Fill: Sing All You Want Part Three

[errantcomment]

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 .

Part One
Part Two

 

So Sherlock helped John with the shopping and John gave him a cup of tea. 219B was different to 221B. The furniture matched, and there were no acid stains on the kitchen table. The sink was clean, and John knew where the cups were straight away. (Sherlock had a feeling there might be some in one of the drawers at home, but he had one mug he used for pretty much everything). The kettle had just boiled when there was a foot on the stair.

“Honey, I’m home!” Colin called, as he made his way into the bedroom. A few moments later, he emerged, still wearing his shirt and dress pants. He kissed John soundly on the mouth. Sherlock’s stomach was suddenly made of centipedes or worms or caterpillars or woodlice or something, all crawling over one another.

“How are you, mate?” he grabbed Sherlock by the hand with one of his large hard hands and squeezed- more a show of strength than a friendly gesture.

“Fine, thanks, I helped John with the shopping,” Sherlock managed, as an explanation. He didn’t flex his hand when Colin relinquished it. It seemed important somehow.

“Oh, thanks, that’s appreciated. We limp along the best we can, but I can’t be home all the time, unfortunately,” John looked at the counter. Was he ashamed?

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, for lack of a better word. John was still looking down at the counter. One of his hands had a fine tremble in them- another symptom of his PTSD perhaps- Colin appeared not to notice. Sherlock didn’t like Colin much. He had a rank smell under expensive cologne, and his grin always had a few too many teeth to be real. He had old scars on his knuckles, maybe boxing, but more likely bare-knuckle fighting, perhaps in bars- sometimes he’d spotted him coming home late, weaving slightly, disarrayed. But he made John happy, so perhaps he was a good man, for all that.

“I’m dying for a cuppa. Go sit down love, I’ll make it, you never get the milk right,” Colin chivvied John out of the kitchen with a gentle but firm shove. Sherlock stayed for the cup of tea, but it wasn’t the same easy, if shy, atmosphere. Colin filled it with his lion-smell, his too-loud voice, his insistence that John sit next to him, on the sofa, where he couldn’t ease his leg properly, but Colin could rest a hand on his knee. Sherlock made his excuses and, once outside, kicked a Coke can so that it sprang and tumbled, quite accidentally hitting Colin’s expensive car and even more accidentally leaving a mark on the shiny paintwork.

 

The next day, when he got home, Mycroft was sitting in the chair in which John Davidson had looked so at home. Sherlock hated him for squishing the dent John had left in it with his big well-upholstered bottom, and briefly considered telling him so.

“What do you want, Mycroft? I told you, I’m not doing the Sumatra case. It’s dull and quite preposterous.”

“This has nothing to do with the government, and everything to do with you pining after John Davidson.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes you do, don’t be ridiculous. Davidson is married, Sherlock, you can’t continue with the association as it stands.”

“As usual, you’re reading into this in completely the wrong way,” Sherlock complained. “He comes for dinner once, and you assume I’m having an affair! Really Mycroft, your mind is so sordid.”

After Mycroft left, he found some spray-paint and painted ‘PISS OFF MYCROFT’ backwards on the windows overlooking the street in big yellow letters, so any camera trained on his home would read it the right way round. This adequately relieved his feelings.

After his therapy session that week, John came for a cup of tea.

“I bought some orange Clubs. Colin can’t abide them, but I like to indulge after therapy. Therapy for the therapy, you might say,” He tore the packet open and shoved one in his mouth, eyes closing in bliss. Sherlock hoped he would never forget the little smile that played round the corners of John’s mouth, or the little smear of chocolate on his top lip.

 

Three orange Club-flavoured weeks later, Sherlock went running out of the house. The game was on, and time was wasting. He was so wrapped up in Lestrade’s text that he didn’t notice John till he ran slap into him. They both went down, Sherlock’s phone skittering away. He disentangled himself from that damned scarf (later he would burn it, and then scatter the ashes to the wind, see if he didn’t) in time to see his phone go under the wheel of a cab. Sherlock stared in disbelief- the universe wouldn’t be so cruel, surely, and let out a manly whimper.

“Er, do you think you could get off me?” said the muffled voice under him.

“Oh. Of course, sorry,” Sherlock scrambled upright, and put a hand down for John.

“Good grief, is there any part of you that isn’t a right angle?” John grumbled as he pulled himself upright.

“My phone...” Sherlock stared.

“Oh no...” John followed his gaze to the little pile of shattered plastic.

“Quick, give me yours,” Sherlock held out a demanding hand. John scrabbled in a pocket, and held it out to him. His wrist was clearly bruised. Like he’d been tied up and left. Sherlock caught his hand, the phone forgotten.

“What is that?” he pushed up the sleeve of John’s comfortable coat and the jumper underneath it. Bruises. Someone’s fingers, digging in. Large hands. He looked at John, and knew. And John saw that he knew. He snatched his hand away.

“I- I have to go.”

“Who did that?” Sherlock caught his sleeve and John flinched. Sherlock felt a heartstring break with a timorous squeak. John never flinched.

“I- Someone tried to mug me.” He said finally.

“And they tied you up? Left you dangling somewhere?” Sherlock demanded.

“Yes. Must’ve done.” John said, his face, for once, not betraying anything. Sherlock stared at him for a long moment. A car pulled up alongside him.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade leaned out the window. “Now!” John pulled away from Sherlock’s grasp like he was a hot oven.

“My phone, please,” John held out his hand. It shook slightly. He let it drop, looking down again. Sherlock handed him the phone. Then he got into the car.

“Yes yes, I’ve got it sorted. Some fool ran over my phone,” he heard himself saying to Lestrade, as he watched John Davidson slowly limp down the road. Mugged. Right.

Part Four

 

Comments

[sachtastic.livejournal.com]

Loving this. Link's broken though, you probably want to fix that. In the meantime, I'm going to hunt for part four myself. Sorry if I am a touch impatient, but the delicate UST of your fic is well... quite enjoyable.

[errantcomment]

Oh, sorry! I fixed it. I'm glad you're enjoying it though. ^^

[londonsabre.livejournal.com]

Ooh this is good! Is there any more??

[errantcomment]

Yes, there's two more to go, I fixed the link at the bottom. ^^

[trillsabells.livejournal.com]

Very nearly whimpered when I saw that 'Part 4' wasn't linked. Then I checked and saw the other chapters ARE up, had a happy that I don't need to wait.
Thought I'd leave a note anyway to mention how much I'm enjoying this. Sherlock is adorable when he falls in love...

[errantcomment]

He is, I had such fun writing him. ^^
Sorry about the link thing, it should be fixed now. =)