Disclaimer: I wrote this story with no intention of plagiarising the writers of the BBC 'Sherlock' series, or any previous Sherlock Holmes stories/adaptations.
Author's Notes: Dear readers, hello! Here's a new one for you ;) Hope you've enjoyed the first series of 'Sherlock' as much as I have! I've always been a huge fan of Conan-Doyle's books, and the many TV/film adaptations thereof. But this new series is really exceptional, in my opinion. So, so well written, without massacring the original genius of the stories, as it could've done. As a result, I've been pretty infatuated with the whole thing. Including the choice of cast!
This fic started stampeding around my head after I recently watched the third episode again and started wondering: "What the hell's going to happen to John and Sherlock? What will Moriarty do next?" So, I've written my own little sequel, via John's PC. Enjoy! (N.B. Chapter updated 03/11/10)
Warning: scenes of a non-con nature.
Files:: Personal Documents:: Protected:: Dr John Watson: Private Journal
I've got to do this. I've got to sit down and write. But even now, staring helplessly into the void of my computer screen and trying to put my thoughts in order, the words are reluctant to come – ashamed of what they will expose.
Anything I write here is purely for my own benefit – which should be a helpful thought, but it isn't. These journal entries will never be seen; will definitely never be published for the internet-surfing public at large, unlike my blog. That should bring me comfort. But it doesn't. I can't seem to find the outlet that I need. And I probably won't, even after these unbearable thoughts and memories are consigned to this journal.
Thank God Sherlock's not home.
Yes, this journal concerns him too – quite unsurprisingly. But it concerns him in a way I that it would probably kill me to admit...most of all to him.
It all began about a fortnight ago – and as this is my version of events, I've got to start with a bit of guesswork – filling in the gaps of the parts I wasn't around to see. Not that I'm very happy about that. Trust my damned luck – to come home from the surgery that Tuesday evening and find that I'd missed probably one of the most important exchanges that had ever taken place in 221b. Also one which turned out to be the spark for so many…incidents that followed. From the few facts that I managed to get from a reluctant Sherlock, and my own (pretty poor) skills of deduction, I've put together a vague account of what I think happened.
Sometime before I arrived home, Jim Moriarty had managed to wend his way inside 221b Baker Street. Bored, probably. So was Sherlock, otherwise he would have had countless reasons not to be in. Moriarty must have had a motive for 'popping round', but Sherlock either hasn't discovered it or is refusing to tell me. I wouldn't even try to hazard a guess. But it became clear to dear old Jim, after quite a short length of time, that Sherlock wasn't going to rise to his bait. At least, not until he'd had time to assess the facts.
Unfortunately for Sherlock, Moriarty is without a doubt the world's most dangerous psychopath. His thought processes don't match those of the majority of people's, and can switch drastically in a split-second. It goes without saying that he didn't take the refusal well.
At some point in their 'conversation', Moriarty decided that he wanted to rape Sherlock. It may or may not have been a carefully-calculated decision – but humiliation is one of Moriarty's favourite punishments.
There have always been rumours about Sherlock's sexuality – in particular (but not exclusively) coming from the people that know him best. It seems to be the the only topic that's ever caused him any kind of difficulty, and, weird as it seems to say it – awkwardness.
At some point between claiming that Sherlock was homosexual and threatening to prove it, Moriarty decided to beat him senseless. Sherlock was grappled against a wall, bruised and bloody in several places, giving Moriarty the opportunity to start forcibly removing Sherlock's jacket and shirt. Every attempt he made to undress Sherlock was beaten off with as many punches and kicks as Sherlock could muster – by this time, according to him, he already had a potentially-fractured shoulder and multiple bruised ribs, which make his attempts to fight his corner all the more brave and…well, stupid and painful.
But Moriarty was soon able to overpower Sherlock, despite his smaller height and stature. A powerful blow to Sherlock's left temple left him reeling – by which point, Moriarty was ready to carry out his disgusting threat.
From here on out, I can be a lot more certain. This was the exact moment that I arrived home, came upstairs and unlocked the door to the flat.
I remember seeing the look of contempt on Moriarty's face and finding it deeply satisfying.
The feeling was short-lived.
I'm not prepared to give a man like Jim Moriarty even the slightest chance to speak – let alone explain himself – and seeing Sherlock slumped over on the ground, in a spreading pool of his own blood, led me to immediate, and perhaps drastic, action.
I shot Moriarty in his right shoulder, just below his collar bone. The bullet probably passed straight through, but I haven't seen it anywhere in the flat since. Not a serious wound, as far as gunshots go; I knew it would only remove the immediate threat to Sherlock, and not much else.
Moriarty shrunk back with the force of the shot, his sinister black eyes becoming demonic as he focused them on me and started to stagger towards me.
This time, I shot him just above his left knee - not even the infamous Jim Moriarty could stay on both feet after such a blow. I watched him drop to the floor with grim triumph.
Pretty quickly after this second gunshot, four fully-armed police officers surged into the flat and began to detain Moriarty – handcuffing him looked like it took quite a considerable amount of effort. Amazingly, he was completely unarmed. I wouldn't want to begin to think about what could have happened if he had have been.
We found out later that Mrs Hudson had heard the confrontation between Sherlock and Moriarty from upstairs, and was agonising over whether to phone the police or not - Sherlock can be crabby about that sort of thing. But hearing my two gunshots was the decider. It was sheer coincidence that a police car was on duty some five minutes away from Baker Street.
Moriarty was dragged from the room, swearing bloody vengeance on us both. It wouldn't surprise me if it turns out he escaped within half an hour, but thankfully he hasn't bothered us since. Won't until the next time he's bored, I suppose.
The threat now over, my attention was instantly on Sherlock: as the doctor, and the friend. He was semi-conscious, his eyes rolling a little in his head, his body trembling slightly beyond his control. In the months I've known him, I can honestly say I've never seen Sherlock so much as twitch unless it was strictly necessary. The trembling was a shock to my system.
I studied his wounds: bruising mostly, split skin at his temple and at the juncture between the right side of his chest and his right arm. I was worried that the shoulder might be fractured, but it was only swollen and bruised – like the rest of him. His blood loss seemed disproportionate to his injuries, but that's normally the case.
He came to just as I was trying to fasten up his shirt again: it seemed somehow really undignified to leave him in that state.
"John. Moriarty, he..." Sherlock was almost fully lucid, but he couldn't finish the sentence. He couldn't even look me in the eye. He seemed...disappointed? No, ashamed. It was difficult to accept. Still is. I didn't think that Sherlock was capable of shame.
Very quickly, a picture began to form in my mind. It was the combination of Sherlock's discarded clothes, the wounds from his struggle with Moriarty, and the words that I had heard Moriarty shouting as I climbed the stairs earlier that finally made me realise. The words hadn't registered at the time; hadn't made sense until that moment:
'C'mon, Sherlock, C'MON! Enough flirting, I want you to be MY FAG...'
"He tried to rape you."
The words seemed unreal, as if they weren't in my own language. I remember feeling as though someone else's mouth had said them.
Sherlock's head fell forward, the memories flooding back in a first, sickening wave. I wasn't surprised when he lapsed back into unconsciousness. Surprised: no. Terrified: yes.
I shouted for Mrs Hudson, who was waiting nervously in the corridor, uneasy about coming into the room until she was asked. She helped me carry Sherlock's motionless body up the stairs to his bedroom, where we put him carefully on the bed. I asked her if she could leave us then, knowing she wouldn't really want to, but insisting that I was fully capable of looking after Sherlock on my own.
"Honestly, you've been a great help, but I can handle it from here – go and get some rest, calm your nerves."
She was quiet and pale, but managed to nod weakly in agreement, remembering my medical training and admitting that this qualified me to look after Sherlock in her absence.
"It's not just that – I need to do it," I told her. I still don't understand why.
Once she'd gone, I looked at Sherlock, sprawled awkwardly on his bed, and felt a deep, swirling rush of emotion. It was awful: like someone had grabbed my inner organs in an iron vice.
It seemed wrong, so wrong: that such an awful thing had happened to him; that I wasn't there to prevent it; that someone so perverted had tried to rob him of something – something that should only ever be experienced ...well, with pleasure. With comfort. Even a man so anti-relationships as Sherlock had the right to that.
I distracted myself from these thoughts by playing doctor: a role I can easily slip into. But each basic action, each usually simple task seemed to affect me in an intense way. Somehow, more intense than I could handle. I felt so many uncomfortable pangs of emotion as I removed Sherlock's shirt, removed his trousers, bathed his wounded shoulder and temple, applied small dressings to the dried wounds, and covered his bruised body with the soft bedcovers.
Sherlock must've come round at some point while I was tending to him, but he didn't speak until I laid a hand on his uninjured shoulder. I'm still not sure why I did that, at the time I felt like I needed to. It seemed like an easy way of expressing something I couldn't have expressed in any other way. And still it wasn't enough for me, somehow.
"What are you thinking, John?" His speech was slightly slurred. It was painful to hear.
He was asking me the question because he wanted to asses my state of mind. Not because he wanted my opinion on what had just happened. I should've known that he wouldn't want to remember it so soon, let alone discuss it with me, but I couldn't hold back for some reason.
"I'm thinking that what Moriarty did – almost did – to you is disgraceful. Not because he hurt you - he would've done that anyway. And I'm not surprised by what he did, actually, when I really think about it. I think it's just a terrible shame that he did it - to you."
"What – to the man that is so impervious to passion and desire?" Sherlock droned, sounding almost amused. "You think now that I will never want to pursue any form of romantic relationship, where there may have been the likelihood before." He gave me a long look. "I thought you knew me better, John." I felt really embarrassed, but normally I wouldn't have expected to be.
"I know. I know your stance on the whole...thing. And I haven't got any problem with it. I know our views are different – and I'm not trying to put you down. But yes, I suppose I did think - that someday, someone would come along who would change your mind, convince you that a sociopath can still find – and accept – affection, from another person."
Admitting this made me feel more self-conscious than I expected, and I shied away from meeting Sherlock's eye, studying my clenched fists idiotically.
"Go on, John."
"You might as well say it. I won't begrudge you."
I silently cursed the fact that Sherlock found me so easy to read, and took a deep breath. A hot rush of blood quickly spread across my face and neck.
"I just think that you don't deserve to have something violently forced on you that should only ever be - well, pleasurable. Wonderful, really." My own cheesy sentimentality suddenly made me feel very uncomfortable.
"Sex, you mean."
I didn't expect Sherlock to even know the word. Ridiculous, really.
I must've jumped like I'd been given a mild electric shock – I could sense Sherlock's amusement without his expression changing.
"Yep..." I nodded, suddenly feeling my conversational skills running dry. A heavy, awkward silence followed – for me, anyway – Sherlock didn't seem to notice it at all.
"John, what you did earlier - it was..."
"It's fine," I answered sharply. A little too sharply. I wanted to sound more like Sherlock: cold, calculating, not so wrapped up in...Hell, just corniness. I felt that I'd shared too much, laid too many of my personal feelings out in front of him. Although that shouldn't really have bothered me...it did.
That same intense rush of feeling came over me again, and as much as I wanted to keep up the pretence that I was fine, the words left my mouth before I had the chance to think.
"I hated seeing you there – I just couldn't stand it. I didn't know what was going on - but somehow, I knew something was wrong – really wrong. It felt - I don't know - I felt like I almost could have..." My voice was shaking slightly; I suddenly felt very, very close to throwing up.
"If you'd done it, I wouldn't have resented it. You aren't completely vacant of powerful emotion, John. And that isn't always a bad thing." Sherlock had known – like he always does – just what I was about to say. He wanted to save me from putting my urge to kill Jim Moriarty into words.
"No, no I'm not...vacant," I agreed, feeling slightly confused.
"But you are a great man."
I stared at Sherlock, but as hard as I tried, I couldn't read anything from his expression. It couldn't be true: Sherlock would never pay me a heartfelt compliment, it isn't in his nature. So it couldn't have been real. But why say it? Just to appease me? To make me feel that because I saved his dignity - maybe his life – the action was actually worthsomething in his closed-off, relentlessly logical mind? I still don't know. But I watched his eyes slowly closing, knowing that he was finally letting himself relax, and realised that there was only one thing I could do. Only one thing I wanted to do, and had to do.
I put my hands carefully on his shoulders, leaned over him and kissed him lightly on the forehead. A brief kiss, not lingering – I didn't want to linger. But I felt a genuine warmth for Sherlock after he'd said that to me, that I had to express to him, even though I couldn't express it in words. Didn't want to give him an opportunity to talk back, anyway.
But I regretted it almost as soon as I'd done it. 'Why, John, you idiot? Do you want him to think that you're totally ridiculous, mark you down forever as a weak, sentimental idiot?'
I was struck dumb, as I pulled away slowly and carefully to see that Sherlock's eyes were open, staring so deeply into mine that it was unbearable. I couldn't face the thought that he could've read something into the action. I wanted to disappear – to reverse time, ideally – but something kept me frozen in position, locked on Sherlock's eyes so that it would've been impossible to look away.
Something like falling. That's what I remember. Like the feeling when you stand too close to the edge of a cliff and know that your own legs could easily carry you over the edge.
Somehow, in seconds that felt like hours, mine and Sherlock's lips met. It wasn't the kiss of friends, that was obvious from the off, and the thought horrified me. But his lips were so soft; so soft that the blood seemed to leave every other part of my body and rush to that one place where we'd made contact. It seemed extraordinary, at the time: as though, in finding that Sherlock had such soft, full lips, lips that had never been kissed in such a way by any other human being, I had discovered some great, valuable secret.
I pulled away very quickly – once these ridiculous, and yet somehow amazing thoughts had been pushed out of my head by shock. I didn't dare look into Sherlock's eyes at all; I couldn't bear to see the disgusted expression on his face. I couldn't believe what I'd done. I felt like such a fool – and more to the point, I felt like a sham. After all, I'm not gay. I've never even had the slightest hint of that kind of feeling for another man. Clearly, Sherlock was in a vulnerable state, and I didn't want him to think that I'd preyed on his vulnerability for my own selfish reasons.
But I wasn't given time to think this over.
I felt the bedcovers shifting beneath me, and a soft rush of air against my face that could only have been Sherlock breathing, as he moved his face closer to mine all over again. It still astounds me that he made this move, and it will probably take years to discover just why he did. But his lips found their way to mine again, and this time, I might as well have plunged straight over that cliff. There was no way I was coming back up.
...Maybe he was curious.
We were kissing again. The thought of it still makes my stomach lurch – but not with disgust. I can't lie to myself; it was quite wonderful, that second kiss. Deep.
This time, it wasn't so much a simple meeting of mouths. It was a real kiss, the kiss that all kisses should be. Neither of us made any other sound, and the room was almost disturbingly quiet. All I could hear were the damp, warm sounds of our lips moving together. It filled my head and surged like blood in my ears. My heart thundered.
I couldn't be sure what Sherlock was thinking or feeling, but as we continued, his uninjured arm found its way around my neck, and I moved one hand behind his head, massaging his scalp with my thumb as my fingers worked their way into his hair...
Even with the memory of those moments, it's easy for me to get carried away. It all happened so seamlessly, that while we were in the middle of the kiss I didn't expect it to end. Unfortunately – and yes, I admit I was disappointed – it was over far too soon. Sherlock moved away from me, as rightly he should have, his lips parting from mine so very gently, brushing slowly against my chin. He laid his head once more against the pillow, working his body from underneath mine slightly.
I felt ready to take offence, but once the initial disappointment had passed, I realised that I had no need to. Sherlock was tired, and badly hurt; I'd forgotten that. The medical man's voice of reason inside me reminded me that he needed rest, and that I should let him have it.
My stomach felt heavy when I saw the small smile on his kiss-reddened lips as he drifted off to sleep.
Even after everything that happened, and in spite of my disbelief and embarrassment, I knew that I couldn't allow Sherlock to sleep unattended that night – not with Moriarty's threats so fresh in both our minds. I settled myself in the armchair at the foot of his bed, and fell asleep within the hour.
Sherlock told me later that he'd barely slept at all; that he tossed and turned, his memories of Moriarty plaguing his mind. But he'd feigned sleep so that I wouldn't be worried about him. He told me: if I hadn't been in the room, he would've been up and pacing the floorboards raw. I'm glad I stayed.
I slept pretty badly too that night – but not because of what had happened...more in spite of it. To tell the truth, that armchair was god-damned uncomfortable.
At least my uneasy night meant that I woke quite a bit earlier than usual the next morning – even before Sherlock for a change. I took the opportunity, before he could wake up and make any argument, to sneak out and make him breakfast in bed.
Look...I know how it sounds. But the kiss had no effect over this decision. I wanted to do something kind for him.
Well...OK, I did kind of hope that bringing him breakfast would give Sherlock an excuse to say anything negative about how he felt about the kiss. If he did – well, I was ready with a variety of possible excuses for my behaviour. I made the list in my head while I was boiling the kettle.
...I might as well be truthful. This is a journal, after all.
Taking that tray up to Sherlock's room was probably one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. Yes, including Afghanistan.
I was just scared – I didn't know what to expect. How could I? Normally, if I have feelings for someone – a woman – I go about it in the way that everyone probably does. A few quirky chat-up lines, buy her a drink, make a joke about my stupid haircut...It's easy enough.
Problem is: this time, I wasn't even sure of my own feelings, let alone his. I suppose I hoped he wouldn't say anything, that we could both just breeze past it as though it had never happened.
Otherwise, I hoped he would at least go easy on me. I didn't want to have to justify myself to him – probably wouldn't be able to justify myself to his high standards anyway.
I needn't have worried. In fact, my worries seemed totally pointless when I took the tray into Sherlock's room. The early morning light through the windows was truly beautiful, as I slipped through the doorway and saw him sat up in bed with the covers bunched up around his lap. He'd kept the bandages on, but had made some effort to comb his bedraggled hair from his face, and had retrieved his silk dressing-gown and draped it round his shoulders. He reached for the tray with a slightly mystified smile, and there was no mistaking the gesture: his long, nimble fingers brushed against mine as he took it from me.
From here on, I let the day pass in its own way – obliging Sherlock's orders to fingerprint the flat, clean up the bloodstains and get samples et cetera, so that Lestrade and his lot wouldn't have an excuse for an impromptu search. I even gave him some space while he talked through improved methods of security with Mrs Hudson, by going out for a brisk walk which I was relieved to be able to take. The crisp, fresh air really cleared my head, and it wasn't till I was halfway around the block that I realised just how stifling 221b had become in the past twelve hours.
I arrived back at the flat in the early evening, feeling that I'd indulged Sherlock's demands quite enough, and determined to talk about what had happened. I hated the idea, but it had to be done.
I found him seated in his usual armchair, dressed in an outfit not too different from what he was wearing the night before. He'd managed to conceal most of the bruising, apart from his head wound, which he'd removed the bandage from – out of vanity, most likely. The cut looked sore and livid-red, but the bleeding had stopped. I caught my bottom lip between my teeth at the sight of it.
Coming into the room, I made it quite plain that I wanted to talk about last night – meaning Moriarty's attack, that is. Sherlock's greeting was cut short.
"I can't talk about that, John. I want to, believe me, and I will, soon, but I find myself somehow...incapable, at the moment."
"Unwilling, you mean." I hadn't wanted to sound irritated, but I was. If he wouldn't talk about this, he probably wouldn't want to talk about...other things.
"Well, that's a slight exaggeration. I am willing. Just not yet."
"In that case...do you – do you want to talk about what happened between us, instead?"
The question hung awfully in the air. I turned my back to Sherlock, because I couldn't watch his reaction. I heard him sigh, and that was enough to crush me.
"That...would be even harder," he eventually replied, in a voice that was worryingly gentle.
I turned slowly to face him, seeing that he had stood up from the armchair, and had his arms folded around his waist – protectively? The skin covering his high, alabaster cheekbones was flushed, and his hawk-like eyes were unfocused. I knew that he wouldn't say anything more, and that felt like my cue to say all the things that had been welling up inside me since our kiss. This would be my only chance, and I had to get it right.
"I don't want to give you a false impression, Sherlock. And I know that you'll never want to be in a relationship, that you're 'married to your work'." Sherlock nodded curtly at this, but didn't meet my eye. "Honestly, I never expected anything to happen between us. I – just – wanted to show you – how much you mean – to me – and – then..."I couldn't finish the sentence. It was awful to stand through the silence that followed, knowing that I'd failed miserably at convincing Sherlock that the kiss meant nothing to me.
The look on his face – I'll never forget it. He looked so troubled, as if I'd just laid the weight of the world on him.
"You can say what you want to say, Sherlock – it doesn't matter."
Even though it did matter. And in spite of myself, I moved closer to Sherlock, raised my hands to him and began to stroke his upper arms, which were tense by his sides. It was just a friendly gesture - or so I told myself, whilst trying to ignore the definition of his muscles. I looked up at him – desperately, I'm ashamed to say. Needing him to look at me and talk to me, to acknowledge that I exist. To do anything. It really didn't matter.
Sherlock sighed again, slowly. I felt the warm air beat against my face, and breathed in sharply. Then his eyes met mine, and their focus was so intense, so sharp, that I felt consumed whole.
I must have been drowning. Because it felt like nothing I'd ever experienced before – like the oxygen was being starved from my lungs and my feet were losing hold of the ground.
Sherlock's warm, wet mouth was on mine again, lips open and forcing mine apart. I felt his tongue pressing into mine, and god it was such a sensation. All my other senses were worthless – touch was all I wanted, all I needed, all I craved. He was so insistent – but so was I. Our actions were so fraught; it's a wonder that we managed to stay upright. I gripped him tightly by the back of his head, pulling him as close as physically possible, and though I can't quite be sure where Sherlock's hands were, his grip was so self-assured, so decisive. Our mouths were grinding into each other with an amazing affinity, the movements were so synchronised, and Sherlock – he tasted...it was such a distinctive taste. Somehow, he tastes how he looks, how he thinks, how he acts. It was incredible.
It was unavoidable, but I was ashamed of my semi-erection when it started to press out from my trousers. It seemed to ruin the moment. I know, that sounds ridiculous. But even now, I feel the same. I tried so hard to make sure Sherlock didn't feel it; I was so sure it would ruin things.
But I couldn't really prevent it. When my hardness brushed against Sherlock's thigh, ending the kiss, he wasn't offended by it, as I thought he would've been. He just smiled. Smiled, and left the room.
Maybe he was trying to save me the embarrassment. Maybe he was playing hard to get.
I actually think it was something a lot more innocent: a lot more Sherlock – he wasn't ready for that to happen yet. But I hope that, someday, just like discussing the Moriarty attack, he will be.
Well – that's it. That's the story.
I was right, I hardly feel any better.
It's now been a few weeks since these events took place, and neither of us have spoken about them since. I suppose I should be happy with that: that we haven't tried to label what happened, or make excuses for it.
But I had to write it all down. I've been mulling it all over so much that I was starting to believe that I'd go mad with it all.
Sherlock and I are still a team. Still friends. Still everything else we were before. But now, for some unexplainable reason, some of our feelings towards each other can't be expressed with words. I know for me at least, it's because I'm scared to. Luckily, we've found other ways to – communicate.
Oh, that's Sherlock coming in now. Looks like I'll have to sign off here.
...He looks very tired. Might suggest an early night…for both of us.
Dr. John Watson