Fic: To The Last Drop - 6/6 (BBC Sherlock)
Title: To The Last Drop
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 1.7k out of 31k
Beta: seijichan, lifeonmars, prettyarbitrary, airynothing
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: “If you want me to comfort you over my imminent death, I will be kicking you in the head,” John warns.
Warnings: Eventual off-screen character death, illness both physical and mental, assault, graphic violence, blood, bloodplay, explicit sexual behavior, dubcon, plague, attempted suicide
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
"Sherlock--"
"No."
"Somewhere else, then," John says. "Just keep going."
Sherlock groans. His hands clench between them instead of tearing into John's skin. "I told you, it's not transferring. There's no point."
"I'm bloody freezing: that's the point."
"Bloody and freezing," Sherlock corrects.
"Right, now get down here." John tugs. Sherlock wavers and John tugs harder. "Look, you don't have to bite me, just come here before hypothermia sets in."
Sherlock settles on top of him like dust motes waiting for a breeze, soft and slow and uncertain of his true direction. John's body withstands the shifting pressure of his weight, but poorly, exquisitely. He warms his hands on Sherlock's back and Sherlock's nose presses into his ear. The rest of John freezes, but at least Sherlock is once again in his proper place. John grips his own wrist behind Sherlock's spine.
"We'll try again," John says. "Give it an hour."
"It won't transfer."
"You don't know that."
Sherlock groans against John's cheek. "It won't. It hasn't."
"Sherlock, if you don't want to bite me, it's not ready to transfer."
"Yes, which is why we know it's settled."
John finds the implications, though it takes him a moment to track them down. He breaks into a grin. "You want to bite me?"
"Obviously."
"Right, so what's the problem?"
Sherlock lifts up enough to stare John in the eyes. "I'm going to kill you."
"Yeah, I know," John says. "What's the problem?"
Sherlock opens his mouth but says nothing. His eyebrows pull together, his forehead wrinkles, and the dried and drying blood on his chin flakes.
John lifts his chin higher, and Sherlock's eyes pierce him. John swallows, a loud and obvious gulp of air. Sherlock sways closer before biting his own lip bloody. It drives John to distraction, but Sherlock doesn't seem to notice.
"You're going to do it," John says. "Don't pretend you won't." He sets his hand on Sherlock's nape and tries to draw him down. Failing that, John props himself up on his elbows. A fresh flare of bliss shatters his back, his spine, his arse.
"You said you wanted it together," Sherlock says. "Both of us."
"Okay, fine. We can still do that."
Sherlock climbs off him. He doesn't go far, but John can't catch him. John's body fights to collapse in on itself. His body refuses to obey. Even beneath the bitter chill, it feels amazing.
"Stay where you are," Sherlock orders. "Stay there. Don't come near me."
John snorts. "Yeah, that's going to happen." He nearly manages to sit up without groaning. "Get back here before I freeze."
"Pay attention." Sherlock tosses John's sheet at him. "We need to restrain me. Handcuffs, muzzle, now." He shakes as he sways, barefoot and naked on the floor. His thighs are stained, his arms mottled.
"It's okay," John says. "Really. Honestly. Come back here."
"No, John, listen--"
"Come here and I will."
"If I kill you here, Mrs Hudson will find the body." Sherlock staggers back until he can lean against the wall. Poor git looks exhausted.
"Okay," John says.
"Or I might find her first."
John nods. "Right, yes. That car's coming in a few hours, isn't it?" Christ, hours. "We don't really have to wait that long, do we?"
"I need to be away from people," Sherlock says. Though he lies back against the wall, he still gives the impression of pacing. "Removed or put down. I don't know how long I can hold out."
"You don't have to," John says. "Now is fine."
"Now is not fine," Sherlock snaps. "Never is fine." He pushes off the wall to stalk over to his closet. He rips out one of his housecoats and flings it at John. "Bundle up."
John doesn't have to be told twice. His body protests every glorious motion as he wraps the heat around himself. It even smells like Sherlock.
"You'll drive," Sherlock says. "When the car arrives, get in and drive. Just get away from me. Wait, no." He tears at his hair. "No. That would leave me with Mrs Hudson. You'll have to move me somewhere."
"And then you'll do it?" John asks.
"Only then."
"What if I freeze to death first?"
"Only then," Sherlock repeats. "Somewhere else. Away from Mrs Hudson. Promise me that."
"We're not going to last that long," John says. An assumption, but a powerful one. He manages, barely, to stand up from the bed. His arse burns without true warmth. He tries to step forward. He doesn't fall. "Come here."
"Somewhere else."
"Here's fine." John gestures sharply. "Now is fine."
"Somewhere for only the two of us," Sherlock says. "Will you do that, John? Will you give me that?"
"Would you stop stalling?"
"I mean it. Last request. Just the two of us. Somewhere without people outside in the streets."
"Sherlock--"
"Please. Just us. Only us."
"It is just us," John says. "Right now. Come here. It could still transfer back, give it another try."
Sherlock shakes his head. Some of his hair flops. Some, plastered to his skull, stays in place. There are lines in his hair, visible lines from where John grabbed it. John should grab it again. Hold Sherlock in place until he understands. He should do that. Now. He should do that now.
John steps closer, and Sherlock is speaking. John steps closer, Sherlock moves, and John hits the floor. Sherlock steps over him. John catches at his legs. He tears at skin but cannot hold. Sherlock kicks him and stumbles. Sherlock leaves the room. His footsteps travel down the hall.
The hardwood floor hits John's face and slaps against his hands. It bruises his knees through the housecoat. The sheet slides and the floor strikes him a second time. The room twists until John shoves it in place with hands and feet and a snarl. He pulls himself down the hallway. His breaths shake worse than his legs. He barrels into the sitting room and Sherlock is on the floor.
John lunges. Sherlock catches. John seizes him with both arms and Sherlock makes no attempt to escape. John pins Sherlock on his back. Sherlock lets out a muffled grunt. The leather of the muzzle shines, clean, against his face.
"What the hell are you doing?" John asks. The question comes out quiet and winded. "Really, Sherlock, what the hell?" He reaches for the straps behind Sherlock's head and Sherlock catches his wrists. Sherlock squeezes, but not hard enough, not so John can feel it. "You're supposed to be here, you can't fucking run away!"
Sherlock's head rolls back and forth on the floor in denial. The pressure of his grip changes deliberately rhythmically.
"Do I look like I'm awake enough for Morse code?"
Undeterred, Sherlock continues. John licks his lips and listens. He mouths each letter, straining to spell. He screws his eyes shut.
John shakes his head. Sherlock groans and digs his fingertips in for emphasis.
"But we don't have to wait," John says.
Slowly, achingly, Sherlock argues. His debate is one simple statement, one John already knows. John reaches for the straps and they tussle. They grapple. They capture one another and lie between the armchairs, shins knocked and shoulders bruised. Sherlock wheezes, his breaths laboured through his nose. His eyes are a self-righteous accusation.
"You're supposed to stay with me," John says. "You need me, Sherlock. That's what you're for. You don't get to go away. Never again. You understand that."
Someone's sweat evaporates off John's cold, prickling skin. Someone's blood dries on him.
"You understand that," John repeats.
Sherlock taps his reply.
Make it last.
John's chest unclenches. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. I can do that. We'll do that."
Sherlock sighs. His wild eyes slide shut. He presses his cheek against John's chest as if to push back inside him. Maybe he will.
"The car's outside."
Arms bound behind his back, wrists cuffed, Sherlock growls.
"Heard the keys fall through the mail slot." As John sits up, he pulls Sherlock with him. John's limbs are heavier than his eyes. "C'mon. I know where we're going. The perfect spot." The first bite and the last, brought together. A place with no more leaving. He wonders if Alexis' body is still there.
John makes the slow climb to his feet and stands as frozen as he would at any true peak. Coordination gone, Sherlock contorts. His focus is on John, not on standing. His focus is always on John. It always will be.
He pulls Sherlock upright. He nearly overbalances. Sherlock staggers into him, presses against him, shoves his face against him. Sherlock keens. Already bundled up in countless layers, John buttons Sherlock into his greatcoat and draws him by the empty sleeves. They sway down the stairs. Sherlock nudges against him with chest and face.
"Soon," John says.
John picks up the keys. He unlocks the front door. He opens it, and Sherlock shoves up behind him hard enough to slam the door closed.
"I won't run away." The promise comes out with a small laugh. "Don't worry."
A desperate noise resonates in Sherlock's throat, bottled.
John opens the door. He checks the pavement for any people, anyone who Sherlock might want instead. Jealousy flares, but it's late and close to quiet. Good. Only when he's certain they're alone, he leads Sherlock outside. He opens the passenger door and climbs in, all the way in to the driver's side, and Sherlock follows without a pause. John buckles him in. Sherlock's attempts to bite hardly hinder him. John reaches over him and pulls the passenger door shut.
He inserts the key and the engine rumbles. Beside him, restrained in triplicate, Sherlock strains closer. John turns on the heat. He reaches out and touches the cut beside Sherlock's eye. Sherlock turns his mouth toward John's wrist, seeking.
"I know." John picks at the forming scab. "Want you too."
Sherlock groans, his eyes dark and unchanging, and John's fingers itch for the straps behind Sherlock's head.
"Almost there," John promises them both.
His stained hands on the wheel, he pulls away from the kerb and into the night.
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