institute Sherlock felt something tugging in his stomach. It wasn’t the same feeling he got when they had sex but it was close. He felt powerful, like an angry god. Watching he came to understand a lot of things, most of them were related to the case, but there was the small completely certain realization that Sherlock would destroy anyone else who put that same note of absolute terror in John’s voice. Why Sherlock was allowed to was an uncomfortable question, he just could because John would forgive him for it.
John shouldn’t trust him to give the key back; Sherlock was beginning to think that Lestrade had been wrong about him being a good man all along. Still Sherlock solved the case and everything went back to normal.
~~
Sherlock hadn’t understood the need for secrecy until Moriarty was in their house. Until Moriarty was so big he eclipsed everything else in Sherlock’s life. He could see the net closing in around him even as it was getting tighter. It was delicate as to be beautiful. At the heart of it all the far spider, watching as the fly struggled, snaring himself tighter and tighter.
For once John’s oddity; his miracle wasn’t just that something entrancing and amazing. It was a weakness; and Sherlock had never seen it the way John saw it. John had always flushed when Sherlock touched it in the mornings, pressing John against the unforgiving line of the counter as he made breakfast for both of them. Despite living with it his whole life, or maybe because of it John wasn’t comfortable with the key hole.
Sherlock kissed his shoulder; he was sitting against the headboard and John between his spread legs. John was shirtless and Sherlock was gentle not to scrape the metal. All the scratches had healed so at least this part of John was in mint condition.
“Sherlock?” John said softly.
“Yes?” Sherlock answered, he twirled the key around his fingers watching the rhythmic shift of John’s slow even breathing.
“I-“ John paused. His breath caught a little as Sherlock slid the key into the mechanism slick and easy the way they fucked. John couldn’t tell him what it felt like. The only way he’d been able to explain it was afterwards he felt like he had just drank a strong cup of coffee. It was ten complete circles to the right, gooseflesh breaking across John’s nape. “Thanks.” He said hoarsely, shifting back against Sherlock.
“My pleasure.” Sherlock replied.
Because there was a case on Sherlock put John in bed and was back downstairs going over evidence within the hour.
~~
For the first time since he’d been aware he’d been born at a disadvantage John didn’t think about the wind-up mechanism in his back. He didn’t think about anything as Sherlock jumped; no rational thought could get through the horror.
Even days later John was still confused. Sherlock wasn’t the kind of man who could fail, it was like learning that the sky was purple it just screamed against every rational and sane part of him. The thought of Sherlock not being Sherlock was just fundamentally wrong. He didn’t go back to the flat, instead opting to crash on Sarah’s couch before Harry’s in an attempt to ignore the fact that he’d had his metaphorical legs taken out from under him.
Each day was a brittle exercise in coping. John had years of not falling apart to fall back on. Each day was a victory and this went on for two weeks to the day. On the fourteenth day he went to Sherlock’s grave. He’d need to go back today. Perhaps it wouldn’t be as bad as he imagined.
221B Baker Street was unsurprisingly soaked in Sherlock. From the haphazard pile of books in the sitting room the almost compulsive organization of his own bedroom. John stood in the middle of the most familiar place on earth. Sherlock’s last half-finished chemistry experiment was sitting on the kitchen table near a cup of tea that had more than a little gone off by now. Mrs. Hudson offered to have people come in and clean up but John had said no. This was still his house for a little longer. Besides he couldn’t have strangers exposed to what was in the fridge, it could be a biohazard. That was just a law-suit waiting to happen.
John tore the place apart looking for the key. After the first room he abandoned putting things back after he had looked through them. He made a gleeful mess of Sherlock’s room, socks strewn all across the floor in his search. He tore the sheets from the bed and left them in a pile that still sort of smelled like stale sweat and Sherlock’s body wash.
“Where did you put it?” John asked the still apartment. The first place he’d looked was the violin case, ignoring Sherlock’s derisive voice in his head ‘obvious’. He should have asked, should have made Sherlock give it back in between when it was needed. He should have never gotten so complacent.
John didn’t even realize he was breathing high and desperate until it made his head swim with hyperventilation. Now wasn’t time for the breakdown he’d been putting off but it was the first time he felt safe in weeks.
John didn’t cry so much as he sat down hard on the stairs leading up to his room in the debris of all the books on their shelves strewn across the floor like so many paper pulp corpses and fell apart. He had his face between his hands trying to control his breathing when he heard the sharp rap of something against the door.
“Good evening Dr. Watson.” John watched Mycroft’s shiny shoes and the point of his umbrella digging into the carpet.
“I don’t want to see you.” John said tiredly. He couldn’t forgive Mycroft what he’d done. Not now and probably not ever.
“I appreciate your sentiment but I am bound by vow to come and see you so if you will bear with me. I believe you’re looking for this.” John looked up to find the key dangling from a thin metal chain he’d seen Sherlock sometimes wear.
“Give it back.” John held out his palm frowning.
“I don’t think I shall; as I said I made a vow and Sherlock will have use for it still.”