Warnings: Mentions of sexual abuse, depression, self-harm and usage of drugs. If you're a fragile soul like me, I recommend not reading this chapter. I still wonder how I managed to write it without crying.
Author's note: If you've experienced something akin to the things mentioned in this chapter, and if you still suffer from it, do me and yourself a great big favour and please seek help! Don't throw your life away, you're beautiful and precious!
Here, finally, it is: chapter six. I apologise for the delay, our lives kept my beta and me both really busy. As usual, here comes my thank you for reading & I'm looking forward to hearing your opinions. Now, off you go; enjoy!
A Bit of a Domestic, Chapter six: Shattered
Sherlock realised he had made a mistake as soon as John left and he heard the door slam closed. But instead of running after him, apologising and maneuvering him back into their shared flat, he just sat there and stared, trying to will his heart to stop pounding relentlessly and painfully against his bones, reminding himself to breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Exhale. Exhale.
He sucked in a desperate breath, coughed and pressed his right hand to his sternum. The pressure snapped him out of his state of selfish grief. Selfish. Was he really so self-centered as to send his best friend away for something he couldn't help? And what good did it do him now?
Memories cut through his thoughts, memories he should have forgotten, deleted, but that he kept tucked away not only because deletion didn't apply to them, but because however painful, he treasured them, valued the pain they sent through him, relished the way they made his heart clench uncomfortably in his chest. He should have hated them and the heartbreak they brought. Instead he wanted, even needed the destructive force of them, the raging typhoon they unleashed inside of him.
"I can't do this yet, Vic, I'm not...ready," twenty-one-year-old Sherlock's voice said in the back of his head, and seven-years-older Sherlock in the here-and-now clenched his eyes shut tightly, drawing a shuddering breath, pressing shaking hands against his lips and heart.
Brown eyes gleamed at him, so full of understanding. "It's okay, love, it's all right. I can wait. For you, I'll wait," Vic's gentle voice said. A hand came up to caress Sherlock's cheek, a thumb following the sharp line of his prominent cheekbone.
Sherlock swallowed, shivered, gasped. He could physically feel the touch now; even after all this time, it was so distinctively real. A reassuring gesture that spoke of love and acceptance, yet it was so devastatingly painful.
"I have been hurt once, John," a voice that didn't sound at all like Sherlock's rich baritone said into the empty, lonely room, reverberating from the walls. "I can't do this a second time," Sherlock explained; reminded himself, unsuccessfully suppressing the tremor in his voice. It had been a long time since he'd felt this close to a breakdown, and he cherished the thought of shattering the poor remainders of himself, encouraged the memories to spill out of their hiding place and into the front of his mind.
Hands on his hips, demanding lips prying his mouth open. Giving in to the sensations, giving in to the love and acceptance that was Victor's touch.
Sherlock bit his bottom lip to stop a strangled cry from pouring out, a reaction uncalled for - unnecessary, useless emotion. Stupid, stupid.
"Love is a destructive force beyond your capability, Sherlock," Mycroft had once said. Oh, how right he was. Sherlock felt his body trembling, a shiver running up and down his spine, a chill claiming his heart. The hand above his sternum fisted the material of his shirt as more memories flooded his sharp mind.
Vic's strong hands on his back, pulling him in, their erections meeting through thick layers of clothing. Long fingers on the front of his jeans, unbuttoning them. Sherlock's own hands grabbing and stilling them firmly in place despite their shaking with want, need.
Clouded brown eyes, dark with lust, locked on his, questioningly. A spark of anger flashed in them. "Give me this." Vic's deep, demanding voice.
Sherlock's eyes shot open, his long, pale fingers disappearing in his dark curls, grabbing them, pulling with all his strength. He cried out, heart stuttering to a halt for the briefest moment, only to pound against his chest with redoubled force.
"I've waited seven months for you, Sherlock. You owe me this." The voice was calm and demanding, sending a cold shiver down Sherlock's spine.
"I can't, Vic, I'm not-" Victor cut him off, pressing his mouth to Sherlock's, sucking his bottom lip between his own.
Sherlock shivered, heart jumping in fear at the memory of being lost and in bittersweet anticipation of what had been about to happen.
"Enough," Victor's suddenly cold voice said sharply as his lips and teeth stopped abusing Sherlock's mouth.
Sherlock felt a surge of fear course through him and bit his bottom lip violently enough to draw blood. It tasted metallic on his tongue but he didn't pay it much mind.
"Enough with the games and the cock-teasing. Give me this," Vic demanded, strong hands on Sherlock's shoulders, fisting the material of his tee-shirt, shaking him slightly.
"And if I don't?" Sherlock said, lifted his chin in a sudden attempt to appear strong-willed, to seem taller, to be protective of himself.
Vic grinned, slowly, almost lazily and licked his lips. "I'll have you either way, love," he said and stroked a thumb over Sherlock's cheek, "You can either give it, or I'll take it. Your choice, darling. Choose wisely."
Sherlock was faintly aware of shameful tears, but he couldn't bring himself to care. It wasn't as if he had any dignity left to lose, nor anyone to lose it to.
He cried out in pain as Vic slammed him face first into the floor. A sharp knee dug into his back, keeping him down, and he groaned. Strong hands reached around him, opening the remaining buttons of his faded jeans and jerking them down along with his pants. Sherlock's own hands pressed against the rough carpet on either side of his head, trying to lift himself enough to breathe.
The sound of a zipper and the rustling of clothes made him struggle to roll free, to look at Vic's face and know this was all a mistake, to remember that Vic loved him and - surely Sherlock had it all wrong. He wasn't experienced, not like Vic, but this...this felt wrong. But Vic, his loving, understanding, caring Vic, he wouldn't. He'd stop, get up and grin playfully at Sherlock, and he'd say it was just a cocaine-infused joke.
But then Vic lowered himself, straddling Sherlock's legs, forcefully holding down his upper body with one hand as the other pushed the head of his erection into him - and suddenly it was too late to fight.
A sharp, burning pain ripped through him, and he cried out until he was hoarse but Vic didn't stop. Tears of pain and anger pooled at the corners of Sherlock's eyes. He didn't want this. Vic loved him, Vic, who was always so understanding and gentle. This was, had to be, some kind of mistake.
Sherlock's hands finally let go of his hair and he planted the soles of his feet on the seat of his armchair, pulling his long limbs in close and encircling them with his arms, locking his long fingers around his wrists to keep them in place. He buried his face in the hollow between his bony knees and felt the soft, black wool of his trousers grow damp in the spots right above them.
Vic ground into him deeper, harder, relentlessly picking up the pace. The deep pain never faded, never lessened, but worse was the pain in his heart. He had trusted Victor, had accepted his love and had loved him back with all his heart, soul, and - worse yet - with his mind.
"Don't, Vic, please, stop this, please." He clawed at the carpet, trying to get enough leverage to roll and throw Victor off him, clenching his jaw and squeezing his eyes shut when he couldn't. It didn't make the hurt any more bearable, but at least he was trying and that made him feel not so pathetic. He heard Victor laugh, felt fingers digging into his hips hard enough to bruise, and Vic - sweet, patient Vic - pounding into him ruthlessly, taking, plundering, ripping him open and apart.
An eternity later, Vic groaned and ejaculated, and the pounding finally stopped. He pulled out wetly and let go of Sherlock's bony hips. The moment the heavy weight of Vic's body was removed, Sherlock shuddered, the loss of body heat making goose-flesh rise all over his arms and back. Chilled to the core, wet, confused, and hurt as he was, he desperately wanted the old Vic to comfort him, and hated himself for that.
"See? Not so bad. You had to get it over with sometime," Vic said. Sherlock pressed his face into the carpet and heard rather than saw him pull up his pants and trousers and exit the dorm room, leaving the Brilliant One behind, broken, shivering and crying on the inside.
"I learned to never trust anyone," Sherlock mumbled into his knees, a part of him still talking to John, explaining everything to him, desperately hoping his words would reach him, "especially if they put on a show of affection and acceptance. I won't be used again. But I trust you, John. I know you're different. But still it... all this... scares me." He swallowed around the lump in his throat and lifted his head to gaze at John's empty armchair. It seemed to taunt him. "To love is to destroy, Sherlock. To be loved, is to be the one destroyed," he repeated Mycroft's words, echoing in his head.
Sherlock clenched his jaw, unsuccessfully fighting off loneliness. He hung his head again. "John is different," he mumbled to himself, "John would not - he protects me, he cares for me, he-" Sherlock clamped down on that thought harshly.
The scene played out in front of him again, but Victor's dark, chocolate brown eyes and languid, promising smile were replaced with clear, ocean-coloured irises and a familiar half-frown-half-smile that mirrored John's worry and fondness for Sherlock.
He shook himself out of it, pulling strands of his hair with all the force he could muster. "No, no, no, no, no," he shouted, "not true, that wasn't John, John didn't do that to you, John would never, John is there to catch you when you fall, John is - John is - he's-" His voice broke as he remembered what John was. "Gone. John is...gone. You made him turn his back on you. Much like you made anyone else leave. Because you thought you're better off alone. Because you thought being alone would protect you from getting hurt. But if other's don't hurt you, the loneliness will. You can't...mustn't be alone. You're dangerous when you're alone." He took several shuddering breaths at the end of his monologue and bit his lip again, long fingers massaging his temples. John would come back. He was bound to come back. Wasn't he?
"John, John, John, come home, don't leave me, please," he murmured into the emptiness. "Oh please, I'm so sorry, come back, I need you, I-"
He didn't let himself finish this train of thought. Instead, he shoved himself up and out of his chair, rubbing the sleeves of his plum-coloured shirt over his eyes and, with shaking legs, stalked across the room and into the bathroom.
He looked at himself in the mirror over the sink and frowned. Ugly, broken, you did this to yourself, you let this happen, you're worthless.
Anger surged through him, adrenaline pumping through his veins, giving him strength. He smashed his fist into the mirror and shattered his reflection, sending shards of glass flying through the tiled room and boring into the white skin of his hand.
The pain was good, much better than the other kind. It was calming. He revelled in it, closed his eyes and enjoyed the clarity. He enjoyed the silence, this different kind of pain stopping the memories and the feeling of being lost and lonely and broken, stopping the voices deafening him.
He stared at his bleeding hand, mesmerised, feeling the blood roll warmly and soothingly over his pale skin, watching it drip onto the white porcelain of the sink. He smiled, breathing in and out calmly, peacefully.
It felt better than any hit of cocaine he'd ever had, better than any trip he'd experienced. More calming, more peaceful. He'd never felt so alive before.
He delicately stretched his fingers and plucked a shard of the mirror, eyeing it gratefully and smiling. He closed his eyes, took in a shuddering breath, and came to a decision. This was enough, finally, certainly enough, and he wouldn't go on like this. He didn't have to. The solution was right there, in his hand.
He opened his eyes and watched as the shard dug a sharp edge into his pale skin right at the pulse point of his left wrist, drawing blood. It was beautiful, his blood, the way it welled up and poured out from under his skin. So warm, so dark.
He dipped his tongue into the small wound, tasting his own blood. It reminded him of portions of his past he treasured, truly valued. It tasted like warm milk and honey, his mother's cure for sleepless nights.
Suddenly he was cold and shivering. He shut his eyes and swallowed deliberately. The chill faded and was replaced by warmth, welcomed, treasured, beloved warmth. It felt like Mummy's embrace, like her kiss to his forehead, like her voice whispering reassurances into his ear, telling him he was her treasure, the best thing that had ever happened to her, her gorgeous, beloved little boy.
"Never be afraid, Sherlock. I will always be there."
He dropped the shard, eyes widening with shock and utter disbelief. What was he thinking? What was he doing? He couldn't do this to himself. He couldn't do this to Mummy, who had always wanted him to live a long and happy life. He couldn't do this to John, who protected him to ensure just that. John. Oh, John. You're a healer. Come back and fix me.