clueingforlooks | Everyone says you bring out the worst in me like that's a bad thing.

Entry tags:

analoren

Everyone says you bring out the worst in me like that's a bad thing.

Ten days without a case. Ten days. Sherlock was out of his mind for it. Dozens of would-be cases had come in to his inbox and been dismissed quickly for one reason or another, solved, puerile, boring. It was past the phase where he'd likely blow holes in the walls of the flat, save for the fact that John's taken fresh measures at locking the firearms away from him, damn him.

It would seem that everything about Sherlock is building to a crescendo in the absence of work, even if realistically he's always on an ever escalating path to some madness or other. At least, though, when he's got a case, all this energy is focused in one direction. The past week and a half have been spent tearing through the flat. It's left his bedroom in wild disarray and the kitchen sink half out of commission. Which is to say that one basin is being used to test post-mortem bloat and skin slippage of something that's held submerged at the bottom tied to a weight - what that is, God only knows. There were a string of days in there where Sherlock hadn't bathed, hadn't checked in on his various experiments all over the flat - thankfully that string has been broken today with a long hot shower followed with more of the same. Pacing, staring, checking the website, and pestering John as if he has some kind of answer. As if he's holding out on him.

There's two emails he's just read not long ago, and he's not even going to bother writing them back right now. They barely had cause to write - it ought to be obvious, the answer - and so he's perched the laptop on a nearby pile of books and is sitting, staring into the fireplace, apparently lost in thought.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Sherlock gives John's concerns due consideration, and once he has, he continues talking.

"As I said, we would need to have parameters. I think edged weapons and guns should be off limits. Besides, we know you're more than capable with your weapon, that's not the point..." the point is to shave off the couple of seconds or so when reacting to an attack, to begin to sense when it's coming, to listen for it and go into fending it off seamlessly.

"During the night when we're asleep--" or rather, when John's asleep, as Sherlock sleeps very little, so this accommodation is mostly for John, "is off limits. As should be showers and meal time."

Sherlock would like to avoid John choking on his food because he'd leaped on him while he was having tea, or needing to phone ambulance after taking John down in the shower. That's not to say that this idea had been devised with pure intentions. There was the obvious added bonus of putting to the test his conclusion about John's reactions to that particular brand of attack.

"I think given the limits I've laid out, we can fairly well control the risk. Besides, you're a doctor, and we're not really going to harm each other. We'll stop when the victim calls for mercy."

Clearly, the point wasn't to seriously hurt each other.

John listened to Sherlock, nodding along every now and then to show that he understood what was being said. Under the surface, he was seething, however. Slowly building to a boiling point while he watched Sherlock explain, slowly flexing his hands behind his back.

"You want this to be a training exercise?" John had plenty of experience with training exercises in his life, and if one thing could be said about them, it was that they were utterly unpredictable. After all, in the Army, you had to be prepared at any moment to move and fight back.

"All right. Training. I think I can do that." And to show Sherlock just what he thought of his ridiculous "training" exercises, he reeled back and threw a punch into his face, only waiting around just long enough to make sure that Sherlock didn't hit any furniture on his way down before turning around and finishing his trek to the bedroom.

"That was the general idea, yes."

Sherlock maybe should have been paying more attention to John's body language, but as it is he doesn't catch on that John's winding up for a punch until just before it comes.

"Good," he says, and he's just opening his mouth to ask if John feels that starting in the morning is fair enough, given that John's not slept well in the past few days from the recent case, to give him tonight without concern, when the blow comes suddenly. There was warning if he had been really paying attention to it, and as it comes, Sherlock could have dodged away from it, but for whatever reason he doesn't.

It hits hard and he goes down from the force of it. John certainly doesn't pull his punches. He never has with him, ever, always coming at him with the full force of his strength and ability. That's something Sherlock respects, even as he's pushing himself up off the floor, a hand cupping against his cheek and jaw as he watches John retreat to the bedroom.

The following morning finds Sherlock having gotten a few hours of sleep and a shower before John wakes up. He's dressed and ready and waiting in the flat by the time John comes out to fix himself coffee. His bedroom door is closed to give the impression that he's still asleep - not uncommon, when he's catching up on sleep he frequently sleeps past eleven - and he's somewhere hiding, barefoot so he makes no noise as he moves over the hardwood floors, listening for John.

Because John has it coming to him now.

John had thought he'd made his opinion perfectly clear about what he thought about Sherlock's suggestion, so he put it right out of his mind as soon as his head met pillow. So the next morning, when he emerged in his pyjamas and bathrobe, he did not even consider looking for Sherlock, only giving as much consideration to him as checking his bedroom door to see if he was still sleeping. It appeared so, and so he trudged into the kitchen to put on some coffee and begin digging around the cupboards for something quick to put in his stomach.

Now that he had time to cool off, John actually felt somewhat sorry for hitting Sherlock. With calmer, more rational mind, he began to suspect that maybe the suggestion wasn't entirely a bad idea, and that maybe he'd judged too quickly. He'd been so wrapped up in his own mind and frustrations that he didn't even take the time to analyse any of the merits of it, and really only thought it was stupid because he was upset with Sherlock at the time.

Maybe he'd apologise when he woke up. Maybe. Honestly, it depended entirely on Sherlock and on whether or not he was going to continue pressing the issue from the night before.

Sherlock waits, straining to listen. He can hear cupboards opening and closing and the coffee pot beginning to boil. He was prepared to wait as long as it took to catch him, and he knows how long John lingers in the kitchen with his coffee so he knows about how long he'll be there before he comes out here to find the paper. Since he's not making a full breakfast, he won't bring it back to the kitchen to read, but probably settle down in his chair with it. That means, unfortunately, that he'll probably come out carrying his mug, but some casualties are bound to happen during these training exercises. He's only partly suggested it to prove his point, that John thrills at the absurdly dangerous. The rest is all sincere, the idea that it will do them both good. Hone their skills and their senses.

As soon as John emerges from the kitchen to the sitting room, Sherlock is in motion, bare feet hardly making a sound on the hardwood floor, and what sound is made hardly matters because he's on him so fast and so without warning that there's hardly the time to realize what's going on. All at once, Sherlock collides with the doctor head on and grabs for him, taking full advantage of having surprise on his side and gaining the upper hand for the moment. He's thrown an arm around him to pin John's arms and together they're toppling to the ground in a relatively controlled motion, all things considered. But this isn't over until John concedes defeat, or until Sherlock effectively pins him to the floor.

John was looking forward to sitting with the paper and his coffee and going over his notes from the case, editing them down to what he wanted to include in his blog post. Really. That was all he wanted with his morning.

Unfortunately, that is absolutely not what he got.

Without even realising that he was being attacked, John found himself taken completely off guard and before he even could comprehend what was happening, his arms were pinned behind him and he was on the floor. The coffee he'd just finished making was a puddle of hot liquid and some ceramic shards a few feet away, and John was a sleepy, grumpy old doctor.

"What the hell?!" John cried, twisting and struggling against his captor until he was able to finally look Sherlock in the face. To say he was upset was a great understatement. "Let me up! Get off of me!" What the hell was he even trying to prove, anyway? That He was a master of stealth and deception and that it was utterly hopeless for John to fight back?

The take down was absolutely glorious, though he's got to say he's fairly well disappointed that he'd been so effective. John hadn't even remotely noticed him and he'd been so far behind in reacting that it wasn't until they were on the floor and Sherlock had a pretty solid pin on him that he'd even really started fighting back. But he is fighting back, twisting and struggling against him.

Sherlock is enjoying this a great deal too much. Maybe he doesn't show it, his face all focus and concentration as he struggles John down flat on his back and finds him significantly more combative than he'd counted on. He's tired, and Sherlock is trying to use that still-sleepy slowness against him, but it's overall not a completely unfair fight. If anything, when Sherlock speaks, he only fuels it as he fuels John's anger.

"Do you give up, then?" he asks in a rush of breath, because of course it's a competition, of course there's going to be a winner and sure, he'll stop, he'll let John up, but only if he admits defeat.

What the hell was Sherlock on about? Give up? Give up on what?! What was even happening? Sherlock's not the only one with fighting experience, of course, so he does his best to buck his hips and twist far enough to be able to get some sort of leverage on him, but he's surprised at how strong Sherlock is this early in the morning. He's struggling to breathe a little, unable to pull his wrists out of Sherlock's long-fingered grasp.

"What is wrong with you? Is this about last night?" He wants answers, because like hell he's going to give up when he's the one who's being assaulted. He twists a little and manages to catch a foot on the floor, pushing up enough to try to knock Sherlock off of him. "I was-- nngh! Going to apologise!" he shouts. "I'm sorry! I shouldn't have punched you!"

John is a good opponent. Sherlock had banked on that military experience coming out here, to really give him something of a challenge with this, and he's not failing to deliver. Sherlock is focused on not letting John turn over because if he does, he'll gain a significant advantage, so he's trying to catch a leg around John's body to immobilize him. That's not working so well, but it doesn't mean he's stopped trying.

"It's the training exercise," he manages before John twists in his arms and catches a foot on the floor and Sherlock can feel the balance of the fight shifting. John almost knocks him off - succeeds, actually, in shaking his hold away from his wrists and Sherlock struggles to catch them again and, failing, instead loops a lanky arm around to catch him in a choke hold. At first it's tight, almost too tight for a moment in the rush to get a hold of him and stop him turning over, but then loosens his hold enough that John could reply to him easily as he's rumbling against his ear, "Beg for mercy..."

"A training exer- What the HELL, Sherlock?!" John continues twisting until he feels the weight of Sherlock off of him. But he doesn't even have a moment to celebrate or try to get the upper hand before he finds his airway really being restricted and his head being pulled back. It's an awkward angle, and he's feeling it in his back. Of course Sherlock would be the one to know how to do this to him. Why wouldn't he?

"Sherlock... Sherlock-- I can't breathe!" he croaks out just before Sherlock's arm loosens around his neck. But then... oh but then, he hears the rumble of Sherlock's voice against his ear, and it shoots a chilling bolt straight through him, strong enough to make him shudder and whine. He's lost his head, but only for a moment before he's trying to pry his arm off from around his neck. That bastard. Now he really can't force himself to quit. He could win this... he really could! Even with how weak Sherlock's voice and the restricted air to his brain was making him.

"I'm... I'm not--!!"

Why is John so surprised about this? They'd discussed it last night. Certainly, he'd expected some amount of surprise at being caught unaware, but it sounds now as though John hadn't agreed to this at all. Granted, the punch could have been clarified some, because Sherlock hadn't taken it as disagreement, just a sign of frustrations running high or... something. He's not very good with understanding the reasons behind things when they have to do with emotion.

He is however very well aware that this move may well elicit interesting reactions from John, judging from what he'd experienced in the kitchen and in the alley. John's gasping about how he can't breathe at first, but then once the grip loosens, everything changes. The tension in John's body changes perceptibly and he's not quite sure what to make of it or what it had changed to, but he hears that low whine and the pieces begin to fall together. He's not fully aware of it before his own body starts reacting. He's more aware of the causal factors for John than he is for himself. Proximity to John, certainly, but did the struggle play a part in it? His position of control? The edge of danger, the rush, like was there for John - was that effecting Sherlock too?

His breath is hot on John's neck and he's fairly sure he's said again that John ought to beg mercy, but he hasn't actually uttered a word. It's all in his head, and the only sound he's made is some low guttural strangled sound as John fights him weakly and Sherlock holds on, careful not to actually choke him but tight enough to keep him close. If it all doesn't make sense immediately for John, it will when he realizes that there's a particular press against his lower back as this goes on.

Edited 2015-04-14 04:44 (UTC)

No, John hadn't agreed, and he certainly didn't think that it would be an issue that would be pressed again any time soon, so he put it out of his mind. Apparently, Sherlock had other ideas.

He continues to strain, trying, and failing, to ignore the breath against his neck that's making his grip weaker by the second and the stars he's seeing in front of his eyes. He can't help but to let out another quiet whimper. Struggling is becoming more difficult by the second, oh but if he taps out now, he'll never hear the end of it from him.

But there's something odd about the way Sherlock's got him down, and it takes a moment for him to sort out where it was coming from. Oh Christ, he's got... John taps the floor -- pounds on it, really, and through a strained voice says, "Uncle! Uncle! I've had enough, let me up!" This is too weird now, and it doesn't help that Sherlock's own treatment of him had him... well, uncomfortable was a mild word for it.

This doesn't happen to Sherlock. It has happened before. Contrary to popular belief, he's not actually the virgin he's rumored to be, but it's been years, over a decade and closer to two, because it hadn't been something he'd found worth repeating. It was all too much trouble for a result that was mildly satisfactory at best, and so inefficient that all he'd been able to really focus on was how much time was being wasted. But he'd wanted to try it, see what all the fuss was about. He knows about variety, he's heard the argument that he must not have found what it is he likes, but nothing had changed his mind because even if he did find something that sparked his interest, it wouldn't change the fact that it was a waste of time, something he could efficiently replace with his own hand if needed or, more frequently, simply ignoring any physical stirring until it faded away. It had been easy enough to compartmentalize it and ignore it for all these years until very recently.

Until now. Sherlock is so close to John that he can smell him. He hasn't showered yet today, though there's still a lingering hint of his cheap soap and deodorant beneath the warm scent of his skin. John whimpers in his arms as the fight fades out of him and to Sherlock's body, starved as it is for physical contact, the way John moves - trying and failing to struggle away - feels unspeakably good. His body shifting, twisting in his grip brings friction between them and Sherlock suddenly and remarkably has forgotten how this started. Was he going to say something? Something comes out in a low groan over the shell of John's ear that's definitely not another demand that John give up, because he's entirely forgotten that they were fighting.

Is John talking? He could swear he's heard his voice and yet he hasn't got a clue what he's saying. He suddenly feels that he finally knows what the fuss was about. Efficiency be damned. Those rare times he takes care of himself with his hand, that entire failed experiment years before, they're absolutely nothing compared to this. To just the simple rush of holding John tight, the friction as they move, and the soft sounds he makes (even if his actual words fall away).

"Sherlock, please!"

Christ, John did not need Sherlock moaning into his ear. Not this early, and not... ever, he supposed. If anything, did he really have to be that close to his damn ear when he did it? But he wasn't letting go. Why the hell wasn't he letting go? "Sherlock-!!" It was the best he could do to try to get his attention like this. Now, instead, he finds himself in a rather awkward and potentially dangerous situation.

There are of course a number of things that John can do to fix this and get on with his morning and pretend none of it ever happened. The sooner that John could put all of this nonsense out of his mind and in the past, the sooner he could get on with his life.

Still, he can't deny that the voice was doing... things to him... things he didn't want to think about or even acknowledge as things at all. He was growing more and more uncomfortable by the second, and being so violently pressed against the floor was absolutely not helping. He tapped the floor again, and when it was plainly obvious that Sherlock was miles away, he did the only thing he could think to do to grab his attention:

He ducked his head and sank his teeth into his arm.

He's not trying to be dense about this, it's just that there's so much to focus on that he's not quite able to catch everything. So naturally, the parts that he's missing are the important ones, like John desperately trying to get his attention. He does hear the please, to his credit, but he doesn't quite catch the meaning there until the bite. That's when he breaks through the haze of Sherlock's mind and swirling thoughts, and Sherlock's grip loosens considerably. The bite hurt but not so much that it had broken the skin, not so much that he's reeling hard from it.

He doesn't let go, but the hands on John aren't trying to pin him down or choke him or hold him immobile, they're just... still there. Close in a way that seems very Sherlock in its lack of understanding of personal space combined with more awareness as to what's going on than John could hope to have right now, even though they've never been close quite like this.

"Sorry," Sherlock huffs out, muffled against John's shoulder. He actually apologized. And it's not insincere, but it's off the mark. He's sorry for carrying on the training exercise too long when things had obviously begun to shift in a different direction. Surely John's aware of that? His reactions confirm as much - the sounds, the shivers - surely John is aware of what the reactions of his own body mean. Sherlock is, and this isn't even his area. For the moment, he's catching his breath or trying to, still so keyed up from taking John down that he needs a few seconds just to breathe.

Edited 2015-04-15 07:03 (UTC)

When Sherlock's hold on him loosens, John is finally able to relax a little, panting as he struggles to catch his breath, taking it in gulps. He didn't actually think Sherlock wouldn't listen to him when he told him to stop, and the thought that he might not even consider him is somewhat alarming to him, and even a bit hurtful in a way. He trusted Sherlock... but then he had also trusted him not to assault him first thing in the morning, either, but apparently, he was wrong about that, too.

He's about to shut himself down like he always does when he needs to emotionally distance himself from a problem, right up until he hears Sherlock's apology come in over his shoulder. He frowns just a little, mostly confused by it all, and he turns his head the best that he can to get a better look at him and let him see in turn the incredulous expression he's got.

John... still has no idea what to think of what had just happened. He knows he's upset, and he also knows he and his body are both very confused. He hates that his body liked the struggle of being unable to breathe properly, and he hates it even more that he had to figure it out like this. Of course, the thought had been on his mind since Sherlock brought it up the night before, but he wasn't planning on revisiting it any time soon, but clearly Sherlock had other plans. He doesn't like this one little bit, and he really doesn't like what he's feeling from Sherlock's body and what he might and might not be feeling.

Finally, he swallows hard and begins to push himself again, trying to stand up and slide Sherlock off of him. "I'd... I 'd like to get up now."

Sherlock blinks at the look on John's face because it's not at all what he was expecting. It just doesn't add up with everything else, all the things he'd noticed... or thought he'd noticed. John hasn't even said anything yet - has barely tried to stand - and Sherlock is replaying it all through his mind to find where he'd gone wrong. He knows that here, his margin for error is significantly higher than with other areas - he's not good with people when it comes to things like this, but he'd thought this was different.

So when John is trying again to stand, Sherlock lets him go and lingers on the floor while he stands, watching him climb to his feet. He's only half-present in watching him because he's mostly got his focus turned inwards, so he looks a little vacant and perhaps a touch dismissive, the way he tends to when he retreats into his mind palace. He should say something to John, maybe. It's an almost awkwardly long pause before he manages to say a very belated, "Of course."

Then he's standing and adjusting his clothes as though he'd just stood from being seated in a chair, and makes his way to the sofa, where he sits down, apparently going right from nearly humping John to casually relaxing without missing a beat, like nothing strange had happened at all.

Okay, now John really has no idea what the hell is going on. He'd felt Sherlock practically rutting him into the floor just moments ago, and now he's on his feet and walking over to have a sit on the sofa like nothing had ever happened. Like John hadn't just had a small crisis in his head over the conflict of what the hell he should do about all of this. All John could do for a long moment was stare, flabbergasted by Sherlock's display. Was this all just to prove some kind of point? Did he have an agenda behind all of this other than to piss off John first thing in the morning?

It's a long moment before John feels like he's got enough of a grip on his sanity to look away from him and assess the rest of the situation at hand. His hands, knees, and elbows hurt from hitting the floor too hard, he's got cooling coffee on his bathrobe and a still-steaming puddle of it on the floor amidst a mosaic of mug shards, and he's got Sherlock sat on the couch, thinking God knows what and probably planning his next attack. Where to start?

John gives a heavy sigh and returns to the kitchen for a dish towel to clean up the mess Sherlock made him make, and maybe if he was lucky, he would find the broken pieces of his mind while he was down there.

His body is clearly unhappy with John's decision to ignore this, though, and it's letting him know about it. It's actually so much of a problem that John is forced to close his bathrobe to keep himself from being too obvious about it. But it doesn't keep his mind from running it over and over again in his mind. What if he hadn't stopped? What if he hadn't done it in the first place? What now? Should he say anything or just let it evaporate as Sherlock had apparently done?

Sherlock may look as though nothing has just happened, but inside he's a turmoil of confused and racing thoughts. He's ignoring his lingering erection as though the possibility of going to his room to take care of it wasn't one he'd considered, because it wasn't. More often than not he just ignores this particular bodily urge, but even if that wasn't his norm, he would still be ignoring it now. He'd been so certain that he was right, so sure that what he noticed in John had been interest that the jarring assertion that he was wrong, that John didn't in fact want him, it hurt and left him disinterested in it entirely. His body was a different story, but it was easy enough to control that now. Still, he's careful in how he sits so as not to let on that ignoring it hasn't quite worked yet.

By the time John is cleaning up the coffee, Sherlock's settled down to lay on his side on the sofa, facing away from the room. He's upset with himself for being wrong, for missing something, and his posture is tense, even though he's reclining. He wants to retreat into himself and explore what he'd overlooked, but John is everywhere. He can hear him moving around the room, clinking bits of broken mug together as he cleans up the floor... Sherlock doesn't say anything, but at great length, he does allow himself a sigh, as though he's really quite put out by John now.

If Sherlock had any insight into what he was feeling, he'd know he was ashamed of himself and his mistake and wanted to be alone, but too stubborn to actually leave.

The tension stayed with them over the rest of the day and into the next. Very few words were said between them, but at least the issue that remained unspoken was occupying all of Sherlock's attention and energy, distracting him from the lack of a case. By the following evening, he had exhausted the possibilities and felt prepared to confront John with his conclusions to find out which of the possibilities were true. This evening, he's in pajamas and a robe and laying more comfortably on the sofa, on his back, eyes closed as he considers everything. Senseless as to whether or not John was actually there, but assuming he was, he calls out, "John."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Everyone says you bring out the worst in me like that's a bad thing.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject