Fic: The Spy Who Loved Me (8/?)
The Spy Who Loved Me
Rating: NC-17/M
Pairings: Sherlock/Victor Trevor (for now); Sherlock/John.
Warnings: ANGST! Character death. Drug abuse. Man-on-man explicit situations..
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are the property of ACD. The latest incarnation of Sherlock belongs to the BBC. I own nothing.
Notes: This is a prompt fill that grew into an unwieldy beast. The original prompt is here: Make Me a Monday Week 26. Thank you to theimprobable1 for coming up with such an awesome prompt and hope you don't mind that it has been tweaked ever so slightly.
Summary: Sherlock's first love was a secret agent named Victor Trevor. He was sent away on a dangerous top secret mission and Sherlock swore to wait for him, even though the mission was expected to take several years.
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Chapter Eight
When Sherlock finally comes round, John is so relieved he thinks he might genuinely throw up. It has been a tense few hours since the dramatic ride to the hospital and it is at times like this when John wishes he really wasn’t a doctor. Where other people would have looked and seen chaos in the paramedics’ movements, John knew. He knew exactly what they are doing, how close to crashing Sherlock was and it was unbearable. As soon as they reached the hospital, Sherlock had been whisked away and quickly, thankfully, stabilised. He has been lying in this bed, silent and still, hooked up to an IV, for a couple of hours now and John hasn’t moved an inch since he took up his perch beside his friend’s bed. Mycroft paid a brief visit, his expression more drawn than John had ever seen it, and was gone again in no time at all, leaving John to his silent vigil.
Finally, though, finally Sherlock begins to stir and when his eyes flutter open, John feels a rush of relief, and then he doesn’t know whether to cry or laugh or punch Sherlock in the face.
“John,” Sherlock breathes, his voice tired, slurred from the strain.
“Thank God you’re awake,” John says, leaning closer, “How are you feeling?”
It’s a pretty stupid question, but for once Sherlock does not comment.
“I’m sorry.”
“What are you apologising to me for?”
Sherlock looks surprised, then pained, but before he can speak up, John rests a hand over his.
“It’s fine.”
Sherlock watches him silently, his eyes no longer blown wide and unfocused with the drugs.
“You know, when my parents died, I drank. A lot.”
“Did it help?” Sherlock asks, the tiniest twist at the corner of his mouth, because he already knows the answer.
“No. And I regretted it afterwards, a hell of a lot.”
“Harry,” Sherlock says, his eyes falling closed again, “Of course.”
And yes, of course Sherlock is still very much Sherlock, even mere hours after an almost fatal reaction to cocaine.
“We both drank. But I managed to stop myself, eventually. Joined up, found something to do with my life that didn’t involve drinking myself to sleep every night.”
Sherlock hums in understanding and his eyes flicker open again, his gaze disarmingly vulnerable.
“I didn’t mean to… That is to say, I didn’t expect -“
“It was a bad reaction,” John says, “It can happen at any time, even if you’re the most experienced drug-user.” He frowns a little at his own words because he still doesn’t know all the ins and outs of Sherlock’s drug habit, but he wonders about it too often for his own good.
“I can’t bear it, John,” Sherlock whispers and John tightens his hold on Sherlock’s hand as Sherlock closes his eyes in something like embarrassment.
“It’ll get easier,” John promises, although he knows it’s an uphill struggle.
“I dreamt of him last night,” Sherlock breathes, “I dreamt of him being killed.”
That explains the lack of sleep, John thinks to himself.
“I saw his face on every dead body I’ve ever looked at.”
John feels the shiver run through Sherlock and tries not to picture all the gruesome deaths he himself has seen in the few months he has known Sherlock.
“I can’t promise that will go away,” John says quietly. He knows all to well how hard it is to rid yourself of those kinds of nightmares.
Sherlock lets out a hitched breath, his face creasing with emotion, but he calms himself almost instantly, his fingers tightening in a death grip around John’s.
“The man, at Lestrade’s crime scene.”
John had almost forgotten in the ensuing drama but now he remembers the man with a driving license proclaiming him to be Victor Trevor, remembers Sherlock’s anguish. John waits a painfully long time for Sherlock to continue, and when he does, he says only one word.
“Moriarty.”
“Moriarty?!” John echoes and yes, of course Moriarty. He had promised to burn the heart out of Sherlock and what better way then to taunt him with the death of his lover. John should have seen it straight away.
“Do you think he’ll make another move?” John asks warily. The swimming pool doesn’t seem so long ago now and he can practically feel the ache in every bone of his body as the bomb had ripped the place apart. He and Sherlock had only survived because they had been thrown into the pool itself, sheltered from much of the debris. They hadn’t walked away completely unscathed though - in fact, thanks to a damaged knee, John hadn’t been able to walk away at all.
“He’s taunting me,” Sherlock whispers, “Somehow he found out and I have no doubt he’ll use it to his advantage in any way he can.”
John can’t help the little shiver that tracks down his spine.
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Sherlock is released from hospital the next day and although they spend the next few days on edge, they see no sign of Moriarty. The days stretch into weeks and it seems that one little taunt was all, at least for the time being. Sherlock hides himself away in the flat, refusing to take cases, but for once John is glad: Sherlock needs this time to grieve, to come to terms with Victor’s death. There are a few awful moments when John looks at his friend and sees him on the verge of breakdown, and he has lost count of the number of nights he is woken from his nightmares by the sounds of Sherlock in distress - sometimes from his own nightmares, sometimes simply from the weight of his memories. There is even one truly awful day and after Sherlock has torn their flat apart in a rage - provoked by God only knows what - and finally dropped to the floor and cried himself hoarse, he explains that it would have been Victor’s thirty-fifth birthday. John holds him close and says nothing, lets his friend cry until he has no tears left to cry and remains silent when Sherlock pushes himself to his feet and flees to his bedroom.
Slowly, though, things seem to get better. John knows there is still a long way to go but Sherlock doesn’t look quite as tormented as he did those first few weeks and he finally starts to take cases again. Lestrade’s men keep their distance even more than before, seemingly as a result of what many are whispering was a nervous breakdown in the middle of a crime scene and, combined with the idea that Sherlock is indeed some kind of psychopath, it serves to keep them quiet, civil - and always wary. Lestrade is the only one who has some idea of the truth after John told him some vague details of the situation, but he continues to treat Sherlock with the same faint consternation and mild amusement he always has. Sherlock returns to his brilliant, acerbic self and sometimes John forgets what it was like to have this man cry himself to sleep in John’s arms.
His relationship with Sherlock is closer than ever - not surprising after everything they have shared - and if it sometimes strays past the boundaries of a normal platonic relationship, John doesn’t think much of it. Sherlock has become very tactile since his drug-induced near-death, especially when they are at home alone: he will catch hold of John’s wrist to get his attention and keep hold of it for longer than necessary; he will sit beside John on the sofa, close enough that their arms and legs brush whenever either of them moves; he will touch his hand to John’s shoulder when he passes John at the table. It’s not a completely unnatural reaction to grief, and to his own near-death, so John takes it in his stride, even though he had never expected it from Sherlock. If anything, he feels privileged, to have seen past that carefully guarded exterior - to be trusted by Sherlock, even when he is at his most vulnerable.
He doesn’t even question it the three times he wakes in the middle of the night to find Sherlock curled up in his bed next to him. He can understand the need for closeness and Sherlock is never going to just ask. When he finds himself reacting to the warmth of Sherlock’s body next to his and waking in the morning with an uncomfortable erection, he shrugs it off and quickly leaves the bed. He is a man, after all, and it’s been some time since he shared his bed with someone else. Sherlock says nothing when John wakes him briefly to let him know he is leaving for work and when he gets home his bed is, surprisingly, made up to military standards. Sherlock says nothing about those three incidents and soon enough, it stops happening as Sherlock visibly regains some of his lost liveliness.
Needless to say, John has never been the detective in this partnership. He has a fairly good understanding of people, but in the end he will never be able to read them the way Sherlock can. Which is why, when Sherlock pins him to the wall and kisses him, he is completely dumbfounded.