whatofthewarts | (no subject)

Irene Adler had many homes, and many more hiding places, but months after her death Sherlock was certain he'd found at least half those in the country. She had her many stolen jewels tucked away all over the apartment, and it took him the better part of the afternoon to dig them all out of their hidey holes. When he had them in his pockets, he went searching for someone else entirely.

Although they had their obvious differences, given their different environments, Sherlock found it was remarkably easy to track himself down.

"Making headway, I presume?"

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From:

whatofthewarts

"What I can't understand is how you act defiant, when you aren't truly helpless. What are you railing against? And why?"

He says it so Sherlock understands the reasoning behind Holmes slamming his heel against the back of Sherlock's knee.

From:

lostwithoutmyblogger

He staggers, but manages to fall with more grace this time, although one wrist gives sort of messily when he lands on it and sends searing white through his eyes.

He kicks out hard, this time at his head.

From:

whatofthewarts

He hadn't expected it, but is tall enough that when he jerks back away it splits his lip open, rather than knocking him flat.

He hooks his arm around Sherlock's leg, and brings his own foot down on the other man's groin. He pulls it, at the last second--there's contact but it's not brutal. He wants to see how Sherlock takes to someone holding back on him.

...Well. That, and he's struggling valiantly not to retaliate out of anger.

From:

lostwithoutmyblogger

It still hurts though, and he's scrambling wildly away, wheezing for breath, keeping his legs between them. Elbows braced defensively on the floor, he'll mule kick him if he comes closer.

From:

whatofthewarts

"Had you done this to begin with..."

He has to point that out.

"Now show me the scars. This is scientific curiosity."

From:

lostwithoutmyblogger

"Piss off."

More crude, now. He's not giving him that.

From:

whatofthewarts

"No need to be difficult."

He's not keen on getting near those long legs again. Doing so would escalate this beyond what he's prepared to do.

"Although 'difficult' seems to be your default state."

From:

lostwithoutmyblogger

He makes a mistake (probably) and scrambles to his feet.

"Really. It's so unreasonable that you not know the entire truth?"

From:

whatofthewarts

"You, of all people, should know the answer to that."

His tone is clipped, a little bewildered.

"A man cannot have privacy from himself."

From:

lostwithoutmyblogger

"You are nothing like me. Not in any way that matters."

All but spitting at him.

From:

whatofthewarts

"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."

From:

lostwithoutmyblogger

"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."

From:

whatofthewarts

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.

From:

lostwithoutmyblogger

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.

From:

whatofthewarts

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.

From:

lostwithoutmyblogger

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.

From:

whatofthewarts

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

From:

lostwithoutmyblogger

"Yes."

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

From:

whatofthewarts

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?"

From:

lostwithoutmyblogger

"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."

From:

whatofthewarts

"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."

From:

lostwithoutmyblogger

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.

From:

whatofthewarts

"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?"