whatofthewarts | (no subject)

"I hope that is so. I would hate to be a man who simply accepts what is given to him, without real complaint or question."

"You have no concept of how crippling it is to suddenly be living the impossible. Warp time itself to save John. Go on, I dare you to understand it, to try to conquer it. I'm beginning to. Two more years work, maybe three, and I'll make it home. You are not a resource, you're here to fight. I put every waking minute into this, I avoid the other questions, because unlike you I care more about him than I do myself and my own petty little distractions."

Informing him, vitriolic and tight.

"You have no idea of what I will and will not accept."

This is a side of Sherlock that Holmes is aware he also has. He, after all, is willing to die for Watson. To kill for him, or worse. And if it was for Watson, he would take torture without a fight. He has.

And he loosens the top buttons of his own shirt, and pulls it aside to show the gruesome scar in his shoulder.

"Oh yes. I do."

And that is all he says, before he assesses what he needs to do to get Sherlock by the throat, pinned to the table, where he can tear open the other man's shirt.

Buttons scatter, and Sherlock chokes on a groan, bent back over the wood suddenly and bare. He has slightly fewer scars, only by virtue of his age, but a few nasty ones. A close call with a serial killer, the fall off the roof, a gunshot graze, a thousand other close calls.

Irene's beautiful, symmetrical circles, each the size of a small pea, dotting up his back like wings, in vampire-teeth pairs of two from the puncture marks of the hooks.

Scars shouldn't be so perfect. So beautiful, in their way, like abstract art. Holmes's fingers touch each one, two by two, as intently as if Sherlock was just another crime scene to examine.

He uses Sherlock's shirt, twirled into a narrow rope, to tie the man to the table. He wants both hands as he examines him, because some of these scars...some of them are also his.

And more of Irene's handiwork, carved into the top of one shoulder, SLUT, in case Holmes was under any illusions that the relationship was healthy or happy or remotely playful.

In case he wanted ideas.

He's still again, forehead against the wood, ashamed to find himself tearful with frustration and fury.

"This," fingering the word, "Wasn't done for John. Did you enjoy letting her do this to you?"

"Yes."

He answers, which is an oversimplification. That was after Reichenbach. He'd needed to suffer.

He's not sure what 'slut' means in the future; if it carries the same connotation it does now. But given what he knows about the circumstances, and the location, and the way she had carved it...it's very probable that it is the same.

"You aren't this. She chose a word that has nothing to do with your typical behavior. Why?"

"Her precise words at the time were that I would be, if I could make people stand to be near me, but that my personality got in the way."

Maybe it has something to do with the little hitch when he retells the story.

"Colourful reasoning. The point was the debasement."

"Ah...now she sounds like the Irene I know."

Because his had said the same thing, or similar, routinely. Holmes doesn't need to say anything more about it. He just frowns, and he's glad that Sherlock can't see his expression.

"You enjoyed it. This little secret to carry with you. A reminder of how...disgusting, you really are."

His shoulders heave, just once, utterly silently.

'Enjoyed' is too simple a word for it, the complicated, overwhelming knot of hurt and hate and lust and memory.

No one was supposed to get close enough to read it.

"I wonder why you needed this to remind you."

He finds a forming bruise on Sherlock's cheek, courtesy of Holmes's fist earlier, and he digs the rounded bottom of a test tube against it.

"What is it that made Irene so enjoyable but this so...different for you?"

"It isn't."

He informs him, shortly.

"Irene was a lot like this."

"And yet..."

There have been different tones used when Irene is mentioned.

"She was more focused."

Holmes is starting and stopping.

"She had a goal that was about you."

He leans closer.

"Do you want me to let loose?"

"What would you do if you did?"

Struggling against the shirt.

"Nothing crippling, I'm sure."

He allows Sherlock to fight. He wants to see him get loose so they can really begin.

Off the desk, then. It takes a second or two and he's free, facing him, breathing hard.

"What, though?"

"I must say, I'm growing rather fond of the way you act when you're taking a beating."

"Fine."

Arms folding over his chest, protectively. Then unfolding, readying himself to fight back.

"Go."

Holmes moves less than a second later, with a backfist meant for Sherlock's jaw. He'll follow it with an elbow to his ribs.

He takes each with an exhale, accepting the violence into himself, staggering into his whitewashed wall and reaching out to grab him by the sleeve, pull him in, fouling his range and his strategy, changing everything.

He's got nearly a foot on him in height (Victorians, so tiny) if less weight to him, but it still just feels dangerous, dragging something so feral in so close to his heart and throat.

Edited 2012-07-04 07:43 (UTC)

And it's exhilarating. Holmes has fought tall men before--but none quite so tall as Sherlock. Even the Frenchman had been a good three inches shorter, and that had been the tallest man Holmes had ever seen.

He reaches up to slam the heel of his hand against Sherlock's chin, hoping to momentarily disorient him so he can get the advantage for a hip throw.