Fic: I Long for the Raised Voice
I long for the raised voice, the howl of rage or love. - Leslie Fiedler
John Watson was so angry that some part of him wanted to curl up into a ball and die. The rest of him, of course, wanted to rage at that little part and rip it to shreds with his bare hands. And it was over nothing. No, really, over nothing - not that what had prompted his anger was something that was no big deal, but that literally nothing had happened to prompt this anger. Sometimes the planets aligned in just such a way or the barometric pressure hit a certain degree or the pollen count got high enough; whatever random pattern of events that mysteriously enraged him coalesced in just such a way that he woke up furious with everyone and everything and would have gleefully watched the world burn.
He hated feeling like this. No, hated wasn’t strong enough a word. He despised it, loathed it, longed for it to be confined to the darkest pits of hell. It fucking pissed him off. Because it was a weakness. Oh, he was a sensible grown man with no delusions of grandeur, so he knew he was eaten up with weaknesses. Everyone had weaknesses and he tended to be understanding of other people’s and generally understanding of his own. But not this one. This one crawled right under his skin and wriggled and writhed until he’d sometimes look down at his arm or his thigh and expect to see movement like aliens squirming below his flesh. And it felt alien. It felt not of John Watson. It felt like an invading parasite that he was too vulnerable to fight off, and it made him want to scream in frustration and weep at the sense of violation. He wouldn’t of course. He’d clench his jaw, breathe slowly through his nose and maybe count to a fucking hundred million until he could trust himself to not simply lie on the floor and pitch a tantrum that would do the most horrid two year-old proud. He would snap at Sarah, he would snarl at his patients, he would slam every door he got the chance to slam.
And so he did. That evening when he got home, he also took special care to bang the cabinets and the kettle when he made his goddamn cup of tea. Then, to top it all off in a sort of grand prize of fuckery, Sherlock strode in and looked at him. He just stood there and looked at him with those eyes that saw too much and an emotional instinct that saw just enough, and that just made it worse.
John didn’t want to be deduced or have his psyche broken down into Freudian tropes. What he wanted was to be left the hell alone, left to stew in this boiling anger over everything and nothing that suffused his body, but he already knew it would never happen. Forget the fact that he always gave that courtesy to Sherlock. Forget the fact that he let the overwrought baby swoop and sigh and grouse and groan to his heart’s content with not one word of complaint. Forget the fact that he’d haul himself out into the cold night and onto the even colder sofa at Sarah’s rather than scold the man or rise to the bait and engage in the monumental fight the asshole was often seemed to be spoiling for. Forget all of that.
“Don’t start,” John snapped.
“Start what?”
“I mean it, Sherlock, I’m in no mood.”
“Bad day?”
“Piss off.”
“I’ll take that as a yes then.”
John added milk to his tea and then tried to sidle by Sherlock, who was hovering in the kitchen doorway. Sherlock moved a half-step to the right, blocking his exit .
“You really don’t want to do this.”
“Don’t I?”
“I’m not playing any of your games today. Now move.”
“I don’t think so.”
A bark of disbelieving laughter burst from him. The strident note of hysteria lurking in the sound was obvious. “Are you bored? Is that what this is? Are you sad and pouting because your life is so miserable? Will none of your ickle criminals cooperate and give you a mystery worth wanking to?”
Sherlock just shrugged and held John’s gaze as he answered, “Pretty much.”
John felt his fingers twitch and his shoulders tense until they felt like they’d break. “Well get this into your brilliant head, Einstein: I. Don’t. Care. I don’t care what personal crisis you’re angsting your way through, get out of my way. Now.”
Sherlock bent over so that they were at eye level and could feel the increase in each other’s respiration in the inch of space in between them. “Why don’t you make me?”
And that was it. Whatever shred of higher reasoning that had been holding John in check all day dried up and blew away with the puff of Sherlock’s breath across his lips. He lifted up his left leg and brought his foot down hard on the instep of Sherlock’s right foot. He had just a second to recognize the complete absence of surprise in Sherlock’s eyes before the blow from the taller man’s fist connected with John’s chin and knocked his head back. John stumbled and caught himself against the table, noting with some satisfaction how much of Sherlock’s precious shit hit the floor when he did so. Instead of standing up and returning the blow, he dropped down a little further into his center of gravity and rammed his shoulder right into Sherlock’s gut, sending them both sprawling into the sitting room. They grappled on the floor, shoving and hitting and even, God help them, biting as they fought.
Oh, but it was glorious. He loved it. No, loved wasn’t strong enough a word. He adored it, idolized it , longed for the ecstasy of it to set up housekeeping in his chest. It fucking got him off. They were trembling and sweating and panting in a straining tangle of limbs… and they were both hard as a rock. Sherlock shoved his hand in John’s face and pushed him over onto his back. He thrust his cock into John’s hip. John managed to pry a hand between their bodies and pushed as hard as he could against Sherlock’s solar plexus until the man made a gurgling noise and bowed his back away from John’s hand. John’s hips followed him up and ground against a hard thigh. They continued like that - push, hit, grind, rock - until neither of them was sure what exactly they were doing. It wasn’t until Sherlock, still wheezing from a knee to his stomach, set his bloody hands at the waist of John’s jeans and began working on the button that reality reasserted itself like a bucket of ice water.
“No. No! Stop it. Stop,” John gasped.
Sherlock stopped. Everything ground to an absolute stand-still, his torn fingernails digging into the skin of John’s abdomen, John’s own battered fingers gripping handfuls of dark hair so hard that Sherlock’s eyes were watering. One, two, three breaths into the stillness and John’s eyes went wide, jerking his hands back like they were on fire. He pushed up, and Sherlock let him, grey eyes looking on as John scurried back, putting distance between them before collapsing on his back and pressing his hands over his face.
Sherlock watched John push bruised knuckles too hard against the sockets of his eyes. He watched as John’s exhilarated pants turned into rasping gasps. He watched as every bit of fight seeped right out of John’s taut body, leaving him shaking on the floor.
Sherlock crawled over until he was about two feet away, stretching out on his side facing John, eyes glued to the man for God knows how long.
“John?”
“What?” The tired response was still muffled by hands that refused to move.
“Feel better?”
He didn’t actually, but he felt different, which was close enough.
“Yeah.”
“Why did you stop me?”
“Because I’d like for our first time not to be when I’m so angry that I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Oh. But there will be a first time?” Sherlock asked. An uncharacteristic blend of timidity and hope laced his deep voice.
“I’d like for there to be. If you still want me after this," John answered, still afraid to look at the other man.
“I still want you. I always want you. That’s why I did this.”
John whipped his head to the side and finally met Sherlock's eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I wanted to make you feel better. You want to fight, I’ll fight you. You want to fuck, I’ll fuck you. I’ll take whatever I can get," he finished with as much of a shrug as he could manage in his position.
John closed his eyes, the lines in his face deepening and consternation drawing his brows inward. “Sherlock, that’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”
“Maybe. Doesn’t make it less true. The only time you ever come close to losing control is when you have an angry day like this. So, I pushed. I pushed you past ‘close’ right into ‘losing’ because I want you, want that.”
“Well, you got it didn’t you? As well as a busted lip and some bruised ribs for your trouble.”
“It was worth it," he retorted, his voice clear with conviction.
“Look, I’m not… I’m- I’m not normally like this. I’m not really into this sort of thing, if that’s what you want,” John haltingly confessed.
“Of course you’re not into this sort of thing,” Sherlock assured him. “I know that, John. I know you.”
“Yeah, I guess you do. I know you too, Sherlock,” he replied, both of them confident in the realization of what those words really meant. The resulting flood of affection in John brought another emotion in it’s wake - guilt. “Oh, God, Sherlock, I’m so sorry.”
The other man was having none of that. “I’m not. I provoked you to this, and I’m not one bit sorry,” he asserted, stubborn satisfaction suffusing every word, leaving no doubt in John’s mind about exactly how Sherlock felt.
Nevertheless, some semblance of sanity was returning, and John, normal John, was not the sort of man who could beat his friend bloody without feeling a deep sense of regret. Regardless of the fact that their violent tussle seemed that it might garner some pretty spectacular results, John needed to reassure both of them that this wouldn’t happen again. “Next time I’ll just take some Xanax or something.”
“Next time you’ll just fuck me till I can’t walk,” Sherlock corrected him, the fierce gleam of certainty shining in his eyes.
“That might work, too. Come on then. I need to check out the damage,” John urged, his need to heal rather than hurt reasserting itself.
“I don’t think I can get up, my back hurts,” Sherlock groaned, mostly for show.
“Fine, you infant. But I’m going to clean that lip and you are not going to bitch and moan about it,” John grumbled, mostly for show, as he rose tiredly to his feet.
Sherlock smirked at him, looking far more gratified than anyone in his state should look. “Yes, I will. What do you plan to do about it, Doctor?”
He couldn’t see John’s crooked, bloody smile as the man walked to the bathroom for the peroxide and plasters - but he knew it was there.