whatofthewarts | (no subject)

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.

It works. Except his knee drives instinctively upwards, against Holmes' thigh, intent on buckling him.

Bastard.

And that works, because Sherlock has been so passive up to this point, and Holmes has no clear idea what his counterpart knows.

He goes down on one knee, hard enough that he'll be hard pressed to get up anytime soon. So he draws his elbow up, to Sherlock's abdomen.

He doubles over, pushing away from him, breathing out a sob. He's still half undressed, now landing in front of him, winded.

Holmes is better able to scramble on top of him, since it doesn't mean standing up, and he pummels him. Chest, ribs, cheeks, jaw, over and over--avoiding areas like his mouth (teeth aren't good to punch), his nose (no need to break it--yet), and throat.