Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC and, of course, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just wish I could borrow him and John for a little while. How about it, Stephen? No? Oh well...
This latest Sherlock fic was in response to another prompt on the SH kink meme: Some bad guys break into 221 B and hold John at gunpoint/tie him up and force him to watch as they rape Sherlock.
Okay, basically, I promised a fill to this prompt ages ago, but that was before my mini break from writing. I started this and kind of left it, but now that I'm back, I thought I'd try and continue it. It won't be long, just a little three parter. Warnings for non con/rape/violence in later chapters. More coming very soon (I've nearly finished this story entirely). Oh, and its unbeta-ed so all mistakes are my own.
I hope you enjoy this!
Heroes Don't Exist
John was sitting in his favourite chair, his head thrown back, and his eyes closed. He was exhausted. It had been yet another long day, he had even had to make two house calls that evening before he had finally been able to make his way home, and put his feet up.
Or, maybe that was what should have happened. That was how a normal person would enjoy an evening in.
With his life the way it was, John should have known he had had no hope of actually being able to relax. He had only been home five minutes before Sherlock had started on him. Sherlock Holmes, easily the cleverest man John had ever known, but equally the most irritating. He was John's friend, that was true, but sometimes, just sometimes, John would happily had murdered the man. And today had been one of those days. Sherlock liked to make living with him as damn near impossible as he could every so often, it was like trying to share a flat with a crazy person, and John was fed up of walking on egg shells if Sherlock was in one of those moods. And that night had definitely been one of those impossible moments.
So many times over the last hour, John had asked himself why he put up with it. After the way he had just been treated, John knew, once and for all, that no special friendship could ever be worth this. Not even the friendship of Sherlock Holmes.
That evening, knackered and sore after his trying day, John had arrived home, calling out a cheery hello to Sherlock, and had then thrown himself down in his chair. Sherlock had not replied. This was nothing new or out of the ordinary though, and John was not concerned or surprised, or even put on his guard. He was certain that Sherlock was there, holed up in his bedroom, finding it to much effort to try and speak. His problem, as usual, was the fact that he had no work on. His friend had been bored out of his brain for some weeks, though thankfully this time the boredom didn't result in him shooting at Mrs Hudson's poor wall. He was, however, in a formidable temper. John usually chose, wisely, to keep out of Sherlock's way when the other man's mood became this dark, but he had refused to keep out of the way, like a naughty child, that night. John had worked so hard all day, whereas Sherlock had spent his time wasting away the hours at home all day, doing absolutely nothing, again. All John wanted to do was rest, and to forget all about the stress of the day, and have a nice, pleasant evening at home with his friend.
That was what he had wanted.
Of course, Sherlock usually had other ideas.
Sherlock had strode into the room, glared angrily at John, clearly unhappy the man was even there. He had then instructed John to keep the noise down to a bare minimum and to keep out of Sherlock's way because he was in the middle of a very delicate procedure and needed complete concentration. He had then enquired as to why John was not "seeing the girlfriend," and, not bothering to wait for a reply, he had gone on to state that, John may as well go and annoy her as he was simply not wanted at home right now. Then, Sherlock had marched back to his room and had slammed the door behind him.
John had stared, eyes wide, directly in front of him.
He had also decided a few seconds later that he was not going to go anywhere, that this was his flipping home too and he would do exactly as he wanted.
And now, John was sat, remote control to the television in his hand, and a second later, the soothing, or not so soothing, tones of Kat and Alfie invaded the peace and quiet as John settled down to watch Eastenders.
Mere moments later, Sherlock reappeared, his face flushed with anger. He didn't bother with any greeting or nicety, just simply crossed the room in two big strides, glared angrily at John and snapped; "Turn the bloody thing off!" When the taken aback John didn't respond to this instruction at once, Sherlock stormed across the room, and switched the television off himself.
"You might not have heard me, John. I said needed quiet!" Sherlock spat at the perplexed doctor. "I happen to be working on a particularly challenging experiment, and I don't need you here getting in the way, being as damned noisy as possible, and distracting me selfishly from what I've been trying to do all day! Alright?"
John stared at Sherlock, unblinking.
Then, very slowly and carefully, he responded.
"Hello, John. Had a good day? Yes, Sherlock, it's been okay, very busy. You? Oh, I've been doing nothing all day actually, John, and then I thought I'd wait for you to come home and then start having a go at you and shouting at you because I am a complete bastard!"
He screamed the last word with fury. He'd had enough.
Sherlock, who had been on his way back to his bedroom, stopped by the door, with one hand on the handle. He stayed perfectly still, looking over his shoulder, back at John, one eyebrow raised in puzzlement.
Finally, he replied, matter of factly, "Are you upset about something, John?"
John almost laughed. The whole thing was preposterous. Too many times he had been insulted or provoked by his friend simply by existing and, nine times out of ten, he let those insults and attacks go over his head.
Not today day though. No sir.
John covered his face with his hands, trying to calm himself down. "For God's sake, Sherlock!" He exclaimed; "Sometimes I think..." John had to break off, unable to put exactly what he was truly feeling at that moment into words. Eventually, he settled on asking Sherlock one tired, honest question, "Do you have any idea how upset I am right now, Sherlock? And, do you even care?" He paused. "Do you have it in you to care about anyone or anything else but yourself?"
Sherlock frowned, obviously unclear in how he was supposed to respond to the question.
John, for once, knew what he would be thinking.
We've covered this before, John. I have got a heart after all, remember? Even Moriarty noticed. And that's because of you. I care about you.
"I told you," he answered, though not very sure of himself. "I'm working. It's complicated, and I need..."
"I've been working too, Sherlock!" John threw back, at the end of his tether. "I've had really bad day, I'm tired, I'm stressed and I just needed you to be normal, just this once."
Sherlock frowned. He did not appreciate that comment, not one bit. He crossed his arms, and pouted. "Oh, I see. And what do normal people do?"
"Oh, I don't know, Sherlock." John barked, in response. He knew continuing the conversation was utterly pointless. Neither of them were in the mood. "Cook dinner, maybe?"
Sherlock had looked towards the kitchen, before looking back at John, his face blank. "There's nothing in the freezer."
"Then go shopping!" John gestured theatrically. "Get up, get dressed, and go down the shops! Just this once! It won't kill you!"
Sherlock gazed at John. He seemed to be thinking it over.
Finally, he replied.
"Shopping is boring."
John shook his head. "Look, I know you're bored. I know you haven't had a case for a while-"
"Twenty three days."
"I know!" John exclaimed. "And I know it's driving you, and then in turn me, mad. But something will turn up, Sherlock. It always does. Some horrific murder that Lestrade can't possibly solve without you. Just be patient!"
John stopped. He blinked once, wondering if he had heard him right. He looked quizzically at Sherlock.
Sherlock was actually looking away.
"Okay. Lets get a takeaway," John offered. "Indian?"
John wanted to hit him.
"Do you want to eat anything?"
"I don't eat."
"Well, I do."
"Go out then."
John closed his eyes tightly. "Sherlock, I worked late tonight. Its eight-fifteen. I'm fricking starving and Mrs Hudson is out at the theatre until after ten. So, what are we going to do for something to eat?"
Sherlock shrugged. "I don't care."
"Fine." John had had enough. What was the point? "That's just perfect. I'll go out by myself, shall I? Have a nice evening out all by myself. John Watson the sad loner. Thanks for nothing."
Sherlock watched him crossing the living room and throwing on his jacket. He just about managed to hold off the want to smirk.
Peace and quiet, at last.
"Say hello to Sarah for me," he called.
John, half way out the front door, looked back at him. "Who said anything about Sarah?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Don't you always go crying to her when you're annoyed with me?"
John glared at him, and obviously deciding that such a remark didn't even warrant an answer, he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.