Title: The Omega Sutra. Chapter Seven. Lotus Supernova
Title: The Omega Sutra. Chapter Seven. Lotus Supernova
Author: ghislainem70
word count: 5,500
rating: NC-17
Warnings: Omegaverse, explicit sex.
Summary: Sherlock has a secret life. John shouldn't want to be part of it.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Note: This chapter's title comes from "Shakalaka Baby" (listen below.)
Saw your face and the damage was done
You weaved a spell that took me over
I plucked a bulb right out of the sun
A lotus scented supernova
Can't escape it, feel the heat
Lose yourself in sweet surrender
And the planets are colliding
Fantasies are flying
Simply no denying
That you are my
Bombay lover...
In a trance going out of my mind
You made a flame that keeps me burning
Come on baby, give me a sign
One look from you and the world stops turning
Secret moon and enchanted dreams
Pray we share many nights like these
Million stars in the sky..
----Lyrics to Shakalaka Baby, all rights reserved A. R. Rahman and its owners.
A good sacrifice is one that is not necessarily sound but leaves your opponent dazed and confused.
---- Rudolph Spielmann
A street in Bishopsgate. London. Midnight.
John had asked to be taken to the street in Bishopsgate where Little Havana had been. He had told Mycroft the story of El Brujo, Maxim and Sherlock procuring illegal pheromone concentrates there. Unsurprisingly, Little Havana had vanished.
"Mycroft had instantly set to work on his mobile. "I believe . . . yes, I have located a man who worked in your Little Havana, your doorman. I’m having him brought to us . . . now."
Half an hour later, John was astonished to see the tall doorman from Little Havana thrust from an anonymous black van into the back of their limousine.
"Not sure I like your hospitality, mates," the man said pugnaciously.
"Do you remember me," John said straightaway. No time to beat about the bush.
"You’re the gent as was asking after Maxim Purcell." John saw his eyes, greedily calculating, examining Mycroft’s hand-tailored suit, the plush interior of the limousine. He saw opportunity, particularly where Maxim might be concerned.
"That’s right," John said. "I wanted to get him a little present, you understand? What happened to Little Havana? It’s Saturday night."
"Yeah, well, they don’t stay any one place long, you know? People get curious." John knew he was referring to the pheromone concentrates being sold behind the black curtain.
"We’d really like to find the old man . . . the one called El Brujo." Mycroft removed an impressive roll of large bills from his coat pocket. Sometimes he found ready cash a more direct method of obtaining information than others he was capable of employing.
"Well, seeing as he gave you some good stuff before -" the man winked, an obvious reference to the green bottle John had given him, "I’m sure the old man’d be only too happy to see you again." He seemed to take the cloak-and-dagger routine in stride, even to think it proper where Maxim Purcell was concerned. The world of Maxim Purcell must always be like this, he thought.
Mycroft unrolled a few bills and smoothly handed them across. "We haven’t all night," he said firmly.
The man beckoned to John, the familiar face, and leaned in. "Mahogany Bar. Grace’s Alley," he said confidingly.
"Grace’s Alley?"
"Off Cable Street. Five minutes walk from Tower Hill."
"What’s that, then, Wapping?"
"Nah, man. Whitechapel proper."
John shrugged. Whitechapel, Wapping, Shadwell were all a little muddled in his mental map of London.
"Is he there tonight, do you think?"
"Dunno. El Brujo never stays anywhere long."
# # #
Wilton’s Music Hall, Grace Alley, Whitechapel, London 1:00 a.m.
"Are you quite sure this is it, John?"
John didn’t answer directly. "Just wait," he said. They were parked at the end of a dark pedestrian alley in a less than savoury neighborhood. Grace’s Alley. Nothing particularly graceful about it, although John allowed that the crumbling edifices might have a certain decaying charm by day. By night, it was gloomy and even sinister.
He remembered coming here before. He and Sherlock had interviewed a witness in a tiny bedsit in nearby Henriques Street. They had been walking to find a taxi, very late, like tonight.
"Do you know what happened here," Sherlock had said as they passed a brick-walled enclosure. "This was once called Dutfield’s Yard, John. Jack the Ripper’s third victim was murdered here. Elizabeth Stride. They found her body still warm. Her throat had been cut, blood was still flowing from the wound. She suffered no other wounds, unlike his previous victims who were mutilated. The Ripper escaped a manhunt in the neighborhood to kill again, just one hour later. His second victim, Catherine Eddowes’ throat was also cut, but he mutilated her most terribly."
John had swallowed hard. He was not squeamish about long-ago crimes such as Jack the Ripper. But he had seen his share of mutilation in war. "I didn’t know you were one of those Ripperologists, Sherlock," John had said, half-joking.
"I’m not, but there is an important lesson there."
"Well?"
"Always look for the pattern. With Jack the Ripper, the pattern was obvious. For example, a really determined serial killer - one who has established his pattern - will, if prevented for any reason from completing that pattern, take extraordinary risks to commit a new crime in order to fulfill the pattern, as soon as possible. But this rule applies to all crimes of the obsessive type."
John clung even to this chilling memory: it was a time he had been with Sherlock; privileged to share in Sherlock’s brilliant thought processes. That day, Sherlock had solved a baffling murder, detecting a pattern that no one had observed
Pattern. Was there a pattern here that could lead him to Maxim?
# # #
John pushed open the peeling door to the Wilton Theatre, last surviving "music hall" from the 1880s. Inside was the Mahogany Bar. The entire building’s collapse appeared imminent: exposed brick, rotting beams, crazy patchwork of crumbling plaster and faded wallpaper. As before, sounds of Cuban music surrounded him. Also as before, a doorman tried to stop him entering. This time he didn’t have the password, but stared the man down and said, "El Brujo," with a banknote to smooth the way. There was a small warped door behind the bar, and John went through.
El Brujo was here. He did not seem pleased to see John, but was not afraid, either. He looked at John with sunken brown eyes that sparkled with vitality and intelligence in his wrinkled face.
"It is my friend from the war. Still fighting, I see," he said.
"Yes. Some enemies don’t fight out in the open, though."
"True. This is called, guerrilla warfare. Che Guevara, how do you say, he wrote the book. Perhaps this is not your style."
John smiled cruelly. "Style doesn’t matter. Only winning. The man I’m looking for has something that belongs to me. I’m getting it back, do you understand what I’m saying?"
El Brujo reached out and touched John gently on the shoulder, right over the place where, under his shirt, you would find the spot where Sherlock had bitten him. The mark was faded now, but that didn’t matter.
"I understand what you are saying," he said sadly. "It is truly a crime, for one man to break another man’s bond."
John shivered at this, but not with fear. His entire body was filled with a prickling sensation that would not leave him; restless and dangerous, as though something was seeking to burst free. He knew that when he found Sherlock, this feeling would be soothed. He relished it. It kept him sharp.
"It’s not broken, it will never be broken," he said. "Look, will you help me? If it’s a matter of money, I can pay."
El Brujo finally looked a little uneasy at this. "Some persons have eyes everywhere, can see far."
John nodded calmly. "Good. I hope he can see me now. Because I’m coming for him."
El Brujo nodded too, as thought John had confirmed something he had been waiting to hear. "My work is to fulfill or quell desires. But always by free choice. Keep your money, my friend. I can’t tell you what you want to know. But . . . I have something, the only thing that he ever gave to me other than money. Now, I give it to you. Maybe it helps you and maybe it doesn’t."
El Brujo opened a wooden trunk that seemed to be a traveling apothecary of many-coloured bottles, jars of powders and ointments. The scent that it exuded was one that under any other circumstance would likely have rooted John to the spot for hours, just to experience it. As it was, he waited impatiently, shifting restlessly.
El Brujo handed him a dark clay jar wrapped in a black ribbon, closed with a red wax seal. Some sort of pheromone agent, John assumed. Something like what he had been giving to Sherlock, he thought darkly.
"What is it?"
El Brujo put a frail-seeming hand over John’s own, so that they were clasping the jar together. His hand was much stronger than it looked. John noticed that the jar felt cool and lighter than he expected.
"Believe me when I tell you, I don’t know. He a very powerful practitioner, and one does not refuse his gift. But I have never dared to open it, nor to discard it."
John raised a skeptical eyebrow. "But you want me to take it."
El Brujo nodded solemnly. "Perhaps that is the reason why I did not get rid of it. You were coming."
John stared at El Brujo, stared at the jar. Was it a trick, a trap? He wondered if he would feel it, if it was. The odor from the trunk was somehow making the music seem even louder, more insistent. "What do they say?" He found himself asking.
El Brujo tightened his grip on John’s hands on the jar, and sang softly in a high, sweet voice:
"The love I have for you,
I can’t deny it -
It makes my mouth water,
and I can’t help it.
Clear the road of straw
because I want to sit down
on this trunk that I see . . .
And I know I can’t arrive there, that way. . . "
El Brujo closed the trunk and the air cleared, and John’s head did, too.
"Thank you," John said, pulling his hands free.
" Don’t thank me yet," he replied.
John rushed from the Mahogany Bar with the Cuban song wailing at his back.
# # #
The Kamala tea estate, Kangra Valley, Himachal Pradesh, india
Sherlock awoke to bright sunshine streaming through a high window. It was hard to focus. Everything seemed to be viewed as if through a prism, rainbow tinged. He stood and his feet seemed to be very far from his body. His body felt unbelievably sensitive, the press of the cold stones on the soles of his feet, the whisper of cool air through the window, felt almost violently intrusive.
Then he noticed that Maxim had actually bound him by the ankle to a ring in the wall attached to a long, strong chain. He spent a good hour trying to find a way to pick the lock, with absolutely nothing to hand. Maxim knew him well.
He focused and tried to ignore the strong compulsion to simply sit and try to minimize this unpleasant sensation. He presumed that Maxim was dosing him with something that was having an hallucinogenic effect. He thought that Maxim must believe these sensations would be somehow arousing to his senses, and felt contempt for Maxim’s failure to truly understand him, after all. He took a series of deep slow breaths and he felt somewhat clearer.
There was a note by the cushions. He picked it up. It was hard to focus.
"Sherlock,
I must leave you today to attend to the estate. You know that this is a place that I have always wished you to see; now you shall. Rest, and think of us. When I return I hope for both of our sakes that you will no longer shut me out.
- M"
Even in his disoriented state Sherlock noted the ill-concealed greediness, and the threat, in Maxim’s words.
He had to think. Maxim said, "I must leave you today," implying he would return tonight. Sherlock thought that Maxim was trying to keep him on edge, wondering.
But he didn’t think Maxim could really stand to stay away very long.
# # #
A private aircraft en route to Mumbai, India.
Mycroft had naturally obtained them discreet transport to Mumbai on an anonymous private jet, traveling with a half-dozen other dark-suited taciturn passengers who spent the entire flight glued to their laptops. There was no conversation.
Mycroft handed John a mobile. "Play the first video."
It was a young man, an Omega by the looks of him; something about the eyes. Dark-haired, blue-eyed and beautiful, and no more than 21 or 22 years old. A mere boy. His face was lit with excitement and his eyes were too bright. John immediately assumed he was high on something.
The resemblance to Sherlock was superficial but undeniable and it made John’s heart ache.
"Hey, yeah, so . . . I’ll be offline for a few days. I met some incredible people at Mocha last night, they’re going to Dharamasala tomorrow, private plane!! Listen, here’s my tip of the day - if you go to Oshiwara, Paramanada Pharmaceuticals, the finest biopure, you know? I’ll post again when I get there. Peace!"
His accent was pure Eton despite his overlong hair, and John caught the flash of an expensive-looking watch on his wrist. The clip was over.
"Well?"
"The boy is Andrew Kearn. He disappeared almost three years ago on a summer holiday in India. Not of the backpacking sort. He was visiting a friend from university whose parents live in Oshiwara. That’s in Mumbai. They were supposed to be going to some sort of music festival. They never made it."
"Don’t tell me. Paramananda Pharmaceuticals . . . Maxim Purcell?"
Mycroft nodded. "Correct. No one saw the boys arrive in Dharamasala. But the Indian boy was ultimately found. He remembers nothing. But the families hired a private detective, who was able to obtain security video from outside of the Mocha nightclub, the night they disappeared. Play the next video, John."
With his heart hammering, he queued the next video, grainy black and white security footage. It looked like the Kearn boy and a tall Indian boy of the same age. Behind them was another tall, dark-haired figure. John didn’t have to wait for the moment when the light hit his face to see that it was Maxim.
"Of course, the police questioned Maxim. He denied anything more than casual chat at the nightclub. No one could prove anything, no one saw the boys with him after that night. These boys’ parents are wealthy, connected; but Maxim is powerful. The case remains unsolved."
"He . . . he looks like Sherlock."
"Yes," Mycroft said in a pained tone. "I thought so, too."
"But Dharamasala . . . where Kearn said he was going, is that Tibet?"
"No, India. It is in the state of Himachal Pradesh."
"But no one ever saw Kearn there."
"So it seems. The detective also looked into Paramananda Pharmaceuticals. There is a factory in Mumbai. It is controlled by shell corporations which in turn are ultimately controlled by -"
"Let me guess - Maxim. So this detective. . . everyone’s going on his say-so? Did he give you this stuff?"
"Not exactly." Mycroft said, looking at John keenly. "You don’t think much of his work, John."
"The only detective I put my faith in is Sherlock Holmes."
"My thoughts precisely."
"So we’ll with this Paramananda Pharmaceuticals. If Maxim’s running it, it already smells wrong. But this Dharamasala . . ." John had an image of orange-robed monks, ascetic and saintly, chanting and fasting. "That doesn’t sound like Maxim Purcell to me."
"Sherlock met Maxim in Tibet."
John was mildly astonished. "Didn’t you ask him how? Or have him watched?" John was aware in a hazy sort of way of Mycroft’s omnipotence, which manifested itself in surprising and infuriating ways.
"To answer your first question, yes, I asked him." Mycroft looked pensive at this memory.
John knew what it felt like to try and penetrate Sherlock’s armour of privacy. Even now, he knew he had barely scratched the surface, and it hurt. But I’ll get my chance, he swore.
"And to answer your second, I tried. To some extent I succeeded. But there are some places where, shockingly, it is not possible to conduct surveillance. Sherlock can inspire fierce loyalty in some very surprising quarters."
John thought about the homeless network, and would have smiled if his heart weren’t tearing in two. He stared out the window into blackness.
# # #
Sherlock closed his eyes, continuing the focused practice he had commenced as soon as he regained consciousness after the Heatwave. In Tibet, he had studied with an ancient monk who some considered a shaman. Sherlock did not believe in magical powers; but he did believe in the almost infinite capacity of the human brain and nervous system to perform feats which could appear supernatural to persons who lacked the ability to reason.
Sherlock had asked to be shown the method for creating a tulpa: meditation upon the mental image of a person until the image became, or seemed to become, reality. The strongest tulpas could be seen by other persons. What was the nature of this phenomenon? Sherlock did not know, but while he did not trust the eyes of others he trusted his own, and he had seen the old monk’s tulpa, a happy child. It was akin to mass hallucination, he thought; a phenomena that had been recorded and had always fascinated him.
Sherlock was using the tulpa technique to draw the real John Watson to him. He had never heard of anyone using this technique to influence a real person; it was an experiment. This made him lose focus momentarily, remembering John’s anger in 221b:
"I don't appreciate being- experimented on, Sherlock. When you do things like-- like what you did today, it makes it very hard for me to trust you . . . If I ever want you to touch me in a sexual way, I'll come right out and say so."
He hoped that when he was with John again, John could still trust him. Because he saw only one path out of his present predicament. Maxim had thought of everything, and knew Sherlock very well.
Sherlock closed his eyes, brought John ever closer.
# # #
Mumbai, India
Finally they landed and John stepped out of the jet into torrential sheets of rain. It was the monsoon season, and Mumbai was wrapped in rainstorms. They decided not to stop, but to drive directly to the Paramananda Pharmaceuticals factory.
"You should rest, John. You haven’t slept since Scotland."
It was true. His body refused to give in to sleep. There was nothing for him now but to find Sherlock, his body knew no other need.
This made him remember all the times he had pleaded with Sherlock to take care of himself, oblivious to the meaning of his own protective urges. He tried to imagine he was with Sherlock now, taking care of him. This was torment. Now sleep was farther away than ever.
He replayed the video of Andrew Kearn, listening with headphones.
"Mycroft. . . do you know what ‘Paramananda’ means? Paramanada Pharmaceuticals?"
"Hmmmm. I do. It has many different connotations, but all of them center around a sort of . . . .ecstasy." Mycroft said uncomfortably. These were not concepts he understood.
"Ecstasy. . ." John whispered. He covered his eyes with his hands. He saw stars.
# # #
The Kangra Valley, that was where the tea estate was, Maxim had said that more than once.
The Kangra Valley was at the foothills of the Himalayas.
Sherlock tried to hold a picture of it in his mind.
In the other part of his mind, he prepared himself for something that it would take all of his courage to do.
It was time to show Maxim Purcell who was the student and who was the master.
# # #
Paramananda Pharmaceuticals. Oshiwara, Mumbai, India
Oshiwara was nothing like what he had pictured Mumbai to be. Everywhere were modern glass skyscrapers, huge office parks, green parks under grey skies and sheets of rain unlike any he had ever seen. It was as though the heavens had opened and were pouring waterfalls down on the city.
There were hordes of other limousines crowding the rain-soaked streets. They passed an avenue of shops and it might well have been Bond Street, exclusive names, places John never had set foot in but he knew they were for the ultra-rich or those who wanted to appear to be. Traffic, though, was as he had feared: a complete nightmare of gridlock which terrified him, they progressed by inches and feet, not miles, and probably nowhere nearer to finding Sherlock. His frustration was almost unbearable. He pressed his forehead to the cold glass to cool it and looked out at the strange city through sheets of rain.
If Sherlock was here, he did not feel it; he had been gifted with many strong images of Sherlock since escaping from Aberdeen, but for a few hours there had been nothing. He wondered if somehow these images came from Sherlock; or if it was just his mind, trying to somehow soothe him from the agony of separation from his bonded. He had heard of such things all his life; now he understood. It was an indescribable pain, an amputation of his spirit.
The need to strike back at Maxim was a low, powerful throb; he tried to focus on that. He punched the door, sending a shock of pain through his hand. This felt good. He did it again, and again, even better, until Mycroft grabbed him firmly by the arm.
"John. Stop. We’re here. Try to be calm. I know it’s . . . difficult for you."
# # #
Maxim returned at sunset. Sherlock stood to greet him and pointedly made no acknowledgment at all the shackle around his ankle. He asked silent forgiveness of John, then gently but completely shut him out.
No part of this could touch John.
Now, he sent the whole of his focus upon Maxim, body and spirit, and turned the radiance that was John’s gift into a weapon of deception wrapped in seduction.
He reached out for Maxim, allowed warmth to flow. Maxim looked wary but Sherlock noted his sharp intake of breath.
He wanted to believe, he wanted it very much.
"You left me alone, so long," Sherlock whispered. He was easily capable of lowering his voice an octave, and he did. "I’m not sure how much longer I can wait," he said.
Maxim’s eyes raked over him covetously.
# # #
John had been surprised to find a team of Indian state police ready for them, clearly expecting Mycroft and prepared to work with him. Everyone was distributed a pheromone mask.
"Maxim is dealing illegal pheromones manufactured here, and sold in London. This is of mutual interest to both our countries," he told John as they marched into the clean, modern factory floor. "The kidnapping of my brother is also not without interest. I have drawn their attention to the similarities to the disappearance of Andrew Kearn."
Workers were bottling multi-coloured fluids and applying labels depicting a golden lotus. Everyone inside wore pheromone masks. John heard one of the workers shouting, gesturing.
"He says, vitamins," one of the police officers said skeptically.
While the Indian police interviewed factory workers, Mycroft and John found the executive offices. There was one that was locked, and Mycroft caused it to be opened for them. It was obviously an office for Maxim’s use. There was a photograph of Maxim with some dignitaries.
Also, a large picture of a beautiful white house on a hill. There were snow-capped mountains in the background, terraced green plantings all around. A suggestion of a stone temple, perhaps, in the distance. "Kamala Kangra" was the label on the frame.
There did not seem to be anything noteworthy in the office. There was no computer, the desk drawers were empty and the air was stale. John’s frustration was bubbling over again. He thrust his hand into his pocket so he wouldn’t start hitting things again, which he knew was pointless but right now, it felt like the only thing he could do.
In his pocket was the jar that El Brujo had given him. He pulled it out, looked at it.
"What do you think is inside?" Mycroft asked curiously.
"I’m going to break the seal," John said. " Let’s find out."
He carefully broke the wax seal and unwound the black ribbon. He cautiously opened the lid. He had expected a strong aroma, and indeed there was one. But not what he had expected. Was El Brujo playing a joke?
It was loose-leaf black tea leaves.
"Tea," Mycroft observed. "How odd."
John wondered, was he supposed to drink it? He supposed that it must be rare, or valuable. It seemed like Maxim’s kind of affectation, and he almost snarled at the thought. Why had El Brujo given it to him?
He felt a compulsion to turn and look again at the picture on the wall, terraced hillsides - tea plantings, he imagined. Snowy mountains in the distance. His heart beat faster.
He took another whiff of the tea leaves. It smelled nothing like the PG Tips teabags he had stashed in cupboard in 221b. Yet, it was familiar.
"God!" He wanted to throw the jar against the wall.
He poked his finger into the tea leaves, and finally poured the tea out over Maxim’s desk. Now the jar was empty. He looked inside.
There was a paper label glued to the bottom of the jar. It was the same picture as on the wall. It had words in Hindi and in English. He held it up to the light.
"Kamala Kangra," he said aloud. He showed it to Mycroft. "Just like the picture."
"One of Maxim’s companies is called ‘Kamala’. It means, ‘lotus.’ Very common. I have just traced Kamala as one of fifty individual stakeholders in Paramananda Pharmaceuticals. Fiendishly labyrinthine holding companies."
John was struck with the slightly familiar scent of the tea leaves. "No, not that, John," Sherlock had said one day, seeming uncomfortable when he had pulled a tea tin from the cupboard . . .tea that had smelled like this. The tin had looked antique, it had a picture on the side. A picture of terraced hillsides of tea plantings, snowy mountains, a white house.
The same tea. A gift from Maxim to Sherlock.
"Tea - yes, obviously Mycroft. Look at this picture. Where do you think it is?" The image of the house in the picture was affecting him very strongly. He stared at it, and touched it with his fingertip.
Mycroft consulted his mobile. "‘Kangra’ also comes up in the files. It is a place: the Kangra Valley. Known for its rare tea. It is in the north."
"North? How far north?" He looked at the snow-capped peaks and knew the answer. "Near Dharamasala?"
"Very good, John.. . . in Himachal Pradesh. The foothills of the Himalayas."
"Where Andrew Kearn said he was going. . . .listen, Sherlock had a tea tin with this same picture on it," he said. "It smelled just the same as this, the stuff that El Brujo gave me. A gift from Maxim. We need to go there, Mycroft. Now, right now. How can we get there?"
He tore the picture from the wall, removed it from its frame, and rolled it into his pocket.
"John, do I understand you to be saying that you want to travel all the way across India . . . because some old gentleman gave you tea that you think smells like some tea that Sherlock kept in the flat? We still have many leads to follow in Mumbai."
John’s mind was filled with the image from the picture, the tea tin in 221b. The label inside the jar. It had to be.
"Yes. I think it’s a special place for Maxim. I think it’s where he’s taken Sherlock. Can you honestly tell me that you have any sort of real lead here in Mumbai? How do we know they didn’t just stop here, then go on?"
Mycroft shook his head. "That’s why we’re here. To find out. There are several penthouses -""
At John’s implacable look, Mycroft made a call and within an hour, they were flying north.
# # #
During the flight north, John looked at the picture.
Maxim Purcell was a man who owned many things: penthouses, oil shares, drug companies, now a tea estate. His heart felt a certain warmth and he decided to trust that feeling. He had made the right choice.
He didn’t think he could live if he had chosen wrong, if Sherlock was down there somewhere in the teeming metropolis, at Maxim’s mercy, waiting for John to come. He stroked the picture with his fingers. H
e knew in his heart that this was where he needed to go.
# # #
Sherlock wore the raw silk robe that Maxim given him, but he had left it open, because now he needed to use every weapon at his disposal.
He brushed his other hand along his own thigh, and observed Maxim under lowered lashes as he followed the trail left by his fingers under the silk. Up to his cock, long and hard.
Maxim could see, as Sherlock intended him to see, that he had been touching himself while Maxim was away. And the scents that Sherlock had carefully constructed would have told him that the instant he opened the door. Maxim already looked half-drunk on it.
"But I knew you would want me to wait, Maxim," he said, and took a step closer. Sherlock could sense Maxim’s heartbeat coming faster now. He increased his own in time with it, as he knew Maxim would be looking. He could see in Maxim’s eyes that he had already made his decision. Now Sherlock was surprising him. He would not have to use force. Sherlock was not completely certain that this pleased Maxim.
He would have to be very careful now.
Sherlock had been working on his pheromones all day, which had been difficult because of whatever it was that Maxim had dosed him with, and of course he had been given suppressants after the Heatwave. But he had focused hard on John, allowing himself to replay over and over the night in 221b when John had first touched him, and the even more precious memories of the night at the beta retreat: John’s hands, his lips, making him shudder and glow, touching him deep down with a wilder and purer ecstasy than he had ever felt or even dreamt of, until John. Hours he spent there with John, until his body was trembling uncontrollably and hot with need.
Now Maxim thought this was for him. His face transformed, exultant and eager. He took one step closer, and Sherlock did too; but then he was at the end of the chain and Maxim looked down at it, and smiled.
"So clever, Sherlock. It’s why I chose you. You understand this better than anyone else. Almost better than I, even now. I can’t let you go until I’m certain I can trust you."
"Does trust really matter?" Sherlock said. "Think, Maxim: You’ve had me all this time, and still you keep secrets from me. You don’t trust me. And I’ve been with you all this time, and haven’t allowed you to take me where you want to go. I haven’t trusted you. Does anyone really trust another?"
"Hmmmm. Perhaps you are right, Sherlock," Maxim sighed. He was removing his clothes now, touching himself. Sherlock consciously mimicked his movements on his own body, knowing Maxim would imagining that it was his hands. After a few minutes of this, Maxim seemed to give in to the feeling, and he groaned softly. Sherlock did too. Sherlock stroked along his own chest, up his throat, down to his cock slick with precum, and back again, and allowed Maxim to watch him lick his own fingers clean.
"During the Heatwave, I knew I was ready for the crossing," Sherlock said quietly; not too much. It sounded like a painful admission. "You were right, Maxim."
"I always am, where you are concerned. What are you saying, Sherlock?"
"You know." He let the robe slip from this shoulders so that Maxim could see that he was lubricating now. This had taken tremendous force of concentration to bring about; his body needed John, but his brain was still sufficiently in control that he could command it in this.
For the last time, he promised himself.
"Bring . . . the Omega Sutra, and the elixirs. It’s time, Maxim. I can’t wait any more."
Maxim’s eyes were hot; his gaze intense, but his body remained cool. He trembled slightly. Sherlock trembled too and looked away, flushing.
Maxim watched him for a few more moments, then nodded and left him alone.
To be continued . . .
listen to Shakalaka Baby HERE
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