John smelled only Sherlock as he entered the flat. Sherlock's energy permeated every inch of the space. Today, it smelled dangerous; slightly chemical and threatening. John chose to tread lightly through the dark living room to the kitchen, not wishing to draw any attention from Sherlock until he could determine his mood.
A quiet rustling from the living room couch confirmed John's suspicions that Sherlock was, indeed, there. The fact that Sherlock hadn't greeted John upon his arrival didn't bode well. John inhaled slowly, quelling the curious urge to run from the flat. The small lamp beside the couch switched on, revealing his pale flatmate. Though his eyes and face were cast in shadow, John could imagine the dark circles beneath his eyes and the sweat on his brow. Sherlock was concentrating on something in his lap, seemingly unaware of John. Of course, that was far from true. Sherlock had certainly recognized the sound of his footsteps down on the street, and anything he did now was a show specifically for John.
Even as Sherlock flicked the needle, John could feel the fight welling up in him. Stop. It won't make a difference.Before he knew what he was doing he stormed into the living room, knocking the primed needle from Sherlock's shaking hands. Sherlock's eyes followed the drug to the floor, as if his enormous mind couldn't process what had just happened. John shifted from foot to foot, nervously awaiting the repercussions. Sherlock slowly lifted his face toward John, regarding him intensely and working muscles in his jaw and forearms as if in an effort to restrain himself from some word or action. Knowing Sherlock to be a man of little restraint, John shuddered to think what he was holding back.
John nervously broke eye contact and began upstairs without a word. A wave of exhaustion swarmed through him as he stepped toward his bed, pulling his shirt over his head and dropping it as he walked. A voice from the doorway stopped him in his tracks.
"John," Sherlock growled. John turned toward the dark figure just in time to see him rapidly advancing, a feral look in his eyes. Not good, not good. Sherlock backed John against the nearest wall, grabbing his hair tightly, holding his head against the wall. Very not good.His other hand crept around John's neck.
"Why do you care what I do?" Sherlock's voice was impossibly deep and menacing. His eyes seemed to clear momentarily as he studied John's panicked face, "what do you want?"
John couldn't speak, could hardly breathe. The cloud returned to Sherlock's eyes as he violently grabbed John's crotch, "is this what you want?"
John groaned and closed his eyes, but didn't reply. No. Stop. Run.
Sherlock, one hand still in John's hair, shook him once, as if trying to get a reply, "is it?" He began slowly, but firmly kneading his hand over John's jeans.
No. "Nuh...yes," John breathed. As the words left his mouth, Sherlock's hand began to aggressively undo John's belt buckle, followed by his own. The hand in John's hair pulled him to his knees and his mouth onto Sherlock's cock. John was too panicked and shocked to struggle. He brought his hands up to Sherlock's hips to steady himself as the hand in his hair violently jerked him back and forth. Low moans emanated from Sherlocks throat; moans that would have turned John on if he weren't under such duress. If things were different.
Abruptly, Sherlock released John and pushed him back onto his haunches. Run. Now. Why aren't you running? Sherlock chest heaved as he watched John, perhaps expecting allowing him to flee.
"Why?" he whispered to John. Because it's you.
When John didn't reply Sherlock roughly pulled him up again by the hair and threw him onto the bed. Anxiety fluttered up inside of John and he attempted to crawl off the bed. Sherlock was too quick for him, holding him down, turning him around. John froze when he heard Sherlock spit into his hand. Not like this.
"Sherlock, no. No, come on. Sher-," he tried twisting around to catch Sherlock's eyes. Why aren't you fighting? You can stop him. Then it was too late, and all he could do was breathe. Try to breathe. Breathe.
Sherlock awoke in his bed, his mind thin and detached and needing. Need. Need. Desire. Want. Needle. Anything. Now. He shifted onto his side to allow his eyes to focus on his room in the morning light. Trying to remember something, anything. There was something he needed to remember. Need. Want. Thirst. Needle. John. John! Oh, god, John!
He sprung up and ran into the living room. Couch. Floor. Needle. John. Everything smells like John. Where's John?
"John!" he yelled while frantically scrambling up the stairs to John's room. John's bed. John's bed.
But he already knew John wasn't there.