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sherlocksscarf) wrote2012-06-26 12:03 pm
Fic: A Hole In The World (Chapter 4)
“Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world,
which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime,
and falling in at night. I miss you like hell.”
― Edna St. Vincent Millay
Author note: Part 5 of the "No Heart For Me Like Yours" series. This story contains quite a few spoilers for the rest of the series, so it would probably make much more sense to read the series in order, as it tells how John and Sherlock got to this point.
Thanks to arianedevere and the detailed transcript of “The Reichenbach Fall” at her LJ site: http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/tag/transcript
Many thanks to my beta, Skyfullofstars. Sky, thank you for making me stop and think harder about this story. It’s better because of you.
Disclaimers: Sherlock belongs to Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss, Sherlock Holmes originally belonged to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing. This makes me very, very sad.
Warnings: Sherlock/John. Slash, slash, somewhat graphic slash. Major, major spoilers for Season 2.
Trigger warnings: Suicidal ideation; references to previous abusive relationship, non-con, sexual assault.
Please read and review!
oOoOo
Chapter 4: We Were Together
oOoOo
“We were together. I forget the rest.”
– Walt Whitman
oOoOo
Driving to Dartmoor in the hire car, I’m struck by how different this trip is from the previous two. The first time Sherlock and I made this journey, Sherlock drove, insisting on a ridiculous behemoth of a Land Rover. Sherlock behind the wheel was an interesting mix of precision and mania, fluctuating between extremely calm, competent handling of the car and sudden bursts of distraction that seemed to happen at the most inopportune moments.
The second time we went to Dartmoor, for a romantic holiday, I insisted on making the travel arrangements, and I drove the midsize sedan that we hired. Sherlock grumbled about not being able to see as well as he could in the Land Rover, but I pointed out that the Toyota Auris that I had hired had twice the fuel efficiency of the Land Rover, so he should belt up about it.
On both trips, both before and after we started shagging, the long drive flew by, with plenty of stimulating conversation, interspersed with long periods of companionable silence. Now, traveling alone in another fuel-efficient sedan, it feels as though the drive will never end. Intellectually, I know it’s the same amount of time for all three trips, almost four hours. So why does it seem like I’ve been driving twice that amount of time?
Looking out at the granite tors of Dartmoor, at the clumps of heather and gorse that dot the bleak hillsides, I remember being here with Sherlock, being happy together, and my stomach twists inside of me. God, I miss him so much.
I’ve spent much of the drive puzzling over the postcard, wondering who managed to break into my bedsitter and plant it in my bedside table drawer. If Moriarty weren’t convincingly, verifiably dead, he would top my list of suspects – no, he would be the list. I suppose it could be someone from his criminal network, but that doesn’t make sense. Sherlock’s…gone. There would be no point or profit in taunting me.
Mycroft certainly could manage it, but it’s not really his style. Plus, he’s been very solicitous of me since…well, he’s been quite kind. I have no wish to spend time with him – I still remember what he did to help destroy Sherlock, however inadvertent it was – but I don’t see him doing something like this.
I can’t imagine anyone else who would do it, though, who could possibly have discovered the U.M.Q.R.A. incident through surveillance of some kind. The message, “COME TO THE VALLEY OF FEAR” is completely puzzling. I don’t recall hearing the phrase “valley of fear” before. I have no clue what I’m going to do when I get there, I just know that I can’t leave this alone. Sherlock rubbed off on me, I guess – I am now incapable of resisting a mystery.
oOoOo
When I walk into the Cross Keys Inn, Gary Barnes-Windigate, the innkeeper, looks up and grins when he recognises me. His dark eyes twinkle at me from his ruddy, smiling face.
“Doctor Watson! So good to see you again!” He turns, calling back into the kitchen, “Billy! Doctor Watson’s here!”
When Sherlock and I came here for our romantic minibreak, Sherlock casually pointed out that the accountant who handled the books for The Cross Keys was “obviously” skimming the profits, and had been for some time. Gary and Billy tried to hire him on the spot to provide evidence. It took him all of half an hour, for which he refused to accept payment. (Sociopath, my arse.) In return, they loaded us up with every extra amenity that they could think of, and refused to charge us for our stay. Once again, Sherlock managed to get on the good side of a proprietor, and we reaped the benefits…
Gary’s husband, one of the few men around who can actually make me feel tall, comes around the corner, seemingly delighted to see me.
“It’s so nice to see you again, Doctor Watson,” Billy says, and then the smile vanishes.
“I was so sorry to hear about Mr. Holmes.” His blue eyes, round, cheerful face and ginger goatee look singularly at odds with the somber expression that he wears. Gary nods, adopting a similar expression.
“Wonderful man, Mr. Holmes,” he muses, ruffling his salt-and-pepper curls idly. “He saved our business, that’s for certain. If he hadn’t pointed out that our accountant was cooking the books, Billy and I would have had to sell up. We owe him so much.”
We are all silent for a moment. Then Gary adds, “Never could put anything past him. A man capable of absolutely anything.”
I feel the lump rise in my throat again, and clear it briskly. Billy and Gary’s expressions tell me that I’m not doing a good job of hiding my emotions. I want nothing more than to end this conversation. Clenching my jaw a bit, I raise my eyebrows at them pointedly. Gary takes the hint.
“We’ve taken the liberty of putting you in one of the double rooms, Doctor Watson. We’re only half-full right now, so we thought you might prefer the convenience of an en suite bath. We’ll only charge you for the single rate, mind.”
“That’s very kind of you.” I bend to pick up my bag from the floor beside me, and follow Gary over to the desk, where he hands me the room key.
Oh, God. It’s room 221. Sherlock and I stayed in that room when we came here for our romantic getaway, and joked that we couldn’t get away from that number.
I look up at Gary’s pleasant, open face and know that if I ask for a different room, he’ll feel terrible for inadvertently hurting me. I can’t do it.
“Thanks, Mr. Barnes-Windigate.”
“Please, I told you before that it’s Gary,” he laughs. “Billy and I must have been mad, to go the double-barreled name route like that. Windigate is bad enough without adding an extra syllable to the front. What a mouthful.”
I manage to smile back at him, feeling how weak those facial muscles have become from lack of use.
“Thanks, then, Gary. And it’s John, not Doctor Watson, okay?”
“Absolutely, John. Let me know if there’s anything you need to make your stay more comfortable. We start serving tea at 3.30, and dinner at 6.00.”
“Ta, Gary.”
oOoOo
The room is exactly the same as it was when I shared it with Sherlock. It hits me like a sledgehammer, the memory of the time we spent here. I drop my bag by the foot of the large bed, and sit to unlace and pull off my boots. I stretch out on the bed, close my eyes and remember...
(3 months earlier)
Sherlock closes the door behind us, locks it with a flourish, and shrugs out of his coat, draping it and his scarf over the hook on the back of the door. As I tug off my shooting jacket to hang it on the adjoining hook, Sherlock takes a running leap at the bed and flings himself on it, rolling over to stretch across the bed like a cat in a sunbeam. He grins at me lasciviously.
“Care to join me, Doctor Watson?”
Laughing, I reach over to tug off his shoes, mindful of the pristine white duvet. Slowly, I peel off his socks, caressing the sensitive instep as I bare each foot. Sherlock almost purrs with pleasure at the contact. I’ve discovered that Sherlock practically melts into a puddle at having his feet tickled. He hates to be tickled almost anywhere else, but he will lounge with his feet in my lap for well over an hour, reveling in the sensation of my fingers stroking and tickling his feet. Then he will flip over, plant his head in my lap, and expect the same ministration to his luxurious dark curls. (He’s so very feline.)
Perhaps it’s odd to say so, but Sherlock has the sexiest feet I’ve ever seen. They’re like the rest of him – his long, graceful fingers, his swanlike neck, his elegant high arches, his lean, well-shaped legs – they’re all of a piece, his body’s symmetry is perfect, in individual parts and as a whole.
(God, how was I lucky enough to capture the heart of this impossibly beautiful man?)
I pause to remove my own shoes and socks, then climb over Sherlock, straddling his hips and smiling down at him. His Cheshire cat grin is wider than ever, and he reaches up to cup the back of my neck with his warm palm, pulling me down for a kiss.
His soft lips are already slightly parted, and I take advantage of that, teasing my tongue inside to just touch the tip of his. He deepens the kiss, his tongue exploring my mouth thoroughly, sliding warmly against my own. His hands are roaming over my back, sliding down to cup my arse, pulling me closer to him. His knee lifts, his thigh pressing gently up against my groin, and I groan softly with pleasure at the contact.
He rolls us over, so that the full length of his body is stretched atop mine. I tighten my arms around him, one hand snaking up to stroke through his unbelievably soft curls, the other wandering over his sumptuous arse. He releases my mouth to kiss his way along my jawline to my throat, nipping and sucking at the tender skin.
He abruptly pulls back to sit up on his knees, straddling my hips, and begins impatiently unbuttoning his dark red shirt. As he pulls it off to bare his slim, muscular torso, he smiles down at me.
“You are wearing entirely too many clothes, John.”
“Well, I’m certain that a clever man like you can find some way to remedy that situation, Sherlock.”
He grins at me, seizes the hem of my jumper, and tugs it upward. I assist him in pulling it off, and my shirt swiftly follows. He leans down for a kiss, pressing close to me, and the sensation of bare skin on bare skin is intoxicating. He rolls off of me so that he can reach the button and flies of my jeans, and he soon has them open.
As I’m working at opening his belt and trousers, he slips his hand into my pants, cupping my erection. I gasp as his warm, slim fingers curve around to grip my cock, sliding up and down firmly. Abruptly, he slides swiftly down my body, taking me in his mouth in one sudden movement.
“Sherlock!”
His silvery eyes are gazing up at me, those full, pink lips wrapped around my cock, and he hums with pleasure. The vibration leaves me gasping, his tongue is swirling around the head, and my back is arching and it’s too much toomuchohmygodSherlock!
He pulls off slowly, then pointedly meets my eyes before swallowing very deliberately, and licking his lips. (Oh, dear God, that is so sexy.) He slides back up to kiss me deeply, and I can taste myself on his tongue (even sexier). He smiles down at me.
“All right, John?”
“God, yes.”
I roll us over, and sit up to peel off his trousers and pants, then I stand to remove my jeans and boxer briefs from where they have bunched around my thighs. I reach over to grab my shaving kit from my bag and bring it back to the bedside table. I pull out a bottle of lube, and raise my eyebrows at him as I hold up a condom.
“We both tested negative, so these are optional now. What do you think – care to go bareback?”
Sherlock’s eyes widen, the pupils dilating rapidly, making me think of a cat that has just spotted its prey.
“Are you sure, John?”
“Absolutely.”
I drop the condom back in the kit, fetch a large towel from the bathroom, and bring towel and lube back to the bed. Sherlock has climbed off of the bed to fold the snowy duvet back over the footboard of the bed. He reaches for the towel and spreads it across the sheets.
We stand on either side of the bed, just looking at each other for a moment. Then Sherlock speaks.
“Actually, John…” he swallows hard, then almost whispers, “maybe you should be the one to…‘go bareback,’ as you say.”
I search his eyes, seeing anxiety there, but no fear. We haven’t done this before. His horrible history with Sebastian Wilkes* left him terrified of being the recipient of anal sex. We’ve explored everything else, to our great mutual pleasure, and I have discovered, to my infinite surprise and delight, that “bottoming” feels fantastic.
(If you had told me a few months ago that I would turn out to absolutely love cock, I would have told you to get your head examined – or would have knocked it off your shoulders.)
So I have never “topped” Sherlock, and have assumed that we’d keep on as we have, since it has worked out very, very well so far. Apparently, Sherlock has other ideas.
I step around the bed to take him in my arms. “Are you sure you’re ready for this, Sherlock? We don’t ever have to do this, you know.”
His lips quirk up in a small smile.
“John, I have watched you being on the receiving end for weeks, and you are clearly enjoying it quite a bit. I can’t help but think I’m missing out on something. I’d like to know what you are feeling.” He pauses for a moment, then adds quietly, “If I don’t try to move on, then I’m letting him beat me again.”
I tighten my arms around him, enjoying the feel of his lean, naked body pressed to mine, and think about what he has said. Wilkes enjoyed humiliating and dominating Sherlock, and he probably would enjoy knowing that he had ruined some aspects of sex for Sherlock.
(Of course, he can’t know anything now. When we saw the news story a few weeks ago, about the “tragic escalator accident” that had killed Sebastian Wilkes, we didn’t really discuss it. I think both of us know, deep down, that Mycroft had a hand in it, but we didn’t talk about it, instead tossing the newspaper in the bin and heading out for a long walk in Regent’s Park. Sometimes there’s simply nothing to say.)
“All right, love. But we’re taking it slowly, and you can tell me to stop at any time. You understand that, right?”
He kisses me softly, pulling me down onto the bed.
“I trust you, John.”
We stretch out, side by side, trading long, languorous kisses, stroking each other’s bodies, the kisses growing more and more heated and urgent. Finally I break the kiss to sit up and begin kissing my way down Sherlock’s body, enjoying the clean, salty taste and smell of his warm skin, noticing the hint of musk as I reach his groin. Reaching for the little bottle I had placed on the bed earlier, I kneel between his spread thighs, and apply a dab to the fingers of both hands, spreading it generously over them.
I curl my slicked fingers around Sherlock’s shaft, making him gasp and purr with pleasure. Leaning down, I tease my tongue over the head, allowing the slippery fingers of my other hand to wander down, paying plenty of attention to his perineum, and then gently, gently, I find his tight, closed opening.
I’m watching him closely, ready to stop immediately if he gives any indication of fear or panic. He had been lying back with his eyes closed, lost in sensation, but as I circle gently around his anus, his eyes fly open and meet my gaze.
“All right, Sherlock?”
“Y-yes…” he whispers, hesitantly.
“Sherlock, we can stop.”
“No.” His smile is hesitant, but warm. “I told you – I trust you, John. You would never hurt me.”
(God, no. Never.)
I smile back at him, a lump in my throat from the sudden rush of emotion – how did I win the love and trust of this wonderful man?
“I love you.”
His smile broadens, crinkling the corners of his eyes.
“I love you, too.”
I resume my careful, gentle caresses. He groans and cants his hips upward, obviously enjoying the new sensations. I renew my gentle tongue-teasing of his cock as I gently apply a bit of soft pressure with one fingertip. He tenses for a moment, then relaxes a bit against the intruding fingertip, allowing it to slip inside. His eyes widen as I slowly, carefully work the fingertip in and out, helping the muscle to yield more easily.
When I slip a second finger inside his hot opening, I enclose the head of his cock in my mouth at the same moment, distracting him to the point that he doesn’t seem to notice the additional intrusion. I continue to swirl my tongue around his exposed glans as I slowly work and stretch the taut ring of muscle, then pause to crook my fingers up to (here’s an unexpected fringe benefit of being a doctor!) unerringly caress his prostate.
Sherlock arches wildly back with a guttural bellow of shock.
“John! Oh my God, John!!”
(I think he likes it.)
I add a third finger, still stretching, stroking a finger across his prostate again and again as I do so, watching the startling amount of pre-ejaculate that is now streaming from the tip of his cock. Sherlock writhes in ecstasy, completely lost in the moment.
(I finally found a way to turn that great brain off completely. I’ll have to remember this for the next time he’s holding my Browning and eyeing the wall.)
Sherlock’s hands are clutching the sheets spasmodically.
“John, John, John…I need more. I need you, John. Inside me. Please…”
I sit up a moment, then lie down beside him on the towel. Sherlock looks up, startled, anxiety creasing the skin between his eyebrows.
“John?”
“Sherlock, the first time we did this, I had the easiest time when I was on top. I think you should start out that way.”
The relief on his face is almost funny – he must have been worried that I would stop. My mind flashes back for one instant to the sight of Sherlock, cowering in anticipation of the pain and fear that he had come to expect from a sexual partner. When I see him now, climbing atop me to straddle my hips, desire radiating from his moonstone eyes, I’m overwhelmed with joy. He has come so far.
I reach for the lube bottle, apply a generous dollop of lube to my fingers, and slick my erection lavishly. Sherlock lifts up, and positions himself above me, the tip of my cock pressing against his entrance. His eyes lock with mine.
“I love you.”
“God, I love you, too, Sherlock.”
Slowly, slowly, he sinks down, enclosing me, and Christ, he’s so tight and hot and amazing. My hands rest on his slim hips, my thumbs circling against his hipbones.
His eyes are enormous, the pupils so dilated that they almost look black. He moans loudly as he slowly settles down, taking me in fully. We gaze into each other’s eyes, and I’m suddenly struck by the feeling that this is somehow sacred, this intimacy, this communion between us.
He begins to move his hips experimentally, lightly rocking, and I bring my knees up behind him, knowing what that angle has done for me when I’ve been in this position. Sure enough, he throws back his head with a hoarse shout as the head of my cock makes firm contact with his prostate. I begin to gently thrust, reveling in the sight of his flushed face, surrounded by a tumbled halo of black curls, lost in a haze of pleasure.
He feels absolutely amazing, so hot and velvety, so incredibly tight and stimulating. I’m not going to last much longer. I curl the fingers of my left hand around his straining erection, and he groans in pleasure, babbling incoherently, as I begin to stroke him firmly.
“John! John you’re so beautiful, John, you are so amazing, wonderful, my John, my John, mine mine oh God, Jooohhn!”
He arches back, screaming my name, pulsing in pearly streams over my belly and chest. His body is squeezing and clenching around me, tightening down even more, and I’m coming with a shout of my own, clutching Sherlock’s hips and shaking.
He collapses forward over me, burying his face in my neck, murmuring my name over and over: John, John, John, a mantra. I wrap my arms around him tightly, wishing I could hold him this close forever…
oOoOo
I wake to find tears streaming down my face. Nothing new for me these days, although I’m a bit disconcerted to find myself at the Cross Keys Inn, on the bed I’d just been dreaming about.
The empty bed.
I roll onto my side, curl into a foetal position, and sob into the fluffy, white pillows.
oOoOo
*See “Song of Sherlock” and “My Brother’s Keeper” for further backstory.