Title: Sing All You Want Fandom: Sherlock (BBC) Pairing: Sherlock/John (eventual, UST), John/OC Rating: PG-13 Word Count: 7,500. This part about 1500. Summary: Sherlock lives alone in 221B. John is one of Mrs Turner's 'married ones' next door. Almost every day he sees the doctor limping home... Notes/Warnings: Domestic violence, abusive relationships, violence. Written for a prompt on the kink meme. Beta'd by the very lovely heqakheperre .
After that, there was a week where John seemed to go out of his way to avoid Sherlock- he changed his shopping times, he never seemed to leave the house, though once or twice, Sherlock caught him looking out of the window. On Tuesday, Sherlock made a revelation. He thumped himself in the head with the heel of his hand. How could he have been so blind? He bumped into Colin once or twice. Colin’s mouth smiled but not his eyes. Did he know that Sherlock knew? John wouldn’t meet his eye when Sherlock accidentally walked into him on his way to the morgue. Mycroft was insufferable about the whole thing.
“I’m sorry little brother,” his text read. “You’ll find someone else.” Sherlock had considered smashing his new phone, but it had a qwerty keyboard and everything. Instead he left a small smoke-bomb in his brother’s office. “Childish” the next text read. Sherlock grinned. In the end, after turning down an interesting arson case and something about a missing tiara to sit at his window, he spotted John Davidson stepping out of the flat, leaning heavily on his stick. Sherlock almost fell down the stairs getting out and intercepting him.
“Sherlock- I can’t stop-,” the shorter man stuttered.
“Shut up.” Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and pulled the sleeve up. “You got mugged again? How unfortunate. I see they used rope- no, wait, silk cloth- this time instead of handcuffs. Your limp is terrible today, it hasn’t been this bad since about a week ago, and then about a week before that, you must get mugged regularly. And of course, they seem to have left a rather nasty lovebite on your neck, that’s sexual assault too, I can call my colleague at Scotland Yard if you like, we can hunt these bastards down, John, make sure they don’t hurt you or anyone else?” John stood very still, but Sherlock could feel the fine tremble through his hand, and the tension in the lines of that lovely but careworn (bags under eyes, not sleeping as well) face. He wouldn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes.
“The game is up,” Sherlock said softly.
“I-Look. It’s not like that. I’m small and weak, it’s easy to get carried away. I’m too sensitive as well... Everyone says so,” John gabbled. “It’s just an accident. Really. It hardly ever happens.”
“It happens at least once a week though,” Sherlock pointed out.
“It’s none of your business. You’re just interfering and- and-,” John broke off. “Look, just piss off,” And with that, he left. Sherlock stood in the street for quite a long time afterwards.
On the third day, Sherlock was standing at the window in his pyjamas, moodily dipping a spoon into a jar of Marmite and licking it clean when Mycroft came over.
“That’s vile,” he said, as he looked round the untidy flat in disdain.
“Go away, Mycroft.”
“Not until you cease to act like a teenage girl.”
“I’m not acting like a teenage girl.”
Mycroft sighed. “You know it’s for the best. He’s a married man. You would have never have won him for yourself.”
“Yes, I thought you’d be pleased. You were right, I was wrong. If you’ve just come to be a smug git, you can close the door on your way out.”
“Funnily enough, there is no sort of advantage to having you in this state,” Mycroft said, mildly.
Marmite scented sullen silence.
“Stop being so dramatic. There’ll be others,” Mycroft said as a parting shot, as he went down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson wasn’t there to let him out, so no one saw the mouth-twitch when he heard a series of thumps and the sound of a shower running from the flat above.
Once a week, Colin would come home very late, usually in a state of some inebriation. It wasn’t difficult to convince the woman in 219A to let him into the building (“Johnny don’ know ’m coming, I got some surprise leave, like,”) and knock on the door of 219B. John opened the door cautiously.
“How the hell did you get in?” he said, by way of greeting.
“I- I just wanted to say-,” for once, Sherlock’s throat dried up. The words he’d carefully prepared in the shower and as he put on John’s favourite shirt (the white one, John always licked the corner of his mouth when he saw it, as well as when he ate donuts, and when he saw that skinny bloke who was on the telly sometimes), and bluffed his way into the building, all faded away.
“I bought you your lid back,” he held out the Pyrex lid.
“That’s not mine,” John made to close the door.
“No, John, can I come in? Please, I want to apologise,”
Standing in the hallway John said, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes wary:
“Well?”
“Well, I’m... I’m sorry,” Sherlock said. “I’m sorry for what I said. It was rude,”
“Yes, it was,” John stared at him. It was warm in the hallway, but he was still wearing his shirt sleeves buttoned down. Sherlock knew what would be under them.
“You got mugged again,” he said. John’s face tightened. “What is it going to take? How many times before it’s proof enough that he doesn’t love you? Before he hobbles you properly so you can’t run away?”
“Shut up, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“So you’re telling me that you want him to grab you and tell you you’re worthless? You like when he ties you up so you can’t move and doesn’t stop when you ask him? That’s love is it?”
John wouldn’t look at him, rubbing his arms.
“If that’s what you want, tell me, and I’ll leave. I’ll never bother you again,” Sherlock took a step closer. John looked up at this.
“I- I-,” the front door opened.
“John?” he called, and then looked at Sherlock, standing only a breath from John. John, looking up at him. “You... Bastard.” He ground out. “I knew it! You little slut!” he shoved Sherlock out of the way and grabbed John by the arm, shaking him. “I told you to stay away from him,” John hung from his grip and Colin raised a hand.
“I think you should stop that,” Sherlock was holding the other man’s arm, round the wrist. He dug a thumbnail into the delicate veins on the inside of his wrist. Colin howled. Sherlock hung on. Colin dropped John, who sagged against the wall, and turned on Sherlock, other arm raised. Sherlock punched him on the nose, which burst very satisfactorily.
“Sherlock, no!” John said, as Colin reeled back, spouting blood. Sherlock rubbed his knuckles, and then ran his hands through his hair, watching the other man. Colin moved, whether to lunge for John or Sherlock, no one could tell.
“Don’t,” Sherlock said, softly. He put himself between John and the taller man, crowding Colin, using the extra height lent to him by his hair to intimidate the other man. “You will not touch him,”
“Are you going to stop me?” but it was less certain, Colin was eyeing Sherlock nervously now.
“Yes. Because I know your type, Colin. Was it your mother that hit you? Or maybe Daddy, more likely Daddy, probably wanted you to be a real man. Maybe he hit Mum too. Who cares, you don’t talk to them any more, though you claim it’s because you’re busy rather than because you simply can’t face them anymore,” Sherlock caught his eye and stared him down. “And of course, you just didn’t tell them you preferred men, not till they’d finished paying for your degree, maybe you even took a couple of girlfriends, closed your eyes and thought of someone else, so they wouldn’t get suspicious. Broke some hearts, but that was okay, you didn’t like them that much anyway.” Colin’s fists were clenched but Sherlock carried on, hypnotising him with cold eyes. “And here we are today. History repeating, you’ve finally become your father. Maybe you like the power that comes from systematic abuse. Or maybe you’re just worried that one morning he’ll wake up and realise what a massive phony you are, and that he can do better. That you’ll be all by yourself, surrounded by friends you don’t really like and coming home to this empty flat.” Sherlock leaned in. Colin leaned back. “You will die alone, and afraid.” This could have been the end of his deduction, it could have been a prophecy. Colin looked at John. John wouldn’t meet his eye, and Colin spat at him, before slamming the door behind him.\
Sherlock breathed out.
“Are you- are you alright?” he asked John.
“Um, no, actually,” John gripped that antique stick, cut down just for him.
“You can come and stay at mine tonight. You can have my bed, I’ll take the couch. He might come back, after all,”
John sat on the couch, curled in his coat and jumper despite the warmth of the room. Sherlock brought him a steaming mug, and sat on the coffee table beside him. They didn’t speak. Sherlock wasn’t sure what to say. John’s face was blank, he barely moved. Sherlock lent John a pair of pyjama bottoms- they were a bit too long, and it was sheer luck that they fit around his stocky form at all, but Sherlock didn’t smile, even though he looked like a child in silk pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt, clutching his little bundle of clothes. After John shut the door, he sat on the couch staring at the fire.
“Well?” he said to the skull. The skull remained mute. “Thanks for your help,”
His phone beeped. “I can’t help you,” Sherlock spent a few moments composing a suitably cutting reply. Then he flung his phone so that it landed on the armchair on the other side of the room. Then he lay back on the couch and tried to work out John’s favourite breakfast food based on what he liked to eat for lunch.
Fill: Sing All You Want Part Four
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: Sherlock/John (eventual, UST), John/OC
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 7,500. This part about 1500.
Summary: Sherlock lives alone in 221B. John is one of Mrs Turner's 'married ones' next door. Almost every day he sees the doctor limping home...
Notes/Warnings: Domestic violence, abusive relationships, violence. Written for a prompt on the kink meme. Beta'd by the very lovely
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
After that, there was a week where John seemed to go out of his way to avoid Sherlock- he changed his shopping times, he never seemed to leave the house, though once or twice, Sherlock caught him looking out of the window. On Tuesday, Sherlock made a revelation. He thumped himself in the head with the heel of his hand. How could he have been so blind? He bumped into Colin once or twice. Colin’s mouth smiled but not his eyes. Did he know that Sherlock knew? John wouldn’t meet his eye when Sherlock accidentally walked into him on his way to the morgue. Mycroft was insufferable about the whole thing.
“I’m sorry little brother,” his text read. “You’ll find someone else.” Sherlock had considered smashing his new phone, but it had a qwerty keyboard and everything. Instead he left a small smoke-bomb in his brother’s office. “Childish” the next text read. Sherlock grinned. In the end, after turning down an interesting arson case and something about a missing tiara to sit at his window, he spotted John Davidson stepping out of the flat, leaning heavily on his stick. Sherlock almost fell down the stairs getting out and intercepting him.
“Sherlock- I can’t stop-,” the shorter man stuttered.
“Shut up.” Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and pulled the sleeve up. “You got mugged again? How unfortunate. I see they used rope- no, wait, silk cloth- this time instead of handcuffs. Your limp is terrible today, it hasn’t been this bad since about a week ago, and then about a week before that, you must get mugged regularly. And of course, they seem to have left a rather nasty lovebite on your neck, that’s sexual assault too, I can call my colleague at Scotland Yard if you like, we can hunt these bastards down, John, make sure they don’t hurt you or anyone else?” John stood very still, but Sherlock could feel the fine tremble through his hand, and the tension in the lines of that lovely but careworn (bags under eyes, not sleeping as well) face. He wouldn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes.
“The game is up,” Sherlock said softly.
“I-Look. It’s not like that. I’m small and weak, it’s easy to get carried away. I’m too sensitive as well... Everyone says so,” John gabbled. “It’s just an accident. Really. It hardly ever happens.”
“It happens at least once a week though,” Sherlock pointed out.
“It’s none of your business. You’re just interfering and- and-,” John broke off. “Look, just piss off,” And with that, he left. Sherlock stood in the street for quite a long time afterwards.
On the third day, Sherlock was standing at the window in his pyjamas, moodily dipping a spoon into a jar of Marmite and licking it clean when Mycroft came over.
“That’s vile,” he said, as he looked round the untidy flat in disdain.
“Go away, Mycroft.”
“Not until you cease to act like a teenage girl.”
“I’m not acting like a teenage girl.”
Mycroft sighed. “You know it’s for the best. He’s a married man. You would have never have won him for yourself.”
“Yes, I thought you’d be pleased. You were right, I was wrong. If you’ve just come to be a smug git, you can close the door on your way out.”
“Funnily enough, there is no sort of advantage to having you in this state,” Mycroft said, mildly.
Marmite scented sullen silence.
“Stop being so dramatic. There’ll be others,” Mycroft said as a parting shot, as he went down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson wasn’t there to let him out, so no one saw the mouth-twitch when he heard a series of thumps and the sound of a shower running from the flat above.
Once a week, Colin would come home very late, usually in a state of some inebriation. It wasn’t difficult to convince the woman in 219A to let him into the building (“Johnny don’ know ’m coming, I got some surprise leave, like,”) and knock on the door of 219B. John opened the door cautiously.
“How the hell did you get in?” he said, by way of greeting.
“I- I just wanted to say-,” for once, Sherlock’s throat dried up. The words he’d carefully prepared in the shower and as he put on John’s favourite shirt (the white one, John always licked the corner of his mouth when he saw it, as well as when he ate donuts, and when he saw that skinny bloke who was on the telly sometimes), and bluffed his way into the building, all faded away.
“I bought you your lid back,” he held out the Pyrex lid.
“That’s not mine,” John made to close the door.
“No, John, can I come in? Please, I want to apologise,”
Standing in the hallway John said, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes wary:
“Well?”
“Well, I’m... I’m sorry,” Sherlock said. “I’m sorry for what I said. It was rude,”
“Yes, it was,” John stared at him. It was warm in the hallway, but he was still wearing his shirt sleeves buttoned down. Sherlock knew what would be under them.
“You got mugged again,” he said. John’s face tightened. “What is it going to take? How many times before it’s proof enough that he doesn’t love you? Before he hobbles you properly so you can’t run away?”
“Shut up, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“So you’re telling me that you want him to grab you and tell you you’re worthless? You like when he ties you up so you can’t move and doesn’t stop when you ask him? That’s love is it?”
John wouldn’t look at him, rubbing his arms.
“If that’s what you want, tell me, and I’ll leave. I’ll never bother you again,” Sherlock took a step closer. John looked up at this.
“I- I-,” the front door opened.
“John?” he called, and then looked at Sherlock, standing only a breath from John. John, looking up at him. “You... Bastard.” He ground out. “I knew it! You little slut!” he shoved Sherlock out of the way and grabbed John by the arm, shaking him. “I told you to stay away from him,” John hung from his grip and Colin raised a hand.
“I think you should stop that,” Sherlock was holding the other man’s arm, round the wrist. He dug a thumbnail into the delicate veins on the inside of his wrist. Colin howled. Sherlock hung on. Colin dropped John, who sagged against the wall, and turned on Sherlock, other arm raised. Sherlock punched him on the nose, which burst very satisfactorily.
“Sherlock, no!” John said, as Colin reeled back, spouting blood. Sherlock rubbed his knuckles, and then ran his hands through his hair, watching the other man. Colin moved, whether to lunge for John or Sherlock, no one could tell.
“Don’t,” Sherlock said, softly. He put himself between John and the taller man, crowding Colin, using the extra height lent to him by his hair to intimidate the other man. “You will not touch him,”
“Are you going to stop me?” but it was less certain, Colin was eyeing Sherlock nervously now.
“Yes. Because I know your type, Colin. Was it your mother that hit you? Or maybe Daddy, more likely Daddy, probably wanted you to be a real man. Maybe he hit Mum too. Who cares, you don’t talk to them any more, though you claim it’s because you’re busy rather than because you simply can’t face them anymore,” Sherlock caught his eye and stared him down. “And of course, you just didn’t tell them you preferred men, not till they’d finished paying for your degree, maybe you even took a couple of girlfriends, closed your eyes and thought of someone else, so they wouldn’t get suspicious. Broke some hearts, but that was okay, you didn’t like them that much anyway.” Colin’s fists were clenched but Sherlock carried on, hypnotising him with cold eyes. “And here we are today. History repeating, you’ve finally become your father. Maybe you like the power that comes from systematic abuse. Or maybe you’re just worried that one morning he’ll wake up and realise what a massive phony you are, and that he can do better. That you’ll be all by yourself, surrounded by friends you don’t really like and coming home to this empty flat.” Sherlock leaned in. Colin leaned back. “You will die alone, and afraid.” This could have been the end of his deduction, it could have been a prophecy. Colin looked at John. John wouldn’t meet his eye, and Colin spat at him, before slamming the door behind him.\
Sherlock breathed out.
“Are you- are you alright?” he asked John.
“Um, no, actually,” John gripped that antique stick, cut down just for him.
“You can come and stay at mine tonight. You can have my bed, I’ll take the couch. He might come back, after all,”
John sat on the couch, curled in his coat and jumper despite the warmth of the room. Sherlock brought him a steaming mug, and sat on the coffee table beside him. They didn’t speak. Sherlock wasn’t sure what to say. John’s face was blank, he barely moved. Sherlock lent John a pair of pyjama bottoms- they were a bit too long, and it was sheer luck that they fit around his stocky form at all, but Sherlock didn’t smile, even though he looked like a child in silk pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt, clutching his little bundle of clothes. After John shut the door, he sat on the couch staring at the fire.
“Well?” he said to the skull. The skull remained mute. “Thanks for your help,”
His phone beeped. “I can’t help you,” Sherlock spent a few moments composing a suitably cutting reply. Then he flung his phone so that it landed on the armchair on the other side of the room. Then he lay back on the couch and tried to work out John’s favourite breakfast food based on what he liked to eat for lunch.
When he woke up someone was standing over him.
Part Five