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The Prey	By : amandalee Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3756 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: The authors do not claim ownership to Sherlock or any of its characters, and we make no money from writing this.

Chapter List
- 7
- 8
- 9
A/N: Sherlock and John deal with the consequences of their little romp. Thanks for the reviews! Keep 'em coming!

Chapter 8

Head buzzing from the two gin and tonics she'd drunk at the Nudsino - not really a casino, despite the name - Mary made her way back to the lodge on wobbly legs. The alcohol had sent her head into a familiar calming buzz and helped ease the turmoil in her mind, but being sent away by John in favour of Sherlock still hurt, even after intoxication had occurred.

Mary herself had turned down the advances of not one but three different men during her brief stay in the bar. Her first admirer had complimented her on her accent, called her an "English rose" and offered to buy her a drink. She politely declined, and the man had accepted the rejection with a surprising amount of grace. The same could not be said for the other two, and after being called a "snobby bitch" and then "uptight cunt", Mary decided to leave the bar.

The sun was setting behind the hills and treetops, and she felt the need to look over her shoulder several times to make sure no one was following her. Even though the place had felt relatively safe in the day, the resort was still in the middle of nowhere, and the darkness made it all the more unsettling. Mary had taken the chance to ask a staff member about the guidelines of the resort’s etiquette, and as expected, Avalon was expected to be anything but a swingers' club. Even so, as evidenced by the men who had approached her, some rule-breakers still slipped through the cracks.

In addition, she was not certain if the missing person case had gotten to her, but she could not help wondering if the abductor was one of the guests. Was he – She? They? – out on another little hunt now? Mary was not sure. But she did know she felt as though she was being watched by some unseen presence. Suddenly the warmth in the air of the summer evening was gone, and she shivered as she hurried, somewhat unsteadily, toward the lodge which was now in sight.

*

Inside, John and Sherlock were still asleep. Their limbs tangled about one another, they remained under the sheet, looking to be in absolute unconscious bliss. John only stirred when he heard a noise. Lifting his head, he realized what it was, and might have gone back to sleep had the opening door not proceeded to shut. Jolting upward, he whispered a string of curses and dove for his discarded robe, wondering where the bloody hell the waistband had gone for it.

“Hmmn?” Sherlock sighed as he awoke. He stared drowsily at John’s mad dash for composure. “What’s going on?”

"My bloody girlfriend, that's what's going on!" John hissed, and shame over what he had done washed over him like a huge black wave of crude oil. What had he been thinking? And more importantly, what could he do to make things right?

"John?" Mary's voice called, and the doctor could tell from the slurred nature of it that she had been drinking. Perhaps there was still a chance that he could keep her from finding out...

"Coming, my dear!" John called back with mock cheerfulness as he struggled with his robe. The waistband was still nowhere to be found, and John had to accept the possibility that Sherlock might have pulled it loose and discarded it somewhere outside the room.

"John...?" Now the woman's voice had taken on a rather guarded, suspicious tone.

"Just a second!" Near-frantic, John folded his arms across his chest to keep his robe closed while trying his best to obliterate any proof of having slept in Sherlock's bed. Yanking out a pillow that had his head print on it, John failed to notice that Sherlock's head rested between that and another similar one. A clanking noise could be heard from the detective's skull hitting the headboard.

"What is your problem?!" Sherlock growled, and his hand shot out like a cobra's head to reclaim his cushion.

"Mary! She's---"

John's eyes bulged when the door handle suddenly turned, and he spun around, ready to throw himself at the door to keep it from opening, but it was too late. Mary stood in the doorway, her silhouette dark against the ambient lighting of dusk.

For a moment which seemed to last a lifetime, Mary simply stared at the sight. She might have been trying to decipher the clues laid out for her, but considering her inebriated state, her brain might have been staggering through some serious cerebral muck to reach a conclusion. If she truly was having difficulties from the sight of a flustered John, and sheet-covered Sherlock – as well as the smell of a fog of sexual musk – the discarded condom lying in a crumpled pile on the carpet was the clincher. She looked back up at John, who was at a loss for words.

“How was the casino?” he finally asked, desperate to sound casual. Instead he sounded like an idiot… or a smug bastard.

He was not surprised when she stared at him incredulously, her eyes wide with realization and anger, but his stomach sank all the same. Sherlock only observed their behavior, for once silent. He likely was curious to see how the rest of this fiasco would play out, like a biologist witnessing some rare behavior of an endangered animal.

Finally breaking from her astonishment, Mary numbly walked out of the room, still caught up in what she had just discovered.

“Mary, wait!” John followed her, but she hurried into their bedroom. As John entered, he saw that she was hurrying to get dressed.

“Please, Mary…” he pleaded. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going out,” she simply said. Though still in a daze from the alcohol, the shock had sobered her temporarily.

John ran to catch up with her and promptly stood to block her path. His every pore exuded desperation. Mary turned her face away from him, determined not to let those pleading eyes break her resolve.

"Mary, wait!" he babbled. "Whatever you think you saw, you got it wrong!"

"Got it wrong?!" Mary shouted, her voice raw. A hot tear escaped from the corner of her eye and trickled down her cheek. "You're fucking Sherlock Holmes! How can I possibly be wrong?"

"It wasn't what it looks like," John argued, desperate to make Mary stay, even if it meant lying at her face. "I was just... putting Sherlock to bed. He's had it rough. I was just trying to help."

The woman gave a short bark of laughter which contained no mirth whatsoever. "You really must think I'm stupid, don't you? I saw the bloody condom, you cheating bastard! Are you going to keep lying to me and think I'll buy your pathetic excuses?"

John recoiled from her wrath, practically deflating before her eyes. He briefly entertained the idea of claiming that Sherlock coerced him into the whole thing, but the last thing he needed now was making up more lies. He had been just as willing as Sherlock himself and would thus have to accept an equal amount of blame.

"Alright, you want the truth?" he offered, holding up his hands. "Sherlock is my ex. But I promise I haven't slept with him during the time we've been dating. Except today. I made a mistake, Mary. I didn't... send you away intending to sleep with him. I never meant for this to happen."

"Oh, I feel so much better knowing it was accidental," Mary retorted, her rage having lost none of its potency. "Tell me, John... do you even like girls?"

“Of-of course I do,” John sputtered. “I know I should have told you earlier. I should have told you about this, about me… I’m sorry that I didn’t say it, that I’m not just attracted to women.”

“Yes, I see that bloody clearly,” Mary said, not even looking at her boyfriend anymore.

Frankly, John was not sure their relationship was salvageable for him to still be her boyfriend.

“And I’m sorry for that, I truly am,” John continued. Mary squeezed her eyes shut, angrier than ever.

“If you want me to stay in this half-hearted little apology,” she grumbled, “you had better stop saying ‘sorry,’ right this instant.”

John very nearly said the word again, but he managed to hold himself back at the last moment. He looked down and gave a deep breath. Sherlock had not made a sound since the reveal. John was personally grateful about his partner’s absence, as part of his mind that was not working on an apology had the deepest urge to punch him in his pleasurable little mouth.

“Alright,” he said, his voice quiet. His mouth suddenly dry, he swallowed and looked up at her once more, not finding those angry, betrayed eyes any less difficult to speak to. “You said it perfectly earlier. This trip wasn’t just to be taken lightly. I wanted to go with you across the ocean because I want to be with you.”

Mary looked away, though she still listened to the apology nonetheless. “I hope this isn’t some marriage proposal to win me back.”

“No,” John shook his head. “No, I’m not sensationalizing anything. I came with you because I wanted to. Yes, I’ve had problems. But you were the one I wanted to solve those problems for.”

"What about your friend?" Mary said hoarsely, emphasis on the word "friend".

"What about him?"

"I take it he'll always be there. And you clearly still have feelings for him. Where does that put us?"

John swallowed, trying to figure out what was the right thing to say. He could not abandon Sherlock; the eccentric detective's already fragile mental health had come to depend on John, and the doctor did not dare imagine what Sherlock might do if John left. He had a sudden horrific mental image of Sherlock stepping into a steaming hot bath and slitting his wrists, quite literally bathing in a sea of his own blood. Besides, Mycroft had said there would be consequences if he broke Sherlock's heart.

"Sherlock is my best friend," John said quietly. He reached for Mary's hand and brushed his thumb over her knuckles. "But I'm in love with you. I thought we had something special, and I hope one mistake on my part will not erase all that."

Mary pursed her lips, wanting so badly to believe every word John Watson was saying, to forgive him, to pretend he had not just shagged another man during her brief absence. Her pride and common sense, however, strongly advised against it. One did not simply forgive infidelity without at least thinking it through first.

"I'll need time, John," she said, her voice back to normal pitch. "By myself. Please don't speak to me anymore tonight. I need to think."

"But..." John objected, although he did nothing to stop her when she pushed past him into the kitchen area. She tore two cans out of the six pack of beer in their mini fridge and then wordlessly retreated into the room she - up until now, anyway - shared with her boyfriend. Whatever thinking she was required to do, it was clearly not something she wanted to do sober.

As predicted, Mary promptly threw out John's pillow and bedspread, sending one final indisputable message that she did not want him in the same room with herself. Not that John could blame her.

***

Sherlock listened to the heated exchange taking place outside his room. He had not moved a limb since the drunk woman burst in and John immediately followed like a well-trained puppy dog, babbling frantic apologies and presenting transparent excuses for the situation she had walked in on. The doctor was lying, and when lies didn't get him off the hook, he offered half-truths.

A thick, heavy lump grew in Sherlock's chest when he heard John practically denounce him, adamantly claiming that the whole thing had been a mistake. Did that refer to their past relationship as well? Did he regret ever meeting Sherlock Holmes? Did he mean so little that John was willing to cast him aside to instead pursue a relationship that had never even made it past the 'dating' phase?

The constricting sensation in his chest was starting to impede his ability to breathe. Sherlock knew what was happening from a purely clinical viewpoint: he was close to having an anxiety attack. His earlier episode with John confronting him about the pills had already been a powerful trigger. One could only hold back the most basic emotional responses for a limited time, and Sherlock, who did not bend, tended to break when the pressure accumulated and finally overcame his ability to cope.

Curling up in a foetal position with a pillow - the one John had used - pressed tightly to his chest, Sherlock buried his face in the soft cotton fabric and tried desperately to quench the sobs threatening to break out of his throat. Moisture seeped from his eyes, gathering in his lashes and making them stand out in spikes. He was experiencing a gamut of emotions, ranging from despair to rage.

Sherlock had the deepest urge to leave the room and punch John dead in the face, but he was strangely able to restrain himself. Perhaps because he wanted to keep the older man out of his sight as much as Mary did. He was not sure if he could face John without losing his self-control.

His sobs muffled by the pillow, he realized his weeping was not going to be easily stopped when he recognized John's scent in the fabric. Face twisted in despair, he threw the pillow across the room, though it obviously did not break upon hitting anything, so the energy spent gave him neither relief or release. He found another cushion and clung to it as though it provided him the very air he breathed, and he concentrated on his breathing, deep and slow, desperate to think of something else - anything - besides John.

For the second time in one day, he felt betrayed. He felt as if he hated his only real friend. This journey had been a mistake, and as childish as it sounded, he wanted to go home. He wanted Mycroft to come retrieve him.

Turning over, he scrambled for his phone, picking it up with unsteady hands and speed-dialing his brother's number. Silence followed on the other line for a moment, and to his disappointment, a recorded female voice stated that the call could not be completed due to a lost signal.

Lovely. This bloody country and its mountains...! Sherlock nearly threw his mobile phone as he had John's pillow, but he hardly wanted the phone itself to break.

Curling up back into his original position, he tried to retreat into his little mind palace within, but he found it difficult. Instead he listened for the sounds of crickets outside. In the distant trees he thought he could also hear an owl.

But then another sound reached his ears, and he realized it was coming from the bedroom next door. Though muffled by the wall, he could easily determine what it was.

So... Sherlock was not the only one John had reduced to tears this evening.

Oddly enough, the detective found no solace in the woman's tears. True, he hated her for having latched onto John and for the possibility that she might take John away for good, but despite everything, Mary was not to blame in this mess. John had, in a quite literal sense, screwed her over as well.

Sherlock blew his stuffy nose into a tissue and simultaneously wiped his leaking eyes, undoubtedly red and swollen to the point that even someone as obtuse as John would be able to tell he'd been crying. John must not know under any circumstances. It was bad enough that his friend now knew about the antipsychotics and his mood disorder - secrets he had kept well-hidden until now - but John knowing about the true depth of Sherlock's feelings could possibly be his undoing.

Sherlock gathered himself up from the bed and lit the ceiling lamp. The shade was a ghastly, soiled thing, probably white once upon a time, but now a faded yellow. Nevertheless, it did its job providing the room with illumination, bleary though it was, and Sherlock shuffled over to the small mirror hanging on one of the walls. The glass was scratched and held a few suspicious stains, but he could see himself just fine. He was a horrid sight. Giving a shaky sigh, the detective brushed his tangled hair back from his forehead and let his eyes slide shut. Then he inhaled deeply a few times and counted to ten. It helped slightly, but he still felt - and looked - a sodding mess.

All this because of a man, Sherlock? the voice of his younger self taunted him in his head. The voice belonged to the Sherlock Holmes he had been years ago, before he knew John Watson and still used drugs to relieve his near-constant boredom, and sometimes - which was more often than he wanted to admit - hustled to procure said illegal substances. Trading sex if he was low on money was simply another means to an end. A body was nothing but transport, and it could be sold when needed. The Sherlock Holmes that never got involved on an emotional level.

Sherlock reached into his suitcase and pulled out his burgundy silk dressing gown, slipping it on. The material was easy on his burnt skin, downright soothing. Sherlock normally felt just as comfortable in the nude as with clothes on, if only the weather permitted, but now was going to be an exception. If he was to face John again this evening, he would require a layer between the doctor's eyes and his skin.

***

John had managed to arrange his sheet, blanket, and pillow on the sofa as an improvised bedspread when Sherlock exited from his bedroom. The doctor tried to give a small smile, but his expression went largely unnoticed. The detective did not even look in his direction, shuffling off to the kitchenette, his face a blank slate. Utterly silent, he filled the kettle and set it on the stove to make some tea, wordlessly wishing he had brought his own from London. He was not terribly surprised that American tea was rather shit in comparison. But at present time, shit tea was still tea.

"Umm..." John said, somewhat desperate to break the silence that at this point was thick in the air like a rainy mist. Sherlock remained silent, not uttering a noise of confirmation, but not responding negatively either, so the older man continued.

"I did look through the photos. You were right, there's more to it than just woods out there. I saw the chimney smoke."

Sherlock stood still as a pylon, waiting for the whistle of a kettle which was seemingly taking forever. He was beginning to hate the sound of John's voice.

"It certainly sounds like our next destination," his assistant continued. "Shall we investigate tomorrow morning?"

The whistling was barely audible to Sherlock, but the faint sound was enough. He grabbed at the kettle urgently and poured it into his mug as though desperately making a life-saving elixir, not caring just how much or little the tea itself would steep. Unfortunately, his urgency also left him careless. The hot water splashed onto his hand and he jumped away, shouting a curse as the kettle hit the floor with a loud clatter.

John rocketed off the sofa like a tightly coiled spring and ran over to the younger man. "Sherlock! Are you alright?"

He briefly observed the practically scarlet mark which the boiling water had left on Sherlock's right hand - a second degree burn this time - and reached for the limb to examine it further. It would no doubt blister and become even more painful if left untreated. Sherlock pulled his hand away before John could grasp it.

"Don't touch me, John. Please don't touch me."

"I just want to help."

John tried to search the other man's face for clues to this sudden aversion toward him, but as always, Sherlock guarded his emotions well. What reason did Sherlock have to be upset? It wasn't his relationship that was on the verge of destruction, not he that would have to spend the night sleeping on the sofa because he was unwanted. Was Sherlock still angry with John for going through his pockets? Did he regret their most recent sexual encounter? None of it made any sense to John. Sherlock had been the aggressor; clearly he had wanted it... at least then. Why the sudden change of heart?

"I'm not you, Sherlock," John said with a sigh. "I can't know what's wrong unless you talk to me."

"All the better then," Sherlock retorted acidly. He marched over to the kitchen counter and ran his burnt hand under a cold tap under absolute silence. Though John utterly failed to deduce what had caused Sherlock's pitch black mood, he could tell from his friend's bearing, as well as the granite muscles hidden beneath his silk robe, that it was a serious matter.

Once the water had done its job to alleviate the pain, Sherlock withdrew his hand and gingerly picked up the mug of tea which had survived the havoc. He did not reward John with as much as a glance in passing. The soft swish of silk as Sherlock padded back to his room was the only sound that could be heard.

John regarded the mess with which he had been left, and realized that Sherlock had no intention whatsoever to clean it up. Fortunately the kettle was made of stainless steel and had thus not broken upon impact, but other than this small detail there was nothing to be pleased about. Tea was everywhere, and it was still scalding hot.

He looked back up at the closed door that Sherlock had disappeared behind. The lodge was silent once again, no sounds coming from either bedroom, be they muffled or not. Any brief notion of bunking with Sherlock as opposed to taking up a spot on the sofa was no longer worth consideration.

TBC...
- 7
- 8
- 9
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The Prey