Summary: It was done. The call to the devil had been made. There was no use making excuses
Fandom : Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor, John Watson/Sebastian Moran,
John Watson/Greg Lestrade, John Watson/Mycroft Holmes, John Watson/Others
Warning: M/M Slash
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson belong to each other.
Link to CHapter 4: "http://msroughnight.livejournal.com/13672.html"
You can also read the whole fic in ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN: "http://archiveofourown.org/works/616139/chapters/1111274"
“I know of this amazing hot guy who’d want to get a quickie in alleyways with anyone with holes—”
John felt his pulse quicken. He was of course aware of how his internal system responded to danger as Sherlock had always been apt to remind him between cases. John breathed out a sigh of relief when his sister left and sauntered off into the sofa. ‘She couldn’t possibly…’
John shook his head as if to wash off the unwanted idea that came about him. He may have been acting up like an abandoned puppy and seemed moping about but he was quite honestly feeling a bit better. Not entirely okay but somehow fine. There was hardly a need for him to get self-destructive. He had the idea of wanting to purge Sherlock out of his system but that escapade with Raz hadn’t really helped in its entirety.
He’s gonna be fine. He’ll somehow be. John thought as he placed down his cup on the table with a sharp clank.
~*~*~
He is most definitely not okay.
The fortress of make-believe about how he was on his way to recovery was all blown up like the fragile deck of cards it truly was approximately ten hours after John had his cuppa in the morning. All it took was one seemingly innocent call from the Scotland Yard and all the pent up rage and jealousy and wrath had bubbled up his chest. The bubble, he imagined, may as well have frothed up to his mouth. The intensity of it all made him want to wreck things or murder people.
He was face-buried in his pillow and napping lazily when his mobile rang. He fumbled blindly for it and answered without looking up at the caller ID.
“John?” Lestrade’s voice answered.
John perked up and arose properly, not really expecting a call from the DI. Not that he really was expecting a call from anyone else.
“Greg?”
“Hi. I was wondering how you’ve been, mate.” Lestrade continued. “Haven’t really seen much of you during the cases lately...”
“I, well…”
“Your Queen’s been refusing to divulge your whereabouts and Sally’s really convinced he got you murdered somewhere.”
John let out a hollow laugh at that. Oh he was murdered indeed.
“Well, I’m alive as you can see—or hear.” He sniped sarcastically, and then as if to chastise himself added, “Were you really just calling to check up on me, Greg?”
“Well, that and…” Lestrade sighed loudly at the other end of the line. “John, are you really okay? You haven’t been sick or something? I know Sherlock’s not the type to think it’s important to tell anyone if there’s something to be worried about but we do worry, you know.”
“I’m fine, Greg.” John answered as he rubbed at his eyelids. The DI actually sounded worried, he reminded himself. No use snipping at him. Well, he couldn’t possibly tell Greg he moved out of 221B as it would lead to more questions, the water John still didn’t want to tread upon. Maybe he could just invite Greg over a pint some other time. “So, what’s the other thing, Greg?”
“Well, Sherlock…”
Of course. Sherlock.
“I couldn’t get hold of the ponce.” The DI continued when John had remained quiet. “Locked up murder and all and Sherlock’s been ignoring my texts and calls…”
/Tuesday. 1400hrs./
Gregory Lestrade continued about his heartfelt frustrations about the consulting detective and John Watson no longer heard him. He was now drowning in ice cold water.
Of course. Of course. How could he forget? Fucking Tuesday. It was Tuesday today. Sherlock’s still been attending cases after John has left but today apparently just had to be special to warrant enough ignoring a locked up murder—his absolute favorite. John could feel his own blood pound at his ears and his whole body was as dead-weight as an anchor. He glanced about wildly at the clock on the wall. 2030hrs. Sherlock’s probably already spending his precious time with his old flame and getting reacquainted. John imagined Sherlock being touched and Sherlock touching someone else consentingly (which was damn worse) and the unbidden jealousy and envy that consumed John was a monster so palpable.
behind his actions.
Fandom : Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor, John Watson/Sebastian Moran,
John Watson/Greg Lestrade, John Watson/Mycroft Holmes, John Watson/Others
Warning: M/M Slash
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson belong to each other.
Link to CHapter 4: "http://msroughnight.livejournal.com/13672.html"
You can also read the whole fic in ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN: "http://archiveofourown.org/works/616139/chapters/1111274"
Chapter 5
THE MAN EATER
~*~*~
He’s man eater, make you work hard
Make you spend hard
Make you want all of his love
He's a man eater
Make you buy cars
Make you cut cords
Make you fall in, fall in love
Makes you
Wish you never ever met him at all
You wish you never ever met him at all
-Man Eater
“You’re really so thoroughly whipped, Johnny.” Harry leered as soon as John entered the threshold of their kitchen. Still not equipped to deal with his sister without his daily dose of hot cuppa, he merely bristled and groaned. They’re almost reaching the limit of their patience with each other. They stay together for long enough and nuclear bombs set off. Three days had passed since what he’s coined as The Pub Incident happened, three days that John never set off the house since his application for Leave from the Clinic had been granted and three days since Harry had been obstinately pestering him to go to the flavored bar of her choice to get a good shagging. Apparently, recovering from a break up and letting go involves getting buggered up to your eyeballs according to his sister. Harry had been relentless at nagging him to drag his pretty little ass ‘outta’ the house and stop being such a baby---her words, not John’s.
The kettle whistled and John gladly went about his own business. Harry was sprawled on a chair by the table, a plate of pancakes and a bottle of beer in front of her. John winced inwardly at the alcohol, knowing how his sister was chugging it down like water three meals a day but well, he IS living in her house and he supposed that Harry had been more of an older sister to him recently. John had a niggling suspicion that Harry’s persistent assault to drag John about the clubs so he could whore himself out was a way of her retaliation to Sherlock-- some sort of twisted revenge. John could tell. Set aside the decking she’s given at the consulting detective’s cheekbones, Harry had been unnervingly subdued and quiet compared to how she normally was.
‘People change.’ John mused as he sipped at his cup of tea. He grimaced at how losing Sherlock seemed to bring his sister closer to him as if it was some cruel mockery of the world.
“I know of this amazing hot guy who’d want to get a quickie in alleyways with anyone with holes—”
Or not.
“I’m not going, Harry.” John answered shortly.
“You need it, John.” She whined shamelessly over a mouthful.
“Leave it.” He sighed.
“Just think about it, Johnny.” She persisted before she stood up and scooted closer to him. Harry leaned till their shoulders were brushing against each other and continued, “It’s the Way Ward’s Shack tonight. I so promise you’ll experience nothing else like it.” Harry’s breath smelled awful like when the scent of malt mixed with something sweet, but all John could focus at was the way his sister coated her voice with a forbidden, liquid promise. She was full of serious intent and she had suddenly looked like the unrestricted temptress that she was. Whatever Way ward Shack was, it was bound to be dangerous.
John felt his pulse quicken. He was of course aware of how his internal system responded to danger as Sherlock had always been apt to remind him between cases. John breathed out a sigh of relief when his sister left and sauntered off into the sofa. ‘She couldn’t possibly…’
John shook his head as if to wash off the unwanted idea that came about him. He may have been acting up like an abandoned puppy and seemed moping about but he was quite honestly feeling a bit better. Not entirely okay but somehow fine. There was hardly a need for him to get self-destructive. He had the idea of wanting to purge Sherlock out of his system but that escapade with Raz hadn’t really helped in its entirety.
Granted, he did feel a little calmer after The Pub Incident when Sherlock had almost admitted how he wanted to keep John…even as merely a friend…of some sort. The idea’s a bitch but John could understand the motivation behind it in a roundabout way as everything about Sherlock is roundabout.
He’s gonna be fine. He’ll somehow be. John thought as he placed down his cup on the table with a sharp clank.
~*~*~
He is most definitely not okay.
The fortress of make-believe about how he was on his way to recovery was all blown up like the fragile deck of cards it truly was approximately ten hours after John had his cuppa in the morning. All it took was one seemingly innocent call from the Scotland Yard and all the pent up rage and jealousy and wrath had bubbled up his chest. The bubble, he imagined, may as well have frothed up to his mouth. The intensity of it all made him want to wreck things or murder people.
He chose to wreck and of what he wasn’t entirely sure.
He was face-buried in his pillow and napping lazily when his mobile rang. He fumbled blindly for it and answered without looking up at the caller ID.
“John?” Lestrade’s voice answered.
John perked up and arose properly, not really expecting a call from the DI. Not that he really was expecting a call from anyone else.
“Greg?”
“Hi. I was wondering how you’ve been, mate.” Lestrade continued. “Haven’t really seen much of you during the cases lately...”
“I, well…”
“Your Queen’s been refusing to divulge your whereabouts and Sally’s really convinced he got you murdered somewhere.”
John let out a hollow laugh at that. Oh he was murdered indeed.
“Well, I’m alive as you can see—or hear.” He sniped sarcastically, and then as if to chastise himself added, “Were you really just calling to check up on me, Greg?”
“Well, that and…” Lestrade sighed loudly at the other end of the line. “John, are you really okay? You haven’t been sick or something? I know Sherlock’s not the type to think it’s important to tell anyone if there’s something to be worried about but we do worry, you know.”
“I’m fine, Greg.” John answered as he rubbed at his eyelids. The DI actually sounded worried, he reminded himself. No use snipping at him. Well, he couldn’t possibly tell Greg he moved out of 221B as it would lead to more questions, the water John still didn’t want to tread upon. Maybe he could just invite Greg over a pint some other time. “So, what’s the other thing, Greg?”
“Well, Sherlock…”
Of course. Sherlock.
“I couldn’t get hold of the ponce.” The DI continued when John had remained quiet. “Locked up murder and all and Sherlock’s been ignoring my texts and calls…”
/Tuesday. 1400hrs./
Gregory Lestrade continued about his heartfelt frustrations about the consulting detective and John Watson no longer heard him. He was now drowning in ice cold water.
Of course. Of course. How could he forget? Fucking Tuesday. It was Tuesday today. Sherlock’s still been attending cases after John has left but today apparently just had to be special to warrant enough ignoring a locked up murder—his absolute favorite. John could feel his own blood pound at his ears and his whole body was as dead-weight as an anchor. He glanced about wildly at the clock on the wall. 2030hrs. Sherlock’s probably already spending his precious time with his old flame and getting reacquainted. John imagined Sherlock being touched and Sherlock touching someone else consentingly (which was damn worse) and the unbidden jealousy and envy that consumed John was a monster so palpable.
“John? John!?” Lestrade was shouting at the other end of the line as John came about his senses. He’s been heaving quite horribly loud, it seemed, his fingers stinging from having grabbed his mobile rather tightly.
“John, are you okay? What happened?” Lestrade was frantically asking.
“’M fine.” John mumbled. “Listen, Greg, I’ll talk to you later.” He cut off the call rather abruptly before he could hear a protest and stopped himself from throwing the phone against the wall. He so bloody hated Tuesdays now and it was all Sherlock’s fault. The world could just fucking end today or some other Tuesdays.
He heaved repeatedly and choked out dry sobs.
As the beginning strokes of anger start to ebb away, John felt the crippling clutches of self-depreciation and hurt start to seize him. He gasped for air greedily, his jaws clamping painfully as he willed his lungs not to give out. He let out one brutal sob of frustration before slapping his own cheeks. It’s been days. It would not do for him to brood around and drown in misery. He’s been over that already after getting shot at in Afghanistan and he refuses to be the loser that he was; because right now, he was seriously thinking that getting shot at would have been preferable than losing Sherlock.
/Afghanistan./
A dark, sinful name blossomed in John’s mind, unbidden. It caught John by extreme surprise that the overwhelming grief was very rapidly held at bay. To be honest, he hadn’t been thinking about it. He’d almost totally forgotten it, --the name, him. Not forgotten, then, seeing to it that he apparently remembered him.
Bracing himself for what apparently would be tantamount to a double edged knife rutting his gut, John fumbled over his phone contacts with steady hands and stopped as the name ‘Colonel’ appeared on the screen. With an inhale, he decidedly dug a finger at the call button and waited.
The silence was deafening as nothing but the consistent, uniform rings echoed at his ear. It took approximately six rings before a voice answered rather crisply and annoyed.
“Yes?” the voice so steady and commanding queried. Not even a hello or a ‘who are you’. John could hear the other man breathing rather fast over the phone. “This had better be important whoever you are or I’m coming after your balls and crush them like the useless appendages that they are.” His tone was quiet yet very gravely laced with murder.
John barked out a short laugh at that, his initial qualms and nervousness instantly dissipated as he fully remembered how his time spent with the Colonel was. The other man was dangerous and definitely not good, but John definitely enjoyed some of him, if not all.
“You sure about that, Moran? John answered smartly, tactfully. “About coming after my balls or crushing them? I had rather thought that they were one of your favorites.”
“John Watson?” Moran reveled at the other side of the line and John could already picture him grinning toothily from ear to ear.
“No other.” John answered promptly.
Moran let the silence roll off comfortably between them. John knew how the Colonel could remain as quiet as a ghost for a whole day; this man who always got to the core of the matter. He wouldn’t ask. Moran had always possessed more control and patience over him. Moran was a goddamned sniper after all on top of being the officer that he was. This was dominance personified and John could feel the shiver up his spine. “I need you. Now.” John simply relented.
“I’m rather busy, Captain.”
This was a game of dynamic being thrown back at him but John wasn’t in for begging when he had a card he could still use. “You owe me.” He said softly.
Moran chuckled, pleased. “That, I do.” He answered. “Though I remember hearing you say you wouldn’t hold it over me.”
“I was wrong.” John said quietly. “But I believe I wouldn’t be the one holding someone over after some time.” He continued crassly, hoping the innuendo would carry his message as efficiently. Moran, after all, didn’t appreciate rounding behind the bushes.
Moran appeared to have caught the message clearly. “Oh. Oh. Good, then, Captain.” He purred rather lasciviously. “You’re so dead.”
John Watson thought so too and he felt the pleasant thrum of adrenaline in his blood.
“The fuck, Seb!!” Someone else’s voice shrieked over the line. “You’re not abandoning me for some shit!”
“Shut up, Jim!” Moran roared back, not even bothering to cover the mouthpiece.
“You’re not leaving me high and dry and fucking tied up on the bed! I’m going to fucking blow up this building!”
John heard a rustle and some dull thuds followed further by a muffled whine before the voice sounded unmistakably gagged; then Moran’s attention was being addressed back to him. “So, where to? You’re in London?” He asked professionally.
“London, yes. You sure you can make it?”
“As sure as the bullet that hit you.” Moran answered gravely. “You’re my priority, Watson.”
“I give you half an hour, then.” John said. “At the Way ward’s Shack wherever that is.”
Moran laughed out gleefully and predatorily at the mention of the place that John began to doubt his choice of location. Harry couldn’t be possibly getting him in trouble just because of a bar. Quenching down the apprehension that had crept at him, John persisted. ‘”Wash yourself, Moran. I don’t want you smelling of other’s shit.”
Moran laughed harder and John felt the initial stirring of fear and dread and excitement and felt mildly aroused. “See you, doctor.” Moran said before promptly ending the call.
John sighed, took three inhales then bounced off the bed to get showered and changed. It was done. The call to the devil had been made. There was no use making excuses behind his actions. John had known from the start that whether or not the Colonel owed him, Sebastian Moran would never let the chance of having John come to pass, especially when it was the ex-army doctor who’d initiated the contact after some time.
A brief memory of having his hands on the Colonel’s bleeding stomach among the chaos of a warzone, as he was frantically keeping Moran’s insides where they should be before John was hit by the bullet of fate on the left shoulder, flashed before his eyes. Then came the remembering a hospital rendezvous where he was tied up on a narrow bed with bandages, the same ones that were wrapped around his shoulder wound at that time as the muscled body of the Colonel loomed above him and fucked him madly in the mouth, the bandage over the Colonel’s abdomen re-opened and soaked with his own crimson blood.
John brought himself from his own musings.
These days, it seemed, John couldn’t just help but initiate contacts with people he thought he’d finally do without. He supposed they were better than wallowing up in grief and going crazy thinking over what could be happening right at this moment on the other side of London.
Oh. Colonel Sebastian Moran was danger personified indeed.
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