Privilege
“Want yours?” John was already stirring milk and sugar into her tea, the question part of the morning patter. The mug sits in front of her for a moment, steam curling. Mary is staring at him. He checks his watch. “I’ll be off—surgery schedule’s full and—”
“My love,” Mary is using that tone again. The one that steers John to conversations he’d rather not have.
“What did I tell you about that stick, Mary?”
“You alright?”
“Your past is yours. Mine is mine. Our future is ours.” He takes his own tea in the to-go container, drops a kiss to her hair, and scrams out the door before they can get into it again.
John is barely down the street before his phone vibrates in his pocket. It’s Mary.
This isn’t your past. Maybe it was when we first met but John…he came back.
John sighs, squints up at the sky, and feels more than he’d like to.
Baker Street. 5PM. I know you’re free. SH
Something sour curls in John’s stomach. His lips itch, the phantom touch of a kiss still there.
Mary says it’s okay. SH
John scrubs a hand through his hair. Fucking conspiracy.
Surgery is interminable. It is not usually interminable, but knowing that Sherlock is waiting for him on the other end makes it so. Sherlock who kisses him. Sherlock who kisses Mary. Who texts Mary behind his back, teaming up to pull John’s strings. Sherlock who somehow completes the circuit. John twists his wedding band around his finger.
That text. That single line of text has been haunting him for hours. The mere concept has been on his mind for days. Ever since that morning in their bedroom, really. Mary says it’s okay. Mary says it’s okay. Mary says it’s okay.
It rings his bell like one of their games. He may very well be a pawn in Sherlock’s most recent experiment, but God damn him, he’s curious.
That’s how he ends up taking the stairs two at a time, Indian takeaway slung in a plastic bag off his elbow. There’s no violin today. There’s no faint fizzle and pop of chemicals. Instead, he’s met with…an empty flat.
“Sherlock?” He calls, padding around the bend. The kitchen is in a typical state. John frowns.
“John?” Comes a sleepy call. “Come at once.”
He sets the takeaway on the counter and follows the sound of that voice into the open bedroom. Sherlock’s head is tucked under a pillow, the shape of him a long lump under the duvet. John takes in the disarray with a clinical eye.
“All right?”
“If I move I will do drugs!” Sherlock groans, clearly in the midst of a hellish sulk.
“How do you figure that?” John sat by his bedside carefully.
“If I leave this bed I’ll be halfway to my dealer with exact notes before you, Mycroft, or even I could stop me. It’s child’s play, really. London is chock full of drugs. I think about the 35 places within walking distance I could get some every single day.” Sherlock drawls into the sheets, a long pale finger tracing patterns on the pillow.
“Ah. So if you get up, you—”
“Will lie, steal, and cheat to get something good in my bloodstream, yes. Do keep up.” Sherlock grumbled into the mattress.
“I guess it is best you stay, then.” John stared at the matting curls on Sherlock’s head.
“No cases lately?”
“Lestrade has threatened to cut me off.”
“Whatever for?” John had a good idea.
“Apparently, I’ve been worse than usual.” Without you.
Unsaid words curl fingers into John’s stomach and squeeze. He pats a hand onto his own abdomen absently. With his clinician’s eye, he allows himself to take apart the scene. The addict. The dusty water glasses on the nightstand. The full bottle of painkillers from some recent wound that’s gone untouched (Sherlock is a particular, peculiar sort of addict). John doesn’t ask, he just peels the duvet back and takes in Sherlock’s long, bony frame. Without a flat-mate to cook for him and pester him, he’s a bit more gaunt than he should be.
“What did I tell you about your body?”
“This fucking thing…” Sherlock sighed as John pet gentle fingers down his back through the silk dressing gown.
“Neglect the vessel, kill the mind.” John reminded him, not unkindly, coaxing Sherlock to sit. He firmed his voice, a captain once more. “Stay put. I’m getting you water.”
Falling back into a comfortable routine, he found himself wrapping Sherlock’s limp fingers around the glass. Those sharp eyes were tracking his face, allowing—or maybe coercing—John to force him to drink. John watched Sherlock’s throat work until the glass was empty.
“There you are.” John straightened the shoulders of the dressing gown to cover Sherlock’s bare collarbones. “You’re doing so well.”
“Am I?” It wasn’t like Sherlock to ask rhetorical questions without an agenda. It was, however, so very Sherlock to stare at him, unbroken, like a lizard.
“Let’s go get you into the shower now. Up you go.” John slid an arm under Sherlock’s, totally unnecessary, and Sherlock shoved him off.
“Really, now, John…”
The two of them made their way to the bathroom, and Sherlock watched John heat the water and replace the empty soap from the linen closet. A fresh towel was hung, and John eased the dressing gown off Sherlock’s shoulders. Bruising blotted down his back, twisting over his ribcage.
“Sherlock…”
Sherlock paused with his thumbs in his cotton pajama pants, an absent look on his face. It could wait. It must.
“I’ll be in the kitchen, alright?”
John found himself within minutes curled back into his armchair around a cup of tea, wondering how the hell he had time travelled back two years.
How is he, then?
Mary. Mad, clever Mary. John smiled at his mobile and texted her back.
Not bad, all considered. Has cravings. Not spiraling too much.
The shower turned off, and he could hear Sherlock get out. Those stark bruises on his back were something else. It would do no good to surprise him about them. John would just get brushed off. A subtle approach was needed. Mary texted a second time, a third.
Hardly surprising.
Overwhelm an addict? They end up wanting their favorite coping mechanism.
Sherlock overwhelmed himself.
It was the closest they’d come to discussing it plainly, and still John’s heart raced at the thought. Tender lips pressed to his own. The gentle weight of Mary’s chin on his shoulder. Gentle sounds of their kiss in his ear…
John picked up his head as the bathroom door opened. Sherlock’s hair was towel-damp and his dressing gown was wrapped around him like a bathrobe. When he moved, always in such big strides, a slip of bare leg darted out from the slit in the fabric. John followed the movement with his eyes, light skin, navy silk, until Sherlock rounded the corner and was out of sight. Another notification went off.
When you weren’t an option, I guess drugs were the next best thing.
Jesus H. Christ. All the breath left his lungs.
“That’s not a bad guess, now isn’t it.” Sherlock rumbled in his ear, leaning over the back of the armchair.
“Fucking hell, Sherlock!” John yelped, springing to his feet.
“Do you disagree with her deduction?” He asked, face placid, eyes cutting.
John put the armchair between them like a barrier, threading his fingers through his hair. Sherlock had dressed quickly and well. Silk button down, wool trousers, a leather belt. All fine textiles, manicured nails, curls tamed into some fashionable shape. John couldn’t look away from him, from the predatory, cracked-open expression on his face.
“That’s none of my business.” John whispered.
“Oh, I think it’s exclusively your business.” Sherlock insisted, stalking around the chair. John backed up, hips hitting the table. An indignant spark caught in his chest and he frowned up at Sherlock.
“You should eat something.”
“You should kiss me.”
The moment drew out between them. John watched Sherlock’s face carefully and…there. The shadow of doubt crossed over Sherlock’s features, he turned quickly, only stopping when John curled his finger through a belt loop.
“Nothing like that before you eat.”
That was how he finally got around to opening up the takeaway, reheating it, and sharing his first meal at Bakers Street in months. Unlike most mealtimes they’d spent together, Sherlock wasn’t doing case work on his phone while they ate, or tweeting, or harassing Molly to squirrel away more body parts on his behalf. Nothing. Sherlock only ate, spooning biryani into his mouth and watching John.
It used to be unnerving, being watched so carefully why he ate, but it had become a part of their routine. John found that he had missed it, the constant weight of Sherlock’s eyes. Now, Sherlock had intimate knowledge of his mouth. It made the watching perverse…or just thick with intent. John squirmed a little in his seat.
Suddenly, Sherlock stretched his hand across the table and ran his fingers over the backs of John’s knuckles, over his Welsh gold ring. It was barely a touch, but Sherlock was watching how he took it, to see if he might take another and another and another and oh—
Sherlock’s bowl was empty.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat so much in one sitting.” John commented.
Sherlock shrugged, drawing away from the table and leaving his mess behind for the imaginary maid. “Yes, well…you promised.”
John’s eyes wandered to Sherlock’s mouth as he walked over. It was pink from spice and twisting into that boyish grin that suited him so well. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, perching on the sofa’s arm and waiting. One of his hands clenched into the fabric of the couch, elegant fingers digging—like he was bracing for a punch. Still, he smiled, clinging to some mask of normalcy.
“Sherlock, are you sure you want this?” John asked, keeping a distance.
That set off an ugly pout—a pre-sulk pout. Finally, a normal face. “I asked for it.”
“You’ve never expressed interest in this before?”
“Well I—”
“I don’t want to push our friendship into…some—”
“Damn it, John!” Sherlock shouted, hopping to his feet. Teeth flashing, he gripped John by the shoulders. “I didn’t know I wanted it. I didn’t know.”
There it was—a great big click. John had always assumed Sherlock was asexual. Well, no, at first he’d thought Sherlock was gold-star gay. Then, Irene Adler’s presence in their life had dashed that. Even if there wasn’t overt physical interest, Sherlock looked at her like he wanted to fuck her mind. Then, with Janine, John had seen it himself—seen Sherlock play her with his body. For Christ’s sake, Janine had hopped in the shower with Sherlock.
“You didn’t…”
“I didn’t have the data, John. I didn’t have anything to compare my experiences to until Janine.” Sherlock looked a little sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. For a second, John almost believed him.
“No.”
“No what?”
“Janine was…your only experience.” John was thinking out loud.
The mask dropped completely. Sherlock was bored, and his words came out serrated. “Yes, John. Not all of us had time to go around shagging every eligible, smart woman over thirty like you. Some of us are geniuses and are exceptionally busy.”
“Hey!” John protested, but then Sherlock was on the move once more. His hands were shaking, but he still tugged firmly at John’s sleeves.
“Enough talking. Talking is boring.”
“Sit back down, you tree.” John tsked, shoving Sherlock back to the couch arm. Speedy with nerves of his own, he smacked a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek and reeled back. “There! Are you happy?”
Sherlock looked a bit dazed. Lashes fluttering, lips parted, hand over his heart…oh, he couldn’t take looking at Sherlock like that. Couldn’t handle it. That big brain was stalling, recalculating, cataloguing…poor thing.
“Stay still.” John cautioned them both, but he couldn’t help himself. A second kiss, much softer than the first, was brushed against Sherlock’s forehead.
“Oh,” It was barely a murmur, but John heard it and the promise of more sounds like that lured him back in.
Time slowed, and he stepped between Sherlock’s parted knees. John avoided that wicked mouth, spending time studying what had always been out of reach. The silky texture of Sherlock’s curls, the way he tensed and relaxed when his hair was pulled. Sherlock arched beautifully, chest brushing John’s, pale neck bared to his touch. John skimmed his lips down Sherlock’s jaw. Sherlock was panting, and John was trying not to let the scene escalate, but it was getting harder—he was getting harder.
When he glanced down, he saw that Sherlock’s feet were shockingly bare given his fine clothes. Pale delicate skin, the complicated bones of his feet…something dawned on John. “Still thinking about going out?”
“Why would I?” Sherlock’s voice was crippled, no longer some savage animal. John kissed down his neck, touch light. Sherlock was so sensitive, shivering under his tongue. “I lied. Shit! I lied, I lied. This would be fantastic while high.”
John didn’t know what to say to that. The hand in Sherlock’s hair steered him down to make eye contact again. Curious, John moved his free hand to cup Sherlock’s face. He brushed his thumb over Sherlock’s bottom lip.
“Ngh,” John grunted, and Sherlock’s attention flashed hot. It was easy to see that clever brain latch on that sound and crave more input. On the second pass, Sherlock gave a kitten lick to the tip of John’s thumb as it pet his lip. John’s toes curled in his shoes.
Then, Sherlock’s hands left the couch, and the spell was broken.
Embarrassed, John cleared his throat and turned back to clean the kitchen. Status quo snapped back into place like an iron wall. As always, Sherlock was watching him. Out of the corner of his eye, he was studying the way that John did dishes, the way he tied up the rubbish and took it out the door…
Once outside, garbage in the bin, John took a big breath. Another. He flicked his phone out of his pocket.
Mary, I’m in trouble.
On second thought, he added:
No SOS. Just Sherlock.
God, she must have been curled up with a book or watching crap telly because her reply was instant.
Not surprised. :)
All of a sudden, John felt a little trapped. If he went back up to the flat, he might very well fall into Sherlock’s bed. If he went home, Sherlock may take it upon himself to traipse into a club and pick up some party favors. It wasn’t his responsibility, of course, managing Sherlock’s recovery…but just like he’d told Mary, the problems of Sherlock’s future were his privilege to help with.
Determined, he climbed the stairs once more. Sherlock had donned dress shoes and his black coat, a bit formal for where he was sat on the sofa, hands steepled, mind occupied.
“What is it?”
“Lestrade called.” Sherlock muttered, clearly annoyed. “We will have to reschedule.”
“Reschedule?” John was a little incredulous. Sherlock didn’t even keep a schedule. “Why can’t I just come with you?”
“This one will be too boring for even you to take interest. Gary is—”
“Greg. His name’s Greg—”
“Very well!” Sherlock through up his hands. “Greg is keeping the hard hitters away from me, I just know it. It’s not my problem he’s being looked into. God, he should just angle to replace his incompetent superiors if they’re so awful.”
“Well, then,” John didn’t see the use in telling Sherlock his line of thought wasn’t practical. “I guess I’ll go home.”
Sherlock glanced in the direction of John’s old bedroom before frowning. “I’d say give my best to Mary, but I’ve been texting her all day, so it may sound odd.”
John opened his mouth, closed it, and walked right out of the flat.