I Fear My Shadow
Title: I Fear My Shadow
Author: Nakimochiku
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters/Pairings: Jim Moriarty/ John Watson
Warnings: Non-Con
Rating: NC17
Summary: He doesn't think he'll ever sleep again.
Note: wow, it's been a while! i tried to show the realistic side of rape. i hope it came through?
Do you remember the sound you made when I gripped your hips and pushed you down and fucked you into the balmy tile of that wretched pool? You were mewling like a kitten, all weak muscled and unable to resist, not that you were given a choice. You were half dazed with guilt and panic.
But brave. You’re so very brave. I hate that about you. I love that about you.
@
He doesn’t sleep. He’s not sure he can. He smiles at Sherlock when he wanders in and out of the living room. He drinks Mrs. Hudson’s tea, he watches telly and he flips through the newspaper, he sits in his armchair, he does normal things that he’s always done, just like before. But he doesn’t sleep.
The nightmares come for him, if he sleeps.
He has dozens of saved drafts on his blog that he’ll never publish, detailing that night, what he remembers of it. But they don’t say anything really. They don’t mean anything. And they don’t help.
He doesn’t need help. He can handle it. He’s strong. He’s been shot, he’s nearly died, he’s had his hands buried wrist deep inside a man whose guts were spilling out. He’s seen mutilated corpses. Just this small insignificant thing isn’t enough to break him. He can handle it.
So what if he doesn’t sleep?
@
Do you remember the way I brushed your hair back from your sweaty forehead as you panted on the floor, fingers clenched and eyes shut? I could see you erasing the entire matter from your mind, detaching yourself, cutting it from your being so that it couldn’t hurt you. So that I couldn’t hurt you. Like the cute little toy soldier you are.
I let you. I knew you would never really forget. I was a part of you now, worming my way inside of you and staying there. I am your disease.
@
He burns the sweater he’d been wearing that night. There were stains on it he simply can’t wash out, mocking him. He burns his pants from that night, his shirt, his socks. Every article of clothing felt too dirty for him to even consider washing. His skin crawls when he touches them.
His skin crawls when he looks in the mirror. His skin crawls when blokes in the street give him a look. He feel like he’s back in a war zone, and the entirety of London is his enemy. The whole city is mocking him, targeting him, and every moment he feels a red light at his forehead.
If someone brushes him on the tube, all he can do is gasp and remember hands scraping his shoulders, hands gripping his hips, hands eagerly scrabbling at his clothes, his face pressed to tile, skin stroked too gently, too intimately, a litany of nonononono on his tongue.
He holds himself tense and waits for the memories to pass. It was the same when he came back from Afghanistan, hearing gun shots in every loud noise, checking his gun. He can take it, he can ride it out.
So what if he can’t stand to be touched?
@
Do you remember that whimper you gave when I finally picked you up to prepare you for my game? You were a mess, hair tousled, skin damp and salty, littered all over with hickies. You feared me from then on. You fear me now.
I’m in the shadows behind you. I’m that monster you fear. I’m the sounds that keep you awake at night, and I own all your terror. I swallow it up.
@
He doesn’t sleep. He stares into the dark with his back pressed into the corner, gun in his hands, finger twitching on the trigger. He counts the minutes until sunrise, eyes fixed on the clock. At sunrise he can act normal again, he can be human. In daylight, he has nothing to fear, all his monsters banished in the watery light of dawn.
The clock moves slowly. 2:30. 2:31. 2:33.
He blinks.
When he opens his eyes again, his gun has been pulled from his hands, and he can make out a wicked grin in the dark. His whole body coils with fear he fights to control. He knows he must have fallen asleep, he tells himself it’s just another nightmare as his mouth goes dry.
He wants to shriek until he wakes up. He only swallows thickly. “Wha-what?” he manages to whisper.
“You were sleeping so peacefully, I almost didn’t want to wake you.” he bites his lip. That not normally what this monster says to him in his nightmares. That’s not the normal tone. Black eyes glitter in the dull light, reptilian. “You’ve lost a bit of weight since I’ve last seen you, Johnny boy.” a hand slides along his thigh, to far, too intimate, and all those memories come rushing back in like a tsunami. He stiffens and pulls away with the tiniest sound of fear.
This isn’t happening. It’s another nightmare. It’s a shadow of fear, and in the morning it will be gone. He’s okay. He’s strong. He can handle thing.
“Get out.” he orders, glowering as the monster taps the barrel on his gun against his bent knee. He gives him a wicked grin and shoves him to the mattress, pinning him there with the gun. His fingers slide up the thick jumper he wears to bed, teasing mindless circles on the quivering muscle of his belly. “Don’t!” the word is high pitched and steeped in fear as he jerks away. It only makes his personal demon purr at him.
“You’re in no position to give orders. So just be a good boy, and I’ll be gentle.”
He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t think he’ll ever sleep, ever close his eyes, ever blink again. He doesn’t think he’ll ever look into the night again, without seeing glittering black eyes staring back at him, condescending. He doesn’t sleep.
@
Do you remember when I had you a second time, your gun to your head? When I pushed in, you cried. So softly, so quietly, like you didn’t want me to hear. But I fucked you gently, let you cry, licked the tears from your cheeks.
I don’t think I’ve tasted any tears sweeter.
When the sun rose and I left you broken, wrapped in your bed covers, I knew that the light would not dispel the feel of my fingers from your skin, the taste of me in your mouth. I knew that I would be hell itself, to you. I knew that every dark corner was me. Every quiet whisper, every brush of hot breath, fingers on your elbows, lips on the nape of your neck. It’s all me.
Even your shadow. Even your shadow was a ghost of me, following you no matter where you went. Always, always finding you.
Author: Nakimochiku
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters/Pairings: Jim Moriarty/ John Watson
Warnings: Non-Con
Rating: NC17
Summary: He doesn't think he'll ever sleep again.
Note: wow, it's been a while! i tried to show the realistic side of rape. i hope it came through?
Do you remember the sound you made when I gripped your hips and pushed you down and fucked you into the balmy tile of that wretched pool? You were mewling like a kitten, all weak muscled and unable to resist, not that you were given a choice. You were half dazed with guilt and panic.
But brave. You’re so very brave. I hate that about you. I love that about you.
@
He doesn’t sleep. He’s not sure he can. He smiles at Sherlock when he wanders in and out of the living room. He drinks Mrs. Hudson’s tea, he watches telly and he flips through the newspaper, he sits in his armchair, he does normal things that he’s always done, just like before. But he doesn’t sleep.
The nightmares come for him, if he sleeps.
He has dozens of saved drafts on his blog that he’ll never publish, detailing that night, what he remembers of it. But they don’t say anything really. They don’t mean anything. And they don’t help.
He doesn’t need help. He can handle it. He’s strong. He’s been shot, he’s nearly died, he’s had his hands buried wrist deep inside a man whose guts were spilling out. He’s seen mutilated corpses. Just this small insignificant thing isn’t enough to break him. He can handle it.
So what if he doesn’t sleep?
@
Do you remember the way I brushed your hair back from your sweaty forehead as you panted on the floor, fingers clenched and eyes shut? I could see you erasing the entire matter from your mind, detaching yourself, cutting it from your being so that it couldn’t hurt you. So that I couldn’t hurt you. Like the cute little toy soldier you are.
I let you. I knew you would never really forget. I was a part of you now, worming my way inside of you and staying there. I am your disease.
@
He burns the sweater he’d been wearing that night. There were stains on it he simply can’t wash out, mocking him. He burns his pants from that night, his shirt, his socks. Every article of clothing felt too dirty for him to even consider washing. His skin crawls when he touches them.
His skin crawls when he looks in the mirror. His skin crawls when blokes in the street give him a look. He feel like he’s back in a war zone, and the entirety of London is his enemy. The whole city is mocking him, targeting him, and every moment he feels a red light at his forehead.
If someone brushes him on the tube, all he can do is gasp and remember hands scraping his shoulders, hands gripping his hips, hands eagerly scrabbling at his clothes, his face pressed to tile, skin stroked too gently, too intimately, a litany of nonononono on his tongue.
He holds himself tense and waits for the memories to pass. It was the same when he came back from Afghanistan, hearing gun shots in every loud noise, checking his gun. He can take it, he can ride it out.
So what if he can’t stand to be touched?
@
Do you remember that whimper you gave when I finally picked you up to prepare you for my game? You were a mess, hair tousled, skin damp and salty, littered all over with hickies. You feared me from then on. You fear me now.
I’m in the shadows behind you. I’m that monster you fear. I’m the sounds that keep you awake at night, and I own all your terror. I swallow it up.
@
He doesn’t sleep. He stares into the dark with his back pressed into the corner, gun in his hands, finger twitching on the trigger. He counts the minutes until sunrise, eyes fixed on the clock. At sunrise he can act normal again, he can be human. In daylight, he has nothing to fear, all his monsters banished in the watery light of dawn.
The clock moves slowly. 2:30. 2:31. 2:33.
He blinks.
When he opens his eyes again, his gun has been pulled from his hands, and he can make out a wicked grin in the dark. His whole body coils with fear he fights to control. He knows he must have fallen asleep, he tells himself it’s just another nightmare as his mouth goes dry.
He wants to shriek until he wakes up. He only swallows thickly. “Wha-what?” he manages to whisper.
“You were sleeping so peacefully, I almost didn’t want to wake you.” he bites his lip. That not normally what this monster says to him in his nightmares. That’s not the normal tone. Black eyes glitter in the dull light, reptilian. “You’ve lost a bit of weight since I’ve last seen you, Johnny boy.” a hand slides along his thigh, to far, too intimate, and all those memories come rushing back in like a tsunami. He stiffens and pulls away with the tiniest sound of fear.
This isn’t happening. It’s another nightmare. It’s a shadow of fear, and in the morning it will be gone. He’s okay. He’s strong. He can handle thing.
“Get out.” he orders, glowering as the monster taps the barrel on his gun against his bent knee. He gives him a wicked grin and shoves him to the mattress, pinning him there with the gun. His fingers slide up the thick jumper he wears to bed, teasing mindless circles on the quivering muscle of his belly. “Don’t!” the word is high pitched and steeped in fear as he jerks away. It only makes his personal demon purr at him.
“You’re in no position to give orders. So just be a good boy, and I’ll be gentle.”
He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t think he’ll ever sleep, ever close his eyes, ever blink again. He doesn’t think he’ll ever look into the night again, without seeing glittering black eyes staring back at him, condescending. He doesn’t sleep.
@
Do you remember when I had you a second time, your gun to your head? When I pushed in, you cried. So softly, so quietly, like you didn’t want me to hear. But I fucked you gently, let you cry, licked the tears from your cheeks.
I don’t think I’ve tasted any tears sweeter.
When the sun rose and I left you broken, wrapped in your bed covers, I knew that the light would not dispel the feel of my fingers from your skin, the taste of me in your mouth. I knew that I would be hell itself, to you. I knew that every dark corner was me. Every quiet whisper, every brush of hot breath, fingers on your elbows, lips on the nape of your neck. It’s all me.
Even your shadow. Even your shadow was a ghost of me, following you no matter where you went. Always, always finding you.