Disguise, part 9c/?
anonymous
June 1 2011, 02:08:12 UTC
"Shut up."
"I'm sorry?"
"Shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. Don't talk. Don't deduce anything. Just shut your bloody face and listen."
Sherlock cocks his head at him, blinks, but doesn't open his mouth.
"You have to stop this. You have to stop all of it. Explain to me, please Sherlock, because I don't understand. You follow me around; try to fool me in every normal facet of my life. You disguise yourself so brilliantly; no one's ever looked at you skeptically, least of all me. Every single, bloody disguise flirts with me, turns me on, and ... for what?"
John paces to the fireplace, comes back. "You have to explain it me, because I've been running it through my head all day, Sherlock, and I really don't understand. Why are you doing this? Why?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
John presses his hands to his eyes. "You aren't serious."
"Am I not?"
John is livid now. "Did you not get enough of me back then? Is that it? Didn't quite get as far with me as you'd hoped? Didn't get to stick your gigantic prick inside me, so when I conveniently dropped back into your life you thought you'd work back up to it?"
Sherlock's face is blank, which infuriates John even more. "Was that the whole, elaborate plan? All of the disguises, all of the flirting, and all because you didn't get to fuck me?"
Something occurs to him.
"Jesus Christ, have you been planning this since ... since then?" John knows Sherlock's ridiculously accurate memory. He wouldn't put it past him. Turning on his heel, John paces across the room, then back again. He looks at Sherlock again; he is radiating so much heat from his anger that he might combust from it.
"Is that what you want, then?" John starts unbuttoning his shirt. "You want to fuck me, Sherlock? Fine. Who am I to get in the way of the great Sherlock Holmes? Especially when he's on a case."
He drops his shirt and reaches to tug the hem of his tee shirt out of his waist. "Just make sure to use plenty of lube; I've a bit of a dry spell recently."
Sherlock is lightly running his thumb over the knee of his trousers; his face has a look of deep concentration on it. He watches John intently.
"Well?" John frowns at him, paces to the fireplace again -- why can't he stand still?
"Well what? I'm listening to you, John." Sherlock follows him with eyes that have shifted into a sort of indulgent tolerance. "You say whatever you need to say to ... me."
John is used to this, he's used to Sherlock showing not one shred of sentiment, even when those around him are charged up and emotional. Sherlock has convinced himself that he's a sociopath, that he doesn't actually have emotions. Which is a load of utter tripe, but John coddles him, lets him believe such rubbish if it helps with his work.
But, how -- how? -- is he sitting there so calmly? Did that really mean so little to him? Is he really such a fucking good actor that all through that night -- every bloody minute -- he never felt a thing? Even after all this time, after everything, John still held onto a thread of hope that there'd been some other reason that it ended the way it did.
"Like that?" he'd asked Brad, all those years ago.
"I like you."
John's throat stings for a minute; he swallows against it, licks his lip.
"Well ... " John's voice sounds far too quiet. "That whole time, all those years ago. I thought you'd liked it ... liked me."
Sherlock freezes; his eyes widen. The room goes dead silent. He stares at John, but his eyes cloud over. He's not here, he's somewhere inside his head.
"Sherlock?" John says quietly. He steps forward in concern.
But Sherlock doesn't answer. After two long, silent minutes Sherlock stands abruptly, reaches for his coat, and is out the door.
John stands in the middle of the room, his mind an all too familiar mix of confusion.
Re: Disguise, part 9c/?
anonymous
June 1 2011, 03:14:29 UTC
My god, I was so engrossed that I didn't realise I had read through parts a - c already! This remains so very good and I will try to remain calm as I wait for the next part. Thankfully you have plenty more in store for us!
Re: Disguise, part 9c/?
anonymous
June 1 2011, 03:28:43 UTC
I actually gasped out loud in excited shock when I saw this new part post! I was all, yes yes yes!
Oh my god this was over way too fast! I want to read it forever! You just keep on writing it, okay? Can't wait for the next part! It's getting so exciting!
Re: Disguise, part 9c/?
anonymous
June 1 2011, 04:13:44 UTC
Jesus fucking wept and so did I when I saw this was posted. Holy hell in a handbasket I flipped out and lost it then broke down in tears. Anon, you have no idea how much I love this fic.
Imma compose myself I swear. Okay, all good now. Sorta. Breathing. Woah.
NOW: holy crap I knoooooow what Sherlock is doing~ Eff yes. He liked young!John but being the big stupid idiot he is, he was in disguise so it wasn't like he could show up as someone else (ie: himself) and then say: 'HEY remember that awesome sex?! Yeah that was me! Again please kthx.'
Anyway, my brainpan has a few different ways this could resolve itself so I am literally aching to see what you do.
Seriously, it's worse than orgasm denial.
Just please.... I beg of you... don't keep me waiting that long again. Though the tears of unfathomable sadness are quite yummy so maybe that was your devious plan all along.
Oh. My. God. I seriously just gasped out loud - Oh poor broken John! And Sherlock!!! Does he know or has he only just realised or...? I cannot wait for more of this, brilliant!
Disguise, part 10a/?
anonymous
June 6 2011, 01:17:11 UTC
a/n: This part is comprised of 4 comments. I know I've said this before, but thank you all, seriously, for the comments and support for this story. I'm so ridiculously pleased that people are enjoying this. *love*
~*~
November 1992
John wakes to a sense of idyllic contentment. He feels really, really good. Yawning, John glances around. It's dark out, only a bit of moonlight shining through, lighting stripes over the duvet. John's on his back, his muscles pleasantly relaxed, and there's a warm arm draped across his stomach, long hair tickling his shoulder.
Brad.
Behind his eyes, John's memory flashes images at him: sweaty, tangled legs, the view of Brad's hair tumbling into his eyes. His stomach aches at the vivid memories -- whispered words that slipped under his skin and still run through his blood, the feel of their lips pressing and sliding and so very real. John smiles, oddly okay with the images flashing behind his eyes. God, this entire situation ... it's been a good while since he's had such a good night, and -- well, John considers it for a moment. Really, this is the only time he has ever let go, the only time he's opened himself to someone else with such abandon.
He can't stop smiling.
Brad takes a deep breath, his exhalation blowing over John's nipple, and John's stomach tightens. He kisses the top of Brad's head, then slides over onto his side until he's facing Brad, curls his arm over Brad's skin and closes his eyes contentedly.
After a moment, there's a sharp exhalation of breath and the bed moves as Brad jerks away. When John opens his eyes, Brad's are wide and aghast. Brad bounds out of bed and pulls on a pair of pyjama bottoms. He glances at the clock several times, toward the door, then toward the window, his face disbelieving.
"Brad?" John asks quietly. "What's going on?"
Brad doesn't look at him, paces to the window to look out, then back to the door of the bedroom, peering out and then back to John.
John tries to quell the uneasiness rising inside him. He slides out of bed, glancing around for his boxers and spies them tangled in the duvet. After pulling them on, he walks over to Brad, touches his shoulder. Brad tenses in alarm.
"It's four o'clock in the morning," he says hurriedly. "You can't be-- I can't believe we--"
John feels a growing sense of apprehension. Brad's eyes are nothing like they were before: fond and so hungry for John. Now they're wide, suspicious, cold.
"Hey," he says quietly. John steps forward, right into Brad's space, touches the warm skin over his hip lightly. Brad looks at John's lips, down over his body, and back to his eyes. His eyes soften briefly and he swallows.
"It's okay," John says. "Whatever it is ... I can hel--"
"You've got to go."
Brad kicks into motion, walking around them room and grabbing articles of John's discarded clothing. He's almost manic in his energy. Brad pushes the bundle into John's arms and pushes him through the open bedroom door. John is bewildered by the entire state of affairs. He finally stops Brad's shoving, plants his feet.
"Brad, seriously. What's going on? Just tell me; whatever it is -- it's fine... it's all fine. We'll figure this out."
John's mind is racing. What could it be? A flatmate? A boyfriend? Regret? He can't fathom what has changed so suddenly, what changed between them in ten bloody minutes. Not two hours ago Brad had been above him, gasping as they both strained toward completion, rocking together with John's hand covering them both. Not two hours ago, Brad had pressed his forehead against John's, breathing his lips before kissing the corner of his mouth and whispering, "my god John, that was-- you are ... remarkable."
But now Brad stands there, his body ridiculous lines of beauty in the moonlight, and his gaze is incongruous with everything else that has transpired tonight.
Disguise, part 10b/?
anonymous
June 6 2011, 01:17:31 UTC
"This?" Brad all but spits the word at John. "What is this?"
"Brad," John casts around for anything to say that won't spook him, "I meant ... well, that whatever this--"
"This," Brad says, gesturing between the two of them, "isn't anything."
Which, really, John should have known. You don't meet someone interesting at half eleven in the middle of a club in London. You don't find anyone with whom you'd want more than a quick shag on a night like this, least of all someone you'd want to see again (and again and again).
He should have known.
John swallows. "Yeah, alright." He pulls on his trousers quickly, steps awkwardly into his trainers, wriggling his feet past the laces, and turns his shirt right-side out. Not the best way to end a brilliant night, but John's got his pride.
He pulls on his shirt, reaches for the door handle, but turns to look back at Brad before he opens the door. "Still, though, this was fun."
"This?" Brad's eyes cloud over, unreadable. "This was an experiment. And a failed one at that."
When John pulls the door shut behind him the strident sound of the door echoes around him for a moment while he stands there, dumbfounded. He rather wishes he could shut the very same door around his heart.
~*~
November 1992
John bangs into his tiny cramped flat, tosses his keys across the room and throws himself down on the sofa. He's rather a bit aware of such histrionics (he grew up with Harry, after all), but he can't be arsed to care right now.
He stares at the ceiling, his head back on the edge of the sofa, then throws his arm across his eyes, staring into the darkness of his elbow. His mind races with alternate possibilities, with what if?, with what in the living fuck just happened?
What he wants -- what he tries not to listen for -- is the romantical-movie sounds that come with the realisation of a grand misunderstanding. The sound of footsteps on the stairs, a light knock on the door, a voice calling out to him -- reassuring him -- that it was all a mistake. Then: an embrace, inelegant kisses, and naked, sweaty fumblings that fog his mind with lust.
But John's not stupid. Nothing like that actually happens in life, least of all that of a short, orphaned Englishman trying to make a steady go at medical college in spite of all of the obstacles that keep blundering into his path. The sofa cushion is itchy, irritating against his neck. He reaches back to scratch it, then rubs lightly against a sensitive spot as his mind explodes into a memory.
Brad above him, pushing against him, John sliding up onto his elbows to lick his mouth and banging his head against the headboard. Laughing, both of them laughing, Brad's eyes... darkened, impossibly fond, and only, only for John.
John pushes himself away from the back of the sofa. It makes his skin crawl. He can't sit here. He stands, walks into the bathroom and pulls off his shirt. He'll have a shower, clean up, wash everything about last night down the drain. Glancing into the mirror, he spies a darkened mark on his neck and frowns. When he looks down, there's another on his hip, and John mentally calculates -- there are probably at least four more on other parts of his body.
Then, a gasp behind him, and John's heart sinks. He shuts his eyes and wills himself invisible, wishes himself anywhere else but here.
Disguise, part 10c/?
anonymous
June 6 2011, 01:17:51 UTC
"John?"
He takes a deep breath, opens his eyes. Martha stands in the doorway, her eyes wide, raking over the obvious evidence from his night.
"I can't believe you," she says, her voice rising as she speaks. "I was here all night," her eyes are accusing, "I waited for you."
Fuck.
John remembers now the conversation, remembers promising Martha that he'd meet her back here after hanging out with his mates, had promised they'd have some time together.
But, god, one glance, one (perfect) kiss from Brad, and John forgot everything, severed his connections... and all for the promise of something beautiful.
"Martha," he turns to her. "I can explain. I can."
"Forget it, John," she says, looks pointedly at the obvious marks on his body. "There's nothing to explain."
And really, there isn't. Martha hadn't once crossed his mind throughout the entire night.
"I hope it was worth it," she says quietly. "I hope her father isn't a professor at Saint Bart's, too. That might make your romantic entanglements a bit too precarious to navigate."
She steps forward, then slaps John across the face, hard. "Fuck you," she says, her voice cold.
Then she turns and walks out.
John braces his hands on the sides of the sink and looks at himself in the mirror. His reflection is clear for a moment, then swims in front of him.
Christ, what a bloody mess. He just needs to forget, needs to turn off his mind for a little while.
John remembers a bottle he'd confiscated from Harry one night when she'd been inconsolable over her most recent crisis of emotion. It's barely been opened, still in the lower cabinet where he put it months ago. John spins on his heel and walks into the makeshift kitchen, pulls the bottle from its hiding place in the back of the cabinet and stares down at the clear liquid swirling and reflecting his indiscretions in vivid detail.
Vodka.
He takes a deep breath, his mind hovering on the edge of decision.
John wants -- he needs -- to forget.
He shuts his eyes and twists the bottle open.
~*~
A small eternity passes, and John comes back to himself with an abrupt shudder. He blinks, looks around. He's still in the middle of the room, exactly where he'd been when Sherlock walked out.
He has no idea how much time has passed -- were he Sherlock he'd be able to tell by the angle of the moonlight, but John lost that talent as soon as he left Afghanistan.
It's so quiet here, so quiet that John can hear the blood pounding in his ears, can catalogue the pathways his thoughts are travelling, can feel the inches of cotton fabric against his skin. He wants to tear it off, pull his thoughts out in one long thread, coil them up and toss them into the fireplace. His skin feels too small for his body, his brain too big for his head.
It's post Afghanistan all over again: the sparse bedsit with too much time and too little distraction. But this time his mind isn't racing with echoes of war, this time he's gone far back beyond that. He's digging into memories he'd long ago buried, unearthing post-adolescent anguish that no one should have to re-live past the age of thirty.
He throws open the window, breathing the breeze and gulping lungfuls of London as if it could somehow heal his spirit. John watches the cars pass, sees a few passersby, and can't decide if the ache inside him is because he wants to see Sherlock's purposeful stride down the street... or because he doesn't.
He crosses to the kitchen, but for what he has no idea. After a moment John finds the kettle in his hand and a mug in the other. Ahh, well, tea then. The Englishman's cure for everything. He drops a teabag into his mug, gets out sugar and milk and stops for a moment to wait.
Disguise, part 10d/?
anonymous
June 6 2011, 01:18:48 UTC
Leaning against the counter, John examines the debris in front of him: four new jars with mould aging attractively, a glass jar with clean eyedroppers, a pile of slides and petri dishes just waiting for their next bit of research. It's so bloody calming; it makes his heart ache a little.
When the kettle boils, he fixes the tea, adding a bit more milk than normal.
The clutter around him settles deep inside him and his eyes ache; he needs a blank surface -- just one. He grabs a wash bucket and stacks all of the dishes, papers, various substances from the table inside. Then he moves the bucket to the side of the sink, scrubs the table with a wet tea towel, and sits down to a table that hasn't been cleared in all of the months he's lived here.
As he drinks his tea, John tries to think rationally. The whole 'conversation' (he can hear the sarcasm in his thoughts) before Sherlock walked out has left him feeling empty, left a lingering taste of bile in its wake. It's rare for Sherlock to listen more than a moment or two without offering his own deductions. Yet, he sat there, watching John, listening. Not saying a word. Why?
What could possibly keep Sherlock quiet for an entire conversation? Particularly, John thinks, a conversation where John was accusing him of some rather harsh things. Sherlock has never been one to sit by and let something go by when it can be corrected.
So, either John's accusations were spot on... or there's something else going on that he hasn't figured out yet.
John presses his fingers to his eyebrows, kneads his forehead. He's starting to get a headache. Then he smiles grimly and shakes his head. This is why he needs Sherlock. John's a sounding board, a good medical opinion, someone with whom Sherlock can talk aloud. But John is not the detective. He sees a lot, he observes a lot, but dammit, this is Sherlock's forte.
He remembers a case a few weeks ago where the suspect had amnesia. The police had found a hypnotist, called in a therapist, and as it turned out, it wasn't even the right person. The suspect really and truly hadn't known what was going on.
John remembers Sherlock's explanation to Dimmock: People are capable of lying, yes. They're capable of twisting the truth, of appearing unfazed, even in the middle of harsh cross-examination. But there are always clues. Belinda's eyes never changed, her hands were calm, steady, and her eyes moved in typical patterns over the environment around her. Detective Inspector, she's innocent. She didn't know.
And then, suddenly, it hits him.
Sherlock had watched him unflinchingly; his hands were calm, his eyes focused on John and so magnificently open. He'd never once jumped in to quarrel with John. It wasn't until the end that he'd had any sort of expressive reaction...
John sucks his breath. Sherlock hadn't known.
Christ, and John had said such terrible things to him, accused him of such nasty motives. John scrubs his hand over his face. His mind aches and he has a sudden, irrational desire to tear out of the flat and search all of London until he finds Sherlock.
He goes so far as to stand up, to hurry over to the coat rack and grab his coat. When he wrenches open the door Sherlock is standing there. His cheeks are flushed, his hair windblown, and his eyes are wider, more earnest than John has ever seen them.
His mind flashes back and John can see Brad's eyes, can see his expressions superimposing on and then filling Sherlock's visage in front of him. A stab of regret, of want, shudders through him and John freezes.
Sherlock looks at John intently, holds his gaze.
"John," he says. "John."
John can hear the emphasis, the sincerity, as though Sherlock were speaking in capital letters.
"I'm sorry?"
"Shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. Don't talk. Don't deduce anything. Just shut your bloody face and listen."
Sherlock cocks his head at him, blinks, but doesn't open his mouth.
"You have to stop this. You have to stop all of it. Explain to me, please Sherlock, because I don't understand. You follow me around; try to fool me in every normal facet of my life. You disguise yourself so brilliantly; no one's ever looked at you skeptically, least of all me. Every single, bloody disguise flirts with me, turns me on, and ... for what?"
John paces to the fireplace, comes back. "You have to explain it me, because I've been running it through my head all day, Sherlock, and I really don't understand. Why are you doing this? Why?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
John presses his hands to his eyes. "You aren't serious."
"Am I not?"
John is livid now. "Did you not get enough of me back then? Is that it? Didn't quite get as far with me as you'd hoped? Didn't get to stick your gigantic prick inside me, so when I conveniently dropped back into your life you thought you'd work back up to it?"
Sherlock's face is blank, which infuriates John even more. "Was that the whole, elaborate plan? All of the disguises, all of the flirting, and all because you didn't get to fuck me?"
Something occurs to him.
"Jesus Christ, have you been planning this since ... since then?" John knows Sherlock's ridiculously accurate memory. He wouldn't put it past him. Turning on his heel, John paces across the room, then back again. He looks at Sherlock again; he is radiating so much heat from his anger that he might combust from it.
"Is that what you want, then?" John starts unbuttoning his shirt. "You want to fuck me, Sherlock? Fine. Who am I to get in the way of the great Sherlock Holmes? Especially when he's on a case."
He drops his shirt and reaches to tug the hem of his tee shirt out of his waist. "Just make sure to use plenty of lube; I've a bit of a dry spell recently."
Sherlock is lightly running his thumb over the knee of his trousers; his face has a look of deep concentration on it. He watches John intently.
"Well?" John frowns at him, paces to the fireplace again -- why can't he stand still?
"Well what? I'm listening to you, John." Sherlock follows him with eyes that have shifted into a sort of indulgent tolerance. "You say whatever you need to say to ... me."
John is used to this, he's used to Sherlock showing not one shred of sentiment, even when those around him are charged up and emotional. Sherlock has convinced himself that he's a sociopath, that he doesn't actually have emotions. Which is a load of utter tripe, but John coddles him, lets him believe such rubbish if it helps with his work.
But, how -- how? -- is he sitting there so calmly? Did that really mean so little to him? Is he really such a fucking good actor that all through that night -- every bloody minute -- he never felt a thing? Even after all this time, after everything, John still held onto a thread of hope that there'd been some other reason that it ended the way it did.
"Like that?" he'd asked Brad, all those years ago.
"I like you."
John's throat stings for a minute; he swallows against it, licks his lip.
"Well ... " John's voice sounds far too quiet. "That whole time, all those years ago. I thought you'd liked it ... liked me."
Sherlock freezes; his eyes widen. The room goes dead silent. He stares at John, but his eyes cloud over. He's not here, he's somewhere inside his head.
"Sherlock?" John says quietly. He steps forward in concern.
But Sherlock doesn't answer. After two long, silent minutes Sherlock stands abruptly, reaches for his coat, and is out the door.
John stands in the middle of the room, his mind an all too familiar mix of confusion.
What in the hell just happened?
~*~
-end part 9-
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Oh my god this was over way too fast! I want to read it forever! You just keep on writing it, okay? Can't wait for the next part! It's getting so exciting!
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Imma compose myself I swear. Okay, all good now. Sorta. Breathing. Woah.
NOW: holy crap I knoooooow what Sherlock is doing~ Eff yes. He liked young!John but being the big stupid idiot he is, he was in disguise so it wasn't like he could show up as someone else (ie: himself) and then say: 'HEY remember that awesome sex?! Yeah that was me! Again please kthx.'
Anyway, my brainpan has a few different ways this could resolve itself so I am literally aching to see what you do.
Seriously, it's worse than orgasm denial.
Just please.... I beg of you... don't keep me waiting that long again. Though the tears of unfathomable sadness are quite yummy so maybe that was your devious plan all along.
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Yes yes yes ugh this is amazing please update soon before I spontaneously combust please and thank you.
(Is it wrong that I found this sort of hot? Watson enraged and shirtless, just.. Hnnng.)
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Maybe we'll get to see the past from Sherlock's POV now...?
I bet he's just remembered ! ^^
This story is just made of LOVE and GENIUS!! <3
Thank you so much!!
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~*~
November 1992
John wakes to a sense of idyllic contentment. He feels really, really good. Yawning, John glances around. It's dark out, only a bit of moonlight shining through, lighting stripes over the duvet. John's on his back, his muscles pleasantly relaxed, and there's a warm arm draped across his stomach, long hair tickling his shoulder.
Brad.
Behind his eyes, John's memory flashes images at him: sweaty, tangled legs, the view of Brad's hair tumbling into his eyes. His stomach aches at the vivid memories -- whispered words that slipped under his skin and still run through his blood, the feel of their lips pressing and sliding and so very real. John smiles, oddly okay with the images flashing behind his eyes. God, this entire situation ... it's been a good while since he's had such a good night, and -- well, John considers it for a moment. Really, this is the only time he has ever let go, the only time he's opened himself to someone else with such abandon.
He can't stop smiling.
Brad takes a deep breath, his exhalation blowing over John's nipple, and John's stomach tightens. He kisses the top of Brad's head, then slides over onto his side until he's facing Brad, curls his arm over Brad's skin and closes his eyes contentedly.
After a moment, there's a sharp exhalation of breath and the bed moves as Brad jerks away. When John opens his eyes, Brad's are wide and aghast. Brad bounds out of bed and pulls on a pair of pyjama bottoms. He glances at the clock several times, toward the door, then toward the window, his face disbelieving.
"Brad?" John asks quietly. "What's going on?"
Brad doesn't look at him, paces to the window to look out, then back to the door of the bedroom, peering out and then back to John.
John tries to quell the uneasiness rising inside him. He slides out of bed, glancing around for his boxers and spies them tangled in the duvet. After pulling them on, he walks over to Brad, touches his shoulder. Brad tenses in alarm.
"It's four o'clock in the morning," he says hurriedly. "You can't be-- I can't believe we--"
John feels a growing sense of apprehension. Brad's eyes are nothing like they were before: fond and so hungry for John. Now they're wide, suspicious, cold.
"Hey," he says quietly. John steps forward, right into Brad's space, touches the warm skin over his hip lightly. Brad looks at John's lips, down over his body, and back to his eyes. His eyes soften briefly and he swallows.
"It's okay," John says. "Whatever it is ... I can hel--"
"You've got to go."
Brad kicks into motion, walking around them room and grabbing articles of John's discarded clothing. He's almost manic in his energy. Brad pushes the bundle into John's arms and pushes him through the open bedroom door. John is bewildered by the entire state of affairs. He finally stops Brad's shoving, plants his feet.
"Brad, seriously. What's going on? Just tell me; whatever it is -- it's fine... it's all fine. We'll figure this out."
John's mind is racing. What could it be? A flatmate? A boyfriend? Regret? He can't fathom what has changed so suddenly, what changed between them in ten bloody minutes. Not two hours ago Brad had been above him, gasping as they both strained toward completion, rocking together with John's hand covering them both. Not two hours ago, Brad had pressed his forehead against John's, breathing his lips before kissing the corner of his mouth and whispering, "my god John, that was-- you are ... remarkable."
But now Brad stands there, his body ridiculous lines of beauty in the moonlight, and his gaze is incongruous with everything else that has transpired tonight.
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"This?" Brad all but spits the word at John. "What is this?"
"Brad," John casts around for anything to say that won't spook him, "I meant ... well, that whatever this--"
"This," Brad says, gesturing between the two of them, "isn't anything."
Which, really, John should have known. You don't meet someone interesting at half eleven in the middle of a club in London. You don't find anyone with whom you'd want more than a quick shag on a night like this, least of all someone you'd want to see again (and again and again).
He should have known.
John swallows. "Yeah, alright." He pulls on his trousers quickly, steps awkwardly into his trainers, wriggling his feet past the laces, and turns his shirt right-side out. Not the best way to end a brilliant night, but John's got his pride.
He pulls on his shirt, reaches for the door handle, but turns to look back at Brad before he opens the door. "Still, though, this was fun."
"This?" Brad's eyes cloud over, unreadable. "This was an experiment. And a failed one at that."
When John pulls the door shut behind him the strident sound of the door echoes around him for a moment while he stands there, dumbfounded. He rather wishes he could shut the very same door around his heart.
~*~
November 1992
John bangs into his tiny cramped flat, tosses his keys across the room and throws himself down on the sofa. He's rather a bit aware of such histrionics (he grew up with Harry, after all), but he can't be arsed to care right now.
He stares at the ceiling, his head back on the edge of the sofa, then throws his arm across his eyes, staring into the darkness of his elbow. His mind races with alternate possibilities, with what if?, with what in the living fuck just happened?
What he wants -- what he tries not to listen for -- is the romantical-movie sounds that come with the realisation of a grand misunderstanding. The sound of footsteps on the stairs, a light knock on the door, a voice calling out to him -- reassuring him -- that it was all a mistake. Then: an embrace, inelegant kisses, and naked, sweaty fumblings that fog his mind with lust.
But John's not stupid. Nothing like that actually happens in life, least of all that of a short, orphaned Englishman trying to make a steady go at medical college in spite of all of the obstacles that keep blundering into his path. The sofa cushion is itchy, irritating against his neck. He reaches back to scratch it, then rubs lightly against a sensitive spot as his mind explodes into a memory.
Brad above him, pushing against him, John sliding up onto his elbows to lick his mouth and banging his head against the headboard. Laughing, both of them laughing, Brad's eyes... darkened, impossibly fond, and only, only for John.
John pushes himself away from the back of the sofa. It makes his skin crawl. He can't sit here. He stands, walks into the bathroom and pulls off his shirt. He'll have a shower, clean up, wash everything about last night down the drain. Glancing into the mirror, he spies a darkened mark on his neck and frowns. When he looks down, there's another on his hip, and John mentally calculates -- there are probably at least four more on other parts of his body.
Then, a gasp behind him, and John's heart sinks. He shuts his eyes and wills himself invisible, wishes himself anywhere else but here.
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He takes a deep breath, opens his eyes. Martha stands in the doorway, her eyes wide, raking over the obvious evidence from his night.
"I can't believe you," she says, her voice rising as she speaks. "I was here all night," her eyes are accusing, "I waited for you."
Fuck.
John remembers now the conversation, remembers promising Martha that he'd meet her back here after hanging out with his mates, had promised they'd have some time together.
But, god, one glance, one (perfect) kiss from Brad, and John forgot everything, severed his connections... and all for the promise of something beautiful.
"Martha," he turns to her. "I can explain. I can."
"Forget it, John," she says, looks pointedly at the obvious marks on his body. "There's nothing to explain."
And really, there isn't. Martha hadn't once crossed his mind throughout the entire night.
"I hope it was worth it," she says quietly. "I hope her father isn't a professor at Saint Bart's, too. That might make your romantic entanglements a bit too precarious to navigate."
She steps forward, then slaps John across the face, hard. "Fuck you," she says, her voice cold.
Then she turns and walks out.
John braces his hands on the sides of the sink and looks at himself in the mirror. His reflection is clear for a moment, then swims in front of him.
Christ, what a bloody mess. He just needs to forget, needs to turn off his mind for a little while.
John remembers a bottle he'd confiscated from Harry one night when she'd been inconsolable over her most recent crisis of emotion. It's barely been opened, still in the lower cabinet where he put it months ago. John spins on his heel and walks into the makeshift kitchen, pulls the bottle from its hiding place in the back of the cabinet and stares down at the clear liquid swirling and reflecting his indiscretions in vivid detail.
Vodka.
He takes a deep breath, his mind hovering on the edge of decision.
John wants -- he needs -- to forget.
He shuts his eyes and twists the bottle open.
~*~
A small eternity passes, and John comes back to himself with an abrupt shudder. He blinks, looks around. He's still in the middle of the room, exactly where he'd been when Sherlock walked out.
He has no idea how much time has passed -- were he Sherlock he'd be able to tell by the angle of the moonlight, but John lost that talent as soon as he left Afghanistan.
It's so quiet here, so quiet that John can hear the blood pounding in his ears, can catalogue the pathways his thoughts are travelling, can feel the inches of cotton fabric against his skin. He wants to tear it off, pull his thoughts out in one long thread, coil them up and toss them into the fireplace. His skin feels too small for his body, his brain too big for his head.
It's post Afghanistan all over again: the sparse bedsit with too much time and too little distraction. But this time his mind isn't racing with echoes of war, this time he's gone far back beyond that. He's digging into memories he'd long ago buried, unearthing post-adolescent anguish that no one should have to re-live past the age of thirty.
He throws open the window, breathing the breeze and gulping lungfuls of London as if it could somehow heal his spirit. John watches the cars pass, sees a few passersby, and can't decide if the ache inside him is because he wants to see Sherlock's purposeful stride down the street... or because he doesn't.
He crosses to the kitchen, but for what he has no idea. After a moment John finds the kettle in his hand and a mug in the other. Ahh, well, tea then. The Englishman's cure for everything. He drops a teabag into his mug, gets out sugar and milk and stops for a moment to wait.
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When the kettle boils, he fixes the tea, adding a bit more milk than normal.
The clutter around him settles deep inside him and his eyes ache; he needs a blank surface -- just one. He grabs a wash bucket and stacks all of the dishes, papers, various substances from the table inside. Then he moves the bucket to the side of the sink, scrubs the table with a wet tea towel, and sits down to a table that hasn't been cleared in all of the months he's lived here.
As he drinks his tea, John tries to think rationally. The whole 'conversation' (he can hear the sarcasm in his thoughts) before Sherlock walked out has left him feeling empty, left a lingering taste of bile in its wake. It's rare for Sherlock to listen more than a moment or two without offering his own deductions. Yet, he sat there, watching John, listening. Not saying a word. Why?
What could possibly keep Sherlock quiet for an entire conversation? Particularly, John thinks, a conversation where John was accusing him of some rather harsh things. Sherlock has never been one to sit by and let something go by when it can be corrected.
So, either John's accusations were spot on... or there's something else going on that he hasn't figured out yet.
John presses his fingers to his eyebrows, kneads his forehead. He's starting to get a headache. Then he smiles grimly and shakes his head. This is why he needs Sherlock. John's a sounding board, a good medical opinion, someone with whom Sherlock can talk aloud. But John is not the detective. He sees a lot, he observes a lot, but dammit, this is Sherlock's forte.
He remembers a case a few weeks ago where the suspect had amnesia. The police had found a hypnotist, called in a therapist, and as it turned out, it wasn't even the right person. The suspect really and truly hadn't known what was going on.
John remembers Sherlock's explanation to Dimmock: People are capable of lying, yes. They're capable of twisting the truth, of appearing unfazed, even in the middle of harsh cross-examination. But there are always clues. Belinda's eyes never changed, her hands were calm, steady, and her eyes moved in typical patterns over the environment around her. Detective Inspector, she's innocent. She didn't know.
And then, suddenly, it hits him.
Sherlock had watched him unflinchingly; his hands were calm, his eyes focused on John and so magnificently open. He'd never once jumped in to quarrel with John. It wasn't until the end that he'd had any sort of expressive reaction...
John sucks his breath. Sherlock hadn't known.
Christ, and John had said such terrible things to him, accused him of such nasty motives. John scrubs his hand over his face. His mind aches and he has a sudden, irrational desire to tear out of the flat and search all of London until he finds Sherlock.
He goes so far as to stand up, to hurry over to the coat rack and grab his coat. When he wrenches open the door Sherlock is standing there. His cheeks are flushed, his hair windblown, and his eyes are wider, more earnest than John has ever seen them.
His mind flashes back and John can see Brad's eyes, can see his expressions superimposing on and then filling Sherlock's visage in front of him. A stab of regret, of want, shudders through him and John freezes.
Sherlock looks at John intently, holds his gaze.
"John," he says. "John."
John can hear the emphasis, the sincerity, as though Sherlock were speaking in capital letters.
"There are things I have to tell you."
~*~
-end part 10-
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