Crystals in the Storm Glass - Chapter 4
Summary: Post- Reichenbach. After a disastrous reunion, Sherlock and John inadvertently find themselves becoming flatmates once more. When Irene Adler asks them to solve an international espionage case, Sherlock is willing to risk everything to win back John's admiration and love.
Word Count:
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Action/Adventure with some Romance.
Chapter 4: Aetiology of a Dysfunctional Relationship
Diogenes Club, London
Mycroft Holmes was taking his customary cup of black coffee and reading between the lines of the Guardian article on nuclear power in Iran. So far, so good, there did not seem to be any potentially inflammatory material imbedded in the article that might send his plan spiralling out of control and Mycroft hated losing control.
Across from his comfortable armchair, his assistant and long term partner Anthea was absent-mindedly rubbing her wedding ring with her left hand as she savoured the thin afternoon sunshine filtering in through the French doors. He smiled reassuringly at her but she didn’t seem to notice as she continued to stare out into the impressively landscaped garden. Dark rhododendron bushes interspersed with delight flowers spread out before the windows in a bold splash of summer colours. The world outside looked deceptively peaceful and completely oblivious of the storm clouds that were gathering.
For a moment, just a split second, Mycroft felt a twinge of guilt at what he had set in motion. He had long since mastered the art of suppressing his more sentimental traits in times of need. Mycroft had not been born without a conscience despite common perception, he simply did what was necessary and suffer the consequences of his feelings afterwards. What was necessary to save London, Britain and Western civilisation was not pleasant or easy or even morally right. He would live with the consequences though, he always did. When Mummy or Sherlock or even Anthea looked at him with sadness and disappointment he would just smile back laconically and pretend it didn’t hurt.
221B Baker Street, Northwest London
John was drinking his second cup of tea and feeling decidedly low despite the hot bath and the warm blankets wrapped like bandages around his shivering figure. His throat was burning and his nose was doing its very best to prevent him from breathing. He had resorted to panting like a dog just to get the enough oxygen to his brain; not that his brain was doing very much at the moment. He felt like a shipwreck hanging limply off the rocky shore being battered by successive waves of ice cold water. It didn’t help that the source of his problems was pacing around the living room like a madman in a padded cell.
“We should get you to a hospital,” said Sherlock as he continued to walk around in dizzying circles that made John’s head pound. “You might have meningitis or encephalitis or-,”
“No,” said John weakly, his larynx refusing to cooperate with his brain, “it’s just a cold.”
“Well it can’t be flu,” responded Sherlock, “you’ve had the seasonal flu vaccine in November it should hold out until the autumn -,”
“Sherlock, please shut up,” muttered John nursing his tea and wishing not for the first time in eight months that Sherlock Holmes had remained dead. “I’m not dying,”
Sherlock’s gaze latched onto his face and John quickly looked away from the intense ice blue gaze that was most definitely trying to drill a hole through his skull. His ears were buzzing awkwardly in the silence and every swallow of tea bought a sharp punishing pain to his ear drums. He really should be lying down, but he could find the strength to get up off the couch and climb the impossibly long flight of stairs to his half packed bedroom.
“John, I insist that you see a medical professional - other than yourself - your illness could be potentially life threatening!”
Ignoring Sherlock was a skill that John had manage to forget in the two years he had been living alone but he tried his best to bring back some of the zen like calm he used to feel. He closed his eyes and let the insistent drowsiness take over his being but just as he was about to relax, his entire body tensed and he ended up sitting blot upright as a surge of adrenaline dashed through his system.
“John!” demanded Sherlock, sounding familiarly frustrated by his lack of response.
John stared back him with a dazed expression; all his brain power was being devoted to finding the source of his fear.
“Fine, I suppose I shall simply have to take care of you myself,”
As if by magic, but it was most likely by design, Sherlock miraculously produced a brand new thermometer from thin air. It was not the standard electronic device John used in his surgery, nor was it the bland cheap plastic kind one might purchased from Tesco. Instead Sherlock had somehow managed to procure a thermometer that looked more hi-tech than the spy gadgets in a James Bond movie. The flashing LED lights were not just for show, John realised, they were giving complex readouts of the ambient room temperature and possibly calibrating the thermometer in order to provide a more accurate read out.
“Open your mouth,” ordered Sherlock, as if he was not used to being disobeyed.
John merely shook his head, his heart was suddenly pounding away as if he was still in Afghanistan facing down the Taliban rather than in his own front room staring at his eccentric flatmate.
The visceral reaction he was feeling could not be fear. He wasn’t scared of Sherlock.
However his body seemed to think differently as the tall lithe figure stalked towards him with a tight lipped expression that John knew all too well. He didn’t have the time or the strength to move out of the way when Sherlock grabbed his jaw and popped his mouth open with just the right amount of pressure on his temporal-mandibular joint.
“Ugh!” protested John but the crazy thermometer was already extending a tentacle like antenna into his oral cavity. He thrashed involuntarily but Sherlock’s grip on his jaw was too firm to break. Once the thermometer had reached its intended destination, Sherlock snapped his jaw shut and John fell back against the couch, parched lips pursed around the menacing thermometer.
“Hold still,” commanded Sherlock, as if he was dealing with a particularly disobedient dog. Without the strength to fight back, John simply sat on the sofa whilst Sherlock violated his mouth with his unnecessarily complicated thermometer. After a few minutes of intense silence during which John tried and failed to stop thinking about what over things Sherlock might suddenly want to place in his mouth, the thermometer beeped innocuously.
“38.9” breathed Sherlock still looming over John and gripping his lower jaw in a strong but not uncomfortable grip. “Very well, we shall have to get you into bed,”
John wanted to protest again but his pharynx felt as if it was playing host to all nine circles of hell and the incessant pounding inside his head was making coherent thought very difficult. He put up a valiant effort remaining upright when Sherlock slipped his thin wiry arms underneath John’s armpits and physically hauled him off their couch. Being distinctly shorter than Sherlock seemed to work to the other man’s advantage. John found himself being half carried and half dragged to out of the living room at a surprisingly efficient pace. His mind was far too exhausted to even contemplate protesting, instead he leaned against Sherlock’s side and enjoyed the cool sensation of the other man's shirt against his burning skin.
It was only after Sherlock deposited him on the bed that John realised they had not in fact climbed the customary fourteen steps to his room; instead he was lying on Sherlock’s bed with his shoes dangling off the edge of the duvet. The footwear in question was swiftly removed by the owner of the bed and his socks quickly followed suit. Before John could really gather his wits for some sort of verbal response, Sherlock casually rolled him under the covers like a small sack of potatoes.
“You should be comfortable here,” said Sherlock, his voice sounding distorted distant, “I’ll be back to check on you.”
He drew the curtains leaving the room oppressively dark and to John’s astonishment, Sherlock leaned down to tuck the covers underneath his chin like his mother used to do every night when he was a child. His fever addled mind almost expected a kiss goodnight but Sherlock was already closing the bedroom door, leaving John nestled amongst Sherlock’s covers and surround by his unique scent.
His mind drifted into a fitful sleep, plagued by dreams of Sherlock Holmes towering above him like a wrathful jealous god. In those dreams he always tried to run only to find that he wasn’t really moving and all the while Sherlock was just standing there watching him with patient expectation.
The Grid, Thames House, Central London
MI5 was having a slow afternoon, even the terrorists were taking time off to enjoy the first real sunshine of the summer.
Erin Watts sat typing studiously behind her desk, completely obvious to minor changes in UV levels that had the rest of London crowding into the open air with excitement. MI5’s contact inside the Iranian Embassy had sent her a long list of activities that the Ambassador had planned for the next week. Sadly, it consisted of staying behind the ten foot tall fence and denying Iran’s nuclear capabilities with mechanical rhetoric. The terror cell Section D had temporarily infiltrated in Tehran was now completely off the grid and no new intelligence could be gathered about the attacks planned for the London Olympics. Their only hope of adverting disaster was to glean something from MI6, who despised sharing of any kind, or the CIA, who cheerfully redefined meaning of cooperation every other week.
She glanced casually into Harry’s office; her boss was currently barking angrily into the phone. From the expression on his face she could see that he was ready to eviscerate the next living creature he encountered. Unfortunately for Erin, that dubious honour was about to be bestowed upon her.
Harry Pierce stormed out of his office still wearing the coat he had arrive in that afternoon and bulldozed a straight path towards her desk with the determination of a stampeding bull. In her peripheral vision, Erin saw Tariq dive under his desk on the pretext of picking up an imaginary pen.
“You, me, conference room, now,” snapped Harry not bothering to break his stride as he whipped past her desk. Harry’s temper was legendary within MI5 and every self respecting spy had been on the wrong end of it at some point in their career, it was almost a badge of honour to have survived serving Sir Harry Pierce. She smiled serenely at the thunderous expression etched deeply across his features and followed him out of the open plan office at a respectable and safe distance.
Their conference room, complete with state of the art floor to ceiling computer screen and mandatory polished black furniture, was completely soundproof. If Harry Pierce decided to hold an American style shoot-out within these four walls or engage in the ho-down on the table no one would be any the wiser. However instead of participating in either of those uncongenial activities, the rotund head of section deposited his ever widening behind onto one of the slim black chairs which admirably held up against his weight.
“Mycroft Holmes,” said Harry grimly once Erin had closed the door, “wants you promoted to section chief.”
Putting on her most neutral expression, Erin looked back at her employer with a bland and noncommittal expression. She had been expecting this ever since her reinstatement although she was rather surprised Mycroft had used such an obvious tactic to secure her promotion.
“So I hear,” Erin said calmly, and seated herself gracefully in the nearest chair.
“There appears to be very little I can do about this, so here’s your new contract,” growled Harry thrusting a hastily folded piece of paper into her outstretched hand.
“Thank you, Harry,” Erin replied discreetly unfolding the crumpled contract and scanning through the text with a cursory glance.
“You’ve done some pretty stupid things in the past and I’ve always helped you out,” continued Harry gruffly, “but I can’t get Mycroft Holmes off your back, Erin, so for heaven’s sake don’t do anything to encourage the smug bastard!”
“I don’t intend to,” Erin replied smoothly, “I might have lost to him once but I can handle the Ice Man.”
“Yes,” said Harry his tone turning caustic, “just as long as his younger brother isn’t running around breaking your codes and spoiling your fun.”
She knew Harry wasn’t deliberately trying to get a visceral reaction, he was just lacking in the tact department and they had known each other for far too long to let his particular brand of diplomacy jeopardise their working relationship.
“Like you said Harry, the past is behind me. However ill advised I have been, I’m a different person now. I even got rid of my riding crop.”
Harry’s tight lipped expression suddenly reminded Erin of the poor MOD man who had leaked an email fragment that bought down years of Mycroft’s carefully laid plans. She did not bother to find out what became of Lesley Pearson because she knew Mycroft was as unforgiving as he was ruthless. Lesley’s dissected corpse was probably floating in the North Sea somewhere, being gratefully devoured by all manner of aquatic life.
221B Baker Street, London
John awoke to the sound of measured footsteps rhythmically tapping away outside the bedroom door. The room was completely dark save for the thin sliver of streetlight coming from between the gap between Sherlock’s heavy velvet curtains. An alien feeling of overwhelming lethargy prevented John from jumping out of bed, as he was accustomed to. Instead he could only force his fever racked body to turn just enough to gain a better view of the shadows flitting outside the door.
As if in direct response to his movement, the door creaked open cautiously and he saw Sherlock’s distinctive silhouette in the doorway but it was too dark to make out the detective’s expression.
“I bought you soup,” said Sherlock quietly and for the second time that day he miraculously produced an entire tray filled with crockery with the understated grace of a skilled magician.
“Thanks,” croaked John, his parched throat making a horrendously crude noise compared to Sherlock’s cultured even tone. The medically trained part of his psyche grimly evaluated his current condition and concluded with a cool detachment that he was indeed very ill. The thought of spending four hours waiting in Bart’s Accident and Emergency in his current state was unbearable but John could recognise the signs of dehydration even in his current confused state.
“Don’t worry John,” assured Sherlock, who sounded strangely pleased as he walked towards John’s duvet covered form with light measured steps, “I will look after you.”
The last sentence should have been an immense comfort to a man who had spent the last two years in self-imposed solitude, combating all the physical and mental illness that befell him with cynical stoicism but Sherlock’s words sounded positively insidious. John swallowed nervously, putting his irrational reaction down to the virus that was rampantly proliferating through his respiratory system.
“Uh - that’s nice,” he muttered hoarsely.
Sherlock set the tray down on his bedside table with the delicate care of a well trained nurse. Without any warning the detective sat gracefully down on the bed leaving only an inch of space between their bodies. John’s first reaction was to shift away so that Sherlock would not feel his private space was being violated. In the early days of their relationship, John had learned the hard way that nothing was ever Sherlock’s fault, including uncomfortable situations that arose directly from Sherlock’s personal actions. However on this particular occasion, Sherlock stretched out a hand across John’s body and firmly held his lifeless limbs in place.
“I said don’t worry,” whispered Sherlock as he stared at John from what felt like an uncomfortably short distance. Even in the darkness John could see his eyes were bright with excitement. With causal grace, Sherlock proceeded to peel the covers down exposing John’s chest to the cool air. He tried to protest but his larynx had finally reached the end of endurance and John was rendered effectively mute. Sherlock noticed his distress but the strange half smile dancing across the other man’s features showed that he was savouring every moment of it.
One strong, firm, hand was suddenly pressing down in the centre of John’s chest and it proceeded to rub gentle circles across his sweating skin. The touch was at once soft and possessive, as if Sherlock was marking out his territory for future exploration. If John had been in a better state he would have shrug the hand off with nonchalant gruffness, as he had always done with Sherlock’s more inappropriate advances. He had previous filed these indiscretions under the titles of “poor social skill” and “unfortunate upbringing” but now as he looked up at Sherlock’s gleeful features an icy sense of dread clenched his stomach.
John had never told anyone about the incident eight months ago. A psychiatrist would say that he was in denial but John knew that if he related the full sequence of events to any police officer, they would completely misinterpret Sherlock’s actions. Indeed they would leap to the easiest conclusion and charge Sherlock with sexual assault but it had only been Sherlock’s strange and clumsy attempt at seduction. The man refused to behave according to the social norm and perhaps in his warped perception of the world, Sherlock was only trying to be romantic.
Now as John watched Sherlock carelessly violating his personal space, he wondered when exactly he had been sucked into this surreal and disturbing relationship. Even as he tried to calm his frayed nerves with platitudes regarding Sherlock’s character, John knew it was too late to run. His body was in a sorry state and even if he had been able to escape the flat, he would have a hard time trying to explain his case to the police when they had his previous criminal record on file.
“Relax,” purred Sherlock as he slide his hand down beneath the sheet still covered John’s lower abdomen. He could feel the long lithe fingers deftly dancing over his navel and then his pubis. John tried to plead with his eyes for Sherlock to stop, to see that this wasn’t what he wanted right now and probably would never want from his best friend.
Sherlock merely continued to smile in the face of John’s anguish. With his free hand he reached down to tangle his fingers in John’s soft brown hair, unnaturally long from months of neglect.
“I mean you no harm, John, I think you should enjoy this,”
John’s ragged breathing bought on a sudden violent coughing fit that made his chest rattle alarmingly. By the time he regained his breath, his cheeks were flushed and his heartbeat erratic. Sherlock leant forwards as if John’s coughing fit was the highlight of his evening. The cold blue eyes were dancing with excitement and his hands had stopped their ministrations in the heat of the moment.
“You look exquisite,” breathed Sherlock, leaning down so that his breath fanned against John’s face, “I could just keep you like this forever,”
Too tired to protest, John squeezed his burning eyes shut, wishing desperately that Sherlock could disappear into the ether and leave John’s fragile mind in peace. His wishes were fervently ignored by the sadistic genius towering over his shaking body; Sherlock’s sense of decency had been all but smothered by his heightening desire.
“John,” Sherlock breathed, his voice quiet yet intense, as he bent down pressing his cool lips against John’s temple in a twisted parody of chasteness. He lingered in that position, enveloping John with his entire presence, as he inhaled John scent. He savoured the fragrance as if John had become the finest bouquet of flowers Mother Nature could provide.
John was suffocating beneath Sherlock’s body but he had no strength to push the looming figure away. For the first time since childhood, John felt utterly helpless.
Slowly, Sherlock pulled away, his motion resembling the sensual slither of an exotic snake. John managed to breathe once more, his lungs panting fitfully at the stuffy dust ridden air of Sherlock’s disused room.
He was dimly aware of cutlery clinking gently on the side table and he was grateful for the reprieve from Sherlock’s burning gaze. He understood logically that his mind was burning with fever but the compulsion to run was overwhelming.
I need to leave: this room, the flat, Sherlock.
He opened his eyes wearily to stare at the object of his fear. Sherlock was busy cutting the toast into small bite-size pieces but even with his back turned Sherlock was aware of his attention. The bare perceptible shift in his shoulders and back spoke volumes to John despite his dull senses. The other man was tense, excited and thoroughly immersed in this twisted display of affection.
“I bought you soup and bread,” said Sherlock, turning to face John with a forcefully bright smile. “Mycroft told me that it would be a good away to get your appetite going,”
Sherlock held out a spoon full of soup with one hand and the bowl in the other, waiting expectantly for John to open his mouth. The soup smelt distinctly unappetising despite it being his favourite. The small tendrils of steam curling up from the bowl were making his vision dance and his stomach gave a rebellious heave.
Sherlock’s smile faded slowly, leaving his expression confused and petulant like a child who had been inexplicably denied his right.
“You need to eat,” reiterated Sherlock, “I made your favourite soup, minestrone. You always like minestrone, there is nothing your history that would suggest your preference has change.”
If John hadn’t been plastered in sweat and shaking with fever, he would have laughed at Sherlock’s naive protest.
I’m ill, genius, he thought, I’m so ill I can’t see straight,
His internal admission of weakness spiked his anxiety; he was very ill and completely defenseless. The urge to flee only grew stronger.
He tried to tell Sherlock he didn’t want to eat but his voice had completely deserted him. Instead he settled for pressing one palm against his heaving stomach and covering his mouth with the other. Sherlock decided to change tact and offer him a small piece of toast but John turned away at the sight.
The years of living with Sherlock had taught John that geniuses inevitably had short fuses and Sherlock, if thwarted for too long, was apt to make a mistake; a mistake that John could exploit. Despite the alternating fever and chills his broken body was experiencing, his mind managed to hash together a serviceable battle plan.
Keeping his face twisted in an expression of disgust, John calmly bit into his left cheek hard enough to draw blood. His contorted features hid any perceptible evidence of pain from Sherlock’s searching eyes. He relaxed when warm blood trickled into his cheek spreading a coppery tang through his mouth.
John drew on his last remaining energy to produce a coughing fit, letting the mucus in his lungs provide much of the sound and sparing his raw throat. He would need his larynx to form at least some semblance of language in the very near future.
Seeing his distress, Sherlock hurried placed the bowl and toast back onto the side table. This time, he slide one hand underneath John to support him into a sitting position and then gently tapped his back. Right on cue, John regurgitated the blood stained contents of his mouth into his hand and collapsed into Sherlock’s embrace with true weariness.
He had calculated quite correctly that Sherlock’s first response at the slight of John’s blood stained sputum was panic. Instinctively, the other man clutched John tightly and pressed against his side as if to reassure himself John was still alive.
“Oh God, John,” whispered Sherlock, sounding suddenly afraid, “I think you do need to see a doctor,”
John gazed blearily at him, his mind genuinely drifting out of his control. His entire body was shaking with fatigue and the sheets were becoming soaked with sweat.
“Lie down, I’ll call an ambulance,” said Sherlock, managing to contain his fear.
John was about to protest that calling an ambulance for an otherwise fit army doctor was not the best use of NHS resources but then he realised that Sherlock would have to leave to room to let the paramedics into their flat. This diversion would give him the much need time to finish his plan.
Sherlock communicated his request to the emergency services with the same disdain the general public bestowed on the homeless. By the end of their very brief conversation, John could imagine that the unfortunate operator would decide to summon an ambulance more for John’s mental health than his physical ailment.
“I’m going to get you a drink,” said Sherlock sounding almost calm as he hung up. His eyes though betrayed his anxiety as they darted across John’s pale features.
Cyanosis, dyspnoea, use of accessory muscles to breathe...cardinal signs of pulmonary disease
His mind drifted away like vapour, skimming over recent memories and floating through old facts he could not remember memorising. John knew his mental state was dangerously deranged and yet his instincts demanded he follow through with the plan. For a moment he couldn’t recall what the next part entailed but then he spotted the shining black mobile phone lying guilelessly on the side table.
With shaking hands, he clumsily grabbed Sherlock’s phone and opened the contacts list. As he had guessed, there were only two phone numbers on memory: Mycroft Holmes and John Watson. He tapped the screen awkwardly until the phone started to ring.
“Hello?” a smooth cultured tone answered on the third ring.
“Ugh -,” began John, his voice crackling like dried cement, “help - John.”
“Sherlock?” demanded Mycroft, a subtle hint of worry edging its way into his tone.
John unable to force another sound from his mouth slumped back into the bed and returned the phone to the side table. If his calculations were correct, Mycroft would arrive in less than 15 minutes and promptly have John arrested. That would hopefully be the last he would see of either Holmes brother ever again.
Smiling tiredly to himself, John’s attention had already moved on from the subject at hand and his fever riddled brain was thinking about tuberculosis and the pretty coloured stains for mycobacterium.
AN: Dysfunctional relationships always commence in subtle ways, the victim slowly surrenders small liberties and tolerates small violations until one day they wake up to discover that they are horrendously trapped.
I personally don't see Sherlock in this story was evil. He is certainly disturbing but his behaviour is merely an intense extension of his norm. Love is a vicious motivator and I can see how the motive of love in Sherlock will enable him to override the flimsy checks he normally has on his anti-social behaviour. He doesn't believe what he's doing to John is wrong or perverse. He's convinced John enjoys the experience as much as he does, which is true on a purely physical level.
John on the other hand is getting rather psychologically damaged. Living with Sherlock has forced him to tolerate behaviours that would be section-able under the mental health act but where should his tolerance end? He's dedicated his life to providing unconditional friendship to Sherlock and despite everything he enjoys being the centre of Sherlock's attentions and affections. He just wishes they could be more consensual.
Please leave your comments, thoughts, feelings etc! I would love to hear how you feel about this story: is it too dark? too unbelievable? too slow? Comments make my day :)
Chapter 5