Fic: Hearts Filthy Mess, 4/7 | Sherlock (BBC) | NC-17 | Sherlock/Greg, Sherlock/John
Title: Hearts Filthy Mess
Authors: aeron_lanart, fred_bear aka
Jennybel75, mandatorily
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade
Pairings: Sherlock/Greg, Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17 overall for language, concepts and smut. This part R
Spoilers: Spoilers up to and including S2 ep1
Warnings: Beware of the Angst! Slight injury in the service of a case.
Summary: "You see but you do not observe." John discovers that impressions, like nail varnish, can hide much beneath an impenetrably opaque surface.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes belongs to ACD, though this incarnation is the responsibility of a certain Mr Moffat, Mr Gatiss and the BBC. No copyright infringement intended, no profit made; this is just for fun!
A/N 1: Written in collaboration for this prompt on the Sherlock kink meme friending post -
John has a bit of a kink for pretty boys in eyeliner (he refers to it as guyliner). He suspects it comes from listening to lots of Bowie as a kid and watching Rocky Horror once too often with Harry. One day John comes home to find Sherlock wearing guyliner, maybe for a case, maybe for an experiment. It makes John all hot, bothered and wibbly. Bonus points if Sherlock's wearing the type of clothes you'd go out goth clubbing in. Can also be read at AO3.
Please note that the fic is complete, so, if you're reading, you won't have to wait for months for an update!
Hearts Filthy Mess
*
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
*
~ Chapter 4 ~
*
Adrenaline crashed through John in a useless fight or flight response; he'd left it too long to flee, even to the relative safety of his own room, and there was no way he was going to fight either Greg or Sherlock. If nothing else, the adrenaline at least swept away his exhaustion and gave the fevered meanderings of his thoughts some clarity and direction. Hand on the banister, he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and tried not to berate himself for being forty types of fool. Then, as footsteps, laughter and voices made their way up from the hall, he turned and headed back down the stairs from his room. If this was going to be a battle of sorts, which almost seemed inevitable now, he would choose his ground carefully, and that was not going to be on the stairs and at a disadvantage. He headed for the kitchen; tea could be both weapon and shield and right now he needed something to do that wasn't out of character or both Greg and Sherlock would notice his turmoil the instant they laid eyes on him. He was pleased his hands didn't shake as he filled the kettle and switched it on.
Greg and Sherlock barrelled through the flat door on a tide of laughter. It was like a knife to John's guts, but he could hide it, just like he'd hidden so many other wounds - physical and otherwise - over the years. And hide it he would for the sake of friendship, for love, no matter how much it hurt.
"Successful night, then?" He asked, keeping his voice light. Greg whirled 'round to face the kitchen in shock and John would have laughed at the expression on his face if he hadn't felt so agitated.
"John! Why…?"
"He couldn't sleep, why else?" Sherlock replied in a flat, disinterested tone of voice. He was still wrapped in the long black coat and looked just as sinfully gorgeous as when he'd left, even though his hair had deflated slightly. "Worried, I expect."
John bit back a particularly vicious curse and took a deep breath. Yes, of course he had been worried, even without the visions provided by his unhelpful brain, but with the sort of emphasis Sherlock put on 'worried', it seemed that 'how tiresome' was almost audible. He sighed.
"Sherlock, I don't 'worry' about you; I exhibit genuine and professional concern for your welfare based on the evidence that you have virtually none for yourself."
"You have to admit he has a point, Sherlock," said Greg with a twitch of his mouth that wasn't - quite - a smile.
"I admit nothing." Sherlock flounced off in the direction of the sofa and threw himself into its squishy embrace, coat and all. Greg shook his head in what appeared to be fond exasperation and turned back towards John. He looked tired, but surprisingly peaceful which, in John's experience, wasn’t exactly normal during a case.
"So?" John prompted.
"Yeah, it was a successful night. We got our guy and emerged relatively unscathed, always a bonus."
John really didn't like the sound of that.
"Relatively unscathed?" He knew how he sounded, a lot of junior medics and army personnel would recognise the cold and steely tone. Greg obviously did too, and took a step backwards which pleased a part of John no end, especially in his current frame of mind.
"He had a knife, but no serious damage was done."
Icy fingers ran down John's spine. Nonononono. That couldn't be right. It was impossible. He'd been dreaming. That's all it was, a dream, not reality. But… He stomped on his emotions, took refuge behind a cool façade that had never been further from how he actually felt. He wouldn't let Greg see the mess he was in. He couldn't.
"I'll be the judge of that, Greg. You? Or him?" The jerk of Greg's head in Sherlock's direction was all the answer John required. He stormed over to the sofa but stopped short of dragging Sherlock upright and paused for a moment, breathing heavily. Sherlock deigned to at least turn over and face him.
"And when were you going to inform me that you'd been injured?" John demanded.
"I wasn't. It was a superficial cut and didn't require stitching."
"In whose expert opinion?"
"Mine, of course. Lestrade dealt with it."
"Did he, by God?" John closed his eyes for a moment, fists clenched tightly at his sides until his nails dug into his palms. Hopefully Greg and Sherlock would read his reaction purely as anger from being deceived and not as the creeping panic and terror that was the reality. The fear - and increasing certainty - that what he had 'seen' was the truth and not just the product of his imagination was almost overwhelming.
"John, I…"
"Stay out of this," John spat out in Greg's direction. He was not in the mood to be dealing with an apologetic Greg, not when all he wanted to do was deck him for daring to touch Sherlock. John took a step backwards and slowly, carefully, unclenched his fists.
"I'm fine, John."
"Well, forgive me if I don't believe you, Sherlock. If you don't get that coat off in the next minute and let me look at that 'cut', I'll take it off for you and I might not be very gentle about it."
He didn't mention that he probably wouldn't want to stop at the coat, and hoped those particular unprofessional thoughts didn't show too clearly in his face.
John was surprised when Sherlock only muttered a vague and unintelligible protest as he complied. The coat was carefully laid aside and Sherlock turned back to face him as he sat on the edge of the sofa. He hadn't removed the waistcoat but the knife slice through the mesh of the t-shirt and the neat, white dressing were clearly visible.
Visible, and in exactly the position John had expected, had seen. Jesus.
The only leavening factor in the morass of his feelings was that there was just the merest pinprick of bloody strike-through onto the dressing, which meant, in all fairness, that Sherlock was probably right and that if John did remove the dressing, he'd end up disturbing the wound and cause it to bleed again. Not a good idea, by any stretch of the imagination. Be that as it may, he still wanted, needed, to be sure so he stretched out a hand and pushed the waistcoat off Sherlock's shoulder to expose more of the damaged t-shirt and the dressing beneath. With careful fingers he explored the skin around the dressing and - very gently - the wound area itself; there was no swelling under the dressing and no unhealthy heat in the surrounding skin that he could feel. All appeared to be well, which meant that Greg had actually done a reasonable job. Sherlock didn't flinch at the probing touch and didn't say anything to distract John from his examination, which was a relief as he didn't think he could have dealt with any of Sherlock's smart-arsery. He paused for a moment and laid his hand on Sherlock's chest. The beat of Sherlock's heart beneath his fingers calmed him, until he realised his touch echoed the one he'd 'seen' Greg make earlier, before…
John removed his hand as if he'd been burned and almost yanked the waistcoat back into position.
"You'll do," he said to Sherlock, then turned, reluctantly, towards Greg. Certain things had to be said, no matter what he was feeling. "Thank you for taking care of him. I appreciate it." He did, truly, though it was kind of hard work to convince himself of the fact. That he found some small comfort in knowing that Greg would keep an eye on Sherlock in more ways than one when he was no longer there only served to demonstrate how deeply Sherlock had wormed his way under John's skin.
Greg shrugged. "Old habit. Until you came along, no-one else could be bothered."
John could have done without being reminded of the years of history Greg had with Sherlock. He nodded briefly in acknowledgement, then headed back into the kitchen in an effort to avoid speaking to or looking at either of them. Sherlock also remained silent.
John heard the jingle that betrayed Greg's movement and looked up to find he'd disappeared from view. There was a faint murmur from the living room, followed by a terse and incomprehensible grunt. He turned his attention to the ritual of tea-making and didn't even attempt to make out what Greg had said to Sherlock, he felt it was better not to know. Another jingle broke his concentration and when he turned around he was surprised to find Greg hovering at the side of the kitchen entrance closest to the flat door.
"It's late, I'd best be going," Greg said. He cast a glance in Sherlock's direction, then back at John. "Tell himself thanks for his help when he's in a better mood, won't you?"
"Of course."
Greg turned to go, then spun back around to face John. He looked… concerned. Great. That was all John needed.
"Are you OK, John?"
"I'm fine. Really. Nothing that a bit of sleep won't sort out." It wasn't quite an untruth, John was sure his head would be a lot more together once he wasn't so stupid with exhaustion and emotion.
"As long as you’re sure?" John gave Greg another brisk nod, wanting him to get the hell out sooner rather than later. Greg didn’t look entirely convinced but he appeared to accept John’s assertion. "I'll be seeing you, then."
John saw him to the door, but it wasn't out of politeness; he wanted to lock it behind Greg just to make sure he didn't return. Tired or not, he and Sherlock were going to have to talk, and there was no way he could wait until morning, not any more.
Chapter 5
This entry was originally posted at http://a-lanart.dreamwidth.org/242082.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Authors: aeron_lanart, fred_bear aka
Jennybel75, mandatorily
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade
Pairings: Sherlock/Greg, Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17 overall for language, concepts and smut. This part R
Spoilers: Spoilers up to and including S2 ep1
Warnings: Beware of the Angst! Slight injury in the service of a case.
Summary: "You see but you do not observe." John discovers that impressions, like nail varnish, can hide much beneath an impenetrably opaque surface.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes belongs to ACD, though this incarnation is the responsibility of a certain Mr Moffat, Mr Gatiss and the BBC. No copyright infringement intended, no profit made; this is just for fun!
A/N 1: Written in collaboration for this prompt on the Sherlock kink meme friending post -
John has a bit of a kink for pretty boys in eyeliner (he refers to it as guyliner). He suspects it comes from listening to lots of Bowie as a kid and watching Rocky Horror once too often with Harry. One day John comes home to find Sherlock wearing guyliner, maybe for a case, maybe for an experiment. It makes John all hot, bothered and wibbly. Bonus points if Sherlock's wearing the type of clothes you'd go out goth clubbing in. Can also be read at AO3.
Please note that the fic is complete, so, if you're reading, you won't have to wait for months for an update!
Hearts Filthy Mess
*
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
*
~ Chapter 4 ~
*
Adrenaline crashed through John in a useless fight or flight response; he'd left it too long to flee, even to the relative safety of his own room, and there was no way he was going to fight either Greg or Sherlock. If nothing else, the adrenaline at least swept away his exhaustion and gave the fevered meanderings of his thoughts some clarity and direction. Hand on the banister, he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and tried not to berate himself for being forty types of fool. Then, as footsteps, laughter and voices made their way up from the hall, he turned and headed back down the stairs from his room. If this was going to be a battle of sorts, which almost seemed inevitable now, he would choose his ground carefully, and that was not going to be on the stairs and at a disadvantage. He headed for the kitchen; tea could be both weapon and shield and right now he needed something to do that wasn't out of character or both Greg and Sherlock would notice his turmoil the instant they laid eyes on him. He was pleased his hands didn't shake as he filled the kettle and switched it on.
Greg and Sherlock barrelled through the flat door on a tide of laughter. It was like a knife to John's guts, but he could hide it, just like he'd hidden so many other wounds - physical and otherwise - over the years. And hide it he would for the sake of friendship, for love, no matter how much it hurt.
"Successful night, then?" He asked, keeping his voice light. Greg whirled 'round to face the kitchen in shock and John would have laughed at the expression on his face if he hadn't felt so agitated.
"John! Why…?"
"He couldn't sleep, why else?" Sherlock replied in a flat, disinterested tone of voice. He was still wrapped in the long black coat and looked just as sinfully gorgeous as when he'd left, even though his hair had deflated slightly. "Worried, I expect."
John bit back a particularly vicious curse and took a deep breath. Yes, of course he had been worried, even without the visions provided by his unhelpful brain, but with the sort of emphasis Sherlock put on 'worried', it seemed that 'how tiresome' was almost audible. He sighed.
"Sherlock, I don't 'worry' about you; I exhibit genuine and professional concern for your welfare based on the evidence that you have virtually none for yourself."
"You have to admit he has a point, Sherlock," said Greg with a twitch of his mouth that wasn't - quite - a smile.
"I admit nothing." Sherlock flounced off in the direction of the sofa and threw himself into its squishy embrace, coat and all. Greg shook his head in what appeared to be fond exasperation and turned back towards John. He looked tired, but surprisingly peaceful which, in John's experience, wasn’t exactly normal during a case.
"So?" John prompted.
"Yeah, it was a successful night. We got our guy and emerged relatively unscathed, always a bonus."
John really didn't like the sound of that.
"Relatively unscathed?" He knew how he sounded, a lot of junior medics and army personnel would recognise the cold and steely tone. Greg obviously did too, and took a step backwards which pleased a part of John no end, especially in his current frame of mind.
"He had a knife, but no serious damage was done."
Icy fingers ran down John's spine. Nonononono. That couldn't be right. It was impossible. He'd been dreaming. That's all it was, a dream, not reality. But… He stomped on his emotions, took refuge behind a cool façade that had never been further from how he actually felt. He wouldn't let Greg see the mess he was in. He couldn't.
"I'll be the judge of that, Greg. You? Or him?" The jerk of Greg's head in Sherlock's direction was all the answer John required. He stormed over to the sofa but stopped short of dragging Sherlock upright and paused for a moment, breathing heavily. Sherlock deigned to at least turn over and face him.
"And when were you going to inform me that you'd been injured?" John demanded.
"I wasn't. It was a superficial cut and didn't require stitching."
"In whose expert opinion?"
"Mine, of course. Lestrade dealt with it."
"Did he, by God?" John closed his eyes for a moment, fists clenched tightly at his sides until his nails dug into his palms. Hopefully Greg and Sherlock would read his reaction purely as anger from being deceived and not as the creeping panic and terror that was the reality. The fear - and increasing certainty - that what he had 'seen' was the truth and not just the product of his imagination was almost overwhelming.
"John, I…"
"Stay out of this," John spat out in Greg's direction. He was not in the mood to be dealing with an apologetic Greg, not when all he wanted to do was deck him for daring to touch Sherlock. John took a step backwards and slowly, carefully, unclenched his fists.
"I'm fine, John."
"Well, forgive me if I don't believe you, Sherlock. If you don't get that coat off in the next minute and let me look at that 'cut', I'll take it off for you and I might not be very gentle about it."
He didn't mention that he probably wouldn't want to stop at the coat, and hoped those particular unprofessional thoughts didn't show too clearly in his face.
John was surprised when Sherlock only muttered a vague and unintelligible protest as he complied. The coat was carefully laid aside and Sherlock turned back to face him as he sat on the edge of the sofa. He hadn't removed the waistcoat but the knife slice through the mesh of the t-shirt and the neat, white dressing were clearly visible.
Visible, and in exactly the position John had expected, had seen. Jesus.
The only leavening factor in the morass of his feelings was that there was just the merest pinprick of bloody strike-through onto the dressing, which meant, in all fairness, that Sherlock was probably right and that if John did remove the dressing, he'd end up disturbing the wound and cause it to bleed again. Not a good idea, by any stretch of the imagination. Be that as it may, he still wanted, needed, to be sure so he stretched out a hand and pushed the waistcoat off Sherlock's shoulder to expose more of the damaged t-shirt and the dressing beneath. With careful fingers he explored the skin around the dressing and - very gently - the wound area itself; there was no swelling under the dressing and no unhealthy heat in the surrounding skin that he could feel. All appeared to be well, which meant that Greg had actually done a reasonable job. Sherlock didn't flinch at the probing touch and didn't say anything to distract John from his examination, which was a relief as he didn't think he could have dealt with any of Sherlock's smart-arsery. He paused for a moment and laid his hand on Sherlock's chest. The beat of Sherlock's heart beneath his fingers calmed him, until he realised his touch echoed the one he'd 'seen' Greg make earlier, before…
John removed his hand as if he'd been burned and almost yanked the waistcoat back into position.
"You'll do," he said to Sherlock, then turned, reluctantly, towards Greg. Certain things had to be said, no matter what he was feeling. "Thank you for taking care of him. I appreciate it." He did, truly, though it was kind of hard work to convince himself of the fact. That he found some small comfort in knowing that Greg would keep an eye on Sherlock in more ways than one when he was no longer there only served to demonstrate how deeply Sherlock had wormed his way under John's skin.
Greg shrugged. "Old habit. Until you came along, no-one else could be bothered."
John could have done without being reminded of the years of history Greg had with Sherlock. He nodded briefly in acknowledgement, then headed back into the kitchen in an effort to avoid speaking to or looking at either of them. Sherlock also remained silent.
John heard the jingle that betrayed Greg's movement and looked up to find he'd disappeared from view. There was a faint murmur from the living room, followed by a terse and incomprehensible grunt. He turned his attention to the ritual of tea-making and didn't even attempt to make out what Greg had said to Sherlock, he felt it was better not to know. Another jingle broke his concentration and when he turned around he was surprised to find Greg hovering at the side of the kitchen entrance closest to the flat door.
"It's late, I'd best be going," Greg said. He cast a glance in Sherlock's direction, then back at John. "Tell himself thanks for his help when he's in a better mood, won't you?"
"Of course."
Greg turned to go, then spun back around to face John. He looked… concerned. Great. That was all John needed.
"Are you OK, John?"
"I'm fine. Really. Nothing that a bit of sleep won't sort out." It wasn't quite an untruth, John was sure his head would be a lot more together once he wasn't so stupid with exhaustion and emotion.
"As long as you’re sure?" John gave Greg another brisk nod, wanting him to get the hell out sooner rather than later. Greg didn’t look entirely convinced but he appeared to accept John’s assertion. "I'll be seeing you, then."
John saw him to the door, but it wasn't out of politeness; he wanted to lock it behind Greg just to make sure he didn't return. Tired or not, he and Sherlock were going to have to talk, and there was no way he could wait until morning, not any more.
Chapter 5
This entry was originally posted at http://a-lanart.dreamwidth.org/242082.html. Please comment there using OpenID.