The Irresistibility of Orbits, Part Two: The Forgetting of Things Past, Chapter Five
Title: The Irresistibility of Orbits. Part Two, or, The Forgetting of Things Past. Chapter Five. Falling Together
Author: ghislanem70
Word Count: 2900
Rating: NC-17
Summary: John returns from Afghanistan..
Disclaimer: I own nothing. All honours to Messrs Gatiss, Moffat, BBC et al.
Warnings: explicit sex, graphic violence, reference to non-con, massive dose of hurt/comfort and angst
Chapter Five. Falling Together
I'm going backwards through time
at the speed of light --
I'm yours,
you're mine,
Two satellites --
I'm gonna love you
like I've never been hurt before--
I'm gonna love you
like I'm indestructible
This is hardcore --
and I'm indestructible
Lyrics to Indestructible, All Rights Reserved Robyn
Lady Holmes and John arrived in the estate car, driven by Edgar, to John's mortification. He had of course offered to drive, but Lady Holmes had looked into his face and very sweetly said, "You're my guest, Captain Watson, and I want you to be comfortable. Anyway, you don't know the way and it's been some time since I've been out to Rexworth Park myself."
The truth was that today, John's stomach was a painful wreck; being a doctor and having done hundreds of abdominal surgeries on soldiers who had been blown apart much as John had, he knew that the patchwork of his torn flesh which the doctors at Bagram had stitched back together with the greatest of care, might never completely heal properly. He tried to ignore the burning, stabbing pains and realized it was just as well he didn't get behind the wheel. So it was that John and Lady Holmes were delivered to the crime scene.
There was already crime scene tape around the body, marking the boundary between the living world and the dead. Sherlock hastened to greet them. He held his mother's hands in his own.
"Mother, I'm afraid it's very bad news. I found a . . . body, the dogs did, actually. I don't know how to tell you this, Mother, but unless I am very mistaken, the woman is Henrietta Trimble. Fredericka's daughter."
Lady Holmes took a deep breath and squeezed Sherlock's hands, but remained composed. After all, there were already many people watching; riders from the hunt were hanging back, trying to discreetly get a glimpse of the corpse; SOCOs combing the leaves for traces and snapping photographs. Television vans could be seen in the distance. They had no leave to enter the grounds of Rexworth Park, however. One could see photographers climbing up, trying to get a shot with their zoom lenses.
"Are you quite sure, Sherlock? Thank God dear Fredericka isn't alive to see it."
He nodded grimly. "She looks very like the photograph. I didn't want you to hear on the telly or from the neighbors; Reggie Rexworth already reported it to CID early this morning before the hunt set out. Apparently. The news trucks are already here."
"But, weren't we supposed to go pick her up at the train station tonight?" John asked before he could stop himself. He had been so drunk last night that he probably had it wrong.
"Exactly," Sherlock agreed. Now that he had seen that Lady Holmes was going to be all right, his face was radiant with excitement. John was fascinated and looked away to stop himself simply mooning like a lovesick cow. Or sheep or whatever barn animal fit the bill in these parts, he thought ruefully.
"Well, then, what is the woman doing here?" John looked around, it was a good excuse to not look at Sherlock. "It's woods for miles in any direction; the road is maybe a half-mile. Anyway," John ventured, "why exactly did you want me here?" John realized that he had been calmly accepting having been summoned to the scene of a murder by his flatmate as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Did I generally let him boss me about like this? He wondered. If so, he needed to get a grip here, show him he wasn't to be just ordered about. Quite the contrary, he thought fiercely, then pushed away those sorts of thoughts all together. I must be utterly mad, he thought.
Sherlock had a gleam in his eye as he regarded John closely. Either this will be the thing that brings him back, Sherlock thought, or I've made a massive mistake and he's going to be very ill and it will all be my fault and I'll never forgive myself. He remembered every discouraging word of Dr. Nazimi's advice -- not to involve John in cases, to let him recover from the shocks of Afghanistan. Peace and quiet.
And then there was last night. He couldn't stop thinking about John's lips burning passionately into his, a kiss that had taken everything Sherlock had to stop. Not to stop John. To stop himself. And he had lain awake all night, alone, in the next room to John's sleeping form, unable to do anything but think about it and exercise all of his considerable self control not to go back to John's room and tell him everything.
Or maybe he wanted to say nothing at all but to just beg him for more.
Because he wanted John all the way, everything: not a drunken impulse, or a passing amusement, or worse, out of some sort of noble . . .misplaced gratitude for Sherlock's care, for Sherlock having saved his life. And last night, drunk though he was, sick though he undoubtedly still was, Sherlock had felt that core of strength, of steeliness in John's body as he held him in his arms. A strength that made Sherlock bend to it. It made him want to lay himself open to that core and feel the burning.
* * *
Sherlock returned his attention with some difficulty to the matter at hand. The matter he could possibly do something about. The corpse.
Finding a body, the very day after they arrived in Yorkshire . . . Sherlock didn't believe in coincidences per se. He believed in opportunities. And this one was simply too good to be missed.
John saw him smirk, just a little.
And I don't make mistakes, Sherlock assured himself.
"John, you're a doctor. In fact you're an Army doctor. You've seen a lot of . . . gunshot injuries, in your day. Yes?"
John nodded. Certainly that was true. As far as it went.
"Come and look at the body, then. And tell me what you think." His eyes were positively sparkling with excitement, as though he were proposing a marvelous trip, or the most amusing game ever. Evidently, to Sherlock Holmes, it was.
John didn't even hesitate. If he could be even tangentially involved in anything that made Sherlock Holmes' face light up like that, he was all over it.
* * *
The SOCOs made a fuss, but they were local lads, not used to murder scenes.
Sherlock quickly overpowered them, announcing with excessive theatricality (to John's mind, even allowing that John was highly prejudiced in Holmes' favor):
"I am a consultant to Scotland Yard. Possibly you have heard of me. My name is Sherlock Holmes. I have already been at the scene, I discovered the body. I won't disturb anything. This is my associate Doctor Watson -- He's a doctor, I wish him to examine the body."
One of the SOCO's scoffed, "No point, is there. She's dead," with true Northern bluntness.
Sherlock held up the tape and John went in after him.
* * *
The woman was laid out on the leafy ground. She was wearing a good linen suit, taupe in color; sensible calf pumps in pale beige, a pearl necklace about her throat, coated in dark blood. Her hair was a mess, but her face was peaceful. She was very pale, even for a corpse.
There was a huge, round, open wound in the center of her chest, obviously from a firearm of some sort. John considered.
"A shotgun wound. Large gauge, I should think. But there's something very wrong here."
Sherlock was intent and and moved closer to John, their shoulders brushing. This was very awkward as it gave John shivers to be anywhere close enough to actually touch Sherlock's person. He moved away.
"Good, John. What do you see?"
"There's not enough blood. Not nearly enough blood."
Sherlock clapped his gloved hands together. This made John recall his gesture of this morning, removing the glove to accept the crop. He momentarily forgot they were standing next to a corpse as he was transfixed by Sherlock's hands in their black leather gloves.
"My thoughts precisely. There is some, it has sprayed in this circular pattern here. It has extended to the collarbone, and the neck and chin. But there should be an absolute pool of it under the body."
"And there isn't. She looks to have been dead for hours; long enough that there should be blood pooled under and around the body, probably. Dead up to eight hours I would say, but obviously I can't say for sure --- "
Suddenly his temple was struck with a crippling pain, as though someone were driving an icepick through his skull. The light around Sherlock became brightly colored and then everything became quite fuzzy. He felt the blood draining from his face and felt weak. Sherlock saw him stagger, and cried "John!" and held him up.
John held his hand out to push Sherlock away. He wasn't going to bloody be a burden to him any more. Enough was enough. He stood alone, cold sweat springing out on his forehead, leaning on his cane.
Lady Holmes marched up. She was clearly furious.
"Captain Watson, please come away. Sherlock, I have no idea what you can possibly have been thinking. We are leaving now. Please bring Mephisto home, you've let him get cold. This is a police matter now, I believe."
John thought he probably ought to sit down. He went toward the car. With an effort, he pulled himself up straighter and said with false brightness,
"Lady Holmes, it's quite all right. I just had a drop too many of your very fine Scotch last night. I'm paying for it today. And believe me, you've no idea how many dead bodies I've seen."
Lady Holmes shook her head. "But you are mistaken. I have an exact idea how many dead bodies you've seen, Captain Watson. One too many," she said with a dark look at Sherlock, who was stricken with guilt and dismay at John's state. He even appeared to have momentarily forgotten the body.
A booming voice roared out:
"What in God's Holy Name is going on at my crime scene!! Which of you milk-fed buggers is in charge? Other than me, 'course. I'll have your heads for breakfast, I shit you not," yelled a huge man with the build of a heavyweight boxer and a face to match, barreling through the forest toward the crime tape. He was bald, wearing mirrored aviator sunglasses, and a tweed jacket that looked like it possibly had seen one or two more seasons of crime fighting than it ought.
He had seen Sherlock, John, Lady Holmes and Edgar standing by the estate car, as he approached through the forest. He rolled his eyes behind his shades. The landed gentry. To be handled with kid gloves, per his putative boss. Forelock pulling and all that.
"I am Detective Superintendent Charlie Weller. You're Sherlock Holmes, I take it," he yelled at Sherlock. Everyone stepped back a few steps before the sheer magnitude of his vocals. The man could be heard in Scotland, one imagined. Mephisto shied away and began snorting nervously. Sherlock stroked his flank to soothe him.
Was he deaf, John wondered. He hadn't heard so much yelling since he went to the last Manchester United match. It hurt his splitting head, and he winced.
Sherlock extended his hand and shook with Weller. Sherlock could not conceal a brief wince of his own as Weller's massive paw crushed Sherlock's slender fingers. Sherlock introduced Lady Holmes.
"At your service, ma'am," he said with sudden politeness if not less volume, bending with elaborate courtesy over Lady Holmes' perfunctorily extended hand. It was rather like a rhino suddenly attempting ballet; something unnatural to the order of nature.
Lady Holmes explained that John was her house guest from London, just returned from war in Afghanistan. Weller immediately dropped his harsh scrutiny and his face assumed undisguised respect.
* * *
"I found the body," Sherlock said, and gave a brief, succinct statement to Weller. He mentioned the suspicious lack of blood. An anonymous officer took notes.
"Great Scot!" Weller exclaimed. "You don't say, Mister Science of Deee-duct-ion? Yes, even in backwards Yorkshire we have heard of the great Sherlock Holmes. Not enough blood for the shotgun wound, you say!! I would never have figured that, thank the Lord you're here," he spat sarcastically, waving his hands toward the heavens. "Seeing as there's not a drop of blood on any of the leaves around the body."
Sherlock raised a cynical eyebrow. "I see you know your business, Detective Superintendent. Please call upon me at Riddleston Hall if I can be of further assistance. It seems clear I cannot. Are we free to go?"
Weller waved them off. "Can't be too soon," he yelled amicably as they departed. "My DCI will be along later to take a formal statement. Don't leave the area, though, understand?"
He could be heard barking even through the closed windows of the estate car:
"Blast your balls, Tim, you let him behind the tape, you ruddy fool. How many times do I have to tell you, you gormless worm, US, inside the tape. THEM, behind the tape. Are you color blind? You do see the tape?? Should we put you in for disability leave, then, seeing as you are both blind and deaf, not to mention a bloody mental defective. Now do we need to review it again, you shite?"
* * *
John allowed himself to be persuaded to have a liedown in the green room and was able to sleep. He refused to take any more pain pills, though, and his head was still throbbing when he awoke. He had slept through dinner, he realized. He didn't want to call for McLeod. He wondered if he could find the kitchen.
He found his way downstairs to discover everyone else retired for the night. There was a faint clacking sound and he realized Sherlock was awake. He was shooting billiards.
His heart jumped into his throat when he saw him, looking distractingly morose as he wielded the cue. It made John want to hold him until the light came back into his eyes. It made him want to bend him over the billiard table and see if Sherlock would try to stop him.
"Can't sleep?" He asked for lack nerve to say anything truer, like, I love you, I want you now, I need you forever.
"Almost never," Sherlock said. "Fancy a game?"
When sober, John was considerably more skilled at billiards. They played companionably for hours. John had to struggle to maintain his composure, to conceal his overwhelming surge of new feeling for Sherlock. But he was troubled by a certain air of wistfulness in Sherlock.
Sherlock seemed content to stay at it all night.
"I think we should call it a night," John finally said. He was still in pain that he had struggled to conceal. Sherlock looked disappointed. John wondered if Sherlock would really stay up all night. This was a torture to imagine. Sherlock reached to rack the balls and suddenly John could no longer endure the waiting. Waiting for an understanding that was never going to come.
He grabbed Sherlock's wrist. The slender bones moving under the skin made him feel a strange sensation, something between tenderness and lust. He turned Sherlock's hand over and touched the scar with his fingertip.
"How did you get this?"
Sherlock's eyes were wide.
"I did it," he said.
John considered this. He didn't let go of Sherlock's wrist.
"And then . . why do I have the same scar on my palm?"
"Because. . . I asked you to," Sherlock whispered.
John's hand tightened on Sherlock's wrist. Another mystery. He had a million questions. Multiplying endlessly, like a hall of mirrors. So many things he didn't know. And one thing he did know.
The only thing that mattered.
He pulled Sherlock closer to him.
"Did I?"
"You don't remember, John. . ." Somehow, Sherlock seemed more crushed by this than anything else.
"But I did it. . . for you?"
Sherlock nodded.
"I'm glad. But I don't care anymore about remembering."
"You don't?"
"No, Sherlock. All I care about is now."
This time, when he pulled Sherlock's lips down to his own, Sherlock didn't pull away, and their mouths just melted as one. And the room did spin, but John wasn't going to let go. Ever again. And if John fell, they would fall together. "Don't--" Sherlock gasped. John felt a chill. Was he wrong, after all? Of course he was. This Sherlock Holmes was not for him. He released Sherlock and started to pull away. Sherlock held him tight, though, and wouldn't let him go. " --- don't go easy on me this time, John."
"Ah, it's like that then, is it?" John asked, barely releasing his lips long enough to speak. He didn't want to talk, he didn't want anything to stop this.
"Yes, it's like that. It's always been like that," Sherlock murmured, allowing John to ravish his neck. Finally, incredibly, the kissing wasn't enough, they had been kissing for an hour or more it seemed, and John's body was screaming for more at the same time it was racked with pain. With regret, he whispered into Sherlock's ear, "Then wait for me, love. Until I'm stronger. Do you understand? You'll wait until I say, won't you."
Sherlock nodded against John's shoulder. "I've always been waiting for you, John."
To be continued . .
back: Four . next: Six
Author: ghislanem70
Word Count: 2900
Rating: NC-17
Summary: John returns from Afghanistan..
Disclaimer: I own nothing. All honours to Messrs Gatiss, Moffat, BBC et al.
Warnings: explicit sex, graphic violence, reference to non-con, massive dose of hurt/comfort and angst
Chapter Five. Falling Together
I'm going backwards through time
at the speed of light --
I'm yours,
you're mine,
Two satellites --
I'm gonna love you
like I've never been hurt before--
I'm gonna love you
like I'm indestructible
This is hardcore --
and I'm indestructible
Lyrics to Indestructible, All Rights Reserved Robyn
Lady Holmes and John arrived in the estate car, driven by Edgar, to John's mortification. He had of course offered to drive, but Lady Holmes had looked into his face and very sweetly said, "You're my guest, Captain Watson, and I want you to be comfortable. Anyway, you don't know the way and it's been some time since I've been out to Rexworth Park myself."
The truth was that today, John's stomach was a painful wreck; being a doctor and having done hundreds of abdominal surgeries on soldiers who had been blown apart much as John had, he knew that the patchwork of his torn flesh which the doctors at Bagram had stitched back together with the greatest of care, might never completely heal properly. He tried to ignore the burning, stabbing pains and realized it was just as well he didn't get behind the wheel. So it was that John and Lady Holmes were delivered to the crime scene.
There was already crime scene tape around the body, marking the boundary between the living world and the dead. Sherlock hastened to greet them. He held his mother's hands in his own.
"Mother, I'm afraid it's very bad news. I found a . . . body, the dogs did, actually. I don't know how to tell you this, Mother, but unless I am very mistaken, the woman is Henrietta Trimble. Fredericka's daughter."
Lady Holmes took a deep breath and squeezed Sherlock's hands, but remained composed. After all, there were already many people watching; riders from the hunt were hanging back, trying to discreetly get a glimpse of the corpse; SOCOs combing the leaves for traces and snapping photographs. Television vans could be seen in the distance. They had no leave to enter the grounds of Rexworth Park, however. One could see photographers climbing up, trying to get a shot with their zoom lenses.
"Are you quite sure, Sherlock? Thank God dear Fredericka isn't alive to see it."
He nodded grimly. "She looks very like the photograph. I didn't want you to hear on the telly or from the neighbors; Reggie Rexworth already reported it to CID early this morning before the hunt set out. Apparently. The news trucks are already here."
"But, weren't we supposed to go pick her up at the train station tonight?" John asked before he could stop himself. He had been so drunk last night that he probably had it wrong.
"Exactly," Sherlock agreed. Now that he had seen that Lady Holmes was going to be all right, his face was radiant with excitement. John was fascinated and looked away to stop himself simply mooning like a lovesick cow. Or sheep or whatever barn animal fit the bill in these parts, he thought ruefully.
"Well, then, what is the woman doing here?" John looked around, it was a good excuse to not look at Sherlock. "It's woods for miles in any direction; the road is maybe a half-mile. Anyway," John ventured, "why exactly did you want me here?" John realized that he had been calmly accepting having been summoned to the scene of a murder by his flatmate as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Did I generally let him boss me about like this? He wondered. If so, he needed to get a grip here, show him he wasn't to be just ordered about. Quite the contrary, he thought fiercely, then pushed away those sorts of thoughts all together. I must be utterly mad, he thought.
Sherlock had a gleam in his eye as he regarded John closely. Either this will be the thing that brings him back, Sherlock thought, or I've made a massive mistake and he's going to be very ill and it will all be my fault and I'll never forgive myself. He remembered every discouraging word of Dr. Nazimi's advice -- not to involve John in cases, to let him recover from the shocks of Afghanistan. Peace and quiet.
And then there was last night. He couldn't stop thinking about John's lips burning passionately into his, a kiss that had taken everything Sherlock had to stop. Not to stop John. To stop himself. And he had lain awake all night, alone, in the next room to John's sleeping form, unable to do anything but think about it and exercise all of his considerable self control not to go back to John's room and tell him everything.
Or maybe he wanted to say nothing at all but to just beg him for more.
Because he wanted John all the way, everything: not a drunken impulse, or a passing amusement, or worse, out of some sort of noble . . .misplaced gratitude for Sherlock's care, for Sherlock having saved his life. And last night, drunk though he was, sick though he undoubtedly still was, Sherlock had felt that core of strength, of steeliness in John's body as he held him in his arms. A strength that made Sherlock bend to it. It made him want to lay himself open to that core and feel the burning.
* * *
Sherlock returned his attention with some difficulty to the matter at hand. The matter he could possibly do something about. The corpse.
Finding a body, the very day after they arrived in Yorkshire . . . Sherlock didn't believe in coincidences per se. He believed in opportunities. And this one was simply too good to be missed.
John saw him smirk, just a little.
And I don't make mistakes, Sherlock assured himself.
"John, you're a doctor. In fact you're an Army doctor. You've seen a lot of . . . gunshot injuries, in your day. Yes?"
John nodded. Certainly that was true. As far as it went.
"Come and look at the body, then. And tell me what you think." His eyes were positively sparkling with excitement, as though he were proposing a marvelous trip, or the most amusing game ever. Evidently, to Sherlock Holmes, it was.
John didn't even hesitate. If he could be even tangentially involved in anything that made Sherlock Holmes' face light up like that, he was all over it.
* * *
The SOCOs made a fuss, but they were local lads, not used to murder scenes.
Sherlock quickly overpowered them, announcing with excessive theatricality (to John's mind, even allowing that John was highly prejudiced in Holmes' favor):
"I am a consultant to Scotland Yard. Possibly you have heard of me. My name is Sherlock Holmes. I have already been at the scene, I discovered the body. I won't disturb anything. This is my associate Doctor Watson -- He's a doctor, I wish him to examine the body."
One of the SOCO's scoffed, "No point, is there. She's dead," with true Northern bluntness.
Sherlock held up the tape and John went in after him.
* * *
The woman was laid out on the leafy ground. She was wearing a good linen suit, taupe in color; sensible calf pumps in pale beige, a pearl necklace about her throat, coated in dark blood. Her hair was a mess, but her face was peaceful. She was very pale, even for a corpse.
There was a huge, round, open wound in the center of her chest, obviously from a firearm of some sort. John considered.
"A shotgun wound. Large gauge, I should think. But there's something very wrong here."
Sherlock was intent and and moved closer to John, their shoulders brushing. This was very awkward as it gave John shivers to be anywhere close enough to actually touch Sherlock's person. He moved away.
"Good, John. What do you see?"
"There's not enough blood. Not nearly enough blood."
Sherlock clapped his gloved hands together. This made John recall his gesture of this morning, removing the glove to accept the crop. He momentarily forgot they were standing next to a corpse as he was transfixed by Sherlock's hands in their black leather gloves.
"My thoughts precisely. There is some, it has sprayed in this circular pattern here. It has extended to the collarbone, and the neck and chin. But there should be an absolute pool of it under the body."
"And there isn't. She looks to have been dead for hours; long enough that there should be blood pooled under and around the body, probably. Dead up to eight hours I would say, but obviously I can't say for sure --- "
Suddenly his temple was struck with a crippling pain, as though someone were driving an icepick through his skull. The light around Sherlock became brightly colored and then everything became quite fuzzy. He felt the blood draining from his face and felt weak. Sherlock saw him stagger, and cried "John!" and held him up.
John held his hand out to push Sherlock away. He wasn't going to bloody be a burden to him any more. Enough was enough. He stood alone, cold sweat springing out on his forehead, leaning on his cane.
Lady Holmes marched up. She was clearly furious.
"Captain Watson, please come away. Sherlock, I have no idea what you can possibly have been thinking. We are leaving now. Please bring Mephisto home, you've let him get cold. This is a police matter now, I believe."
John thought he probably ought to sit down. He went toward the car. With an effort, he pulled himself up straighter and said with false brightness,
"Lady Holmes, it's quite all right. I just had a drop too many of your very fine Scotch last night. I'm paying for it today. And believe me, you've no idea how many dead bodies I've seen."
Lady Holmes shook her head. "But you are mistaken. I have an exact idea how many dead bodies you've seen, Captain Watson. One too many," she said with a dark look at Sherlock, who was stricken with guilt and dismay at John's state. He even appeared to have momentarily forgotten the body.
A booming voice roared out:
"What in God's Holy Name is going on at my crime scene!! Which of you milk-fed buggers is in charge? Other than me, 'course. I'll have your heads for breakfast, I shit you not," yelled a huge man with the build of a heavyweight boxer and a face to match, barreling through the forest toward the crime tape. He was bald, wearing mirrored aviator sunglasses, and a tweed jacket that looked like it possibly had seen one or two more seasons of crime fighting than it ought.
He had seen Sherlock, John, Lady Holmes and Edgar standing by the estate car, as he approached through the forest. He rolled his eyes behind his shades. The landed gentry. To be handled with kid gloves, per his putative boss. Forelock pulling and all that.
"I am Detective Superintendent Charlie Weller. You're Sherlock Holmes, I take it," he yelled at Sherlock. Everyone stepped back a few steps before the sheer magnitude of his vocals. The man could be heard in Scotland, one imagined. Mephisto shied away and began snorting nervously. Sherlock stroked his flank to soothe him.
Was he deaf, John wondered. He hadn't heard so much yelling since he went to the last Manchester United match. It hurt his splitting head, and he winced.
Sherlock extended his hand and shook with Weller. Sherlock could not conceal a brief wince of his own as Weller's massive paw crushed Sherlock's slender fingers. Sherlock introduced Lady Holmes.
"At your service, ma'am," he said with sudden politeness if not less volume, bending with elaborate courtesy over Lady Holmes' perfunctorily extended hand. It was rather like a rhino suddenly attempting ballet; something unnatural to the order of nature.
Lady Holmes explained that John was her house guest from London, just returned from war in Afghanistan. Weller immediately dropped his harsh scrutiny and his face assumed undisguised respect.
* * *
"I found the body," Sherlock said, and gave a brief, succinct statement to Weller. He mentioned the suspicious lack of blood. An anonymous officer took notes.
"Great Scot!" Weller exclaimed. "You don't say, Mister Science of Deee-duct-ion? Yes, even in backwards Yorkshire we have heard of the great Sherlock Holmes. Not enough blood for the shotgun wound, you say!! I would never have figured that, thank the Lord you're here," he spat sarcastically, waving his hands toward the heavens. "Seeing as there's not a drop of blood on any of the leaves around the body."
Sherlock raised a cynical eyebrow. "I see you know your business, Detective Superintendent. Please call upon me at Riddleston Hall if I can be of further assistance. It seems clear I cannot. Are we free to go?"
Weller waved them off. "Can't be too soon," he yelled amicably as they departed. "My DCI will be along later to take a formal statement. Don't leave the area, though, understand?"
He could be heard barking even through the closed windows of the estate car:
"Blast your balls, Tim, you let him behind the tape, you ruddy fool. How many times do I have to tell you, you gormless worm, US, inside the tape. THEM, behind the tape. Are you color blind? You do see the tape?? Should we put you in for disability leave, then, seeing as you are both blind and deaf, not to mention a bloody mental defective. Now do we need to review it again, you shite?"
* * *
John allowed himself to be persuaded to have a liedown in the green room and was able to sleep. He refused to take any more pain pills, though, and his head was still throbbing when he awoke. He had slept through dinner, he realized. He didn't want to call for McLeod. He wondered if he could find the kitchen.
He found his way downstairs to discover everyone else retired for the night. There was a faint clacking sound and he realized Sherlock was awake. He was shooting billiards.
His heart jumped into his throat when he saw him, looking distractingly morose as he wielded the cue. It made John want to hold him until the light came back into his eyes. It made him want to bend him over the billiard table and see if Sherlock would try to stop him.
"Can't sleep?" He asked for lack nerve to say anything truer, like, I love you, I want you now, I need you forever.
"Almost never," Sherlock said. "Fancy a game?"
When sober, John was considerably more skilled at billiards. They played companionably for hours. John had to struggle to maintain his composure, to conceal his overwhelming surge of new feeling for Sherlock. But he was troubled by a certain air of wistfulness in Sherlock.
Sherlock seemed content to stay at it all night.
"I think we should call it a night," John finally said. He was still in pain that he had struggled to conceal. Sherlock looked disappointed. John wondered if Sherlock would really stay up all night. This was a torture to imagine. Sherlock reached to rack the balls and suddenly John could no longer endure the waiting. Waiting for an understanding that was never going to come.
He grabbed Sherlock's wrist. The slender bones moving under the skin made him feel a strange sensation, something between tenderness and lust. He turned Sherlock's hand over and touched the scar with his fingertip.
"How did you get this?"
Sherlock's eyes were wide.
"I did it," he said.
John considered this. He didn't let go of Sherlock's wrist.
"And then . . why do I have the same scar on my palm?"
"Because. . . I asked you to," Sherlock whispered.
John's hand tightened on Sherlock's wrist. Another mystery. He had a million questions. Multiplying endlessly, like a hall of mirrors. So many things he didn't know. And one thing he did know.
The only thing that mattered.
He pulled Sherlock closer to him.
"Did I?"
"You don't remember, John. . ." Somehow, Sherlock seemed more crushed by this than anything else.
"But I did it. . . for you?"
Sherlock nodded.
"I'm glad. But I don't care anymore about remembering."
"You don't?"
"No, Sherlock. All I care about is now."
This time, when he pulled Sherlock's lips down to his own, Sherlock didn't pull away, and their mouths just melted as one. And the room did spin, but John wasn't going to let go. Ever again. And if John fell, they would fall together. "Don't--" Sherlock gasped. John felt a chill. Was he wrong, after all? Of course he was. This Sherlock Holmes was not for him. He released Sherlock and started to pull away. Sherlock held him tight, though, and wouldn't let him go. " --- don't go easy on me this time, John."
"Ah, it's like that then, is it?" John asked, barely releasing his lips long enough to speak. He didn't want to talk, he didn't want anything to stop this.
"Yes, it's like that. It's always been like that," Sherlock murmured, allowing John to ravish his neck. Finally, incredibly, the kissing wasn't enough, they had been kissing for an hour or more it seemed, and John's body was screaming for more at the same time it was racked with pain. With regret, he whispered into Sherlock's ear, "Then wait for me, love. Until I'm stronger. Do you understand? You'll wait until I say, won't you."
Sherlock nodded against John's shoulder. "I've always been waiting for you, John."
To be continued . .
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