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swissmargTitle: Revenge, Averted
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
swissmarg
Beta reader:jagnikjen
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 6280
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Janine
Tags: Angst, Remix, Infidelity, Series 3, Missing Scene, Regrets, Second Chances
Warnings: Objectification of women (well, one woman anyway), infidelity
Summary: John tries to get away from the mess his life has become. Sherlock goes after him. A missing scene set during series 3.
Notes: This was written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sherlock_remix as a remix of "Best Served Hot" by VizardMask. It can be read as a standalone, but it will gain an extra dimension if you read VizardMask's fic too, either before or after. Thank you to ladyprydian for the medical advice.
( On AO3 )
John doesn't even know what he's doing there. He just had to get away. Too many reminders of what his life has become, what Mary—his wife, she's still his bloody wife for all that—has done. He can't so much as look at Sherlock anymore without seeing the spectre of him collapsing right there on the carpet, going into cardiac arrest in their fucking living r—
His living room. Sherlock's.
It isn't John's, not anymore. His name hasn't been on the rental agreement in three years. Still feels like home every time he sets foot in the place; he's caught the tension of the day literally falling away more than once. It'll be the smells: the years of formaldehyde, curry, Penhaligon's, and clandestine cigarettes impregnated in the structure of the building.
Scent association. The brain's a veritable buggery bitch.
It's only been two weeks since Sherlock was released from hospital. John's been staying over (he adamantly did not move back in, it's just temporary), ostensibly to keep an eye on him, make sure he takes his meds and doesn't overexert himself.
Everyone knows it's a thinly veiled excuse.
As hard as it is to be around Sherlock—to see how slowly he moves when he emerges from his bedroom in the morning, to hear the little inadvertent grunts of discomfort whenever he twists his torso a little too far, to register his breath becoming ever so slightly laboured when he climbs the stairs—as hard as that is, John honestly doesn't know what might happen if he had to live in the same house as Mary right now. In fact, if it were just her, he'd...
No, shutting that thought down right there. This is why he's here tonight, at this faceless hotel out by the airport. He doesn't want to think about that, doesn't need to, thank God, because it's not just her. His child is there too, his son or daughter, and that's why it's better this way.
And aside from Baker Street, he doesn't have a hell of a lot of other options. At least not if he doesn't want to answer any questions or put up with any concerned, pitying looks.
It's bad enough the way Sherlock goes white around the mouth and stonewalls whenever John mentions checking his wound. Insists. Harangues. And Sherlock still refuses to let him see it, two weeks on. John's supposed to be the goddamned medical professional and he hasn't been able to check for infection or that the site's closing up properly. If it were any other patient...
But it isn't, it's Sherlock, and there's the whole trust issue on top of everything else. John knows part of it—not the lion's share, but some—is Sherlock testing him, seeing whether John trusts him to take care of himself. Which, obviously, he doesn't. But Sherlock apparently thinks it's better not to confront John with what Mary did to him than to let John reassure himself that Sherlock really is okay.
Making decisions for him again, as if John's some mentally incompetent--
John's at the bar before he's even aware he's come down. Somewhere behind the red haze colouring his vision, he's aware this is probably (definitely) not the best coping strategy but at least his first thought wasn't his old service revolver he tossed into the Thames after Sherlock's suicide.
Fake suicide.
Which it seems everyone but him knew was just a ruse. Yet another shining example of the Holmes genius knowing far better than John what was good for him.
Fuck it.
John signals for another whisky. His third. How has he already had two? He promises himself this is the last one.
"John? John Watson?"
John doesn't register at first that the woman's talking to him. It isn't until a figure appears at the side of his booth and stops there that he looks up.
And isn't that just perfect. It's Sherlock's ex... He laughs a little to himself because for a moment, he draws a complete blank on her name. Maybe Sherlock wasn't just being an arse all those times he couldn't remember John's girlfriends' names. Best not follow that train of thought any further.
The name comes to him a moment later anyway: Janine. Another little treat Mary brought into his life. Their lives. Her last name remains buried somewhere in the Freudian depths of his psyche, but all he needs is her first name to say hello.
She sits down without an invitation and proceeds to ask precisely the questions he didn't want to have to answer. Why he's here, how Mary's doing, what Sherlock's up to. He mumbles his way through a few lies—early conference, fine, the usual—knowing she's not buying a word of what he's saying.
He doesn't really listen to her story about being there to do some work for Magnussen either because he's just realised he's sitting at a dark booth in a hotel bar in the city he lives in with a woman who's not his wife, and he's not wearing his wedding ring.
And then suddenly she's asking him up to her room for a drink. He's not finished with the one in front of him and she's asking him up to her room.
He grasps his glass and stares hard at it. Doesn't look at her.
She's wearing a trouser suit, classy, blouse unbuttoned just far enough that he could see her cleavage if he wanted to but not so far as to be deemed immodest.
He gives it a bit of thought.
Not too much, with two and a half whiskys in him, straight up, and the gall still bitter in his throat over, well, pretty much everything. Just enough to realise that it's a spectacularly poor idea. Sherlock would tell him he's being an idiot for even considering it. Mary would--
“You know what?” he says, looking up at her with a little smile that doesn't reach his eyes. “Why not.”
She smiles, seems genuinely pleased, but then why shouldn't she be? It's her idea.
Isn't it?
John navigates the pseudo-futuristic lounge furniture, leeched of colour and unnecessarily minimalistic. Now that he's standing, he feels the booze, that slight buoyancy and looseness in his limbs, the knowledge that whatever he does next it's going to be the right thing, and even if it isn't, fuck the consequences.
It feels good.
Janine's a good-looking woman. Fantastic arse. She's wearing heels and her suit jacket flares out just a little over her hips, emphasising the firm roundness of her backside. A man sitting by himself at the bar side-eyes her as she passes. John throws his shoulders back a little further.
Yeah. Feels damn good.
All of a sudden, the legs in front of him stop moving.
Janine laughs, surprised. "Sherl! What are you doing here?"
John stops short, drags his eyes up. Doesn't even bother being shocked. Sherlock's standing there in his long coat, his gloves in one hand like he's just taken them off. He's paler than John's comfortable with. Maybe it's the overly bright lights. Who the hell lights a hotel bar like it's a hospital cafeteria?
His voice is firm and confident, though, and he meets John's gaze head-on with a glint of something hard.
"Everything's set up, John, I need you to go upstairs and keep an eye on the suspect's room."
"Ooh, a case!" Janine exclaims, her eyes wide. "John, you naughty boy, you lied to me," she remonstrates him, grinning.
John's first reaction is utter bafflement and a fair amount of sheepishness. Did they have a case? Had Sherlock said something and John was too wrapped up in his own wallowing to hear him?
But no; Sherlock wasn't in investigation mode when John left. He was drifting back and forth between his bedroom and his desk, picking up periodicals that had accumulated during his hospital stay and dropping them like a breadcrumb trail on his circuit when nothing succeeded in piquing his interest.
And John had been sitting in his chair, pretending to go through some emails and trying not to remind Sherlock he was almost two hours overdue for his anti-inflammatory. Until he'd finally snapped and marched into Sherlock's room to fetch the bottle, and Sherlock had come storming after him spouting something about not needing a nanny, and—
So no. John is fairly certain there hadn't been a case. But then when has Sherlock ever let him in on his plans? Maybe something came in, in the hours since John walked out with a half-packed duffel bag and a shout over his shoulder that he needed some space. His initial confusion fades, leaving the freshly scraped surface of his righteous indignation raw and exposed again. Because now here Sherlock is, appropriating John as usual, steamrolling right over such inconvenient things as respect and tact and the right to self-determination.
For some reason, though, he doesn't want to row with Sherlock in front of Janine. Doesn't want her to think he isn't fully informed about what's going on. And the worst one: doesn't want Sherlock to lose face either.
"No, it's... sorry," he stammers in Janine's direction, not taking his eyes off Sherlock. "One of those things." For a moment, he thinks there's a flicker of something like relief on Sherlock's face, but it's gone a moment later.
"Well, can I come with you?" Janine suggests. "Now that I know about it anyway. I'd love to see the two of you in action."
It may be John's imagination, but it seems to him that she delivers the last line with a bit of a leer.
Sherlock turns to Janine with a sigh. "I'm afraid John's blog vastly overstates the level of excitement involved in a real investigation," he says, sounding both bored and condescending. "It generally doesn't involve much more than sitting around, waiting for something that's not likely to happen."
"I don't mind. You know better than most how good I am at waiting for something unlikely, Sherlock Holmes."
Oh yeah. There's no mistaking the suggestiveness in her tone this time, and John's anger—untethered from its initial target by his pathological need to present a united front in Janine's presence—redirects itself at her.
"You know what? Sherlock's not some bloody sideshow. He's a professional, and this is his job, and he's brilliant at it. The best. He's like the... Sherlock Holmes of consulting detectives. And he's got his..." John falters a bit because there was something off about that last sentence and Janine's about to start laughing, and this isn't funny, goddamnit! She knows what he meant. He ploughs on: "He's got his methods, and they're... you can't get in the way of—" He stops again when he sees Sherlock's lips twitching as well, and now he feels like nothing more than an utter fool. He presses his lips together and clenches his hands. His face is hot, although that might be the whiskys.
"Go on then," Janine prompts him, breathless. "What can't I get in the way of?"
"The case, obviously." Sherlock's voice is neutral and calm. "Speaking of which. John." Sherlock turns and walks away, leaving no doubt that he expects John to follow him.
John hates himself a little that he is torn over whether to do so, although it's not clear which urge is more repugnant at the moment: to trot after Sherlock like some lap dog or to abandon him to a possibly dangerous situation when he is still clearly unwell.
"The invitation still stands," Janine says when John doesn't move.
That's enough to shake him out of his stupor. What the hell is he doing? Sherlock may be a pillock, but he's still his best friend and John still-- He cares about what happens to him. He cares about him. And John is married! To a woman he doesn't even know, it turns out, but he's married. He made promises. And they're valid, even if he made them to someone else. Right?
Janine's watching him, her head cocked to one side. There's something keen and calculating in her eye.
"No, I... no," John mutters, not looking at her. He's still warring with himself, but really there's no question. Sherlock showing up has effectively thrown a bucket of cold water over whatever it was that prompted him to agree to Janine's proposal.
"Shame," he hears her say as he walks away. It's equally likely to be an expression of regret as an accusation.
Sherlock's standing in front of the lift, which is something at least. They get in and Sherlock touches the pad to select a floor.
"The Sherlock Holmes of consulting detectives?"
John can just hear the smirk. He stares straight ahead and clenches his jaw.
"Shut up."
When the lift doors open, John has no idea what the plan is, but he gets out and walks down the corridor, Sherlock a quarter step ahead. It's been a long time since they've been out working in the field together, and the familiarity of their mutual strides goes a long way toward calming him down. His tries to focus on preparing for whatever's coming next. There's no room for second-guessing, reproaches, or regrets.
They stop in front of one of the doors. John wonders for a moment why Sherlock doesn't make any further move to either open it or knock. Then the penny drops.
"This is my room," John says stupidly.
"Apparently those drinks didn't go quite as much to your head as I feared."
John has the distinct impression he's being made fun of. Still, he takes out his key card and opens the door, then slides it into the slot to turn on the lights once he's inside.
"There's no case, is there." John doesn't really need to ask. Sherlock isn't moving the way he does when he's on a trail. He would never have stood chatting with Janine if there were really a suspect whose room needed watching. In fact, he wouldn't have come to fetch John personally either. He would have sent a text, at most.
Stupid.
"Not as such, no." Sherlock doesn't even have the decency to sound apologetic.
John goes to the minibar and takes out the first bottle his hand encounters. Cava. Last time he had champagne was at his wedding. That makes him angry again, because does every bloody thing in the world have to remind him what a colossal mess he's made of his life? He all but rips the screw lid off and tips the bottle up against his lips. It's horrid, on top of the whisky. Too sweet, and the sharpness of the bubbles makes his eyes water.
"What are you here for then?" John asks. His voice is surprisingly steady and casual.
"To stop you from making a mistake. An affair. Really, John? Couldn't think of anything a little more original?"
A denial would be pointless, even if that was absolutely not the reason he came here. At first there is the hot wash of shame; he doesn't like Sherlock thinking poorly of him. But then, even hotter and sharper, comes a stab of something darkly attractive.
He wants Sherlock to see what he's been reduced to. Hopes it makes him angry. Hurts him, in some way, although John's not quite sure how; he wouldn't have been the cuckolded party. But in some way, Sherlock is responsible for the fact that John and Mary are married. Not just because he helped with the wedding planning, but because he never—not once, even though there were times (too many) when John, guiltily, hoped he might—never did he object or try to convince John not to marry her.
Did Sherlock see all of Mary's secrets that first night he met her? Or at any point in the ensuing months leading up to the wedding? It seems impossible that he wouldn't have at least suspected something. John's never asked him. He's not sure he wants to know the answer. But now that John's marriage—his life, really—has completely fallen apart, he wants Sherlock to take some of the blame.
Because the only other option is for it all to be John's fault. Everything. From Sherlock being shot to the child about to be born into the care of a—
John is jolted out of his head by the sound of a quick intake of breath. He turns around to see Sherlock's sat down on the edge of the bed. He's still got his coat on, but it gapes open and John can see his chest rising and falling at a slightly above-average rate. That he's in pain is clear from the flare of his nostrils and the set of his mouth.
John sets down the half-finished bottle of sparkling wine, nearly missing the table. "I suppose it's too much to hope you have your co-codamol with you," he says tightly.
Sherlock shakes his head and sits up straighter. "Don't need it."
Liar, John thinks, but doesn't say it. "Did you at least take some paracetamol?"
"I am not in need of a nursemaid, unlike you," Sherlock snarls.
John swallows down his retort to the blatant inaccuracy of the first part of that statement, choosing instead to focus on the second: "Nothing happened, you know, but if it had it would have been my mistake to make!"
"You have no idea what game is being played here," Sherlock sneers.
"Oh, is that what this is? A game? My life, my marriage falling apart, it's all just a game, hm?"
"Yes," Sherlock says in that infuriatingly superior way of his. "You're just a pawn, John. Didn't it strike you as somewhat odd that you should run into Janine here, of all places? A rather large coincidence, wouldn't you say?"
"Coincidences have been known to happen. Not everything's part of some huge conspiracy theory."
"Not everything, no. But—" Sherlock winces and John notices that his forehead is shiny with a light sheen of perspiration. All arguments regarding Janine, fake cases, and nursemaids are suddenly forgotten, because Sherlock doesn't need a nursemaid; he needs a doctor.
"Take your shirt off," John says, almost surprised at how clearly he's thinking despite the drink in him. He shouldn't be practising medicine in this state, he's not far enough gone not to realise that, but he's not going to stand by and watch Sherlock go into arrest again or succumb to an infection he should have caught days ago.
Sherlock blinks, nonplussed. "What?"
"You heard me. Your respiration's elevated, skin's pale and clammy. Shirt off, now."
John goes into the bathroom and washes his hands. When he comes back, he fully expects a continuation of the argument, but Sherlock is complying, surprisingly enough, his fingers slowly working the buttons open.
John drops down into a crouch in front of him so he's at eye level with Sherlock's chest. The sudden change in position gives him a head rush, and he finds himself clutching at Sherlock's knee to stop himself from toppling backward.
Sherlock's hands pause. "John?"
"It's all right," John says, but he doesn't take his hand away. He's not feeling entirely steady, and he's not sure it's all from the alcohol.
Sherlock resumes unbuttoning his shirt. "John, you must listen to me." His voice thrums loudly in John's ears even though he's speaking quietly.
John doesn't answer. Just concentrates on those long fingers slowly parting the placket. He can't see much of Sherlock's torso yet beyond flashes of pink.
"Magnussen sent Janine after you. They've probably just been waiting for an opportunity like tonight," Sherlock continues.
John flicks his eyes up to Sherlock's face, irritated because he already told Sherlock why Janine was here. "She said she was picking up some information from someone."
"Why would she need to book a room for that?" Sherlock scoffs. "She could have simply met the contact in the bar."
"So, what, did she follow me here?"
"It's possible Magnussen's been having you shadowed," Sherlock concedes, "but it's more likely he's been monitoring your internet activity." He precludes any need to ask what John's internet activity has to do with his presence at the hotel by explaining, in a slightly more patient way that grates even worse than the condescension, "You went online this afternoon and reserved the room, John."
John is just disturbed and indignant enough at that revelation to get distracted from the issue of Sherlock's wound for the moment. "He has my computer under surveillance?"
"He doesn't need to, he virtually owns Sky. And I imagine it's actually my online activity he's interested in. This was just a bonus."
"And why?" John's feeling unpleasantly fuzzy all of a sudden, stupid and slow, and he's uncomfortably aware he's still got his hand wrapped around Sherlock's leg.
"He'll need something new to hold over you. He can't be sure threatening Mary's life will sway you, now that you've moved out."
John's about to protest that he hasn't moved out, he has every intention of going back, but then Magnussen can't know that—or maybe he can. Maybe he knows better than John... or at least better than John wants to admit to himself. There's still the baby, though, and the fact that threatening Mary means threatening their child, whether he's living with her or not, but Sherlock's a step ahead of him there as well.
"Until the baby's born, yes, but after that?" he says, and John has to admit he may have a point.
Of course, John wouldn't just sit idly by and let Mary be killed, but setting the issue of his child aside for the moment, given the choice between leaving with her to keep her safe or staying here, there's not really any question at this point. But the child does exist, and once it's born, Magnussen needn't do more than look at it to have total control over John. It's repugnant, but there it is. Why would he need anything more?
Again, Sherlock answers without John needing to say anything: "Even someone like Magnussen may draw the line at involving children so directly. But indirectly? What do you think Mary would do if she found out you had cheated on her with one of her bridesmaids?"
"I don't know. Shoot me?" John tries to level his gaze at Sherlock, but he can't help his eye flickering down to the gap in Sherlock's shirt. It's unbuttoned all the way now, but the way the material is hanging he still can't get a good look at the wound.
"No," Sherlock says soberly. "She would want to hurt you. What good would killing you do? You wouldn't be around to suffer. No, she would leave, taking your child with her. She has resources and the means at her disposal to disappear quite thoroughly. So deep that even Mycroft would be hard pressed to find her."
John's stomach drops in a familiar way. The whole thing was a set-up. Of course. Who did he think he was kidding? Janine wouldn't have been interested in him otherwise. She probably had a camera set up in her room, a live feed right back to Magnussen, the sick bastard.
And even with all this, it still isn't about him at all, but Sherlock. Magnussen needs to have John under his thumb in order to control Sherlock. Which John isn't at all certain is a profitable line to pursue at this point, not any more than having Mary in his pocket has any influence on John right now. On the other hand, Sherlock's come all this way to stop John from providing Magnussen with blackmail material on him, so maybe there is something to it.
Or maybe Sherlock simply doesn't want to let Magnussen win. It all comes down to the game for him. And he's said that's all this is: nothing more than a game.
He's distracted from following that line of inquiry any further when Sherlock pulls the bottom of his shirt out of his trousers and lifts the material away from his chest and abdomen.
"I'm fine, John," Sherlock says. His voice is disturbingly gentle, and that's enough to lessen the heat of John's anger for the moment.
It's what he sees, though, that kicks ashes over those glowing embers, replacing them with a chilly kind of hollowness in his gut. Because Sherlock's chest does not look like John expected.
Inexplicably, he'd presumed Sherlock's injury was small and discrete, like the round scar of his own entry wound (the exit wound was another story, but Mary's bullet had stayed inside Sherlock, so the bulk of his damage wouldn't show). Also, Sherlock had gone to great lengths to establish Mary's skill and precision with a firearm, further feeding John's fantasy that the trauma was minimal. And perhaps it had been, on the outside, but any trace of the original site of entry has been entirely obscured by the long, puffy scar running the length of Sherlock's sternum and halfway to his navel. Because of course the doctors who treated him didn't have time to be neat. They'd had to open him up the quickest way they could, they'd had to dig around to get at the bullet, and they'd had to manually re-start his heart.
Sherlock had said Mary's shot was surgery. John had taken that to mean something like laparoscopy, a minimally invasive procedure that required only a local anaesthetic and preserved the integrity of the operation site.
This was battlefield triage.
Before he even knows what he's doing, John lifts his hand to press it against the scar. It's the same temperature as the surrounding skin: warm, but not feverish. The bright pinkness speaks of fresh, healthy skin, not angry and inflamed tissue.
"It's healing well," Sherlock says unnecessarily. His heart is pounding hard and fast under John's palm, and that's good, it settles something that's been banging around inside John ever since that awful night at Magnussen's office. But it also sets something else loose, something almost worse.
"This isn't right," John says, staring at the dark pink slash extending beyond the reach of his fingers.
"No, it's good, as a doctor you should know that," Sherlock assures him, sounding surprised. "I know it still looks a little rough, but the puffiness will recede in a couple of months and the scar will--"
"No, not that. This whole thing." John's fingers twitch against Sherlock's chest, digging lightly into the flesh as if trying to grasp something there. "This wasn't... it's not how it was supposed to go. How did we end up here, Sherlock?" His voice comes out gritty, sounding a little lost even to his own ears. He's not making much sense, he knows, but he doesn't quite know how to put what's bothering him into words.
How did they go from rooftop chases and dim sum, lazy Sundays and taking down crimelords to infidelity, shooting up, and flatlining on the operating table?
But that isn't the worst part. The worst part is that John feels as if he and Sherlock have lost touch with each other. John wouldn't normally be one to use such a touchy-feely phrase, but he can't think of any other way to put it. And he doesn't know whether the losing touch is the cause of what's wrong or the consequence of all the shit they've gone through in the past couple of years.
Sherlock was always able to see right to John's core, always seemed to know exactly what he needed—and delivered it, the best way he knew how—and John had thought he knew Sherlock pretty well, too. Better than anyone else, at any rate. Knew when to push him and when to give him space, when to put his foot down and when to—well, when to go out and get him a foot to play with.
But now it's like they're two astronauts encapsulated in their own space suits. They can still see each other, still coordinate their efforts, but there are layers between them, their communication filtered through plastic and electronics and a vast, impersonal vacuum. The scar is like an outward manifestation of everything that's dulled their sense of each other.
John's marriage. The baby. Leinster Gardens. Sherlock's time away. His relapse.
All the things that John's certain Sherlock still isn't telling him.
Sherlock wraps his hand carefully around John's and holds it there on his chest. The thudding under John's fist becomes more frantic, if possible.
"Just lucky, I guess," Sherlock says in answer to John's question. His expression is wry but also somewhat guarded, as if he's not sure whether that's the right response or not.
John doesn't know whether to laugh at that or to cry. Neither is in any way acceptable. So instead he leans in until his forehead bumps Sherlock's shoulder. His mouth somehow ends up brushing Sherlock's hand, where it's still holding John's to his chest. He can feel the vibrations of Sherlock's rabbiting heart travelling through their hands to his lips, the rapid rise and fall of his chest in time with the puffs of air ruffling the hair on the top of John's head.
And then it hits him with crystal clarity what is going on. Sherlock is having a physical reaction to him. To the intimacy of their position. And John's pretty sure it's not just physical.
He's also pretty sure Sherlock's not the only one who feels that way.
The irony is not lost on him.
He knows this isn't what Sherlock intended in following him here. He honestly did just want to stop John from making a tragic mistake, because John truly didn't have the whole picture. Not to mention the fact that John's impulsive, emotionally compromised, and more than a bit of an idiot.
The way he sees it, there are two ways this could go. He could pull back again, deflect with a comment about it being bad form to shag your best friend's ex anyway and pretend the last five minutes or so never happened...
Or.
Or he could do what he should have done months ago. He didn't have the full picture then either, was emotionally compromised by Sherlock's shocking return—and, for two years prior, by his supposed death. Wanted—and he's never actually allowed this to coalesce into a conscious thought, but that doesn't make it less true—to hurt Sherlock as much as Sherlock had hurt him, and getting married seemed an excellent way to do it. That wasn't the only reason he'd got married, of course—he'd planned to propose before he knew Sherlock was alive—but once he did know, once he had the second chance to do and say those things he so bitterly regretted not having done and said, a bit of petty revenge and knife-twisting had seemed the more attractive choice.
Definitely a bit of an idiot.
John moves his mouth against Sherlock's hand, deliberately but light enough that it could be mistaken for an inadvertent brush. Sherlock doesn't move a muscle. In fact, he seems to be holding his breath. John waits a moment and does it again, this time with clear intent.
"John..." Sherlock's voice is barely more than a whisper, somewhere between a warning and a plea.
"Shut up," John says and shifts so he can kiss Sherlock's chest, letting his mouth linger there, as close to Sherlock's heart as he can physically get.
There is another sharp intake of breath, but it's not an expression of pain this time. John drags his lips slowly along Sherlock's scar, up to his neck, and kisses him there too.
Sherlock's pulse is strong and fast under his lips, and John feels Sherlock's other hand on his back a moment later, pulling him closer, encouraging. Then Sherlock's head tilts down and presses a tentative kiss into John's hair.
That's enough to give John the final kick, and a moment later, his mouth is on Sherlock's. He scoops both hands under Sherlock's arse to slide him forward until he's right on the edge of the mattress, shuffling forward on his knees so he's snug between Sherlock's legs, his front flush against him.
Sherlock kisses back with equal fervour if somewhat less desperation, both arms wrapped around John's back, his hands clenched in the material of the jacket John's still wearing.
It's as if the floodgates have been opened inside him; he's drowning and parched at the same time. Sherlock's flesh against his, his mouth, his hands, his tongue; Sherlock's scent in his nostrils, his breath in his lungs, his heat surrounding him. He can't get enough, doesn't know how he ever did without this.
After a time, John has no idea how long, their motions become less frantic, their touches more gentle, until they finally break apart, chests heaving and mouths reddened.
"Slightly ironic, this," John says, not quite able to look Sherlock in the eye. He levers himself up from his kneeling position and settles next to Sherlock on the edge of the bed.
Sherlock huffs out a chuckle. "I didn't plan for this, you know."
"No? It's got your M.O. written all over it." He nudges Sherlock with his shoulder. "Interrupt the date, insult the girlfriend, drag me off on the pretext of a case, and never stop to give me a clue what the hell is going on."
"I like Janine. I think you were the one who insulted her this time."
"Did I? Don't remember. Everything else has a way of turning into background noise when you show up." John leans over to press his mouth to Sherlock's again.
They exchange several slow, lingering kisses, taking the time now to taste and gauge each other's reactions to each angle and caress.
"And you have a way of making all the background noise go away," Sherlock finally says, his voice low and warm against John's cheek.
"This does complicate things a bit." John puts his hand carefully on Sherlock's thigh.
"It's not as if I'm going to go to Magnussen with it."
"No, but I'm not going back to Mary either. Think that's pretty clear at this point."
Sherlock's head snaps up. "But you have to!"
"What the hell! Sherlock, I've just cheated on her. With you, in case you weren't paying attention back there."
"A few kisses hardly counts as cheating."
"It does to me," John says hotly. "And anyway, who am I kidding? I've left her already. The night I found out she'd shot you was the end of our marriage, as far as I'm concerned."
"John, you have to stay with her. At least until the baby's born."
John's eyebrows shoot up. "What, you honestly expect me to go back and live with her, and what, pretend everything's fine? Pretend I still love her and want to stay with her till death do us part?"
"Yes, precisely, so glad we're on the same page."
"And what was this all about then, hm? Was this just some test? Some new way of mucking me about?"
"No. No, this was... a miscalculation."
"Because it didn't feel like a miscalculation to me. It felt like the goddamn first time you've been honest with me since you've been back. Maybe the first time full stop."
"It's irrelevant-"
"The hell it is," John says fiercely. "No, now stop it. You do not get to do this. Not anymore. You do not get to decide for me what I'm meant to feel, and who I'm meant to feel it for." John grabs Sherlock's hand and holds it hard. "You and me. This. This is what we have. This is it. I don't care if you don't want-" He hesitates, but throws caution to the wind and forges on. "-sex, or the picket fence, or even to be a part of raising my child. You can go on being married to your work, and I'll be your bit on the side. But you are not going to crawl back into your shell and try to tell me or anyone else, least of all yourself, that this isn't important to you. It is, and it is to me, and we're in it together."
He clasps Sherlock's hand in both of his, both defiant and desperately afraid he's pushed Sherlock too far.
But Sherlock doesn't seem put off by John's speech at all. In fact, he gets a small smile and says simply, "Okay."
"Okay?" John can't quite believe it was that easy. But perhaps that's all it ever would have taken: for John to be clear on what he wants. To let Sherlock know that it really is all fine.
"Okay," Sherlock confirms, squeezing John's fingers with his. "You are going to have to go back to her, though. At least for a while."
John is all too familiar with that tone of voice. "Oh my God," he groans. "You have a plan, don't you. You and Mycroft. You've already been plotting your Byzantine little intrigues for us puppets to play out."
"Mostly Mycroft," Sherlock admits. "I've been rather occupied with getting shot and that."
"Jesus. Yeah." John shivers at the reminder. He lifts Sherlock's hand to his mouth and kisses it firmly. John has no intention of letting Sherlock do something stupid and noble like he did last time. He's going to insist on being with him every step of the way. Together.
"And now," John says, "tell me the plan."
Author:
swissmargBeta reader:
jagnikjenRating: PG-13
Word count: 6280
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Janine
Tags: Angst, Remix, Infidelity, Series 3, Missing Scene, Regrets, Second Chances
Warnings: Objectification of women (well, one woman anyway), infidelity
Summary: John tries to get away from the mess his life has become. Sherlock goes after him. A missing scene set during series 3.
Notes: This was written for
sherlock_remix as a remix of "Best Served Hot" by VizardMask. It can be read as a standalone, but it will gain an extra dimension if you read VizardMask's fic too, either before or after. Thank you to ladyprydian for the medical advice.( On AO3 )
John doesn't even know what he's doing there. He just had to get away. Too many reminders of what his life has become, what Mary—his wife, she's still his bloody wife for all that—has done. He can't so much as look at Sherlock anymore without seeing the spectre of him collapsing right there on the carpet, going into cardiac arrest in their fucking living r—
His living room. Sherlock's.
It isn't John's, not anymore. His name hasn't been on the rental agreement in three years. Still feels like home every time he sets foot in the place; he's caught the tension of the day literally falling away more than once. It'll be the smells: the years of formaldehyde, curry, Penhaligon's, and clandestine cigarettes impregnated in the structure of the building.
Scent association. The brain's a veritable buggery bitch.
It's only been two weeks since Sherlock was released from hospital. John's been staying over (he adamantly did not move back in, it's just temporary), ostensibly to keep an eye on him, make sure he takes his meds and doesn't overexert himself.
Everyone knows it's a thinly veiled excuse.
As hard as it is to be around Sherlock—to see how slowly he moves when he emerges from his bedroom in the morning, to hear the little inadvertent grunts of discomfort whenever he twists his torso a little too far, to register his breath becoming ever so slightly laboured when he climbs the stairs—as hard as that is, John honestly doesn't know what might happen if he had to live in the same house as Mary right now. In fact, if it were just her, he'd...
No, shutting that thought down right there. This is why he's here tonight, at this faceless hotel out by the airport. He doesn't want to think about that, doesn't need to, thank God, because it's not just her. His child is there too, his son or daughter, and that's why it's better this way.
And aside from Baker Street, he doesn't have a hell of a lot of other options. At least not if he doesn't want to answer any questions or put up with any concerned, pitying looks.
It's bad enough the way Sherlock goes white around the mouth and stonewalls whenever John mentions checking his wound. Insists. Harangues. And Sherlock still refuses to let him see it, two weeks on. John's supposed to be the goddamned medical professional and he hasn't been able to check for infection or that the site's closing up properly. If it were any other patient...
But it isn't, it's Sherlock, and there's the whole trust issue on top of everything else. John knows part of it—not the lion's share, but some—is Sherlock testing him, seeing whether John trusts him to take care of himself. Which, obviously, he doesn't. But Sherlock apparently thinks it's better not to confront John with what Mary did to him than to let John reassure himself that Sherlock really is okay.
Making decisions for him again, as if John's some mentally incompetent--
John's at the bar before he's even aware he's come down. Somewhere behind the red haze colouring his vision, he's aware this is probably (definitely) not the best coping strategy but at least his first thought wasn't his old service revolver he tossed into the Thames after Sherlock's suicide.
Fake suicide.
Which it seems everyone but him knew was just a ruse. Yet another shining example of the Holmes genius knowing far better than John what was good for him.
Fuck it.
John signals for another whisky. His third. How has he already had two? He promises himself this is the last one.
"John? John Watson?"
John doesn't register at first that the woman's talking to him. It isn't until a figure appears at the side of his booth and stops there that he looks up.
And isn't that just perfect. It's Sherlock's ex... He laughs a little to himself because for a moment, he draws a complete blank on her name. Maybe Sherlock wasn't just being an arse all those times he couldn't remember John's girlfriends' names. Best not follow that train of thought any further.
The name comes to him a moment later anyway: Janine. Another little treat Mary brought into his life. Their lives. Her last name remains buried somewhere in the Freudian depths of his psyche, but all he needs is her first name to say hello.
She sits down without an invitation and proceeds to ask precisely the questions he didn't want to have to answer. Why he's here, how Mary's doing, what Sherlock's up to. He mumbles his way through a few lies—early conference, fine, the usual—knowing she's not buying a word of what he's saying.
He doesn't really listen to her story about being there to do some work for Magnussen either because he's just realised he's sitting at a dark booth in a hotel bar in the city he lives in with a woman who's not his wife, and he's not wearing his wedding ring.
And then suddenly she's asking him up to her room for a drink. He's not finished with the one in front of him and she's asking him up to her room.
He grasps his glass and stares hard at it. Doesn't look at her.
She's wearing a trouser suit, classy, blouse unbuttoned just far enough that he could see her cleavage if he wanted to but not so far as to be deemed immodest.
He gives it a bit of thought.
Not too much, with two and a half whiskys in him, straight up, and the gall still bitter in his throat over, well, pretty much everything. Just enough to realise that it's a spectacularly poor idea. Sherlock would tell him he's being an idiot for even considering it. Mary would--
“You know what?” he says, looking up at her with a little smile that doesn't reach his eyes. “Why not.”
She smiles, seems genuinely pleased, but then why shouldn't she be? It's her idea.
Isn't it?
John navigates the pseudo-futuristic lounge furniture, leeched of colour and unnecessarily minimalistic. Now that he's standing, he feels the booze, that slight buoyancy and looseness in his limbs, the knowledge that whatever he does next it's going to be the right thing, and even if it isn't, fuck the consequences.
It feels good.
Janine's a good-looking woman. Fantastic arse. She's wearing heels and her suit jacket flares out just a little over her hips, emphasising the firm roundness of her backside. A man sitting by himself at the bar side-eyes her as she passes. John throws his shoulders back a little further.
Yeah. Feels damn good.
All of a sudden, the legs in front of him stop moving.
Janine laughs, surprised. "Sherl! What are you doing here?"
John stops short, drags his eyes up. Doesn't even bother being shocked. Sherlock's standing there in his long coat, his gloves in one hand like he's just taken them off. He's paler than John's comfortable with. Maybe it's the overly bright lights. Who the hell lights a hotel bar like it's a hospital cafeteria?
His voice is firm and confident, though, and he meets John's gaze head-on with a glint of something hard.
"Everything's set up, John, I need you to go upstairs and keep an eye on the suspect's room."
"Ooh, a case!" Janine exclaims, her eyes wide. "John, you naughty boy, you lied to me," she remonstrates him, grinning.
John's first reaction is utter bafflement and a fair amount of sheepishness. Did they have a case? Had Sherlock said something and John was too wrapped up in his own wallowing to hear him?
But no; Sherlock wasn't in investigation mode when John left. He was drifting back and forth between his bedroom and his desk, picking up periodicals that had accumulated during his hospital stay and dropping them like a breadcrumb trail on his circuit when nothing succeeded in piquing his interest.
And John had been sitting in his chair, pretending to go through some emails and trying not to remind Sherlock he was almost two hours overdue for his anti-inflammatory. Until he'd finally snapped and marched into Sherlock's room to fetch the bottle, and Sherlock had come storming after him spouting something about not needing a nanny, and—
So no. John is fairly certain there hadn't been a case. But then when has Sherlock ever let him in on his plans? Maybe something came in, in the hours since John walked out with a half-packed duffel bag and a shout over his shoulder that he needed some space. His initial confusion fades, leaving the freshly scraped surface of his righteous indignation raw and exposed again. Because now here Sherlock is, appropriating John as usual, steamrolling right over such inconvenient things as respect and tact and the right to self-determination.
For some reason, though, he doesn't want to row with Sherlock in front of Janine. Doesn't want her to think he isn't fully informed about what's going on. And the worst one: doesn't want Sherlock to lose face either.
"No, it's... sorry," he stammers in Janine's direction, not taking his eyes off Sherlock. "One of those things." For a moment, he thinks there's a flicker of something like relief on Sherlock's face, but it's gone a moment later.
"Well, can I come with you?" Janine suggests. "Now that I know about it anyway. I'd love to see the two of you in action."
It may be John's imagination, but it seems to him that she delivers the last line with a bit of a leer.
Sherlock turns to Janine with a sigh. "I'm afraid John's blog vastly overstates the level of excitement involved in a real investigation," he says, sounding both bored and condescending. "It generally doesn't involve much more than sitting around, waiting for something that's not likely to happen."
"I don't mind. You know better than most how good I am at waiting for something unlikely, Sherlock Holmes."
Oh yeah. There's no mistaking the suggestiveness in her tone this time, and John's anger—untethered from its initial target by his pathological need to present a united front in Janine's presence—redirects itself at her.
"You know what? Sherlock's not some bloody sideshow. He's a professional, and this is his job, and he's brilliant at it. The best. He's like the... Sherlock Holmes of consulting detectives. And he's got his..." John falters a bit because there was something off about that last sentence and Janine's about to start laughing, and this isn't funny, goddamnit! She knows what he meant. He ploughs on: "He's got his methods, and they're... you can't get in the way of—" He stops again when he sees Sherlock's lips twitching as well, and now he feels like nothing more than an utter fool. He presses his lips together and clenches his hands. His face is hot, although that might be the whiskys.
"Go on then," Janine prompts him, breathless. "What can't I get in the way of?"
"The case, obviously." Sherlock's voice is neutral and calm. "Speaking of which. John." Sherlock turns and walks away, leaving no doubt that he expects John to follow him.
John hates himself a little that he is torn over whether to do so, although it's not clear which urge is more repugnant at the moment: to trot after Sherlock like some lap dog or to abandon him to a possibly dangerous situation when he is still clearly unwell.
"The invitation still stands," Janine says when John doesn't move.
That's enough to shake him out of his stupor. What the hell is he doing? Sherlock may be a pillock, but he's still his best friend and John still-- He cares about what happens to him. He cares about him. And John is married! To a woman he doesn't even know, it turns out, but he's married. He made promises. And they're valid, even if he made them to someone else. Right?
Janine's watching him, her head cocked to one side. There's something keen and calculating in her eye.
"No, I... no," John mutters, not looking at her. He's still warring with himself, but really there's no question. Sherlock showing up has effectively thrown a bucket of cold water over whatever it was that prompted him to agree to Janine's proposal.
"Shame," he hears her say as he walks away. It's equally likely to be an expression of regret as an accusation.
Sherlock's standing in front of the lift, which is something at least. They get in and Sherlock touches the pad to select a floor.
"The Sherlock Holmes of consulting detectives?"
John can just hear the smirk. He stares straight ahead and clenches his jaw.
"Shut up."
When the lift doors open, John has no idea what the plan is, but he gets out and walks down the corridor, Sherlock a quarter step ahead. It's been a long time since they've been out working in the field together, and the familiarity of their mutual strides goes a long way toward calming him down. His tries to focus on preparing for whatever's coming next. There's no room for second-guessing, reproaches, or regrets.
They stop in front of one of the doors. John wonders for a moment why Sherlock doesn't make any further move to either open it or knock. Then the penny drops.
"This is my room," John says stupidly.
"Apparently those drinks didn't go quite as much to your head as I feared."
John has the distinct impression he's being made fun of. Still, he takes out his key card and opens the door, then slides it into the slot to turn on the lights once he's inside.
"There's no case, is there." John doesn't really need to ask. Sherlock isn't moving the way he does when he's on a trail. He would never have stood chatting with Janine if there were really a suspect whose room needed watching. In fact, he wouldn't have come to fetch John personally either. He would have sent a text, at most.
Stupid.
"Not as such, no." Sherlock doesn't even have the decency to sound apologetic.
John goes to the minibar and takes out the first bottle his hand encounters. Cava. Last time he had champagne was at his wedding. That makes him angry again, because does every bloody thing in the world have to remind him what a colossal mess he's made of his life? He all but rips the screw lid off and tips the bottle up against his lips. It's horrid, on top of the whisky. Too sweet, and the sharpness of the bubbles makes his eyes water.
"What are you here for then?" John asks. His voice is surprisingly steady and casual.
"To stop you from making a mistake. An affair. Really, John? Couldn't think of anything a little more original?"
A denial would be pointless, even if that was absolutely not the reason he came here. At first there is the hot wash of shame; he doesn't like Sherlock thinking poorly of him. But then, even hotter and sharper, comes a stab of something darkly attractive.
He wants Sherlock to see what he's been reduced to. Hopes it makes him angry. Hurts him, in some way, although John's not quite sure how; he wouldn't have been the cuckolded party. But in some way, Sherlock is responsible for the fact that John and Mary are married. Not just because he helped with the wedding planning, but because he never—not once, even though there were times (too many) when John, guiltily, hoped he might—never did he object or try to convince John not to marry her.
Did Sherlock see all of Mary's secrets that first night he met her? Or at any point in the ensuing months leading up to the wedding? It seems impossible that he wouldn't have at least suspected something. John's never asked him. He's not sure he wants to know the answer. But now that John's marriage—his life, really—has completely fallen apart, he wants Sherlock to take some of the blame.
Because the only other option is for it all to be John's fault. Everything. From Sherlock being shot to the child about to be born into the care of a—
John is jolted out of his head by the sound of a quick intake of breath. He turns around to see Sherlock's sat down on the edge of the bed. He's still got his coat on, but it gapes open and John can see his chest rising and falling at a slightly above-average rate. That he's in pain is clear from the flare of his nostrils and the set of his mouth.
John sets down the half-finished bottle of sparkling wine, nearly missing the table. "I suppose it's too much to hope you have your co-codamol with you," he says tightly.
Sherlock shakes his head and sits up straighter. "Don't need it."
Liar, John thinks, but doesn't say it. "Did you at least take some paracetamol?"
"I am not in need of a nursemaid, unlike you," Sherlock snarls.
John swallows down his retort to the blatant inaccuracy of the first part of that statement, choosing instead to focus on the second: "Nothing happened, you know, but if it had it would have been my mistake to make!"
"You have no idea what game is being played here," Sherlock sneers.
"Oh, is that what this is? A game? My life, my marriage falling apart, it's all just a game, hm?"
"Yes," Sherlock says in that infuriatingly superior way of his. "You're just a pawn, John. Didn't it strike you as somewhat odd that you should run into Janine here, of all places? A rather large coincidence, wouldn't you say?"
"Coincidences have been known to happen. Not everything's part of some huge conspiracy theory."
"Not everything, no. But—" Sherlock winces and John notices that his forehead is shiny with a light sheen of perspiration. All arguments regarding Janine, fake cases, and nursemaids are suddenly forgotten, because Sherlock doesn't need a nursemaid; he needs a doctor.
"Take your shirt off," John says, almost surprised at how clearly he's thinking despite the drink in him. He shouldn't be practising medicine in this state, he's not far enough gone not to realise that, but he's not going to stand by and watch Sherlock go into arrest again or succumb to an infection he should have caught days ago.
Sherlock blinks, nonplussed. "What?"
"You heard me. Your respiration's elevated, skin's pale and clammy. Shirt off, now."
John goes into the bathroom and washes his hands. When he comes back, he fully expects a continuation of the argument, but Sherlock is complying, surprisingly enough, his fingers slowly working the buttons open.
John drops down into a crouch in front of him so he's at eye level with Sherlock's chest. The sudden change in position gives him a head rush, and he finds himself clutching at Sherlock's knee to stop himself from toppling backward.
Sherlock's hands pause. "John?"
"It's all right," John says, but he doesn't take his hand away. He's not feeling entirely steady, and he's not sure it's all from the alcohol.
Sherlock resumes unbuttoning his shirt. "John, you must listen to me." His voice thrums loudly in John's ears even though he's speaking quietly.
John doesn't answer. Just concentrates on those long fingers slowly parting the placket. He can't see much of Sherlock's torso yet beyond flashes of pink.
"Magnussen sent Janine after you. They've probably just been waiting for an opportunity like tonight," Sherlock continues.
John flicks his eyes up to Sherlock's face, irritated because he already told Sherlock why Janine was here. "She said she was picking up some information from someone."
"Why would she need to book a room for that?" Sherlock scoffs. "She could have simply met the contact in the bar."
"So, what, did she follow me here?"
"It's possible Magnussen's been having you shadowed," Sherlock concedes, "but it's more likely he's been monitoring your internet activity." He precludes any need to ask what John's internet activity has to do with his presence at the hotel by explaining, in a slightly more patient way that grates even worse than the condescension, "You went online this afternoon and reserved the room, John."
John is just disturbed and indignant enough at that revelation to get distracted from the issue of Sherlock's wound for the moment. "He has my computer under surveillance?"
"He doesn't need to, he virtually owns Sky. And I imagine it's actually my online activity he's interested in. This was just a bonus."
"And why?" John's feeling unpleasantly fuzzy all of a sudden, stupid and slow, and he's uncomfortably aware he's still got his hand wrapped around Sherlock's leg.
"He'll need something new to hold over you. He can't be sure threatening Mary's life will sway you, now that you've moved out."
John's about to protest that he hasn't moved out, he has every intention of going back, but then Magnussen can't know that—or maybe he can. Maybe he knows better than John... or at least better than John wants to admit to himself. There's still the baby, though, and the fact that threatening Mary means threatening their child, whether he's living with her or not, but Sherlock's a step ahead of him there as well.
"Until the baby's born, yes, but after that?" he says, and John has to admit he may have a point.
Of course, John wouldn't just sit idly by and let Mary be killed, but setting the issue of his child aside for the moment, given the choice between leaving with her to keep her safe or staying here, there's not really any question at this point. But the child does exist, and once it's born, Magnussen needn't do more than look at it to have total control over John. It's repugnant, but there it is. Why would he need anything more?
Again, Sherlock answers without John needing to say anything: "Even someone like Magnussen may draw the line at involving children so directly. But indirectly? What do you think Mary would do if she found out you had cheated on her with one of her bridesmaids?"
"I don't know. Shoot me?" John tries to level his gaze at Sherlock, but he can't help his eye flickering down to the gap in Sherlock's shirt. It's unbuttoned all the way now, but the way the material is hanging he still can't get a good look at the wound.
"No," Sherlock says soberly. "She would want to hurt you. What good would killing you do? You wouldn't be around to suffer. No, she would leave, taking your child with her. She has resources and the means at her disposal to disappear quite thoroughly. So deep that even Mycroft would be hard pressed to find her."
John's stomach drops in a familiar way. The whole thing was a set-up. Of course. Who did he think he was kidding? Janine wouldn't have been interested in him otherwise. She probably had a camera set up in her room, a live feed right back to Magnussen, the sick bastard.
And even with all this, it still isn't about him at all, but Sherlock. Magnussen needs to have John under his thumb in order to control Sherlock. Which John isn't at all certain is a profitable line to pursue at this point, not any more than having Mary in his pocket has any influence on John right now. On the other hand, Sherlock's come all this way to stop John from providing Magnussen with blackmail material on him, so maybe there is something to it.
Or maybe Sherlock simply doesn't want to let Magnussen win. It all comes down to the game for him. And he's said that's all this is: nothing more than a game.
He's distracted from following that line of inquiry any further when Sherlock pulls the bottom of his shirt out of his trousers and lifts the material away from his chest and abdomen.
"I'm fine, John," Sherlock says. His voice is disturbingly gentle, and that's enough to lessen the heat of John's anger for the moment.
It's what he sees, though, that kicks ashes over those glowing embers, replacing them with a chilly kind of hollowness in his gut. Because Sherlock's chest does not look like John expected.
Inexplicably, he'd presumed Sherlock's injury was small and discrete, like the round scar of his own entry wound (the exit wound was another story, but Mary's bullet had stayed inside Sherlock, so the bulk of his damage wouldn't show). Also, Sherlock had gone to great lengths to establish Mary's skill and precision with a firearm, further feeding John's fantasy that the trauma was minimal. And perhaps it had been, on the outside, but any trace of the original site of entry has been entirely obscured by the long, puffy scar running the length of Sherlock's sternum and halfway to his navel. Because of course the doctors who treated him didn't have time to be neat. They'd had to open him up the quickest way they could, they'd had to dig around to get at the bullet, and they'd had to manually re-start his heart.
Sherlock had said Mary's shot was surgery. John had taken that to mean something like laparoscopy, a minimally invasive procedure that required only a local anaesthetic and preserved the integrity of the operation site.
This was battlefield triage.
Before he even knows what he's doing, John lifts his hand to press it against the scar. It's the same temperature as the surrounding skin: warm, but not feverish. The bright pinkness speaks of fresh, healthy skin, not angry and inflamed tissue.
"It's healing well," Sherlock says unnecessarily. His heart is pounding hard and fast under John's palm, and that's good, it settles something that's been banging around inside John ever since that awful night at Magnussen's office. But it also sets something else loose, something almost worse.
"This isn't right," John says, staring at the dark pink slash extending beyond the reach of his fingers.
"No, it's good, as a doctor you should know that," Sherlock assures him, sounding surprised. "I know it still looks a little rough, but the puffiness will recede in a couple of months and the scar will--"
"No, not that. This whole thing." John's fingers twitch against Sherlock's chest, digging lightly into the flesh as if trying to grasp something there. "This wasn't... it's not how it was supposed to go. How did we end up here, Sherlock?" His voice comes out gritty, sounding a little lost even to his own ears. He's not making much sense, he knows, but he doesn't quite know how to put what's bothering him into words.
How did they go from rooftop chases and dim sum, lazy Sundays and taking down crimelords to infidelity, shooting up, and flatlining on the operating table?
But that isn't the worst part. The worst part is that John feels as if he and Sherlock have lost touch with each other. John wouldn't normally be one to use such a touchy-feely phrase, but he can't think of any other way to put it. And he doesn't know whether the losing touch is the cause of what's wrong or the consequence of all the shit they've gone through in the past couple of years.
Sherlock was always able to see right to John's core, always seemed to know exactly what he needed—and delivered it, the best way he knew how—and John had thought he knew Sherlock pretty well, too. Better than anyone else, at any rate. Knew when to push him and when to give him space, when to put his foot down and when to—well, when to go out and get him a foot to play with.
But now it's like they're two astronauts encapsulated in their own space suits. They can still see each other, still coordinate their efforts, but there are layers between them, their communication filtered through plastic and electronics and a vast, impersonal vacuum. The scar is like an outward manifestation of everything that's dulled their sense of each other.
John's marriage. The baby. Leinster Gardens. Sherlock's time away. His relapse.
All the things that John's certain Sherlock still isn't telling him.
Sherlock wraps his hand carefully around John's and holds it there on his chest. The thudding under John's fist becomes more frantic, if possible.
"Just lucky, I guess," Sherlock says in answer to John's question. His expression is wry but also somewhat guarded, as if he's not sure whether that's the right response or not.
John doesn't know whether to laugh at that or to cry. Neither is in any way acceptable. So instead he leans in until his forehead bumps Sherlock's shoulder. His mouth somehow ends up brushing Sherlock's hand, where it's still holding John's to his chest. He can feel the vibrations of Sherlock's rabbiting heart travelling through their hands to his lips, the rapid rise and fall of his chest in time with the puffs of air ruffling the hair on the top of John's head.
And then it hits him with crystal clarity what is going on. Sherlock is having a physical reaction to him. To the intimacy of their position. And John's pretty sure it's not just physical.
He's also pretty sure Sherlock's not the only one who feels that way.
The irony is not lost on him.
He knows this isn't what Sherlock intended in following him here. He honestly did just want to stop John from making a tragic mistake, because John truly didn't have the whole picture. Not to mention the fact that John's impulsive, emotionally compromised, and more than a bit of an idiot.
The way he sees it, there are two ways this could go. He could pull back again, deflect with a comment about it being bad form to shag your best friend's ex anyway and pretend the last five minutes or so never happened...
Or.
Or he could do what he should have done months ago. He didn't have the full picture then either, was emotionally compromised by Sherlock's shocking return—and, for two years prior, by his supposed death. Wanted—and he's never actually allowed this to coalesce into a conscious thought, but that doesn't make it less true—to hurt Sherlock as much as Sherlock had hurt him, and getting married seemed an excellent way to do it. That wasn't the only reason he'd got married, of course—he'd planned to propose before he knew Sherlock was alive—but once he did know, once he had the second chance to do and say those things he so bitterly regretted not having done and said, a bit of petty revenge and knife-twisting had seemed the more attractive choice.
Definitely a bit of an idiot.
John moves his mouth against Sherlock's hand, deliberately but light enough that it could be mistaken for an inadvertent brush. Sherlock doesn't move a muscle. In fact, he seems to be holding his breath. John waits a moment and does it again, this time with clear intent.
"John..." Sherlock's voice is barely more than a whisper, somewhere between a warning and a plea.
"Shut up," John says and shifts so he can kiss Sherlock's chest, letting his mouth linger there, as close to Sherlock's heart as he can physically get.
There is another sharp intake of breath, but it's not an expression of pain this time. John drags his lips slowly along Sherlock's scar, up to his neck, and kisses him there too.
Sherlock's pulse is strong and fast under his lips, and John feels Sherlock's other hand on his back a moment later, pulling him closer, encouraging. Then Sherlock's head tilts down and presses a tentative kiss into John's hair.
That's enough to give John the final kick, and a moment later, his mouth is on Sherlock's. He scoops both hands under Sherlock's arse to slide him forward until he's right on the edge of the mattress, shuffling forward on his knees so he's snug between Sherlock's legs, his front flush against him.
Sherlock kisses back with equal fervour if somewhat less desperation, both arms wrapped around John's back, his hands clenched in the material of the jacket John's still wearing.
It's as if the floodgates have been opened inside him; he's drowning and parched at the same time. Sherlock's flesh against his, his mouth, his hands, his tongue; Sherlock's scent in his nostrils, his breath in his lungs, his heat surrounding him. He can't get enough, doesn't know how he ever did without this.
After a time, John has no idea how long, their motions become less frantic, their touches more gentle, until they finally break apart, chests heaving and mouths reddened.
"Slightly ironic, this," John says, not quite able to look Sherlock in the eye. He levers himself up from his kneeling position and settles next to Sherlock on the edge of the bed.
Sherlock huffs out a chuckle. "I didn't plan for this, you know."
"No? It's got your M.O. written all over it." He nudges Sherlock with his shoulder. "Interrupt the date, insult the girlfriend, drag me off on the pretext of a case, and never stop to give me a clue what the hell is going on."
"I like Janine. I think you were the one who insulted her this time."
"Did I? Don't remember. Everything else has a way of turning into background noise when you show up." John leans over to press his mouth to Sherlock's again.
They exchange several slow, lingering kisses, taking the time now to taste and gauge each other's reactions to each angle and caress.
"And you have a way of making all the background noise go away," Sherlock finally says, his voice low and warm against John's cheek.
"This does complicate things a bit." John puts his hand carefully on Sherlock's thigh.
"It's not as if I'm going to go to Magnussen with it."
"No, but I'm not going back to Mary either. Think that's pretty clear at this point."
Sherlock's head snaps up. "But you have to!"
"What the hell! Sherlock, I've just cheated on her. With you, in case you weren't paying attention back there."
"A few kisses hardly counts as cheating."
"It does to me," John says hotly. "And anyway, who am I kidding? I've left her already. The night I found out she'd shot you was the end of our marriage, as far as I'm concerned."
"John, you have to stay with her. At least until the baby's born."
John's eyebrows shoot up. "What, you honestly expect me to go back and live with her, and what, pretend everything's fine? Pretend I still love her and want to stay with her till death do us part?"
"Yes, precisely, so glad we're on the same page."
"And what was this all about then, hm? Was this just some test? Some new way of mucking me about?"
"No. No, this was... a miscalculation."
"Because it didn't feel like a miscalculation to me. It felt like the goddamn first time you've been honest with me since you've been back. Maybe the first time full stop."
"It's irrelevant-"
"The hell it is," John says fiercely. "No, now stop it. You do not get to do this. Not anymore. You do not get to decide for me what I'm meant to feel, and who I'm meant to feel it for." John grabs Sherlock's hand and holds it hard. "You and me. This. This is what we have. This is it. I don't care if you don't want-" He hesitates, but throws caution to the wind and forges on. "-sex, or the picket fence, or even to be a part of raising my child. You can go on being married to your work, and I'll be your bit on the side. But you are not going to crawl back into your shell and try to tell me or anyone else, least of all yourself, that this isn't important to you. It is, and it is to me, and we're in it together."
He clasps Sherlock's hand in both of his, both defiant and desperately afraid he's pushed Sherlock too far.
But Sherlock doesn't seem put off by John's speech at all. In fact, he gets a small smile and says simply, "Okay."
"Okay?" John can't quite believe it was that easy. But perhaps that's all it ever would have taken: for John to be clear on what he wants. To let Sherlock know that it really is all fine.
"Okay," Sherlock confirms, squeezing John's fingers with his. "You are going to have to go back to her, though. At least for a while."
John is all too familiar with that tone of voice. "Oh my God," he groans. "You have a plan, don't you. You and Mycroft. You've already been plotting your Byzantine little intrigues for us puppets to play out."
"Mostly Mycroft," Sherlock admits. "I've been rather occupied with getting shot and that."
"Jesus. Yeah." John shivers at the reminder. He lifts Sherlock's hand to his mouth and kisses it firmly. John has no intention of letting Sherlock do something stupid and noble like he did last time. He's going to insist on being with him every step of the way. Together.
"And now," John says, "tell me the plan."
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Date: 2015-04-18 06:00 am (UTC)Great line, that. Lovely piece.
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Date: 2015-04-18 06:51 am (UTC)Thank you, so happy you enjoyed it!
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Date: 2016-02-14 07:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-02-14 07:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-02-14 09:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-02-14 08:59 pm (UTC)