Sherlock 100 51/100 #25 Strangers
Title: It felt like a kiss
Author:
marill_chan
Rating: PG-15
Warnings: Domestic abuse.
Word Count: 1150
Summary: 68. Lestrade is in an abusive relationship and Mycroft helps him get out.
This is my entry for the Mystrade Fanfest.
He hit me and it felt like a kiss
He hit me and I knew he loved me
Cause if he didn't care for me
I could have never made him mad
He hit me and I was glad
Baby won't you stay…
-He hit me (it felt like a kiss)--The Crystals
You look up from the floor at last, eyes wide, your bottom eyelids filling.
“I’m sorry,” you say, so shaky and pathetic. You’re never enough for
this man. You’ve never been enough for anyone. He has made that very
clear. All the problems the two of you have had…they’ve been your fault.
Because you aren’t sharp enough. You aren’t funny enough. You are too
messy. You are too emotional.
But still he stays with you. Your rock, your fortress, your best friend.
And he hits you because he loves you enough to want you to change.
Usually he’s better with his angry fists. But last night, he seemed to know
what he was doing when he aimed for your eye. Like he wanted others to
know what you deserved. How terrible you were in your relationship, and
the punishment you earned.
You stop by the chemist on your way to work to pick up make-up powder. You ignore the look you get from the
cashier. You cover up the bruising as well as you can in the rearview mirror of your car.
You get more looks from your subordinate
officers. But here is the only place you are respected, even feared, so
you give them warning looks in return and no one says a word.
No one talks about it. Not to you.
Until Sherlock. Of course, Sherlock knows which fist your lover used, the
material of his ring based on the shade of bruise, how long it’s all
been going on because of the hollow look in your eyes and your fading
waistline. You tell him you don’t want to talk about it. It’s not his
business. This is work. You are not friends with him. You don’t need his
sympathy. Your partner loves you, and you are lucky that anyone wants
you.
After work, you walk into the lot to get your car. You are
watching your feet as they propel you forward, lost in your thoughts.
You don’t even realise that you are crashing into someone until you are
falling backwards and he has caught you by the arm. Gently. You’re so
sorry, you tell him twice. How clumsy of you, you weren’t thinking, you
were thinking too much actually, and can you buy him a new cup of coffee
to replace the one that’s spilt all over the gravel?
The man lifts his head to gaze down at you. But he isn’t being arrogant. He’s fascinated. You can buy him coffee, he smiles.
You see the man again a week later. He shows up in your office to lodge a
complaint against a traffic officer. Halfway through his ranting, he
comes to a stop and smiles, shyly. He’s made it all up. He just wanted
to see you. He taps his umbrella against his shoe and appraises his
fingernails while he waits for you to answer. You agree to have tea, and
maybe dinner later in the week, but you are involved, he is reminded.
You are involved and you are unavailable.
Two weeks later, the man calls you. Checking up on you, he says. He wants to know if your
wrist is okay. How did he know about that, you ask. After a pause, he
tells you he’s been worried about you. He wants to see you.
You decline.
He comes back to your office the next day, and his eyes linger on the
wrist that you keep stiff against your stomach. When his eyes meet
yours, they are concerned. He asks if you have been to a doctor. Of
course you haven’t. Hospitals don’t understand your relationship.
They’ll take things out of context and ask you to press charges. You
tell him no, you didn’t think it was necessary.
He nods and he sighs. Then he insists that you meet him for coffee in the evening. Just to talk. Just as friends.
You don’t quite make it. Your lover is home when you get back from work. He
is drinking and he is ticked off. You try to appease him, to make
dinner quickly, but it doesn’t help. He grabs you by your throbbing
wrist and shoves you back against the oven. For the first time, you are
trying to push him off. You don’t want to be burned.
He gets angry. You fall to the floor. He walks out. You hide in the bedroom that you share.
The man with the umbrella and the smart clothes starts visiting your work
every day. What is he, some kind of social worker? You don’t need his
help. Everything is fine, you assure him.
But it’s nice that someone cares. That someone asks you how you are doing and really wants an answer. A truth.
In three days, your partner comes back. He is waiting at home, dinner on
the table, all for you. And you forgive him; he’s forgiven you too.
Things are okay.
Mycroft, his name is, runs into you while you
are having lunch at a café. He sits down across from you, uninvited, and
you are glad. You will tell him that things are going well and that he
needn’t worry any longer. But as you start to talk about it, his kind
eyes and intent body language overwhelm you. Your situation becomes what
it is. You stop blinding yourself with images of your perfect
relationship, and instead blind yourself with tears. In this restaurant,
with this strange man, who keeps turning up to listen to you.
A steady hand reaches across the table to cover yours. It will be okay,
Mycroft’s pleasant voice says. He can protect you. You don’t have to go
back to that abusive man ever again. That’s what it’s been, hasn’t it?
Abuse. All the domestic calls you’ve gone out on. What a hypocrite you
are.
Mycroft helps you secure lodgings for the night. You sleep
deeply, for the first time in months. You are no longer on alert,
concerned that your breathing will awaken your partner before he is
finished sleeping. You sleep for twelve long hours, and it is nice, it
is healing.
In the morning, Mycroft comes to your hotel room with
a rose. He takes you to breakfast. On the table next to you is a
newspaper and a familiar name is printed in the headline. Richard has
been arrested in the biggest drugs trafficking bust in twenty years.
You gape and look up to Mycroft. He is smiling. “I take care of those I care about,” he tells you.
A smile tugs your lower lip upwards. You are home.
Author:
marill_chan
Rating: PG-15
Warnings: Domestic abuse.
Word Count: 1150
Summary: 68. Lestrade is in an abusive relationship and Mycroft helps him get out.
This is my entry for the Mystrade Fanfest.
He hit me and it felt like a kiss
He hit me and I knew he loved me
Cause if he didn't care for me
I could have never made him mad
He hit me and I was glad
Baby won't you stay…
-He hit me (it felt like a kiss)--The Crystals
You look up from the floor at last, eyes wide, your bottom eyelids filling.
“I’m sorry,” you say, so shaky and pathetic. You’re never enough for
this man. You’ve never been enough for anyone. He has made that very
clear. All the problems the two of you have had…they’ve been your fault.
Because you aren’t sharp enough. You aren’t funny enough. You are too
messy. You are too emotional.
But still he stays with you. Your rock, your fortress, your best friend.
And he hits you because he loves you enough to want you to change.
Usually he’s better with his angry fists. But last night, he seemed to know
what he was doing when he aimed for your eye. Like he wanted others to
know what you deserved. How terrible you were in your relationship, and
the punishment you earned.
You stop by the chemist on your way to work to pick up make-up powder. You ignore the look you get from the
cashier. You cover up the bruising as well as you can in the rearview mirror of your car.
You get more looks from your subordinate
officers. But here is the only place you are respected, even feared, so
you give them warning looks in return and no one says a word.
No one talks about it. Not to you.
Until Sherlock. Of course, Sherlock knows which fist your lover used, the
material of his ring based on the shade of bruise, how long it’s all
been going on because of the hollow look in your eyes and your fading
waistline. You tell him you don’t want to talk about it. It’s not his
business. This is work. You are not friends with him. You don’t need his
sympathy. Your partner loves you, and you are lucky that anyone wants
you.
After work, you walk into the lot to get your car. You are
watching your feet as they propel you forward, lost in your thoughts.
You don’t even realise that you are crashing into someone until you are
falling backwards and he has caught you by the arm. Gently. You’re so
sorry, you tell him twice. How clumsy of you, you weren’t thinking, you
were thinking too much actually, and can you buy him a new cup of coffee
to replace the one that’s spilt all over the gravel?
The man lifts his head to gaze down at you. But he isn’t being arrogant. He’s fascinated. You can buy him coffee, he smiles.
You see the man again a week later. He shows up in your office to lodge a
complaint against a traffic officer. Halfway through his ranting, he
comes to a stop and smiles, shyly. He’s made it all up. He just wanted
to see you. He taps his umbrella against his shoe and appraises his
fingernails while he waits for you to answer. You agree to have tea, and
maybe dinner later in the week, but you are involved, he is reminded.
You are involved and you are unavailable.
Two weeks later, the man calls you. Checking up on you, he says. He wants to know if your
wrist is okay. How did he know about that, you ask. After a pause, he
tells you he’s been worried about you. He wants to see you.
You decline.
He comes back to your office the next day, and his eyes linger on the
wrist that you keep stiff against your stomach. When his eyes meet
yours, they are concerned. He asks if you have been to a doctor. Of
course you haven’t. Hospitals don’t understand your relationship.
They’ll take things out of context and ask you to press charges. You
tell him no, you didn’t think it was necessary.
He nods and he sighs. Then he insists that you meet him for coffee in the evening. Just to talk. Just as friends.
You don’t quite make it. Your lover is home when you get back from work. He
is drinking and he is ticked off. You try to appease him, to make
dinner quickly, but it doesn’t help. He grabs you by your throbbing
wrist and shoves you back against the oven. For the first time, you are
trying to push him off. You don’t want to be burned.
He gets angry. You fall to the floor. He walks out. You hide in the bedroom that you share.
The man with the umbrella and the smart clothes starts visiting your work
every day. What is he, some kind of social worker? You don’t need his
help. Everything is fine, you assure him.
But it’s nice that someone cares. That someone asks you how you are doing and really wants an answer. A truth.
In three days, your partner comes back. He is waiting at home, dinner on
the table, all for you. And you forgive him; he’s forgiven you too.
Things are okay.
Mycroft, his name is, runs into you while you
are having lunch at a café. He sits down across from you, uninvited, and
you are glad. You will tell him that things are going well and that he
needn’t worry any longer. But as you start to talk about it, his kind
eyes and intent body language overwhelm you. Your situation becomes what
it is. You stop blinding yourself with images of your perfect
relationship, and instead blind yourself with tears. In this restaurant,
with this strange man, who keeps turning up to listen to you.
A steady hand reaches across the table to cover yours. It will be okay,
Mycroft’s pleasant voice says. He can protect you. You don’t have to go
back to that abusive man ever again. That’s what it’s been, hasn’t it?
Abuse. All the domestic calls you’ve gone out on. What a hypocrite you
are.
Mycroft helps you secure lodgings for the night. You sleep
deeply, for the first time in months. You are no longer on alert,
concerned that your breathing will awaken your partner before he is
finished sleeping. You sleep for twelve long hours, and it is nice, it
is healing.
In the morning, Mycroft comes to your hotel room with
a rose. He takes you to breakfast. On the table next to you is a
newspaper and a familiar name is printed in the headline. Richard has
been arrested in the biggest drugs trafficking bust in twenty years.
You gape and look up to Mycroft. He is smiling. “I take care of those I care about,” he tells you.
A smile tugs your lower lip upwards. You are home.