Call To Arms cont.
Carrying on with the posting of my first completed fanfiction; Something on Sherlock’s fingernail was bothering him greatly. Frowning he picked at it for ten minutes straight before remembering that Peter was there. Peter sat on the sofa opposite, still tightly wrapped in his black leather jacket and black scarf,
‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’ he said briskly
‘No’ Sherlock said, distracted
‘You out of milk again or something?’
‘No’
Peter shrank away a bit,
‘When did you say John would be back?’
‘I didn’t. In fact he doesn’t even know you’re here. You’re my guest’ He smiled at this last, which only served to disturb Peter more.
The muted ticking of Peter’s watch was the sole sound in the room for some time
‘I don’t mean to be rude but-’
‘Sherlock Holmes’ Sherlock finished,
‘Sorry?’
‘You were going to ask me who I am.’
‘Yeah I was...’ Peter suddenly had a knowing look ‘So you’re him’
‘Beg your pardon?’
‘John mentioned you in an email. And when I say “mentioned” I actually mean wrote a love letter- wouldn’t shut up about you...’ Peter’s eyebrows shot up into his hair ‘You’re not his other half, are you?’
‘Hm? No...no...well, sort of...’ Sherlock waved a hand dismissively, ‘In all ways but one’
‘Oh’ Peter sighed, ‘Good.’
Sherlock got to his feet, hands in his pockets,
‘You and John were in the army together?’
‘Yeah, we go back a long way’ Peter said, ‘Honest to God I don’t know how I would have got through it all without him. Most reliable bloke I’ve ever met. Really solid. You know one of those people who’s just...there? At the right moment. Saying the right things-’
‘Well, I don’t know about that last’
‘You’re lucky to know him, Mr Holmes’
‘I don’t need you to tell me that’ Sherlock sniffed ‘I’ll get to the point. John’s run into a bit of trouble recently. Trouble involving one Sergeant Livesey.’
He paused to gage Peter’s reaction, which played out exactly as he had suspected. His eyes widened, his skin blanched, his grip on the arm of the sofa tightened. Ever so slightly.
‘I know everything’ Sherlock lied, ‘All of it. John told me. Was it only John he bullied, or were you just as unfortunate?’
Peter cleared his throat,
‘Started as just John. There was this bloke we both trained with, Liam Green- he wasn’t ready for army life. He kept mucking up. We had to keep sorting him out. Paid the price for our troubles.’
‘Price?’ Sherlock probed,
‘Thought you knew everything?’ Peter said warily
‘Oh I do...John just...left some things out, that’s all. You were saying?’
‘In the beginning Livesey would make us run. Run for miles at a time. All weathers. Late at night. We’d run until we could barely stand up straight. Those times, when we were done Livesey would send me and Liam back to barracks. John had to stay. To this day I don’t know why...’
‘Didn’t you ask?’ Sherlock snapped
‘Of course I asked!’ Peter said incredulously, ‘but you know what John’s like. He just clammed up. Wouldn’t say another word. To be honest I’m shocked he even told you’
Sherlock’s lip curled: Peter didn’t know the first thing about him and John. And yet he was spot on.
How annoying.
As expected Peter disregarded Sherlock’s earlier statement of knowing the entire story.
‘Few weeks on he seemed to get worse. Everything we did was wrong - even looking at him got us into trouble. He...he started beating us.’
‘Corporal punishment’ Sherlock mused, ‘That must have been so satisfying for him’
Peter gritted his teeth and blinked furiously,
‘Didn’t stop there, either...when he decided rapping our knuckles wasn’t degrading enough he’d...touch us’
‘He did that?’ Sherlock’s voice cracked, ‘To John. He did that?’
‘Not just John. To Liam and me.’
Sherlock rolled his eyes skyward, ‘Liam and I.’
‘Liam killed himself!’ Peter shouted, ‘He never said a word to me or John about anything but I know it was the shame of what Livesey put him through that did it. He couldn’t take the persecution. I was the one who had to tell his Nan that her only grandson hung himself from the rafters!’
‘Hanged’ Sherlock’s fingernail had his attention again
‘John found him! Walked in one night and Liam was up there...swinging.’ Peter was on his feet now, his forefinger jabbing downwards at the air, ‘That broke John. That really broke him- and if that wasn’t enough heartache- the attack destroyed him.’
Sherlock’s ears pricked. He glared at Peter, eyes wide with alarm, sinking into the opposite chair.
‘Attack...?’ he said quietly. Peter must not have heard him.
‘He wasn’t the same’ he said, voice wavering,
‘They never are, are they?’ Sherlock said slowly, testing the water, ‘Rape victims...’
Sherlock’s worst fears were confirmed as Peter bowed his head, arms folded tight around himself.
‘Oh...’ Sherlock whispered, ‘Oh John...’
‘Never in a million years did I imagine Livesey was capable of something like that’ said Peter
‘Why John?’ Sherlock pleaded, ‘Why him? Why did he leave you alone?’
Peter shook his head furiously, squeezing his eyes shut. Sherlock continued,
‘Where were you? Why weren’t you there? Why didn’t you stop this?’
‘I didn’t know!’ Peter whined, ‘Not until he told me! Oh God I didn’t know...’
As though for the first time, Peter saw Sherlock: saw his dead-eyed stare, saw his body trembling, saw the unbridled shock.
‘You didn’t know either...did you?’ he concluded
Sherlock couldn’t find the energy or the will to respond.
Peter moved closer until he was leaning over Sherlock, his voice level returning to normal,
‘As for why I didn’t stop it? I did stop it, Mr Holmes.’
‘Too little too late’ Sherlock spat,
‘No’ Peter snapped, ‘No because we...we ended it. We made it so Livesey couldn’t hurt anyone else again.’
‘By ending his life’ Sherlock concluded, ‘You killed him.’
‘We killed him’ said Peter, ‘John and me.’
‘John and I- must I tell you twice?’
‘Shot him.’ Peter laughed maniacally, ‘John did. He shot that bastard and we stood over him together and watched him die’
Peter was leaning impossibly close now. Sherlock, whose allowance for human contact was limited to one person only, began to shy away. The man clearly had a heavy smoking habit, six- no, seven a day, eight at the weekends, leaving an acrid undertone to his breath. Sherlock’s lip curled,
Peter continued, low ‘You should have seen the hate in his eyes’
‘The man did rape him’
‘It was scary though- I told you; Livesey changed him. Changed everything about him. Turned him into a killer.’
‘Are you quite done?’
Sherlock’s intonation was so dismissive, as though what he had divulged was as life-changing as asking for a first-class stamp; it made Peter stand straight in surprise,
‘I’m telling you Livesey’s alive’ he declared, ‘And he’ll be coming for me. And John. Tell him to keep his head down, yeah?’
Sherlock didn’t notice Peter leave.
He thought about Livesey- his own fabricated image plaguing his mind: ten-thousand feet tall, square-jawed, towering over John, breathing heavily as clumsy thick fingers fumbled with John’s belt buckle. He thought of John cowering, pleading, sobbing as that- that ridiculously disarming jumper of his was torn from him. Sherlock tutted: why was John so small in stature? So easy to throw around...And Livesey wouldn’t be too careful about it either- he would bite, and bruise, and rip, and scrape, and tear. And John- simple, stoic, John; would grit his teeth and wait for it to end- probably without making a sound.
Livesey would bleed for this.
John’s key in the door momentarily removed all morbid thoughts from Sherlock’s mind. John was beaming, bearing a plastic bag in front of him proudly. He put it on the kitchen table and turned to Sherlock over his shoulder,
‘Custard’ he announced
‘I know Sergeant Livesey raped you.’
The crash from the kitchen did not make Sherlock look up. John must have dropped something in shock- he resolved, a saucepan or a test tube. He waited for an answer, a scathing accusation or an insistent denial. Neither came. Only...breathing- heavy and laboured. Sherlock craned his neck.
John was leant against the kitchen table, the tremor in his left hand almost violent. His left foot was slightly raised off the ground. It was paining him. No accusation or denial needed, then.
‘John’ Sherlock ventured, ‘I take it you heard me?’
‘I heard you’ John mumbled. Crossing his hands over each other, he steered himself around to face his flatmate. He made no effort to mask the rage in his voice, and he knew there was absolutely no point in lying.
‘How the hell did you know that?’
‘Your old messmate. Peter Dobbs.’
‘Pete was here? What did he want?’
‘Nothing. I told him to come.’
‘You?’ John became incensed, ‘How did you-?’
‘I emailed him’
‘You what?’
‘Despite my constant asking of you, you refused to let me in. I was forced to take matters into my own hands.’
‘Forced?’ John spluttered, ‘I forced you?’
John made a move towards Sherlock, but he stumbled as a lightening fork of pain shot through his left leg. John shouted and fell against the back of the single chair.
‘This could have been avoided, John’ Sherlock said, fuming; ‘What I can’t understand is why I had to resort to outside sources - you should have trusted me enough to have told me yourself. I said before: saves embarrassment.’
‘You bastard’ John said flatly,
‘At least now I can understand what the problem has been. Why the mere mention of Livesey’s name causes you to automatically feel things...’
John shuffled to the bookcase, a fine sweat breaking out on his forehead. He removed his jacket, letting it fall to the floor where he sank down next to it, back against the bottom two shelves. He was struggling to breathe more than before and as Sherlock observed the discomfort he had caused John, his heart broke.
‘All I wanted, John’ he said, ‘all I wanted was for you to talk to me. I’m the only person you trust.’
John had never, ever said as much; but it was the truth. He closed his eyes,
‘It’s not something I go around just saying, Sherlock’
‘Does Sarah know?’
‘How could I tell Sarah when I couldn’t even tell you?’
Unbelievably, Sherlock’s spirits lifted: one-nil to him, then.
‘When did it happen?’ Sherlock barked
John shook his head,
‘I don’t want to talk about it- I don’t want to go into it. Please don’t make me...’
But it was like an itch Sherlock needed to scratch in order to function. In a matter of seconds he had become obsessed with unravelling this particular side of John, the hidden, secret side. He was Sherlock Holmes. It was imperative he knew everything.
It was the natural order of things.
‘When John? How long ago? Tell me.’
‘Before I met you.’
Sherlock scoffed. Such an obvious answer, designed to deflect. How bothersome.
Sherlock growled at the back of his throat,
‘John. When?’
John swallowed,
‘The night before we left for Afghanistan’
‘How?’
John’s look was dubious. To Sherlock’s discomfort he smirked,
‘What? Do you want a live demonstration?’
Sherlock twitched, John sat forward, ran his tongue across his lips,
‘Tell you what, you smack me about a bit so I can’t move, I’ll lie face down on the carpet then you hand me that remote control and I can-’
‘Stop it’
John had the decency to look embarrassed, Sherlock noted
‘How, John? I need to understand. Help me understand.’
John’s hand gripped his left thigh crushingly, pain flaring up again,
‘We had this do at the training base- a sort of leaving do. People’s families were there- parents, other halves, children, friends-’
‘What fun...’ Sherlock groaned
John ignored him.
‘This is it’ Sergeant Milner breathed, gripping John and Peter’s shoulders, a far-away expression across his eyes, ‘This is what this has all been about; what it’s all been for. I can’t sodding wait’
Peter raised an eyebrow,
‘You drunk, sir?’
Sergeant Milner’s stiff upper lip tightened,
‘Extremely. But my point remains the same. Tomorrow - we get out there! Doesn’t that fill you with anticipation?’
‘I’m practically moist with it, sir’ Peter muttered
John was alerted to the vibration in his trouser pocket. He took out his phone, rolling his eyes at the name that flashed up on screen: Incoming call: Harry.
‘My sister’ he informed Peter as Sergeant Milner staggered to another table where he was greeted with raucous cheers, ‘Better take it, hadn’t I?’
‘Give her my best, will you?’ Peter said
‘For the umpteenth time Harry’s gay, you idiot...’
John exited the main hall into the bracing cold and darkness. He answered the call against the back wall of the building. Harry’s broken voice was unnaturally loud,
‘John...John ‘s me...don’t hang up...please...please’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s tomorrow you’re off ‘snit?
‘Yes.’
‘Oh God John be careful...prossissme you won’t get yourself exploded up or shot...because if you do I’ll kill you myself! Terrorists’ll be the least of your problems, sunshine’
‘Glad you find it all so amusing, Harry...’
He didn’t notice the tall, broad, hard figure emerge from the other corner of the building. Sergeant Livesey had originally stepped out to smoke and get away from the non-stop gabbling onslaught of noise inside. Upon seeing John he snuffed his cigarette out under the heel of his shoe. He had better ideas.
‘Harry. I am hanging up now. Alright?’
‘Oh don’t-don’t-don’t go...not yet I...’
As she dissolved into hiccups John ended the call.
John leant against the wall, watching his breath cloud against the air. He was going to war tomorrow. Part of him wanted to laugh: Afghanistan was what he had been waiting for- the opportunity to prove himself; the other part of him wanted to scream the dread was so overwhelming.
‘Good evening, Officer’
John started at the Sergeant’s sudden appearance. John could tell from his open shirt collar and flushed face he had had a copious amount of alcohol- more than likely whiskey; Livesey was a whiskey man, he always sank a glass before ordering John to brace himself against the desk.
Livesey approached, John recoiled
‘You will stand to attention when a superior addresses you’ Livesey snarled.
John wasn’t sure whether it was habit, or his subconscious, or whether he had wanted to; but he stood ramrod straight, eyes ahead; as was the way.
Livesey was in front of him now and that look had returned. John could feel his blush spreading over his neck, reaching his ears and his cheeks.
‘You couldn’t begin to imagine what I think about when I look at you, Watson; so many ideas racing through my mind. You keep me up at night...’
‘How unfortunate’ John drawled in a small voice,
‘Backchat?’ Livesey was amused, ‘I see my disciplinary measures were nowhere near strict enough. Perhaps you should accompany me now...give them another go. If you’re lucky...’ he leant into John’s ear, ‘I might even make you a bit wet this time...soften the blow...’
John whimpered- he would have given anything to stop his knees from shaking.
‘Got a little girlfriend here for you tonight?’
John shook his head no.
Livesey placed a fingertip at John’s navel,
‘No what?’
‘No, sir’
‘No girlfriend. Pity. Perhaps a boyfriend, then? A strapping lad from your neighbourhood with a cock longer than your arm- no?’
John felt sick
‘Let me go back inside, sir; you don’t have to-’
‘-You’re right I don’t’ said Livesey simply. He even took a step back, ‘Off you pop’
A way out seemed too good to be true. John chanced a sideways step to his right. Livesey’s trunk-thick arm barred his path. He snickered,
‘You smell fantastic. Why can’t they all smell like you?’
And with that he leant into John’s neck, inhaling deeply, groaning as he breathed out as though taking a hit of cocaine. John’s entire body screamed; his flesh crawled. Livesey growled,
‘Stop squirming- plenty of time for that later’
‘Oh God...’ John moaned
‘You will give yourself to me. Completely.’
‘N-’
His cry was cut off by Livesey pushing his mouth against John’s, gnawing at him with his teeth, forcing his tongue inside, before dropping his mouth to John’s neck and chest, biting; biting all over. John pushed down on Livesey’s shoulders, but he felt weak in comparison. The Sergeant moved in for a second kiss but John was faster. Latching on to Livesey’s bottom lip he bit down, hard, drawing blood. The fury in Livesey’s eyes sent chills down his spine. The Sergeant raised his fist.
John saw white for a good few seconds, followed by blinding pain. He slumped but Livesey caught him and punched him again. John’s eyes lolled in his head, he couldn’t see straight. He fell. Livesey planted four swift kicks to his torso. John heard a cracking sound and felt more indescribable pain: two- no, one rib broken. Just one.
He felt himself flipped over onto his front, his head connecting with ground. When he felt clumsy, damp fingers at his belt the horror of it all hit home. This couldn’t be happening. He tried to swing his arm backwards but the pain in his ribcage sent him flopping back down.
He heard Livesey’s liqour roughened voice,
‘If you relax this will go a lot faster’
Cold air on his thighs, a hand underneath him and yet more burning pain as with an undignified grunt Livesey thrust into him. Repeatedly. Put a hand round John’s neck, driving him into the grass as he rode him more earnestly, moaning loud. Resolutely John remained silent. He wouldn’t scream. He wouldn’t beg. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
Suddenly Livesey stilled. John could feel it was over. Could hear the metallic chink of Livesey’s belt as he sorted himself out.
‘Get some rest’ he slurred, ‘We’re off early tomorrow’
John didn’t cry. In fact, that was the last thing he wanted to do. He reached behind himself, applying pressure, the following sensation- like a knife being driven in- made him yelp. He dressed himself. Tried to stand up, failed the first three times. Something warm and wet left a trail down his chin. Where was his bloody phone? He dialled Peter
‘Peter, I’m outside. Help me...Oh God please help me...’
He remembered Peter’s anguished voice on the other end yelling his name before he fell unconscious.
‘What then?’ said Sherlock darkly,
John rubbed a hand across his eyes,
‘We found a room to ourselves and he - Peter- sorted me out. Stitched me up. Gave me bandages. All under my direction of course’
‘You? You’d been raped.’
‘I am aware of that fact, thank you, Sherlock’
‘Peter mentioned something else. He mentioned you shot him. Livesey’
‘He’s right. I did.’
‘When?’
‘Third week abroad we came under attack. Livesey was in the field. Before I knew what was happening my gun was in my hands. I opened the chamber, checked it was loaded.’
John’s look was determined; his eyes were a shade darker, too.
‘I had one bullet, Sherlock’ he said, ‘Just one. It was like some sort of bloody sign’
‘Hm’ Sherlock said
‘And then Peter said “Do it.” And that was it. I fired.’
‘Of course’ said Sherlock distractedly, ‘who’d notice another murder out there...?’
John’s voice dropped a pitch ‘He went down like a ton of bricks but not without making sure he saw us. He looked me straight in the eye...then he didn’t move again. I actually laughed when it was done.’
Silence passed between them, Sherlock deleting all information in his mind that paled into irrelevancy in light of this new situation.
‘Sometimes’ John started, looking at his knees, ‘sometimes I question my sanity. I really do.’
‘No need’ Sherlock said simply, ‘I would have done far worse’
Sherlock and John looked at each other: what he read in Sherlock’s expression made him gasp. Something dark had settled there, anger beyond John’s comprehension.
‘Not my proudest moment you can imagine’ said John
‘Peter Dobbs seemed pretty proud of the whole thing’
John’s jaw was set,
‘I’m still angry at you for dragging him round here’
‘Are you?’
‘Yes.’ John’s temper rose to the surface again,
Sherlock stood,
‘Get up, John’
He went to him but John stuck his hand out
‘Stay where you are!’
‘Oh come on-’
‘Take another step and I’ll floor you. I’m not joking.’
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, an idea coming to him,
‘Floor me? Look at you. You can barely stand.’
‘Sherlock...I mean it..!’ John was shouting now
‘And if you do manage to get to your feet I’m sure I could dig up a copy of the Yellow Pages for you to stand on when you attempt to hit me’
John grunted as the pain in his leg increased
‘And even then-’ Sherlock goaded, ‘the state your shoulder’s in you couldn’t even pinch me let alone punch me’
‘You obnoxious git!’ John roared
‘You can sit there and name-call all you want. Fact is, I’m stood over here, and you’re slumped down there. On the floor.’
Sherlock’s hands snaked into his pockets and he bent towards him,
‘That’s where he had you, isn’t it?’ he whispered, ‘On the floor. Face in the ground while he lifted your shirt up...’
‘Bastard...BASTARD!’
In seconds John was on his feet and across the room, fists bunching Sherlock’s collar.
As he realised the pain in his leg had vanished, he lowered his head onto Sherlock’s chest, panting hard.
‘I told you you’re alright’ Sherlock said above him. The deep thrum of his voice made John’s forehead tingle
‘And I told you you’d see me differently’ John retorted, ‘A coward. A murdering coward’
‘No.’ Sherlock said loudly. John looked up,
‘I can see it in your eyes’ he whispered
‘Perhaps it was better when I knew nothing of this, John’
‘What?’
‘Now that I do...I have to find him’
‘Sherlock no...’
‘I have to. And when I do I’ll burn him. I’ll hurt him. I’ll kill him. And not necessarily in that order.’
‘They’ll lock you up’
‘No they won’t’
‘I’ll lose you’
‘No you won’t’
‘Sherlock.’ John braced himself against him, ‘You can’t just outthink someone like Sergeant Livesey, the only way he knows is brute force...control...promise me you won’t go after him’
‘Can’t. Sorry.’
‘Oh God...’
He trailed off. Ever so slowly, Sherlock had put a hand against John’s face. He was studying him, marking him with his eyes. You are mine. Mine to protect. Sherlock wanted to draw him in and hold him where nothing could touch him- the world could go to hell.
‘You said he put his hands on your neck...’ Sherlock’s voice was distant
John’s expression remained open as Sherlock ducked his head and placed a chaste kiss to John’s throat. He moved under his jawline and pressed another one, soft and warm. He repeated the action on the other side and John made a small noise in his throat and splayed his fingers across Sherlock’s back.
When Sherlock stopped John was smiling,
‘Typical. I call you an obnoxious git and you get a hard-on’
‘I’m sorry’ Sherlock’s reply was instant
‘Don’t be...’ John was amorous, leaning up to the detective’s mouth, ‘don’t be sorry, Sherlock. It’s fine...it’s all fine...’
Mrs Hudson’s arrival was almost missed,
‘You two alright? I heard raised voices- you two can’t half scrap, I tell you.’
John, reeling, did a double take at Sherlock, who had resumed his original sitting position with cat-like speed,
‘Fine, Mrs Hudson’ he huffed ‘All fine here.’
John, well and truly heated, could only nod and grin at her.
A stone’s throw from Leicester Square in a one bedroom flat, Peter Dobbs lay dead.