Fic: Reigen seliger Geister
Thanks anon :D
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Manipulation, emotional abuse, sociopathic dark!Sherlock
When bored between cases, Sherlock messes with John's head.
***
Sherlock felt, in that moment, the heady rush of a case solved. He was brilliant, he really was, a damn genius. He turned to look at John, who still smiled faintly at the stage as the orchestra swelled to the long awaited crescendo. The man's eyes were filled with emotion. John had little understanding of classical masterpieces, but their sounds had a hold on him all the same.
"It was the first violinist," whispered Sherlock into John's ear. John startled and turned to look at him.
"What!?"
"See the strings," Sherlock explained, head rushing. "Recently replaced, although one is still old. She used the new one to garrotte the manager that was molesting her, and of course you can't string a violin with blood-stained wire, so she left the old one on."
"That's amazing!" John said, tilting his head as he stared at the first violinist, blonde hair flying as she effortlessly pulled on the bow, delicate tremors and dramatic flourishes. "Pity."
Sherlock stared at John, that expressive face, the genuine sympathy he felt for the girl. "I'll call Lestrade after the concert," he said eventually, sitting back. "We'll let her have this."
The music was stunning, after all. No point in interrupting art.
"What's the piece?" John asked, genuinely interested.
Sherlock told him. "She's very good," he added.
John smiled at the jealousy in Sherlock's tone. He reached over, small hand warm over Sherlock's. "You're good too, you know," he said kindly. "You don't even have to play a piece, you play from your emotions. Sure, sometimes it's deafening and keeps me awake at night, but sometimes it's beautiful. And it's all you."
"I can play pieces too," said Sherlock. He twisted his hand so their fingers were entwined, and rubbed his thumb over John's.
"I'd love to hear it."
"Maybe later."
They sat together on the balcony seats for the rest of the concert, listening to the murderess's last solo.
For weeks afterwards, Sherlock was bored.
He knew he drove John to distraction with his noxious experiments and casual vandalism, but when Sherlock's mood turned sour, John's feelings didn't really register anymore. Sherlock would tune him out as he nagged like an old fishwife, voice nothing but white noise in his ear.
Sherlock turned a page of his magazine. There was a sale on at Austin Reed. Perhaps he could buy John some clothes that weren't so … utilitarian. He could dress it up as a gift, that would certainly cheer John up. He'd start thinking Sherlock cared again, which was nice, because then he would give Sherlock sweet smiles now and then, and initiate sex. There were only so many times Sherlock could crawl up to John's room and badger the bastard to roll over before the whole thing became completely tedious. Sometimes it was nicer to be chased than do all the chasing.
"Sherlock!" John finally yelled. "Are you even listening to me?"
"Nope," said Sherlock, marking the page and turning it. "If it's about the ash in your cereal, that was an experiment." And you eat too much and I don't want you getting fat when I don't exercise you.
John stood up straight and stomped into the kitchen. Sherlock looked up to watch him, taking pleasure in his neat little form and efficient movements. His hair was outgrown. Sherlock would take him for a haircut tomorrow, or maybe he'd do it himself while John was sleeping. Drug his tea and crop his hair. John would be mad at him for a week after that, a couple of days if Sherlock was extra nice. Maybe only one day if Sherlock did a good job on the cut.
"Are you smoking again?" accused John, as he shook the cereal box that was scattered with smoky grey ash.
"No," lied Sherlock. "That ash is from the crematorium."
"Sherlock!" John nearly dropped the box. "This could be someone's mother!"
Sherlock shrugged.
"I'll take it down there tomorrow," John said, peering into the plastic. "Christ, I wonder who this was."
"I'll do it," said Sherlock. "Don't worry yourself, you'll be intolerable for hours."
John glared at him. "Yes, because it's all about you, isn't it."
And he marched off upstairs.
Sherlock started playing his violin at one in the morning. He played louder and louder, dissonant chords, for no reason other than to wake John up. Finally he heard the thump from upstairs and smiled.
5, 4, 3 …
Slightly ahead of schedule, John appeared in the doorway, eyes crumpled with sleep. He was in a long-sleeved top and trackpants, barefoot, toes curling on the cold flooring.
"God, Sherlock," he mumbled though a lethargic tongue. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"
Sherlock drew the bow off the violin with a violent shriek that made John wince. "Seven minutes past one," he said. "Although you have a clock in your room, so I don't see why you need to come downstairs just to ask me --"
John waved a hand at him, disgruntled, and turned to leave.
"Wait!" Sherlock said, inflecting his voice with need. "Stay."
John eyed him warily. "I'm tired. Please let me sleep, Sherlock."
Sherlock pointed to the sofa. "Stay. I'll play you something. You like that, don't you?"
John seemed to soften. He was so easy to manipulate. "Okay," he said. "I'll go get a blanket, it's bloody freezing down here."
"There's a blanket under the cushions that I use," Sherlock said.
John pulled it out, a soft navy-blue thing, very warm. He settled down onto the sofa and pulled the blanket up to his chin. He really was quite little, Sherlock thought. John didn't stretch from end to end like Sherlock did.
"Comfortable?"
"Very," John said, smiling.
Sherlock rested his bow on the violin strings. He held John's gaze, and started to play.
The music came easily from him, notes memorised. An evocative melody, often sweeping up in hope but, every time, being pulled back down by low minors. John stared at him, breathing slowly, mouth slightly open.
"That's so sad," he said to Sherlock after he'd finished.
"It's Gluck," said Sherlock. "Reigen seliger Geister. One of my favourites."
John frowned, trying to recall his mediocre German. "Dancing Ghosts?"
The Dance of the Blessed Spirits.
The soft glow from the streetlamps outside stopped the place from growing too dark, even with all the inside lights off. Sherlock could see John's face, his sweet, trusting face, and suddenly was seized by the urge to have … more from him. He put down his violin, and moved over.
"I've been cruel to you," he said to John, brushing back his soft hair. The streetlamp light glittered in those kind blue-grey eyes. "I'm sorry."
John shook his head. "It's fine. You haven't had a case in ages and I know you get …" He trailed off, unsure as how to finish.
Sherlock whispered in his ear. "Come to my bedroom," he breathed. "We'll be warmer there."
John was an exceptionally giving lover, which was a pity, really, because all Sherlock ever did was take, and he was very greedy.
Sometimes he felt like John was softwood, and Sherlock was sandpaper. With every touch meant to perfect him, he was instead smoothing a bit of John away. He was certain that one, terrible, haunting night, he would take too much, and John would be nothing but dust under his fingers.
He had John on his side, spooning, and was deep in him and rocking ever so gently to a slow rhythm. John had already come. Sherlock made sure to pull an orgasm out of him very quickly at the start, leaving him limp and helpless for Sherlock's pleasure.
And Sherlock always took his time.
"I don't deserve you," Sherlock whispered against John's skin, which trembled as Sherlock thrust into him again. "You're so lovely, and all I ever do is hurt you."
"You can be kind," John insisted, and Sherlock could tell he actually believed it. "And you're amazing, and brilliant, and clever. You've changed my life for the better."
I certainly did, you poor, sad creature.
"What was life like before me?" Sherlock asked, hands creeping over John's stomach and hips to stop him shifting against Sherlock's cock when the stretch became too much to bear.
"Deathly dull," breathed John, in a laugh.
Sherlock pulled out and pushed at John's side. "Hands and knees," he said, and John rolled over, propped himself up.
Sherlock slid into him again, a swift, forceful movement. Patience spent, he fucked John brutally, almost cruelly, and came quickly with a snarl, John groaning beneath him. He collapsed over John's back, whose knees gave, and they fell together against the mattress.
"Christ," John said, half-heartedly trying to wriggle out from Sherlock's body weight. Sherlock eventually let him. "That was … intense."
"I meant it," Sherlock said, shuffling onto his back, muscles aching. "I don't deserve you."
John moved over, resting his head on Sherlock's chest, blinking up at him. "What makes you think that?" he asked.
"You would die for me," Sherlock said, and he wound his fingers into John's hair. "And I wouldn't die for you."
"I wouldn't want you to," John said quietly. "So, yes. A little unhealthy. But that's just us all over."
Sherlock exhaled slowly. "If you did die," he said carefully, "And it doesn't matter whether it was for me, or I let it happen, or whatever. I'd follow soon after. Perhaps it would take months, or a year, depending on the circumstances. But I would rot here without you."
"Don't say that," pleaded John, upset.
"A little unhealthy," Sherlock admitted, smiling wryly. "But true."
John sighed. He rolled over to lie on his back next to Sherlock, and wrapped their hands together. His palms were soft, his fingers roughened by chemicals and guns. "We're terrible for each other."
Sherlock looked over him, this dangerous, gentle little man. "And yet somehow, perfect," he said, voice hushed.
"I love you," confessed John, although Sherlock already knew that. "And I don't mind dying first. I'll see you again in heaven, anyway."
"Don’t be an idiot, John," snapped Sherlock, turning away. "There's no such thing as heaven."
John paused, blinking rapidly, mouth tight.
"Okay," he said quietly, raising their linked fingers to tenderly kiss the back of Sherlock's knuckles.