Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle & the BBC. Lucky things.
Hi again! Yep, I know I said I was going to have a rest, but I actually couldn't stop writing! This fandom has grabbed me more than any has ever done before :D
So, I've decided to write a series of Oneshots. They will all be linked, and will be continuing the story started in Worthless. My main plan is to move John and Sherlock's relationship (whatever that may be!) forward, and also to see how Sherlock recovers from his rape. (If you haven't, you really need to read Worthless first before starting this, or it won't make a lot of sense :D) Some of the oneshots will be slashy, some won't be, but they will all be very angsty and dark! I don't really do fluff! This one has John/Sherlock comfort and some pretty hardcore pre-slash. The next one will feature Moriarty. Bit nervous about writing him but hopefully it will go okay! I'll probably aim to update every 2 weeks or so, but it might be sooner than that, depends how the muse hits me!
I just wanted to say thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter of Worthless. All of your comments meant a lot to me! To all of you who followed the story from beginning to end, this is for you!
Thanks to Wounded_Melody over on LJ for being so awesome! Love you!
Right then, please enjoy this! Any feedback would be great! *Grins*
Best Intentions 1 - Need
John yawned and closed his eyes. He rolled over, and then back again. It did him no good. It was hopeless.
What time is it? Four a.m. Oh God. I can't keep going over this in my mind. I need to sleep.
I should go back to my own bed. He's not screaming any more.
He sighed. In Sherlock's room, or his own, it would make no difference. His mind wouldn't rest, it didn't want too.
Not when there was so much to think about.
It had seemed like such a good idea at the time.
The suggestion had come from Mycroft, originally. That should have been the first warning sign for John. Why hadn't he argued more with the other man? Why hadn't he fought him?
"It's not healthy for Sherlock to stay inside," Mycroft had informed John earlier that evening. It seemed so long ago now. Mycroft had surprised them with one of his infrequent, but always completely unwanted, visits since it had happened. "Take him out, Dr. Watson. Have some fun. Both of you could do with a little relaxation time."
And he'd given John one hundred pounds. Just like that.
And John had nodded wearily. After all, just as with Sherlock, what point was there in saying the word no to Mycroft. He wouldn't have listened anyway. And besides, if John had been honest with himself, he had also been very concerned by Sherlock's recent erratic behaviour.
Since Anderson's arrest, and subsequent disappearance, Sherlock had hardly left their home. Only one man seemed to have the power to force Sherlock out. Unless he had heard that telling beep from his phone, alerting him to yet another text message, he had stayed inside, staring at his phone, not speaking a word, waiting, and hoping, for the latest challenge from Moriarty to get off the ground. Oh yes, Sherlock had certainly been kept busy by his favourite foe. It had seemed that his best friend's nemesis had been missed Sherlock somewhat. He had allowed him some time to get over his "misfortune," as Moriarty had described the attack in a text, and he had then found himself desperate for the Detective and him to resume their "contest."
And, to begin with, the game had apparently done Sherlock some good. That strength, the fighting spirit that had laid mainly dormant in his friend since that night had dramatically re-awakened, and Sherlock had risen to Moriarty's requests of him. He had done nothing but chase around that first week, John by his side of course, and together they had solved apparently impossible cases and riddles, leading Lestrade to a killer and a gang of dangerous thieves. They had even saved an innocent young boy's life, by discovering that his step father was the lowest of the low and had been using the boy for shocking, sick, scientific experiments. Experiments Moriarty had been funding. John had been disgusted. But Sherlock had been excited and exhilarated by what they had discovered, and what he saw as a victory. He had seemed almost buoyant, and John had actually dared to hope that, despite a couple of slip ups, he and Sherlock were, cautiously, moving in a forward direction. He'd even managed to convince Sherlock to talk about Anderson once or twice.
But then, all the excitement had come to an abrupt end. Moriarty had quieted down, and Sherlock had withdrawn into himself again, keeping low, only speaking to John, Mrs. Hudson, and, to his friend's great irritation, Mycroft. Although, especially with the latter, he had had very little choice.
Four days had passed by without a word from Moriarty, and Sherlock had quickly become bored. And boredom certainly brought out the worst in his friend.
It had taken all of John's efforts just to try and convince Sherlock to leave his room. Even Mrs. Hudson, despite her enthusiasm, had given up trying to entice Sherlock out with promises of food or a nice glass of Tesco's best white wine. She was still recovering from her own ordeal obviously, and John was touched that, despite her own pain and fears, her main concern was still Sherlock's well being. John knew he couldn't be surprised that Sherlock wanted to lock himself away, hide from them all, from the whole world. Sherlock was a rape victim. He wasn't used to being the one people wanted to look out for. It was going to take time. The longer Sherlock had to sit and ponder about what had happened to him, searching for the hows, whens and the whys with that incredible mind of his, the worse his mood would become. Because there was nothing to deduce. There were no more questions to ask.
It had happened. That was all there was to it. And Anderson was gone. Sherlock would never get an explanation now.
Something John had not been very grateful to Mycroft for. Of course, Mycroft had never mentioned that Anderson's sudden vanishing act was his doing, but John knew better. The man had simply ceased to exist. Only someone very important indeed had the power to do that. Someone like Mycroft.
Now, John was stuck. It had been all right when Sherlock could throw his whole being into playing Moriarty's game, but now Moriarty had tired of their latest round, or had found a more important game to play, and had left Sherlock alone, albeit probably temporarily.
John frowned. He didn't like it. He didn't like how happy Sherlock was to play Moriarty's game. It was as if his friend had become a pawn himself. And John could not forget Moriarty's threat, although it now seemed like a life time ago it was issued:
"I will burn the heart out of you."
Whatever game Moriarty was playing, and whatever his plans were for Sherlock, John knew that this could not end well.
Though, John knew why Sherlock had become so engrossed in outsmarting Jim. When Moriarty was on his mind, Sherlock didn't have to think about his torment. And now that Moriarty had slipped back into the shadows, now that his friend's mind was clear once more, and all he had to concentrate on was again only his horrific ordeal. John knew the night of the rape haunted Sherlock at all times. The memories, the pain, the despair. They revisited the Detective frequently. Sherlock would become fidgety, and would suddenly become silent in the middle of a conversation. And John knew why only to well. And there was nothing he could say to help his friend.
He would have to live with those memories always. All John could hope for was that Sherlock continued to fight, continued to live.
And there were the dreams. Oh God, the dreams.
Sherlock still suffered at night. Every so often, violent night terrors would seize the anguished man, and the moans and whimpers would turn into loud, terrified screams. Those screams still cut into John like a knife. He would still go into Sherlock's room, lay down on the bed beside him, and hold his hand tightly. Sherlock would wake up, scared and sweating, his throat sore, and he would cling onto John, and John would let him, because Sherlock needed to feel him there, needed that closeness, and the comfort. John had made a silent oath that he would always be happy to provide Sherlock with whatever he needed.
That had been four days ago. Three nights of nightmares.
That very same night had been no different. In fact, it had been worse. That night, the terrors had been horrific. Sherlock had screamed until he could scream no more. John had left his own room, as normal, and had crept into Sherlock's. He had held his friend's hand, put an arm around him, and held him until the shouting and violent tremors had stopped. Sherlock had relaxed finally, he had even managed not to wake himself up. John could only hope his dreams were more peaceful now. John rested his hand on Sherlock's back, careful not to wake his friend. Sherlock didn't even stir.
The doctor sighed.
No matter what, he would always be there for him.
John recalled that four days ago, Mycroft had visited. And Sherlock had point blank refused to talk to him, or even see him. He had been in one of his most obstinate moods and both Mycroft and John knew it would be impossible to talk Sherlock round when he was in that kind of mindset. And then, realizing Mycroft had not left at once, Sherlock had begun to throw objects around his room, shouting obscenities about his brother. Crueler and more vicious than ever. Worst of all, he had yelled that the rape had been Mycroft's fault. That Mycroft could have stopped Anderson, prevented it from happening, if he'd chosen to.
Mycroft had paled, then gotten angry. John had apologized to Mycroft, making excuses for Sherlock and his crazed mood.
Mycroft had been very unimpressed, however.
"He needs professional help, Dr. Watson," he had stated. Showing no emotion, Mycroft's voice had been stern, his face hard and cold. Suddenly, this was just business. "Shall I arrange it, or will you?"
John had pleaded with Mycroft just to allow him some more time. He had informed Mycroft that it had not even been two weeks since that night, and Sherlock just needed time to come to terms with what that bastard had done. Mycroft had frowned at him. He had reminded John, quite curtly, that he did have his brother's best interests at heart, and he could provide the most expensive, the most expert care.
John had crossed his arms over his chest.
"No one cares more than I do, Mycroft."
Mycroft had asked him to prove it, had ordered John to get Sherlock out of that damned room and make him into something normal. He wanted proof that Sherlock was not losing his senses, not after managing to fight back so strongly, not only against Anderson, but the Butcher also. Mycroft had been impressed with his brother's mettle. He had wanted that to continue. At any cost.
"I won't let him lose himself now, Dr. Watson." Mycroft had leaned forward, speaking quietly now. "Even if I have to send him away to help him, I will not let Anderson win. For Sherlock's sake."
John had felt so small. How could he stand by and let Mycroft take Sherlock to some hospital or clinic? Sherlock would despise every second of it. He knew Mycroft had wanted to help, but it was simply not the way. He had to make the elder Holmes see that.
So, he had appealed to Mycroft.
"Let me try. Please."
And Mycroft had considered. Finally, John had won.
"It's not healthy for Sherlock to stay inside. Take him out, Dr. Watson. Have some fun. Both of you could do with a little relaxation time. And prove to me that you can help him get through this with no outside assistance. Do I make myself clear?"
John had nodded and thanked Mycroft. He knew it meant a lot that the older man was putting so much faith in him. He would not let him, or Sherlock, down.
After receiving the one hundred pounds from him, very graciously, John had promised Mycroft that he would take Sherlock out that night, just the two of them. He'd made up his mind that he would take Sherlock to the West End and find a bar. He knew Sherlock would hate it, and probably him, but he wouldn't take no for answer. Mycroft had been right. They both needed to do something normal, something friends were supposed to do. Not running around London, searching for the answer to the latest puzzle an insane genius had set for them.
A normal bar. A normal night. Some drinks, some music, some conversation.
That had been the plan.
What had he been thinking?
John closed his eyes.
That bar. Why couldn't he have chosen a different bar?
It was all his fault.
Sherlock awoke with a start. As usual, he was sweating. He couldn't remember if he had been dreaming. He imagined he had, especially after the night he'd had.
He glanced to his right and saw John. His friend was curled up, face towards Sherlock. He had his eyes closed; Sherlock assumed he was asleep.
Then he felt the touch of the man's hand, grasping his own.
He had been screaming, then.
He sighed again .
Great plan, John. Good thinking.
Sherlock covered his face with his hands.
It had all started so brightly. John, after some effort, had persuaded him to go out, to have a normal evening, with a few drinks. He had felt it would have been rude not to have spent Mycroft's money. They had found a bar in Soho and the night had gotten off to a not too intolerable start. The boy, Jonas, and the girl, Amara, had both been pleasant enough. Their conversation had been trivial, of course, but entertaining all the same. Sherlock had deduced who the pair were, where they were from, what they did for a living, who their family was, and how much longer they were likely to be together for. John had enjoyed his deductions and Sherlock had thought that their new acquaintances had too. Jonas especially had seemed impressed. But Sherlock must have been slightly off because there had been something he had definitely not deduced. Forgivable, seeing as the man had been in the bar with his girlfriend. And he had seemed very fond of her. But there he had been, in the men's toilets, smiling, moving towards Sherlock. Coming onto him. And they had been alone. He had touched Sherlock, had groped him. He had reached for Sherlock's belt, edging him towards a cubicle, telling him it would be good, to just go with it... Sherlock remembered the feeling of utter panic and terror that had swelled up from deep within him, recalled how he had backed away, and how the confused young man had followed him, asking him what was wrong. Sherlock had called for John. The man had grabbed for him, pleading with him to stay calm and to keep his voice down. And then Sherlock had hit out, punching the man in the face, hard. And then again. The man had fallen. There had been blood, blood on the walls, in the sinks, on Sherlock's fists.
Finally, Sherlock had stopped. He'd stared down at the man lying dazed at his feet, groaning pitifully. What had he done? It had been a misunderstanding. That was all. The man had assumed that Sherlock had been propositioning him. He had meant no harm. And Sherlock had hurt him.
Sherlock had hated himself, hated his actions.
A freak... worthless...
He had heard those words again, as if Anderson was beside him, hissing them into his ear.
You want to know what you are good for?
He hadn't been able to take it. The guilt.
So, he had run. He had left that poor man lying on the floor. But he had to get away, he had to get out. The room was so small, he was trapped, he couldn't breath. He had run as fast as he could, out of the men's room, out of the bar.
It had been John calling desperately for him that had made him pause.
Then they had talked. John had apologized, said it was too soon. He had calmed Sherlock down, held him, told him it was all going to be okay.
Though Sherlock was certain that neither of them truly believed that.
Together, they had returned to that bar. John had tended to the injured Jonas. He was going to be fine. Not as badly hurt as Sherlock had first thought. Just a bloody nose and a cut lip. To Sherlock, it had all looked so much worse. He had imagined it to be worse. Jonas had actually apologized to him for jumping to the wrong conclusion. He had also promised that he wouldn't press charges.
And then he had shaken Sherlock's hand.
Maybe there were some good people out there, if he looked hard enough...
Or, maybe the young man was more concerned about the very uncomfortable conversation he would have to have now with his poor perplexed girlfriend...
Soon after, John and Sherlock had found themselves in a taxi, at last on their way home.
John had apologized all the way. It had quickly become annoying. As soon as they had arrived back, Sherlock had made his excuses and had gone straight to bed.
The next thing he'd known, he had woken up.
In bed. With his best friend. Oh, how people would talk.
Let them. They like to talk.
Sherlock, smiling at a distant memory, glanced again at John. The man was so close to him, close enough to lean forward and kiss if he wanted to.
What is it with the kissing? It wasn't that good a kiss!
He laid there, not moving. Urges were taking hold of him. Very unexpected urges.
Without even realizing what he was doing, Sherlock allowed his hand to slide down and over the slight bulge in his boxer shorts. As if testing to see if it would still respond, he slowly guided his hand inside his boxers and took hold of his slightly aroused organ. Feeling himself harden, he had a sudden urge to masturbate.
Not now. Not here in bed with his friend.
Feeling as guilty as a teenager, he withdrew his hand and sighed deeply. He had never felt another person touching him there out of love. He wondered what it felt like.
Unbeknown to Sherlock, John had actually been awake for the last hour or so, and knew only too well what had just almost happened. He understood what Sherlock really wanted, what he longed so much for. Sherlock needed to feel some kind of physical love. A kiss was no longer enough.
John hesitated. What was he thinking? What if he scared Sherlock? What if his friend mistook his intentions?
Another voice whispered to John. And the voice made sense.
He doesn't trust anyone but you. If you won't satisfy him, if you won't show him kindness, then who will?
John took a deep breath and then slowly reached down. He was only a hair's length away from Sherlock, it was only a matter of slipping his hand between them...
John paused again.
What the hell was he doing?
Sherlock could feel John's hand getting so close to his manhood, and when that hand stopped moving, he felt a crushing disappointment. He wanted to cry out in frustration. It was then he knew, with absolute clarity, that he wanted John to touch him. He wanted to feel something other than fear and shame. So, he took hold of John's hand, guided it, and placed it against his now throbbing cock. He wondered how John would react. He didn't have to wait long.
John gently began to stroke and Sherlock moaned with pleasure. At once, it felt good. Very good.
Hearing Sherlock's moans, which to John were proof that he was enjoying what John was doing, he became more daring. His hand moved to take a firmer hold on Sherlock's boxers and he gave them a tug, sliding them down Sherlock's legs. He paused for a second, waiting to see if Sherlock protested. When there was no protest forthcoming, John once again began stroking Sherlock's cock. He frowned; he had absolutely no experience in giving another man a hand job. However, hearing Sherlock's groans intensifying, John knew he was doing something right. Within seconds, Sherlock was thrusting furiously into John's hand.
I want this to be good for him. I want him to know how this should really feel, how loving this can be. No pain or fear. Not this time.
Sherlock knew he wouldn't last for much longer. He was panting, his thrusts erratic and frantic. Before he knew what was happening, he was coming into John's hand. His body trembled hard as his orgasm washed over him, and then finally, it was over.
John leaned down, and gave Sherlock a gentle kiss on the lips. He then moved back slightly and stared up at the ceiling, breathing hard.
Both men just lay there. Neither of them knew what to say.
Sherlock recovered first. Almost mechanically, he reached out, his hand moving towards John's groin. John grabbed his hand, stopping him.
"Don't," he told him.
Sherlock looked confused. "You don't want pleasure too?" He looked down. "I know I haven't... but I can..." He stared directly in John's eyes. "I learn quickly."
John's heart leaped. Oh Sherlock.
"This was about you," he told him. "It was about what you needed. It wasn't about me."
Sherlock frowned. "It was my fault. I shouldn't have forced you to-".
John sat up. "Forced me?" He bit back, loudly.
Sherlock recoiled away from him.
John swore silently, then he reached out and pulled Sherlock closer to him. He wondered if Sherlock would resist. He didn't. If anything, he returned the embrace.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John told him. "But I don't want to hear any more about how you forced me to do anything, or how you let Anderson rape you. Neither are true. I wanted to do it. I wanted you to know what sex, and making love, is really all about. How good it could feel for you. What Anderson did to you, that was as far away from love as it's possible to be. I wanted you to understand that sex, when it's true, and real, isn't really like that."
Sherlock blinked. "But John, you-".
John sighed. "I don't know what else to say, Sherlock. I'm confused right now too, believe me. We'll have to talk about this in the morning." He hesitated. "If you want too, obviously."
Sherlock felt safe and warm in John's arms. He knew he should feel awkward and pathetic, but he didn't. And he didn't really understand why.
Yes. They would have lots to talk about. Mainly, where the hell was all this going?
Sherlock closed his eyes, facing away from John now.
John continued to stare at his best friend, trying to sort out the mess in his head.
What is it about Sherlock? Why exactly is he so fascinating? Why the hell did I want to touch him like that? I'm not gay, but at the same time, I want to be there for him... What is happening?
And why exactly am I still staring at him?
John turned over, facing away from Sherlock. He closed his eyes, but he knew it was no good, tiredness had left him. There was too much on his mind now. It would be morning soon. Until then, he'd lay there and pretend he was asleep. Just in case Sherlock wanted to discuss anything now. Morning would be better.
What John was completely unaware of was that Sherlock, lying with his back to his friend, was staring, wide awake, at the wall in front of him. And also keeping very quiet.
They stayed like that until John's alarm went off. It was seven a.m. Time to rise.
They didn't speak.
Everything would be clearer in the morning? Right?
John had to leave for work. He flipped around, ate a slice of toast, drank a quick mug of coffee, and at all times, avoided Sherlock's questioning gaze.
John was going to be late. No time now.
He called out a quick goodbye.
Tonight. I'll talk to him tonight. Over dinner.
He left, leaving Sherlock to stare, expressionless after him.
Sherlock was in a quandary. No. Where have you gone?
He considered going after John, to make him discuss this, when a mobile phone beeped.
Sherlock stopped. He turned around, looking towards the table. He moved forward, picked up his phone, and then smiled with satisfaction.
"Just you and me this time. Meet me. 23A Ash Line Court. I don't have to tell you to come alone, do I? One hour. Kisses, M. xx
Sherlock was already moving to pick up his coat.
Everything else was forgotten. Unimportant.
Moriarty was back.
Series to continue in Best Intentions 2 - Temptation. Coming soon!