Sherlock Fic: Ashes to Ashes - Part Two
Please take a look at the warnings and notes in the MASTERPOST.
Part One
Over half an hour later, John arrived at Grange St Paul's, at the end of his tether. His cab had been caught up in a traffic jam, and John had been torn between trying to stay patient and jumping out of the car and running. In the end, he had stayed in the cab, telling himself over and over again that he wasn't on the trail of a killer, and that Sherlock was not in danger. Not in mortal danger.
John stormed through the glass entrance doors into the lobby and took a moment to orient himself. Thankfully, he didn't have to search for long; there were quite a few elegant and discreet signs, pointing to the meeting rooms of the congress. He turned to the right, took a few stairs at break-neck speed, and almost ran headfirst into one of the hotel security guards. Fishing the visitor pass out of his wallet, John waved it at the guy and, pocketing it again, continued on his way to the speaker room from where he could already hear Wentwall's booming voice. He passed the entrance to what looked like a bar, and then he stopped dead in his tracks and took a second glance. There he was.
Sherlock leaned with his back against the wall, arms crossed and an utterly curious expression on his face. For a moment, John thought the aggravating blue neon lights were playing tricks on him; he had never before seen Sherlock terrified of anything… or anyone. But that was what John saw, terror. Sherlock stared at a man standing in front of him, too close to him, right arm casually on the bar, effectively crowding Sherlock into a corner. Richard Holmes was a very lean and very tall man, even taller than Sherlock or Mycroft. It seemed to be a trademark of the Holmes family.
Hackles rising, John went forward.
The neon lights slowly changed colour until they became almost purple. Holmes raised his left hand with the tumbler in it. Sherlock looked up, away from his father and straight at John. His eyes widened. Holmes turned slowly, clearly following his son's gaze.
John almost froze in his tracks, almost. He had seen this look before on a hyena in Afghanistan. It had looked up from its prey with a blood-smeared snout, glancing at John almost calculating, as if wondering how close he would dare to come.
Holmes smiled, and for a moment the likeness became even more striking and then the image shattered. For once ignoring the man he loved, John placed himself right between the two of them, his back to Sherlock, so close to Holmes the tips of their shoes were touching. Holmes looked surprised for a second and retreated one step, only to come forward again immediately. His face hardened.
"Dr Watson, I presume?"
"I wasn't aware we've met before."
Holmes started to smile again. "Oh, I've heard so much about you I feel I know you already." He looked John over from head to toe, smile deepening. "I just wasn't expecting someone so… impressive." Looking over John's head at Sherlock, he continued, "Is that your idea of a joke? And there I was, thinking, well, at least he'd chosen a doctor. But seriously…" He got interrupted by John's forefinger stabbing him in the chest. All of a sudden, every trace of humour left his eyes. "Keep your hands to yourself, chap."
"It will be hard but I'll try. Keep your focus."
Holmes flushed with anger, and for the first time, John noticed a scar on the right side of his face; a thin white line, running down from the ear to the jawline.
"Is that so?" Holmes hissed, leaning forward, getting right into John's face. John wondered whether he would still do that if he knew how close he was to getting his nose punched in.
John straightened up even more, cocked his head to the side and smiled. They were now nose to nose, so close John could smell the expensive aftershave Holmes was wearing; he could have done without it. "That's so."
They stared at each other until Sherlock made a distressed sound; at once, Holmes' head whipped up again to look at his son. John cursed inwardly.
Holmes laughed softly at whatever he saw in Sherlock's face. "I thought I taught you better."
The tone was so ugly and vicious that John's mind took -again- a leap to something dark. He snapped. Muscles tensing, he moved forward, only to be stopped by two hands from behind that were drawing him back. John struggled for a minute but Sherlock turned him slightly and John saw Mycroft, accompanied by two other men, running towards them. He looked strangely like the griffin from John's dream.
Holmes turned around quickly, apparently forgetting about Sherlock and John. He looked like he was preparing himself for a fight, and John struggled some more. If there was going to be a fight, he wanted in on it. He opened his mouth to tell Sherlock but before he could draw a breath, Sherlock pushed and pulled him in the direction of the hall, passing Mycroft and his cronies, a haggard looking Anthea and hotel security guards, out into the lobby and then onto the street. Not pausing for a minute, Sherlock opened the door of the next cab in line, all but threw John into it, followed him inside and hissed "Baker Street!" at the driver, banging the door closed behind him.
***
"I do remember that day far too well. I was 21, already working for the government. I visited our home for only a few hours and left again. Then, I had a flat tyre only about two miles away, near the village. It was strange; the car was brand new. I went to the inn to phone the AA only to learn I had to wait for a few hours for someone to come out there. By chance, I saw one of our former maids, Rose. She was playing Billiards in the backroom and I… Again, I am sorry. I am procrastinating. Well, we started a conversation about how things were at home; at that time, only my father's old butler and a few workers had remained at the house. I noticed she was exchanging strange looks with the innkeeper and then, quite suddenly, she asked me about Sherlock. Before I could answer she started talking so quickly I could barely keep up with her. She told me about how our father treated my brother… about cruel punishments for minor pranks, like letting him stand in the corner for hours without end. She also talked about him regularly beating Sherlock. One part of me did not believe her. The other part… I can't really explain it. While I did not believe it, at the same time, I saw in her face other things, much, much worse things. I decided to go back. I left the car behind and went through the woods back to the house."
***
"I thought I taught you better."
John looked at Sherlock who was staring out of the cab's window and at Sherlock's left hand that was tightly clenched around the handhold. In John's mind, thoughts were tumbling around. In a way, the meeting with Sherlock's father had turned out as he had thought it would; Richard Holmes was impressive, good-looking, cold and an arrogant son of a bitch. But -and this was a big but- John had not expected the way Sherlock had looked and he had also not expected the… undertones in which Holmes had watched and spoken to his son. Just thinking about it made his flesh crawl.
John prayed they would reach Baker Street before Sherlock got a grip on himself and managed to shut down.
His wish was granted. The moment the cab stopped, Sherlock jumped out and rushed towards the door, John on his heels. He heard the cab driver behind him yelling, and without really stopping he shoved his wallet into the hands of a startled Mrs Hudson. "Take care of that for me, will you?" he bit out and stormed upstairs, not waiting for an answer. He piled into the living room and moved to the left, blocking Sherlock's means of escape. Sherlock had turned around and was close to him, looking more disturbed than John had ever seen him before. His gaze was flitting between John and the door to the stairs. John wondered if Sherlock would actually try and attack him and if it was really such a good idea to trap him right now; then he could see a familiar mask covering Sherlock's face. John drew his shoulders up and braced himself, just in time.
"Are you having fun, John?" Sherlock asked, cold as ice.
"Sherlock…"
"Oh you should see your face!" Sherlock barked out a laugh. "Full of sincerity and moral courage, as usual. Do you know how boring that is, how boring you are?" His voice became louder with every word. "A simpering idiot who thinks he's in love!"
"When did it start?"
Sherlock recoiled; he didn't even try to pretend that he hadn't understood. John swallowed; his heart was thundering in his ears. He took a step forward, and Sherlock backed off several paces until his legs bumped into the chair at the window. He barely managed to stay on his feet. John hesitated for a moment, then he quickly crossed the distance between them; scared and yet determined at the same time. Sherlock tried to get away from him, circling the chair.
"Leave me alone!"
John stopped immediately and raised both hands. "Sherlock, look, I'm…" All of a sudden, Sherlock lost his footing; he slipped and started to go down. Instinctively, John rushed forward and tried to break his fall. They both landed on the floor between chair and window. After a second of silence, John looked at Sherlock's face; all he could see were wide grey eyes. John got up on his knees and skidded backwards, only to be drawn back by Sherlock whose fingers were digging into John's arm. Flinching, he prepared himself for a slap at least, but when Sherlock did nothing beside stare at him, John tried again.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked, I…" He trailed off when Sherlock cocked his head to the side, a whole new expression in his eyes. Before John could do as much as blink, Sherlock released his arm; his hand travelled upwards and grasped John's neck. Then Sherlock drew him closer.
Soft, soft lips, barely there, gone and back again. John flailed a bit and made a surprised noise which sounded suspiciously like a moan. The tip of a tongue caressed his lips, and he gasped for breath. Sherlock raised his head for a moment, smiled at him and moved forward again, eyes darkening. Stunned but elated, John managed to return the embrace without embarrassing himself further.
From a distance, John heard the door open. "Dr Watson, here is your… oh dear!" The door closed again, and John ripped his mouth away. He tried to look over his shoulder but Sherlock shifted and the chair John was leaning on skittered away; John found himself lying flat on his back. "Wha… ?"
"You scared Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said above him, voice deeper than it ever had been before.
Stupidly, John stared up at him. He could not think. He had the feeling it would be important to think but… oh God, here he comes again. This time, Sherlock moved in far more confidently. His tongue slipped immediately between John's lips, seeking out his own. Behind closed lids, John saw sparkles flying about; breathing became an issue. He buried his hands deeply in the dark curls and tugged Sherlock's head slightly to the left to have better access to his mouth.
Sherlock froze. Only for a second but that was enough for John's brain to jumpstart; a bucket full of ice water poured out over his head could not have been more effective. John wriggled out from under Sherlock's body and scrambled away, backwards, as fast as he was able to. Sherlock was following him at once; a part of John's mind marvelled at the fact that both of them were heading for the sofa, on all fours.
"Oh, no, no, no, please don't!"
Reacting to the desperation in Sherlock's voice, John let Sherlock catch up with him but before he could pounce on him again, he laid a hand on Sherlock's chest. "Stop it. Sherlock, stop!"
"I don't want to!"
"But I do. I need to."
After he frowned at John for a few seconds, Sherlock averted his eyes and sat back, close to John but not touching him. A moment later he drew his knees up and buried his own hands in his hair, pulling on it mercilessly. John reached out, took hold of Sherlock's wrists and pulled on them a bit. "Sherlock, you're hurting yourself. Let go," he said, sounding surprisingly calm. Inwardly, he felt like he was standing in the middle of a minefield, with no idea what to do or how to get out.
Sherlock looked up, a defeated expression in his eyes, so John put his arms around him and held on.
***
"It was already dark when I got there. I went through the cellar so I could avoid Father's butler. The house sat silent. First, I thought everyone had already gone to bed. Then I heard something from upstairs. It was… Excuse me for a moment."
***
"You should not have followed me."
They were sitting on the floor, close to each other, leaning against the couch, table kicked to the middle of the room. John sighed and hung his head. "Well, you did your best to prevent it. Do I want to know what drug was in that tea?"
Sherlock remained silent.
"Tell me it wasn't Rohypnol."
No answer.
"Are you out of your mind? Do you know what… forget it." John tried to swallow the sudden ire without choking on it. It did not go down smoothly. "You couldn't have just told me not to come?"
Sherlock huffed. "As if you would have listened."
"So sure of that, are you?"
"I know you."
"Just your luck then that I know you, too."
Sherlock shook his head slowly, and John saw his Adam's apple bob twice. "He will come after you. You made it personal."
"I don't give a shit…"
"Because you don't know him!" Sherlock shouted. "I'll tell you something; soon enough, you won't have a job anymore!"
"Then I will look for another one."
Hands waving around, Sherlock turned towards John, totally agitated. "It is mind-boggling how slow you are! You won't get another one, not as a doctor! You…"
"Then I'll sell Fish and Chips on the street." Before Sherlock could explode for good, John continued, gently, "He's not my bogeyman, Sherlock. I am not scared of him."
Sherlock lowered his head, and John raised his hand to stroke through the dark curls and paused mid-air, self-consciously. That made Sherlock snap at once. "Stop being an idiot! I'm not some frightened spinster, you hear me?"
Baring his teeth, John said, "I never thought you were."
"Then stop treating me like one! That's exactly why I didn't want you to…" He bit off the rest and clenched his fists.
John completed his arrested movement, laid his hand on Sherlock's neck and carefully caressed the short locks. A tiny part inside him marvelled at the fact that he was actually allowed to do that now, to show his affection so casually. "You didn't want me to what?"
Sherlock sighed, sounding disgruntled. "What do you think? I didn't want you to know about…" He trailed off, turned his head slowly and pinned John with a piercing glance. "How did you know anyway? There is no way you could have hacked into Mycroft's twee files about me and this mess. So how?"
Twee files? Mess? Jesus. "Well, I… read your manual on being a Sociopath and…"
"It's not a manual!"
"Isn't it now?" When Sherlock didn't answer, John carried on. "There was something about… okay, that doesn't really matter. It was… the way your father… uh, looked at you. He looked like he… owns you. All of you."
"Oh, he does own me. He made sure that I won't forget it," Sherlock said in a neutral voice that made the fine hairs on John's neck rise.
"What do you mean?"
Sherlock remained silent, and John watched him apprehensively. When he opened his mouth to take the question back, Sherlock's expression became determined. He got up on his knees and stood up.
"Sherlock, what…?" John broke off when the other man started to open his trousers. He watched Sherlock, face drawn, pulling down the left side of the black suit trousers and rucking up the white shirt. There, high on his hipbone, was a crude cross, branded into the pale skin, so big that Sherlock's hand could not have covered it completely.
John sat very still. He tried desperately to keep his emotions under control, hiding them, but he knew it was in vain. Not even the thought that Sherlock would be able to read everything on his face enabled him to manage it; neither did the attempt to distance himself, to look at this mark from a doctor's perspective. He couldn't. He could not.
"How…?"
Sherlock interrupted him, still in that eerie voice. "A fire poker. On my thirteenth birthday." He closed his trousers again and stuck the shirt into them. "You want some tea?"
"What?"
"Tea," Sherlock repeated, striding toward the kitchen. "I'm making tea."
Oh God. John scrambled to his feet and followed Sherlock; he could not let this stand. The kettle Sherlock was just filling clanged and banged against the running tap erratically. "Please give that to me." Taking the kettle away, John noticed how mechanically Sherlock was moving. "Sit down for a moment, will you?" Sherlock obliged and John became even more worried. Laying one hand on Sherlock's shoulder, he leaned forward and tried to catch the grey eyes. "Listen to me. This bastard does not own you, you hear me?"
"John…"
"NO! He preyed on you, on body and mind, he manipulated you and he… abused you. As a child, you were in an impossible situation. But none of this means that he owns you. You're your own man!" Taken aback by his own vehemence, John glanced at Sherlock only to see myriad emotions flitting over his face, far too many to keep up with. Then, with a feeling of déjà vu, John saw Sherlock cocking his head. Close to some sort of emotional whiplash, he warned, "Sherlock…"
Too late. With one quick motion, Sherlock gripped his arm and drew him forward; John overbalanced and landed on Sherlock's lap.
"Sherlock!"
"What?"
"Could we maybe not repeat the previous disaster?"
Sherlock let go of him abruptly. "Disaster, you say? Interesting." He shoved John away and tried to stand up.
"Wait! Wait, please? Can we talk about this?"
"So talk."
Mind distressingly blank, John thought, I wish I knew what to say. Sitting down on the chair next to Sherlock's, he tried. "Earlier, when we kissed, I… I did something and you… you were…" He saw Sherlock becoming impatient and sighed.
Elbows on the table and fingers steepled together, Sherlock asked, "May I?"
John grimaced. "Please."
"You pulled on my hair. I was not prepared for that because I do not kiss. But now I know what to expect, so it won't happen again. We can proceed." Sherlock looked hopefully at John, but whatever he saw on his face -and really, John himself had no idea anymore how he looked- he apparently felt the need to explain further. "Do not worry; I am very good at this. You don't have to be so careful."
John was cold all over.
"You're very good at what? What do you think I want from you?"
Sherlock leaned back on his chair and crossed his arms. "I thought this should be obvious?"
"No, I really don't think so. I'm not talking about having a fling here."
Sherlock looked at him for a second and nodded slowly. "Of course. I should have known that. I am sorry, John, I truly am." Standing up, Sherlock took hold of the kettle again.
John watched the now perfectly stable hands while they held the kettle under the water tap. He wanted nothing more than to run away, to get some distance between himself and Sherlock. He did not, of course. In a minute, he would be able to stand up, say something meaningless and leave the room with at least his dignity intact; until then, he would just stay here and keep his mouth shut.
And watch Sherlock spinning around in the kitchen.
John blinked a few times. Sherlock had put the kettle on the stovetop without turning the plate on and was now over at the fridge, opening it, moving very quickly. He tried to pull out the drawer but could not; it was once again jammed. But instead of leaving it as was his custom, Sherlock pulled on it so violently the whole thing came out and it was raining lemons, peppers and carrots. John heard him cursing viciously and all of a sudden, he was able to breathe again. He got up slowly, started to pick up the lemons closest to him and laid them on the kitchen counter. Then he took the drawer out of Sherlock's hands and put it back into the fridge, very aware of Sherlock who was standing to one side and looking at him intently. He closed the fridge door and, turning around to Sherlock, he glanced up at him, the beginning of a smile on his lips. Sherlock's eyes were dark and full of emotions and there wasn't a mask in sight but he still did not move. Right. John raised his hand to Sherlock's cheek and in the next second he crashed against the fridge, Sherlock's mouth on his, kissing him wildly. Almost lightheaded with relief, John let him.
After some time, John enfolded Sherlock's face with his hands; apparently fearful of being pushed away, Sherlock pressed against him even harder. But John just started to move his thumbs soothingly in circles over the high cheekbones; under the fingertips that were resting against Sherlock's throat he could feel how fast his heart was beating. Finally, slowly, Sherlock drew back a bit, probably for some much needed air, only to come back again and again as if he couldn't believe that John wasn't leaving. Using his teeth, John tugged playfully at Sherlock's mouth every time their lips were touching; his hands were petting the dark locks gently and then stroked them back behind the ears. The next time their mouths parted, John swerved a bit to the side to press his lips against Sherlock's throat. Sherlock made a hoarse sound; his head fell back, baring his throat even more. Standing on tiptoes, John kissed, licked, nipped his way slowly downwards from ear to collarbone, ripping the white shirt open a bit more. Sherlock shuddered all over, his hips pushing mindlessly against John, and John became aware of how badly his own body was shaking. He had fantasised about this, about Sherlock coming apart in his arms, for so long he could now barely control his own reaction - but he had to. Christ, we're in the kitchen, against the fucking fridge!
His hands skimmed over Sherlock's chest, trying to let things become gentler, but his fingers grazed erect nipples and instead of calming down, Sherlock pressed even harder against him, moaning loudly. His mouth slid over John's sloppily, tongue licking between his lips once, then he lowered his head and bit down hard on John's throat, hands leaving John's waist and grabbing his arse. Brain short-circuiting again, John spread his legs and was at once hoisted until he was practically riding on one of Sherlock's thighs. His hips snapped forward, pushing their erections together and oh Christ! he would come in his pants any second now. "Sherlock… I…" he panted and dug his fingers deeper into Sherlock's shoulders, sure he would leave bruises there.
Slowly, Sherlock kissed him again and released him - only to go down on his knees in front of John. He started to open John's trousers but John laid his hands over Sherlock's and stopped him. "Sherlock… no, don't."
Sherlock looked up and John literally ran out of breath. He had never seen Sherlock look that way, he hadn't even imagined him looking that way, and hell, he had imagined lots of things -pupils so widely dilated John could only see a tiny rim of grey, face flushed, lips swollen -how the hell could he say no to that… John felt the fingers under his moving, opening the button.
"I want to," Sherlock rasped. "Oh, I want to, let me!"
Right.
Trembling, he let go of Sherlock's hands and laid his own flat against the fridge door behind him, hoping to get some support for his legs there. Sherlock smiled up at him, delighted and… gentle, there was no other word for it and god, he hadn't seen a smile like that before either. Long fingers were unzipping his trousers, pushing them down, taking his boxers with them, and a second later he felt Sherlock's tongue licking teasingly over his cock, twirling around the head for a moment. John stared and panted, and then Sherlock leaned forward, lips closing around him, and with one motion he took him in so deep John almost lost it right there. "Fuck!" Drawing back, Sherlock hummed, clearly approving, cheeks hollowing. John's head banged against the fridge. He couldn't watch, he could not… Sherlock went down again, tongue fluttering against the underside of his cock, rubbing just there and… John's eyes flew open. "Stop! Sherlock, stop, stop… stop!" His hands flailed around, not wanting to grab Sherlock's hair but still trying to push him off. Sherlock didn't let him; his hands took a firm hold on John's hips and he sucked even harder and that was it. With a sob, John came, shaking all over; he felt Sherlock swallowing around him, slowing his movements and he shuddered again. Finally Sherlock let him go, and John looked down just to see Sherlock slowly licking over his lips. His knees gave out and he slid down, landing on his arse.
"You all right?" Sherlock asked, a definite smile in his voice. John continued to sit and stare, feeling dumb.
Sherlock's smile deepened and he sat down beside John for a moment, only to raise himself up again immediately, adjusting his trousers with a grimace. John was on him in a second, pushing him to the floor, kissing him, hand squeezing the clearly visible bulge under the black trousers. Sherlock made a soft noise, head going back and… and… the doorbell was ringing. And not only that; while they were both staring at each other, frozen, the street door opened and there were footsteps on the stairs.
Sherlock bared his teeth. "It's Mycroft."
"You're kidding me," John rasped.
"I wish. Dammit!" With that, Sherlock got up then leaned down to lend John a hand for which he was very grateful. While John closed his trousers, Sherlock yanked his shirt out, hiding evidence. "I have to give it to him, he always chooses the worst possible moment," he hissed under his breath, still trying to adjust himself, which was impossible, really, John thought. Sherlock's whole wardrobe was just a bit too tightly fitting. Not that John minded that. What he did mind, though, was that he had no idea where his gun was… and the way they were both looking, no one alive would be able to miss what they had been doing.
"Don't fret." Sherlock still sounded as if he was in pain.
Before John could answer, there was a knock on the door to the living room. "You think Mycroft would knock?" John whispered.
"Apparently." Sherlock raised his voice. "Come on in, Mycroft. We're in the kitchen."
Feeling extremely awkward, John turned around slowly just in time to see the older Holmes brother entering. Mycroft didn't so much as twitch when he saw them but Sherlock tensed all over and John laid a hand gently on the small of his back. He could understand the tension; Mycroft looked awful. Hair and tie in disarray, Mycroft stood in the doorway for a long moment, then he came over to the table and sat down. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat, drew out an expensive looking cigarette case and a gold Zippo and lit up a cigarette. John sat down, too, and watched Sherlock staring at his brother while Mycroft was staring at the table top and smoking.
Finally, Sherlock took a seat and leaned forward. "Stop it."
Mycroft didn't look up.
"Mycroft…"
His brother interrupted him. "You know what he said to me?"
Sherlock took a deep breath. "If you tell me he complimented you on your looks, I won't feel so special anymore."
Gnashing his teeth tightly -John could hear the grinding sound even over the humming in his own ears- Mycroft did not answer. John swallowed and tried to keep the rising bile down.
"None of this is your fault."
Mycroft huffed, a bitter sound. "So you've said."
"You know as well as I do…"
"I should have killed him."
After a moment of silence, Sherlock took the lighter and a cigarette; John seriously considered getting one for himself, too. Raising an eyebrow, Sherlock remarked off-handedly, "Far too many witnesses at the hotel, I'm afraid."
"I was not talking about today."
Silence again. John looked back and forth between the brothers; both of them were now staring at the table. John remembered the scar on Richard Holmes' face very well; almost against his will, he asked, "What did you use?"
Mycroft threw him a look. "A letter opener."
All of a sudden, Sherlock jumped up so abruptly his chair skittered back on the kitchen floor. "If you don't mind, I'd rather not listen to this. Not now." He threw the cigarette into the sink.
"You are right; there is no need to…"
"I beg to differ." Sherlock turned back to his brother. "It is obvious that you need to talk about it and I think John has to hear it. I just do not want to be a participant in this conversation. Go out and talk; I need some space anyway."
"Surely not!" Mycroft barked.
John watched Sherlock closely; he looked exhausted and still flushed and strangely peaceful. He also looked like someone who badly needed to be alone. John could only imagine how this intensely private man must be feeling right now; so when Sherlock turned to him, he managed to put a smile on his face. Inwardly, he wanted nothing more than to throw Mycroft out, grab Sherlock and drag him upstairs to his bedroom. Later.
"John, I know it must be hard to trust me after what happened this morning but…"
John interrupted him. "No. No, it is actually surprisingly easy."
***
"The sounds I heard, they were… unambiguous. I knew what I would find even before I opened that door. I remember that I stood there, praying I was wrong. Then I did open the door."
***
Part Three