Work Text:
V.
“What's that?” John gestures at Sherlock's phone.
“A text from Molly.” Sherlock pauses but John does not respond. “She has a corpse, two holes on the neck, cause of death exsanguination.”
“Molly is a very capable young woman.”
“Yes.”
“I'm sure she'll handle it just fine. Probably only bringing it to you instead of Lestrade because she's worried about you.”
Sherlock remains silent. This does not stop John from speaking.
“You need to stop exploiting her crush on you, Sherlock. It's not right. She deserves better.”
Sherlock understands what this is. Of course he does. He notes his new understanding of the world; Molly is off limits for the foreseeable future.
“Anyways, if you're bored, I can think of something entertaining for us to do.”
I.
John sits at the end of his hospital bed. “Sherlock, what you said earlier... about Mary. Do you really believe that?”
He's entitled. I killed his wife.
“It's the truth.”
John sucks in a sharp inhale of breath. “Good, good. I'm glad we understand each other.” John pats the bed like he's slapping his leg or petting a dog. He leaves without another word.
III.
Mycroft hits the edge of the subject's abdomen, making Sherlock the winner by default. He always had steadier hands, anyways.
“I hear you and Dr. Watson have taken your relationship to the next level. Should I expect a spring wedding?” Mycroft is lilting, mocking.
Sherlock came to their encounter with a split lip and a small cut on his cheekbone.
The use of the word “wedding” is deliberate by Mycroft. He knows why Sherlock is doing this. The only open question is whether his brother's more paternalistic urges will hurt John.
He evades.
“I don't think we're the marrying type.”
Mycroft hums.
II.
John is back at Baker street. He's moved back in, a couple of boxes and a suitcase already upstairs in his room. Sherlock didn't invite him, but that's fine. John is entitled to return at anytime. This is his home, too.
Sherlock nods, a subtle incline. “Welcome back, John.”
John wasn't relaxed when Sherlock entered his home. He was tense and had obviously been standing for at least an hour. Still, upon hearing Sherlock speak, his agitation transforms to a simmering, subtle anger.
“Sherlock.” He looks him directly in the eye. “Kneel.”
He is suddenly aware that he left the door open. He wants to ask John to close it, to make sure that Mrs. Hudson doesn't see. That even if he owes John whatever this is, he doesn't owe him another public admission of guilt. He doesn't, of course.
But John walks over, shuts and bolts the door. Sherlock wonders if the ritualized humiliation is his penance, or if John intends another beating without the pretense of him fighting back. His ribs are still bruised, but there's no internal injuries. Fellatio crosses his mind, and he dismisses it just as quickly – John isn't above some cruelty but he's not the type.
John walks back, almost leisurely, and proceeds to backhand Sherlock across the face. His knuckle catches Sherlock's cheekbone. It's not good form and it must hurt John nearly as much as Sherlock.
“You're not going to fight back, are you?”
Sherlock nods a silent agreement.
“Good, good.”
IV.
At first, it's all over the clothes. The violence and the sex. One day John has him strip off his shoes and socks and he beats the soles of his feet with his belt. It's not the worst pain Sherlock has ever felt, it's not getting shot or tortured, but it's remarkable nonetheless. Sherlock honestly believes it's over when John grunts, “take off your shirt.”
Despite the adrenaline crash and the complication, Sherlock steadily unfastens his button-up and lets it slide onto the floor. John walks behind him, circling. Sherlock stares forward, does not move to anticipate the threat.
John inhales audibly when he sees the scarring. And why shouldn't he? Sherlock had kept it a secret for over a year. “What happened? Sherlock?”
Sherlock doesn't answer. He still feels strong in his conviction that he owes John any repayments he asks for – Mary gave him a life debt. He wouldn't be sitting here, prepared to stumble on bruised feet into John's bed otherwise. This still gives him pause, being asked to relay the worst memory of his adult life that John was unaware of. Thankfully, the solution comes a moment later.
“You know what? Don't tell me.”
A few seconds later John proceeds with the beating. He had hoped – foolishly – that John may skip ahead to their evening activities instead.
VI.
At this juncture, all of John's sexual desires are tied to Sherlock's discomfort. When he first met Sherlock, the idea of just perhaps having his first real relationship with a man was enticing, overwhelming. Sherlock's virginity, lack of romantic history only made it more appealing; he wouldn't be the awkward, inexperienced bisexual, but rather the suave, worldly partner who got to watch his lover truly discover himself. He always thought men who dated far younger women were crass but when he thought about Sherlock he found himself with a new understanding of the underlying desire. Still, he always imagined vanilla sex, maybe at the most risque a light spanking.
This... is not what he imagined.
He didn't imagine the heady rush of arousal every time Sherlock submitted to an insane or offensive sexual request. The way he throbbed when Sherlock failed to hide a stiffening of his muscles or the clench of his jaw or the flash of fear in his eyes. Increasingly, none of it felt real. He wasn't psychotic; he knew he wasn't in a movie or on the telly. But he felt like an actor playing a role, felt like he wasn't quite touching the earth, felt like there were no consequences to his actions. He would look at the bed he was fucking Sherlock on and see that it looked too clean, too artfully tousled and a little ethereal, just like the beds in movies. If this was a film, he wasn't sure who would watch it.