Sherlock Holmes Fic: History, Repeating Itself (Chapter Six, Holmes/Watson, R/NC-17)
Title: History, Repeating Itself (Chapter Six)
Rating: R/NC-17
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Warnings: Alcohol and marijuana use, general debauchery, copious use of coarse language.
Spoilers: None, except for Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, and Chapter Five of this story.
Author's Notes: This is a fill for an AWESOME prompt at shkinkmeme; both the prompt and the fill thread can be found here. I will continue posting the chapters bit-by-bit there and then archiving them on my journal for the duration of this story.
Chapter Summary: John Watson can't sleep, has vivid dreams, makes a mistake and gets his ass handed to him.
Chapter Six: On Paying Better Attention to the Meanings of Dreams
The three days following our return from the Holmes estate involved some of the worst sleep I've ever gotten. Partially it was that I wasn't getting much opportunity to sleep; Holmes was working, playing the violin at four AM and blasting Gaga through the speakers, pounding his fist into the wall in frustration and jolting me awake. I couldn't bear to tell him to stop because he looked so close to completely losing it. There were lines on his face that I could swear hadn't been there before, and his hands were shaking constantly, which he was trying to hide from me.
He stuck closer than he had before too, pressing near me in the street, letting his hands linger too long when we passed things between us. He was at his homemade chalkboard wall except when I made him leave it, when I forced him to come outside or put some food in his stomach. I didn't bother trying to make him sleep; I begged him to, once or twice, but he just sighed and looked at me like I was hurting him, so I stopped.
The scrawling across the board was taking up more and more space. There were pieces of paper everywhere, the apartment was a fucking mess, I was studying when I could and trying to keep him together and--
Well, when I'd dreamed of him before I had limited basis for comparison. Certainly his body against mine at the club had generated a fair number of dirty fantasies, but now I'd shared a bed with him, had him close to me under the sheets. So for those three days, when I did manage to close my eyes, he was there with me, sliding into my bed and then--asking for things. Pulling my shirt over my head and tracing his way down to my cock with sticky kisses, murmuring frantic nonsense and swear words, chemical equations.
I woke in a haze every time, hating myself and him, hating all the stupid fucking circumstance. I'd never gone so long without sex; in high school and college I'd had boyfriends, if closeted ones, and in the service--well. Don't ask don't tell is all well and good, but we had a way of finding each other. Watching a guy you've been fucking occasionally take a bullet to the femoral artery is a pretty good way to cure you of having casual sex, which was why I hadn't partaken since I'd been home. But he was so close, close and gorgeous and coming apart next to me, and I was stressed and underslept and--
Well, shit. I guess I'm making excuses for myself. I'll be honest; I really don't want to tell this part of the story, but I have to. For the sake of honesty, I have to.
On the fourth day after we got back, he figured out his chalkboard. I'd slept 15 hours out of 96 and Holmes had slept less, and so I was nodding off on the couch with a book in my lap and wondering idly how he was still standing when it happened.
"Fuck," he said, very quietly. And then, "Oh fuck, fuck, Watson I'm such an idiot, how could I not have--oh my god fuck, oh my god--"
He was writing frantically, erasing with broad swipes of his sleeve. When I tried to speak he snapped at me, so I waited him out. Fifteen minutes later he stepped back, the chalk falling from fingers.
"I've got it," he breathed. "I've got it, Watson, look."
I looked. I looked some more. "Holmes, is that even in English?"
"No," he said, laughing a little. "No, it's--I do all my notes in code because--it's a long story. But fuck, that right there is--it's--oh god, I have so much to do."
He paled at this last but turned to me, his eyes wild. He moved, for a second, like he was going to kiss me; my heart jumped to my throat, but he didn't. He just gave me a quick, exuberant hug, like he couldn't contain his enthusiasm, and ran right out the fucking door.
I tried to wait up for him, I really did, but it had been days since I'd gotten proper sleep. At nine I gave it up and crawled into bed, relieved, at least, to be so exhausted. When I really need it I'm an incredibly heavy sleeper, and I was looking forward to a night without the dreams.
I should have known better; I don't have any fucking luck.
I opened my eyes in the hazy darkness of unreality and he was on my bed, his expression one of agonized indecision. This is a dream, I told myself firmly, trying to fight it, go back to sleep, this is only going to make it worse, you know that, but then he met my eyes.
"Please," he said, strained and desperate and too fucking beautiful for words, and all my resistance was lost. I sat up and put one hand behind his neck and dragged him in, kissing him with raw abandon. He moaned into my mouth, and I could feel the sound slip down my throat--and oh, this dream was more detailed than usual, each perfect accuracy poising itself to eat at me in the morning. I buried one hand in that thick hair and he fisted my t-shirt, breaking the kiss to pull it over my head.
"I can't tell you," he said, and his eyes were bright even in the darkness. "I can't tell you, John, it's not safe--"
"Shut up," I said, catching his mouth again. I didn't want to hear his cryptic nonsense, a product of my own hyperactive subconscious. If I was going to go down with this ship I wanted to fucking do it, wanted to feel everything I could of him, wanted to drink him up in the only arena that he was truly mine.
I pushed him back onto the bed, the wrong way. His feet were on my pillows and he was under me, writhing and bucking against me, biting at my lips. His hands were everywhere but I stilled them long enough to get his shirt off. There was a makeshift gauze bandage wrapped around his upper arm; I touched it, running my fingers across it, wondering what the hell my mind was trying to tell me.
"Don't," he said, biting his lip, "please don't, I can't--"
"Okay," I said, "okay, shhh, okay." I leaned in and sucked mercilessly at the hollow of his neck and he groaned aloud, running his nails down my neck.
"John," he said. And then, like every time, like every fucking dream, torture: "Do you know how long I've wanted, how fucking long--"
And you know, even though my brain was furious with me, even though I wanted to tell him to shut up and let me get on with it, I couldn't. Even the idea of confessing to a spectre was better than keeping it in, better than hiding it any longer. I cupped the side of his face, ran the pad of my thumb across his cheek. He shuddered against me.
"Me too," I said, very softly. "Since the day I moved in here."
"Why didn't you--"
"Tell you?" I said, laughing bitterly at myself. Oh, was I going to be miserable in the morning. "Because you--because I'm like this. Scars everywhere and a fucking cane and we live together, and it would be so embarrassing to have you turn me down."
"John Watson," he said, looking like he maybe wanted to hit me, "that is the stupidest fucking thing you've ever said to me."
I didn't answer him. I couldn't bear to know what he said next, what ridiculous thing I'd use to beat myself up with when I woke up. So I kissed him and kissed him, tracing the inside of his mouth with my tongue until he was breathing too hard to talk.
He pushed me, and we wrestled for control for a second; then I gave in and laid back, and he smirked above me, looking like himself for once. He pulled down the boxers I slept in and sank low, trailing those damned sticky kisses across my chest, and then ran his tongue along the full length of my cock.
He whistled, long and low, a second before pulling me entirely into his mouth. I moaned out his name--his last name, I think, although it might have been Forest that came out--I'd never thought of him as Sherlock. He responded by pulling me in still deeper, letting me scrape the back of his throat.
I fisted one hand in his hair as he sucked me, doing things with his tongue that I couldn't begin to comprehend. I wanted to tell him that I loved him but I bit my lip nearly bloody against it, against the goddamned indignity of confessing that to my own sick fantasy. So I rode him out, relishing just how well I could construct a farce, until I felt myself reaching the brink.
"Holmes," I gasped, "Holmes, I'm--I'm going to--"
In response he pulled all the air out his cheeks, pulling at me harder and with more intensity than any real partner I'd ever had. I felt my eyes roll back into my head as I came in long, fierce pulses down his throat, as I yanked at his fucking hair.
He was smiling when he pulled away, and he leaned across me, kissing me with his filthy, filthy mouth. Well-sated as I was, I still felt my cock give a tiny twitch at the taste of myself against his teeth, but then he was pulling away.
"Let me--" I started, but he put a hand to my lips, silencing me.
"I wish I could," he whispered. "I wish I could, please believe me, I would, but I don't have time," and that was like all the other dreams too, him running off before I could return the favor. I closed my eyes and nodded, and he ran his hand through my hair once and kissed me again.
"Sleep," he said, "I'll be here in the morning."
That's what I'm afraid of, I thought, but the dream slipped away from me before I could say it.
I jolted awake what felt like a second later; the sun was streaming in through the window, bitter and too bright. I blinked myself awake and it came rushing back to me--Holmes beneath me, feeling so real, sucking me dry. It hurt, worse even than usual, because it had seemed…ah, fuck. The anger came a moment afterwards in any case, that ridiculously potent rush of rage that's only heightened by the fact that it's not justified.
I dragged myself out of bed to get myself some coffee; Holmes was sitting on the couch, his head in his hands. He jerked himself upright when he saw me, looking vaguely guilty.
"Watson," he said, "I didn't expect you to be awake."
"I'm not," I growled. "Coffee. Required."
"There's some in the pot," he said. Then he gave me a strange, soft smile that made my heart ache and stood up, walking up to me.
He put his hand on my arm. He put his hand on my arm and, oh, god, I don't want to write this out, I don't even want to think about it--
"Don't touch me," I snapped, jerking away from him. His face registered shock for a split second, and then guarded confusion.
"Sorry," he said, putting his hands up.
"No," I said, sighing. It wasn't his fault I was making myself crazy over him. "I'm sorry. I just--I had a really weird fucking night."
I expected him to understand and back off. Instead the confusion on his face twisted into something like hurt, and why I didn't see it, why I didn't figure it the fuck out, I'll never know.
"Do you," he said, tripping over the words, "do you want to talk--"
"Do I want to talk about it?" I finished, laughing bitterly. He flinched at the sound. "No, Holmes, I think you're actually the last person I want to talk to about this."
He jerked back from me like I'd slapped him. Then he narrowed his eyes, taking two clear steps away from me. "Fine," he spat, "that's actually fucking great. Because you're the last person I want to talk to right now too, so everything's perfect. I'm sorry your night sucked so much, that must be really fucking rough."
"Oh, fuck you," I growled. "Like you have any fucking right to be pissed that I don't want to talk, like you haven't been keeping secrets from me--"
"You don't have any idea what the fuck you're talking about," he hissed, moving like he was going to step forward. Then he stilled, looking me over with dark, furious eyes. "You know what? It doesn't fucking matter. I have shit to do. Enjoy your goddamned coffee."
"I fucking will," I shouted after him as he left, grabbing his bag on the way and slamming the door behind him. I fumed through my coffee, through half a pack of cigarettes, and was just considering throwing something into the fucking wall when the door opened.
I turned around, expected Holmes, but it was Miles. I couldn't remember the last time he'd been at the apartment--if he'd ever been at the apartment--and that startled me out of my fury for a moment.
"Miles," I said, "what--"
"Look, you little fuck," he snapped, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. "I am only here because I have a lower opinion of your intelligence than my brother does. See, I don't think it's possible that you're as much of an asshole as you seem to be, because you'd have to be pretty fucking calculating and I just don't think you have it in you."
"What--" I started, but he cut me off.
"If I'm wrong," he growled, "I am going to beat you until you cannot do anything by bleed. And then I'm going to do it again. Are we clear?"
"Crystal," I said faintly, more than a little frightened. Miles, though generally kind, is seriously fucking gigantic.
"Alright," he said, taking a deep breath. "I am going to do you a favor now, and tell you something you apparently do not know. How that's possible, I just don't know, because it's not like it isn't obvious."
"It's not like what isn't obvious?"
"My brother," he said, staring at me like I was the stupidest fucking person on the planet, "is in love with you. In. Fucking. Love. WIth. You. Like nothing I've ever seen, and if you don't explain your behavior right fucking now I swear to god--"
"No he's not," I cut him off, my tone harsh. "He--he doesn't even date seriously, thinks it's a drain on his time--"
"Is that what that little fuck told you?" Miles asked incredulously. "Oh my god, that's so far from the truth that I want to puke. He stole that line from me, the little shit--what, did you just miss the whole Victor thing? Did that not get through that thick head of yours?"
"What the fuck are you talking about?" I demanded. "Who's Victor? What--"
"Oh my god," Miles said again, staring at me. "He never told you about Victor?"
"Who the fuck is Victor?" I cried, having reached the end of my rope.
"His ex-fucking boyfriend," Miles shot back, fuming. "God, it didn't fucking occur to you to wonder why he was looking for a place to stay after the semester started? Don't most people have that shit figured out by then?"
"I--" I started hotly. Then I paused, thinking that over. When I spoke again, it was less sure. "I--he told me that his housing arrangement fell through--"
"He caught his boyfriend cheating on him, more like," Miles snapped. "I always knew that cocky little fuck was trouble, but Sherlock wouldn't listen to a damned thing I said. And then he comes to my bar one night with all his shit, says he came home and there was someone else in his bed--all the fucking insecurities out to play all fucking over again. That little prick told him he needed someone who could satisfy him--"
"I'll kill him," I growled, standing up. Miles looked at me like I'd grown a second head.
"What you did was fucking worse!" he cried. "He's been in love with you for months and he's such a mess that I don't even want to think about it and you take him into your fucking bed and tell him you've wanted this the whole time and then tell him it was weird--"
"What the ever-loving fuck--" I started. Then it hit me, a horrible, resounding wallop. "Oh, god, oh my god--oh god, I thought I was dreaming--"
The honest distress on my face softened Miles' expression somewhat. Before I could tell how much I was assuaged with images of Holmes' face--Holmes during our fight--what he must have thought I meant--
"Excuse me," I said, as calmly as I could manage, "but I think I'm going to be sick."
I slammed the bathroom door behind me and then, yes, did actually retch twice into the toilet. I'm not proud of it--it was a weak, ridiculous thing to do, a time-wasting thing to do, but I couldn't help myself. All I could think about was the sharp shock on his face when I told him not to touch me, the anger that was so clearly masking hurt--
Fuck, even now it makes my stomach turn.
When I opened the door, Miles was sitting on the couch. His expression had shifted to one of sympathy, and he smiled sadly at me.
"You're a fucking idiot," he said, kindly.
"Where is he," I managed. "I have to go fix this, I have to--"
"He's at his lab," Miles told me. "At least, that's where he said he was going. You'll want to be quick, though, he moves fast when he's hiding from something."
"Right," I said, heading for the door. I'd almost made it when Miles' voice, genuinely amused now, stopped me.
"Watson," he said. I turned, and he raised an eyebrow at me. "You might want to put on some pants."
I looked down, realized I was still only wearing my boxers, and flushed. I grabbed a pair of jeans off the floor of my room and yanked them on, and Miles was already at the door when I got there.
"Hey," he said, "I don't really think you're stupid."
"You're the only one," I told him faintly. He grinned at me then, just the edge of it going dangerous.
"You know I'll kill you if you hurt him, right?" he said, putting a heavy, massive hand on my shoulder to drive home the point.
"What makes you think I wouldn't beat you to it?" I asked, and then I was down the stairs and running out the door.
I tried the lab first. Holmes wasn't there, but there were signs of him--a leftover coffee cup, a trail of cigarette butts leading to the building door. I rifled frantically through the papers on his desk--which, yeah, I know, makes me sound like a fucking stalker. I didn't care, I had to find him, and so I started making a list of places he might theoretically be.
His cell phone was off; I know because I tried him ten times running from his classroom to his favorite coffee places to six different bars. "Holmes," I said in the first message I left him, "Holmes, I'm so sorry, I thought--I didn't realize what was happening last night, I thought I was dreaming, I didn't mean to--please call me, man, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
I won't bother recounting the rest of the messages, because it's humiliating. Suffice to say they only got increasingly desperate as the hours wore on, as I didn't find him and didn't find him and didn't find him.
I even tried the club, ignoring the way my heartbeat sped up as I walked through the threshold. It was early evening when I got there, so it was me and the bartenders. Brett, my least favorite of the lot, took one look and me and pursed his lips in mock-sympathy.
"Trouble in paradise?" he asked, leaning in and leering. "He's a hard man, our Holmes. Maybe you'd like to burn off some frustration with--"
"Fuck you," I growled, glaring. He stepped back at once, looking furious. "Have you seen him? Has he been in here?"
"I don't know why I'd talk to someone so fucking rude--" he started, but Kyle, the one Holmes had seemed to like the night we were there, came over and cut him off.
"We need more vodka, Brett," he said. Brett stared at him incredulously.
"No we don't," he said, "I just picked up--"
"Well go get more," Kyle snapped. "Now."
Brett's mouth fell open. Then he glanced between the two of us, sniffed, and stalked away, muttering darkly under his breath. Kyle put a friendly hand on my shoulder.
"Sit down," he said, pushing me onto a stool. "Have a drink. Tell me about it."
And--god help me--I did. I didn't know what to do with myself and I couldn't think of a single place I hadn't tried, so I told Kyle the whole story over a few beers. He was a good listener, and like all great bartenders he reserved judgement until the end. I couldn't help but be reminded of Miles months before, watching me with something between amusement and disdain as I told him of my housing issues.
God, and how different my life would have been, if not for the fucking bartenders I let talk me into lunatic bad ideas.
Kyle waited till I was through. Then he laughed, long and low, and I was too exhausted to even be pissed at him for it.
"John," he said, "has it occurred to you that you live in the same place that he does? He'll have to come home eventually."
"There are a million places he could go," I protested. "Miles or Irene would take him, he could sleep at his lab--"
"But all his shit is at your apartment," Kyle said reasonably. " Am I right? He'd have to come get it eventually. And it sounds like this Miles guy would call you if he showed up there, so I wouldn't worry about that."
I looked up at him with bleary eyes. He sighed and returned his hand to my shoulder from across the bar.
"You've made a big fucking mess," he said, "I'm not going to tell you different. But you're a good guy, John, and you're cute, and it's obvious he loves you. You know the night you were here he offered me fifty dollars for the shirt I was wearing so he could follow you without getting hassled by anyone?"
"He doesn't have fifty dollars," I said, blinking. Kyle laughed.
"And I fucking knew it, which was why I let him have it free. But Jesus, man, I don't think you've screwed yourself beyond belief. It's a mix-up. It'll get sorted. You just need to talk to him, and your best bet is to go home and wait him out."
"You think?" I asked. He sighed.
"I know it, man. Go home. He'll come back eventually."
I shouldn't have taken his advice. I should have gone to Miles and told him I hadn't found his brother; I should have kept calling, should have checked everywhere again. It might not have mattered, considering--I might have already been too late. If I could go back in time I would grab myself that morning and beat my own ass, just to--
Fuck, there's no point, is there? Holmes is right, I can't beat myself up over my goddamned mistakes forever.
I did what Kyle told me to do. I went back to the apartment; he wasn't there, but I told myself he'd have to show up eventually. I collapsed on the couch, flicking blankly through the DVR, figuring I'd catch him when he came home and explain everything, bare my fucking soul and make it right.
But Holmes didn't come home.
Rating: R/NC-17
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Warnings: Alcohol and marijuana use, general debauchery, copious use of coarse language.
Spoilers: None, except for Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, and Chapter Five of this story.
Author's Notes: This is a fill for an AWESOME prompt at shkinkmeme; both the prompt and the fill thread can be found here. I will continue posting the chapters bit-by-bit there and then archiving them on my journal for the duration of this story.
Chapter Summary: John Watson can't sleep, has vivid dreams, makes a mistake and gets his ass handed to him.
Chapter Six: On Paying Better Attention to the Meanings of Dreams
The three days following our return from the Holmes estate involved some of the worst sleep I've ever gotten. Partially it was that I wasn't getting much opportunity to sleep; Holmes was working, playing the violin at four AM and blasting Gaga through the speakers, pounding his fist into the wall in frustration and jolting me awake. I couldn't bear to tell him to stop because he looked so close to completely losing it. There were lines on his face that I could swear hadn't been there before, and his hands were shaking constantly, which he was trying to hide from me.
He stuck closer than he had before too, pressing near me in the street, letting his hands linger too long when we passed things between us. He was at his homemade chalkboard wall except when I made him leave it, when I forced him to come outside or put some food in his stomach. I didn't bother trying to make him sleep; I begged him to, once or twice, but he just sighed and looked at me like I was hurting him, so I stopped.
The scrawling across the board was taking up more and more space. There were pieces of paper everywhere, the apartment was a fucking mess, I was studying when I could and trying to keep him together and--
Well, when I'd dreamed of him before I had limited basis for comparison. Certainly his body against mine at the club had generated a fair number of dirty fantasies, but now I'd shared a bed with him, had him close to me under the sheets. So for those three days, when I did manage to close my eyes, he was there with me, sliding into my bed and then--asking for things. Pulling my shirt over my head and tracing his way down to my cock with sticky kisses, murmuring frantic nonsense and swear words, chemical equations.
I woke in a haze every time, hating myself and him, hating all the stupid fucking circumstance. I'd never gone so long without sex; in high school and college I'd had boyfriends, if closeted ones, and in the service--well. Don't ask don't tell is all well and good, but we had a way of finding each other. Watching a guy you've been fucking occasionally take a bullet to the femoral artery is a pretty good way to cure you of having casual sex, which was why I hadn't partaken since I'd been home. But he was so close, close and gorgeous and coming apart next to me, and I was stressed and underslept and--
Well, shit. I guess I'm making excuses for myself. I'll be honest; I really don't want to tell this part of the story, but I have to. For the sake of honesty, I have to.
On the fourth day after we got back, he figured out his chalkboard. I'd slept 15 hours out of 96 and Holmes had slept less, and so I was nodding off on the couch with a book in my lap and wondering idly how he was still standing when it happened.
"Fuck," he said, very quietly. And then, "Oh fuck, fuck, Watson I'm such an idiot, how could I not have--oh my god fuck, oh my god--"
He was writing frantically, erasing with broad swipes of his sleeve. When I tried to speak he snapped at me, so I waited him out. Fifteen minutes later he stepped back, the chalk falling from fingers.
"I've got it," he breathed. "I've got it, Watson, look."
I looked. I looked some more. "Holmes, is that even in English?"
"No," he said, laughing a little. "No, it's--I do all my notes in code because--it's a long story. But fuck, that right there is--it's--oh god, I have so much to do."
He paled at this last but turned to me, his eyes wild. He moved, for a second, like he was going to kiss me; my heart jumped to my throat, but he didn't. He just gave me a quick, exuberant hug, like he couldn't contain his enthusiasm, and ran right out the fucking door.
I tried to wait up for him, I really did, but it had been days since I'd gotten proper sleep. At nine I gave it up and crawled into bed, relieved, at least, to be so exhausted. When I really need it I'm an incredibly heavy sleeper, and I was looking forward to a night without the dreams.
I should have known better; I don't have any fucking luck.
I opened my eyes in the hazy darkness of unreality and he was on my bed, his expression one of agonized indecision. This is a dream, I told myself firmly, trying to fight it, go back to sleep, this is only going to make it worse, you know that, but then he met my eyes.
"Please," he said, strained and desperate and too fucking beautiful for words, and all my resistance was lost. I sat up and put one hand behind his neck and dragged him in, kissing him with raw abandon. He moaned into my mouth, and I could feel the sound slip down my throat--and oh, this dream was more detailed than usual, each perfect accuracy poising itself to eat at me in the morning. I buried one hand in that thick hair and he fisted my t-shirt, breaking the kiss to pull it over my head.
"I can't tell you," he said, and his eyes were bright even in the darkness. "I can't tell you, John, it's not safe--"
"Shut up," I said, catching his mouth again. I didn't want to hear his cryptic nonsense, a product of my own hyperactive subconscious. If I was going to go down with this ship I wanted to fucking do it, wanted to feel everything I could of him, wanted to drink him up in the only arena that he was truly mine.
I pushed him back onto the bed, the wrong way. His feet were on my pillows and he was under me, writhing and bucking against me, biting at my lips. His hands were everywhere but I stilled them long enough to get his shirt off. There was a makeshift gauze bandage wrapped around his upper arm; I touched it, running my fingers across it, wondering what the hell my mind was trying to tell me.
"Don't," he said, biting his lip, "please don't, I can't--"
"Okay," I said, "okay, shhh, okay." I leaned in and sucked mercilessly at the hollow of his neck and he groaned aloud, running his nails down my neck.
"John," he said. And then, like every time, like every fucking dream, torture: "Do you know how long I've wanted, how fucking long--"
And you know, even though my brain was furious with me, even though I wanted to tell him to shut up and let me get on with it, I couldn't. Even the idea of confessing to a spectre was better than keeping it in, better than hiding it any longer. I cupped the side of his face, ran the pad of my thumb across his cheek. He shuddered against me.
"Me too," I said, very softly. "Since the day I moved in here."
"Why didn't you--"
"Tell you?" I said, laughing bitterly at myself. Oh, was I going to be miserable in the morning. "Because you--because I'm like this. Scars everywhere and a fucking cane and we live together, and it would be so embarrassing to have you turn me down."
"John Watson," he said, looking like he maybe wanted to hit me, "that is the stupidest fucking thing you've ever said to me."
I didn't answer him. I couldn't bear to know what he said next, what ridiculous thing I'd use to beat myself up with when I woke up. So I kissed him and kissed him, tracing the inside of his mouth with my tongue until he was breathing too hard to talk.
He pushed me, and we wrestled for control for a second; then I gave in and laid back, and he smirked above me, looking like himself for once. He pulled down the boxers I slept in and sank low, trailing those damned sticky kisses across my chest, and then ran his tongue along the full length of my cock.
He whistled, long and low, a second before pulling me entirely into his mouth. I moaned out his name--his last name, I think, although it might have been Forest that came out--I'd never thought of him as Sherlock. He responded by pulling me in still deeper, letting me scrape the back of his throat.
I fisted one hand in his hair as he sucked me, doing things with his tongue that I couldn't begin to comprehend. I wanted to tell him that I loved him but I bit my lip nearly bloody against it, against the goddamned indignity of confessing that to my own sick fantasy. So I rode him out, relishing just how well I could construct a farce, until I felt myself reaching the brink.
"Holmes," I gasped, "Holmes, I'm--I'm going to--"
In response he pulled all the air out his cheeks, pulling at me harder and with more intensity than any real partner I'd ever had. I felt my eyes roll back into my head as I came in long, fierce pulses down his throat, as I yanked at his fucking hair.
He was smiling when he pulled away, and he leaned across me, kissing me with his filthy, filthy mouth. Well-sated as I was, I still felt my cock give a tiny twitch at the taste of myself against his teeth, but then he was pulling away.
"Let me--" I started, but he put a hand to my lips, silencing me.
"I wish I could," he whispered. "I wish I could, please believe me, I would, but I don't have time," and that was like all the other dreams too, him running off before I could return the favor. I closed my eyes and nodded, and he ran his hand through my hair once and kissed me again.
"Sleep," he said, "I'll be here in the morning."
That's what I'm afraid of, I thought, but the dream slipped away from me before I could say it.
I jolted awake what felt like a second later; the sun was streaming in through the window, bitter and too bright. I blinked myself awake and it came rushing back to me--Holmes beneath me, feeling so real, sucking me dry. It hurt, worse even than usual, because it had seemed…ah, fuck. The anger came a moment afterwards in any case, that ridiculously potent rush of rage that's only heightened by the fact that it's not justified.
I dragged myself out of bed to get myself some coffee; Holmes was sitting on the couch, his head in his hands. He jerked himself upright when he saw me, looking vaguely guilty.
"Watson," he said, "I didn't expect you to be awake."
"I'm not," I growled. "Coffee. Required."
"There's some in the pot," he said. Then he gave me a strange, soft smile that made my heart ache and stood up, walking up to me.
He put his hand on my arm. He put his hand on my arm and, oh, god, I don't want to write this out, I don't even want to think about it--
"Don't touch me," I snapped, jerking away from him. His face registered shock for a split second, and then guarded confusion.
"Sorry," he said, putting his hands up.
"No," I said, sighing. It wasn't his fault I was making myself crazy over him. "I'm sorry. I just--I had a really weird fucking night."
I expected him to understand and back off. Instead the confusion on his face twisted into something like hurt, and why I didn't see it, why I didn't figure it the fuck out, I'll never know.
"Do you," he said, tripping over the words, "do you want to talk--"
"Do I want to talk about it?" I finished, laughing bitterly. He flinched at the sound. "No, Holmes, I think you're actually the last person I want to talk to about this."
He jerked back from me like I'd slapped him. Then he narrowed his eyes, taking two clear steps away from me. "Fine," he spat, "that's actually fucking great. Because you're the last person I want to talk to right now too, so everything's perfect. I'm sorry your night sucked so much, that must be really fucking rough."
"Oh, fuck you," I growled. "Like you have any fucking right to be pissed that I don't want to talk, like you haven't been keeping secrets from me--"
"You don't have any idea what the fuck you're talking about," he hissed, moving like he was going to step forward. Then he stilled, looking me over with dark, furious eyes. "You know what? It doesn't fucking matter. I have shit to do. Enjoy your goddamned coffee."
"I fucking will," I shouted after him as he left, grabbing his bag on the way and slamming the door behind him. I fumed through my coffee, through half a pack of cigarettes, and was just considering throwing something into the fucking wall when the door opened.
I turned around, expected Holmes, but it was Miles. I couldn't remember the last time he'd been at the apartment--if he'd ever been at the apartment--and that startled me out of my fury for a moment.
"Miles," I said, "what--"
"Look, you little fuck," he snapped, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. "I am only here because I have a lower opinion of your intelligence than my brother does. See, I don't think it's possible that you're as much of an asshole as you seem to be, because you'd have to be pretty fucking calculating and I just don't think you have it in you."
"What--" I started, but he cut me off.
"If I'm wrong," he growled, "I am going to beat you until you cannot do anything by bleed. And then I'm going to do it again. Are we clear?"
"Crystal," I said faintly, more than a little frightened. Miles, though generally kind, is seriously fucking gigantic.
"Alright," he said, taking a deep breath. "I am going to do you a favor now, and tell you something you apparently do not know. How that's possible, I just don't know, because it's not like it isn't obvious."
"It's not like what isn't obvious?"
"My brother," he said, staring at me like I was the stupidest fucking person on the planet, "is in love with you. In. Fucking. Love. WIth. You. Like nothing I've ever seen, and if you don't explain your behavior right fucking now I swear to god--"
"No he's not," I cut him off, my tone harsh. "He--he doesn't even date seriously, thinks it's a drain on his time--"
"Is that what that little fuck told you?" Miles asked incredulously. "Oh my god, that's so far from the truth that I want to puke. He stole that line from me, the little shit--what, did you just miss the whole Victor thing? Did that not get through that thick head of yours?"
"What the fuck are you talking about?" I demanded. "Who's Victor? What--"
"Oh my god," Miles said again, staring at me. "He never told you about Victor?"
"Who the fuck is Victor?" I cried, having reached the end of my rope.
"His ex-fucking boyfriend," Miles shot back, fuming. "God, it didn't fucking occur to you to wonder why he was looking for a place to stay after the semester started? Don't most people have that shit figured out by then?"
"I--" I started hotly. Then I paused, thinking that over. When I spoke again, it was less sure. "I--he told me that his housing arrangement fell through--"
"He caught his boyfriend cheating on him, more like," Miles snapped. "I always knew that cocky little fuck was trouble, but Sherlock wouldn't listen to a damned thing I said. And then he comes to my bar one night with all his shit, says he came home and there was someone else in his bed--all the fucking insecurities out to play all fucking over again. That little prick told him he needed someone who could satisfy him--"
"I'll kill him," I growled, standing up. Miles looked at me like I'd grown a second head.
"What you did was fucking worse!" he cried. "He's been in love with you for months and he's such a mess that I don't even want to think about it and you take him into your fucking bed and tell him you've wanted this the whole time and then tell him it was weird--"
"What the ever-loving fuck--" I started. Then it hit me, a horrible, resounding wallop. "Oh, god, oh my god--oh god, I thought I was dreaming--"
The honest distress on my face softened Miles' expression somewhat. Before I could tell how much I was assuaged with images of Holmes' face--Holmes during our fight--what he must have thought I meant--
"Excuse me," I said, as calmly as I could manage, "but I think I'm going to be sick."
I slammed the bathroom door behind me and then, yes, did actually retch twice into the toilet. I'm not proud of it--it was a weak, ridiculous thing to do, a time-wasting thing to do, but I couldn't help myself. All I could think about was the sharp shock on his face when I told him not to touch me, the anger that was so clearly masking hurt--
Fuck, even now it makes my stomach turn.
When I opened the door, Miles was sitting on the couch. His expression had shifted to one of sympathy, and he smiled sadly at me.
"You're a fucking idiot," he said, kindly.
"Where is he," I managed. "I have to go fix this, I have to--"
"He's at his lab," Miles told me. "At least, that's where he said he was going. You'll want to be quick, though, he moves fast when he's hiding from something."
"Right," I said, heading for the door. I'd almost made it when Miles' voice, genuinely amused now, stopped me.
"Watson," he said. I turned, and he raised an eyebrow at me. "You might want to put on some pants."
I looked down, realized I was still only wearing my boxers, and flushed. I grabbed a pair of jeans off the floor of my room and yanked them on, and Miles was already at the door when I got there.
"Hey," he said, "I don't really think you're stupid."
"You're the only one," I told him faintly. He grinned at me then, just the edge of it going dangerous.
"You know I'll kill you if you hurt him, right?" he said, putting a heavy, massive hand on my shoulder to drive home the point.
"What makes you think I wouldn't beat you to it?" I asked, and then I was down the stairs and running out the door.
I tried the lab first. Holmes wasn't there, but there were signs of him--a leftover coffee cup, a trail of cigarette butts leading to the building door. I rifled frantically through the papers on his desk--which, yeah, I know, makes me sound like a fucking stalker. I didn't care, I had to find him, and so I started making a list of places he might theoretically be.
His cell phone was off; I know because I tried him ten times running from his classroom to his favorite coffee places to six different bars. "Holmes," I said in the first message I left him, "Holmes, I'm so sorry, I thought--I didn't realize what was happening last night, I thought I was dreaming, I didn't mean to--please call me, man, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
I won't bother recounting the rest of the messages, because it's humiliating. Suffice to say they only got increasingly desperate as the hours wore on, as I didn't find him and didn't find him and didn't find him.
I even tried the club, ignoring the way my heartbeat sped up as I walked through the threshold. It was early evening when I got there, so it was me and the bartenders. Brett, my least favorite of the lot, took one look and me and pursed his lips in mock-sympathy.
"Trouble in paradise?" he asked, leaning in and leering. "He's a hard man, our Holmes. Maybe you'd like to burn off some frustration with--"
"Fuck you," I growled, glaring. He stepped back at once, looking furious. "Have you seen him? Has he been in here?"
"I don't know why I'd talk to someone so fucking rude--" he started, but Kyle, the one Holmes had seemed to like the night we were there, came over and cut him off.
"We need more vodka, Brett," he said. Brett stared at him incredulously.
"No we don't," he said, "I just picked up--"
"Well go get more," Kyle snapped. "Now."
Brett's mouth fell open. Then he glanced between the two of us, sniffed, and stalked away, muttering darkly under his breath. Kyle put a friendly hand on my shoulder.
"Sit down," he said, pushing me onto a stool. "Have a drink. Tell me about it."
And--god help me--I did. I didn't know what to do with myself and I couldn't think of a single place I hadn't tried, so I told Kyle the whole story over a few beers. He was a good listener, and like all great bartenders he reserved judgement until the end. I couldn't help but be reminded of Miles months before, watching me with something between amusement and disdain as I told him of my housing issues.
God, and how different my life would have been, if not for the fucking bartenders I let talk me into lunatic bad ideas.
Kyle waited till I was through. Then he laughed, long and low, and I was too exhausted to even be pissed at him for it.
"John," he said, "has it occurred to you that you live in the same place that he does? He'll have to come home eventually."
"There are a million places he could go," I protested. "Miles or Irene would take him, he could sleep at his lab--"
"But all his shit is at your apartment," Kyle said reasonably. " Am I right? He'd have to come get it eventually. And it sounds like this Miles guy would call you if he showed up there, so I wouldn't worry about that."
I looked up at him with bleary eyes. He sighed and returned his hand to my shoulder from across the bar.
"You've made a big fucking mess," he said, "I'm not going to tell you different. But you're a good guy, John, and you're cute, and it's obvious he loves you. You know the night you were here he offered me fifty dollars for the shirt I was wearing so he could follow you without getting hassled by anyone?"
"He doesn't have fifty dollars," I said, blinking. Kyle laughed.
"And I fucking knew it, which was why I let him have it free. But Jesus, man, I don't think you've screwed yourself beyond belief. It's a mix-up. It'll get sorted. You just need to talk to him, and your best bet is to go home and wait him out."
"You think?" I asked. He sighed.
"I know it, man. Go home. He'll come back eventually."
I shouldn't have taken his advice. I should have gone to Miles and told him I hadn't found his brother; I should have kept calling, should have checked everywhere again. It might not have mattered, considering--I might have already been too late. If I could go back in time I would grab myself that morning and beat my own ass, just to--
Fuck, there's no point, is there? Holmes is right, I can't beat myself up over my goddamned mistakes forever.
I did what Kyle told me to do. I went back to the apartment; he wasn't there, but I told myself he'd have to show up eventually. I collapsed on the couch, flicking blankly through the DVR, figuring I'd catch him when he came home and explain everything, bare my fucking soul and make it right.
But Holmes didn't come home.