Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2662892.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_Holmes_&_Related_Fandoms
  Additional Tags:
      Past_Child_Abuse, Implied/Referenced_Child_Abuse, Murder, PTSD_Sherlock,
      OOC_Sherlock, Mentions_Incest, Vigilante, Pedophilia, Sexual_Assault,
      Rape_With_An_Object, Torture, BAMF_John
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-04-11 Words: 3168
****** To Protect Sherlock Holmes ******
by VincentMeoblinn
Summary
     John gets revenge for Sherlock.
 
 
John’s mind was a mess despite his outward calm. He was driving a stolen
vehicle, one he’d stolen himself for a change, towards his first ever murder.
He didn’t actually count when he’d killed Hope; that was self-defense, or
rather Sherlock-defense. Now he was going to commit cold-blooded murder after
having spent an entire month researching his own blog, Sherlock’s blog,
Sherlock’s past notes he had lying around the house, and meticulously planning
an alibi.
It all started with a kiss, of course; a kiss that never should have happened.
Sherlock had been excited due to John having solved a case before him (it was a
matter of time and place rather than skill, John had seen the evidence before
Sherlock) and had simply walked up to him and smooched him right on the lips…
in front of half of Scotland Yard. John had been horrified but Sherlock had
acted as if it was completely normal. He’d had words with him after which
Sherlock had scoffed at and then John had done something Sherlock hadn’t
expected for the second time in one day. He’d threatened to move out and meant
it.
“I need to know, Sherlock. I need to know that you’re not going to pull this
again. I’m not into you and I’m not okay with you crossing that boundary. Do
you get that? I want your word. No inappropriate touching and no kissing.”
“Homophobia is the last thing I expected from you, John,” Sherlock sneered.
“Not wanting to be sexually assaulted by my flatmate isn’t homophobia Sherlock.
It’s a reasonable fucking request.”
Sherlock had gone pale and swayed on his feet as if he might faint. Before John
could ask him if he was okay, or take back his overly dramatic words, the man
was stammering out an apology.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I never… I’m just… I didn’t mean… It won’t happen
again. Ever.”
“Good,” John nodded, “We’re good then.”
The next day Sherlock had emerged from his bedroom after a night of audible
pacing looking haggard and drawn.
“John, are we still friends?” He asked without preamble.
“Yes,” John stated simply, not elaborating. He was starting to feel guilty for
alarming Sherlock the way he had.
“Then I’d like to ask you to accompany me while I visit a family member today.
I have some… unfinished business.”
John pulled into the driveway of the house he’d visited a month ago with
Sherlock. His alibi was well established. He’d staged a row with Sherlock at
the Yard and gone to spend the night at Molly’s house. There they’d gotten
drunk while complaining about Sherlock’s shitty treatment of them… well, Molly
had gotten drunk. John’s beers had all been replaced non-alcoholic beer in
regular bottles. Once she’d passed out he’d rolled around on the couch and made
it look as if he’d slept on it. Then he’d left the flat, stolen a neighbor’s
car, and driven to 214 A------ street in Reading. There he slipped into the
flat, ignoring the pictures of army mates on the wall, and into the bedroom of
a man who slept far too deeply for someone who had seen bloodshed and left a
young man scarred for life.
John looked down at the man and remembered the look on Sherlock’s face a month
ago. Never had he felt surer about someone’s guilt and his own innocence in
taking a life.
“What are you doing here, Sherlock?” Commander Roland Holmes demanded, “You’ve
not been to see me in years and years.”
“I want to discuss what you did to me as a child.”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Do you mean how I spoilt you? Bought
you nice things? Took you to movies?”
“I’m talking about how you snuck into my room at night and…”
Roland’s expression turned furious and Sherlock’s normally confident voice
tapered off. Beside him John clenched his hands into fists as the edges of his
vision turned white. He held himself in check… barely.
“I treated you like a prince you ungrateful little shit! Howdareyou accuse me
of anything untoward?”
“Untoward? I’m accusing you of paedophilia.”
“What do you want, a confession? I’ve done nothing wrong! I wouldneverdo such a
thing to a child, yet alone to you! After all I’ve done for you…!”
“I don’t expect a confession,” Sherlock replied, “I don’t have any proof. If I
did you’d be in jail already.”
“Then why are you here making false accusations in front of a witness?!”
“I just want… to know why.”
“Why?” Roland asked in confusion.
“Why me?” Sherlock asked, looking up with tears in his eyes, “I trusted you. I
adored you. You took that trust and love and made me fear you. Why? If you’d
just waited until I was older I… I might have come to you willingly despite
being a relative. I’d loved you that much. If you’d just… if you hadn’t… Did
you enjoy my tears? Do you still?”
John had been close to murder then, but he didn’t want to get Sherlock into
trouble so he held himself still with the thought that hewouldend this man.
Soon. That timetable nearly moved up to ‘immediately’ when Roland Holmes began
to laugh, ordering Sherlock out of his home through his mirth, causing Sherlock
to jump up and flee the small country house in tears.
John’s hair was covered in a hair net, a mask was over that but he’d rolled it
up now that he was inside and away from the CCTV cameras. His clothes were all
new, paid for with cash, and ready to be disposed of the second he was done.
His hands were covered in leather gloves with rubber gloves over top. His knife
was one he had no emotional attachment to. It would be in the bottom of the
Thames with the rest of the gear before dawn.
John used chloroform to make sure he didn’t wake up and then pulled him into a
fireman’s carry. It was awful on his shoulder, but he would put up with it for
Sherlock. Down to the basement of the tiny little house with the plain white
paint on its walls and no sign of a woman’s touch. Once there he found a bare
space and cuffed the man’s arms behind his back and his ankles together. Then
he proceeded to cut off all of his clothes. He regained consciousness as John
was cutting his shirt off and started thrashing.
“Tsk, tsk,” John scolded, “You don’t want me to slip with this knife, do you?
Best enjoy the last bit of life you have.”
“Who are you? What do you want? I have money to…” Roland paused, realizing who
was looking down at him, and his face drew into a sneer, “Are you fucking him?
Is that what this is about? Angry I got to his tight ass first?”
“Nope and nope. I’m here to punish you, Mr. Holmes. See, Sherlock has told me
flat out he has nothing on you. No proof. No witnesses. You’ve even got an
alibi or two set aside in some freaky friends of yours. So I’m taking justice
into my own hands. I’m a soldier too, so you understand.”
“He’s not worth it,” Roland snarled, “He’s a filthy little slut! Don’t go to
jail for him, son. Not after serving your country the way you...”
“Shhhh,” John replied, running the flat of his blade over the man’s lips,
“Don’t make me cut out your tongue. I don’t want to hear a word about
Sherlock’s virtues- or lack of them- or who here has served their country. You
go ahead and beg for your life, though. I’ll need something to help me drift
off to sleep later on and I think that would be the best music I’ve heard short
of Sherlock’s violin.”
“I taught him violin,” The man taunted.
John sighed, “Maybe I’ll just cut off a lip. Less trouble than a tongue.”
“No! Wait! Plea…”
John grabbed his fat bottom lip and sliced it off with two swift motions while
the man screamed and screamed.
“Neighbors are far off,” John smiled, “I’m sure you did that on purpose. Do you
have other children here sometimes? Will I find evidence? Maybe I should have
looked first. You’d have had a worse time in jail. See they’d really punish
you. Inmates hate paedophiles; you’re the scum of the criminal world. Then
again… I wouldn’t get to spend this lovely time with you.”
John cut off his pants while he lay there sobbing and dripping red drool all
over himself. Once his sleep pants were down he took out a plastic dildo and
plunged it into his anus without lubrication or preparation. It took an
alarming amount of force and John felt a bit sick afterwards. The man screamed
and thrashed, but soon saw the error of that and held still. Blood was seeping
out around the sex toy, but without John pulling it out he wouldn’t bleed out.
Not that way. John didn’t intend to pull it out. There were some places he just
couldn’t go and be able to sleep at night afterwards.
Instead John got on to the next part of his plan. He picked up his knife again,
showed it to Roland, and slowly took his flaccid penis in hand. The man was
trying to shout ‘no’, but minus a lip all that came out was ‘Uh uh! Uh uh!’ so
it wasn’t all that effective. A moment to let him panic and try to wiggle away,
and then the sharp knife cut through the soft flesh like butter and John was
left holding his organ while the man passed out from the pain. Just to make
sure he bled to death he nicked his femoral artery as well. He stuffed the
remains of his manhood in his mouth, just because he’d seen it in a movie and
it had pissed him off, and then started his clean up. John was tempted to stem
the bleeding so the man could wake up and face the damage done to him, just to
make him suffer more, but that would show medical competence. He had to leave
as little at the scene as possible.
A bottle of bleach from the victim’s own house sealed the deal. He poured it
everywhere to damage any evidence he’d accidentally left behind. He wrapped the
knife in paper towels and headed back to the stolen car. From there he headed
straight for the Thames where he dumped the knife and gloves, donning a fresh
pair of rubber gloves and then doubling them just in case.
John got back to the parking garage of Molly’s building- no working cameras,
they were just for show- an hour before sunset, returned the car to it’s
previous parking space, wiped it down, locked it behind him, and stripped out
of the outer layer of clothes. He wiped himself down with alcohol swabs,
bundled it all, and left to walk the block to the Thames- a different section-
dump the rest of his gear, and walk back. He entered Molly’s flat just as the
first rays of sunshine were peering in through the window and collapsed onto
the couch once again.
When she emerged from her room a few hours later he made sure to look hung
over, not a difficult deception since he’d gotten no sleep that night or the
one before. Molly made them tea and they ate dry toast in miserable, silent
camaraderie. John went home and made up with Sherlock as soon as possible,
feeling awful for the things he’d said the day before in his attempt to get out
of the scrutinizing man’s gaze. He needn’t have bothered. He walked in the door
and Sherlock gave him an alarmed look.
“You killed someone last night. I know that look. You had the same expression
after you shot the cabby. Who? Why?”
“Best you not know, yeah?” John replied, and then went to the bathroom to
shower and change for work.
Sherlock followed him, clearly concerned, and spoke through the door when John
decided not to be obliging.
“Is this going to become a habit?” Sherlock asked, his tone concerned.
“Did you just ask me if I’m a serial killer?”
“Yes.”
“Would you be disappointed if I said no?”
Silence for a moment, the sound of shifting about, and then, “No. Yes. Maybe.
Are you?”
“Nope. Stay out of it. It doesn’t concern you. I had my reasons.”
“Very well,” Sherlock replied with a frustrated sigh, but John suspected it was
far from over.
Two days later Mycroft showed up at their door and John made himself scarce. A
few minutes later Sherlock was banging on his door and John opened it with a
sinking feeling. He hadn’t actually expected Sherlock would turn him in, but he
supposed he ought to have considered that. The man was nothing if not a
pragmatist… or perhaps Chaotic Good was a better description.
John opened the door to find Sherlock on the other side, his face ashen and
tears streaking down his cheeks.
“My uncle is dead.”
“I… oh.”
“He was murdered,” Sherlock replied.
“I… I take it it’s not Christmas?” John asked, confused and a bit frightened.
“Mycroft wants me to investigate but I… I can’t…”
“I’ll talk to him. Lie down. I’ll be back up,” John insisted.
Sherlock headed for his bed while John headed downstairs to find Mycroft
looking concerned on the landing. He found himself second guessing himself
immediately. Mycroft was supposedly even more intelligent than Sherlock, surely
he’d see through him instantly.
“Is he alright? I know Uncle Roland was Sherlock’s favorite but I never
expected him to become so…” A look of disgust crossed Mycroft’s face,
“Emotional.”
“He just needs some time. Better find someone else to investigate this one,
yeah?”
“I doubt it. He’ll be furious. I’ll have them bag, tag, and hold the evidence.
He’ll come around.”
“I’m sure he will,” John nodded.
Mycroft gave John a curious look and then turned for the doorway. He stopped
and turned back.
“Fine. I give. Why?”
“Why what?” John asked.
“Why would you kill our uncle? You aren’t unstable, you’re no murderer, there’s
no obvious motive such as money or…”
“Leave,” John state angrily.
“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft scoffed, “You’re the one who killed our uncle.
Perhaps you should leave. Or better yet, perhaps I should call D.I. Lestrade
and have you arrested.”
“Do that and Sherlock won’t have anyone to lean on right now.”
“Do you think I want him leaning on a murderer?”
“You just said yourself I’m not one. It was revenge. That was my motive.
Happy?”
“Something from your time in the service?”
“Nope.”
“Brother,” Sherlock’s voice, hoarse from weeping, reached their ears, “Leave.
Don’t get involved. Please.”
“How can I not?” Mycroft demanded as if the request were utterly unreasonable.
Sherlock came down the steps, still in his dressing gown and looking utterly
drained. John wanted to comfort him, but he had no idea how to go about it. How
did one comfort a Holmes? With a murder, he’d thought, but clearly that hadn’t
been the ticket.
“John was just protecting me,” Sherlock replied, “You like it when he does
that, remember?”
“From Uncle Roland?” Mycroft scoffed.
“Yes,” Sherlock replied.
“What would Uncle Roland do to you?”
“It’s more what he’d already done,” Sherlock replied miserably.
Mycroft’s eyebrows furrowed, he gave Sherlock a curious look, but he found no
answer written in Sherlock’s clothing or stance. Sherlock became anxious
anyway, looking away in shame and pushing past them both to head for the
sitting room. He took the couch so John joined him, sitting close enough that
he could reach for him if he needed.
“You want anything?” John asked, “Tea? Food? Damn it, Sherlock, you were meant
to feel better, not worse.”
“I do feel better. And worse,” Sherlock replied, rubbing at his face, “It’s
complicated. For all that I hated and feared him, I loved him, too.”
That was enough for Mycroft to be getting on with. His face went pale and he
clenched the back of John’s chair for support.
“No,” He whispered, “No he couldn’t have. Wouldn’t have.”
Sherlock looked ready to curl up and die, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as if
to make himself invisible by sheer will. Mycroft walked around and sank down
into John’s chair.
“When?” He asked, his voice devastated.
“Starting at seven,” Sherlock replied, “It went on till I was… eleven? Twelve?
I’m not sure. Some of it is… blurry.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Mycroft asked, his tone pleading.
“I thought you wouldn’t believe me, that you loved him more, and… he threatened
me. I was afraid of him.”
“Sherlock… good gods… is this why you turned to drugs?” Mycroft asked, his tone
one of despair.
Sherlock opened his eyes long enough to fix Mycroft with a miserable stare,
“Yes.”
Mycroft bolted to his feet, shaking with suppressed anger, and Sherlock’s arms
tightened around his knees as if to protect him.
“Where are you going?” John asked as the man stormed to the door to 221B and
threw it open.
“To the morgue to beat a corpse!” Mycroft shouted back.
John stared after him, feeling useless and as if he’d somehow made a terrible
mistake. He was just trying to work out exactly how one apologized for
murdering a family member when Sherlock let out a shuddering breath and then
turned in his seat to stare at John dolefully.
“John, may I do something that is not sexual but requires your permission
regardless?”
“What?”
“May I hug you?”
“Yeah, sure. This sort of thing warrants a hug.”
Sherlock leaned sideways and sort of collapsed against John, who wrapped an arm
around his torso and leaned his cheek on the top of his unruly curls.
“Thank you,” Sherlock whispered an hour later, “Thank you for protecting me.”
John smiled sadly, feeling the weight of taking a man’s life for the first
time.
“Anytime, Sherlock,” John whispered, then impulsively turned his head to press
a kiss to the man’s head.
Sherlock turned his head to look up at the same moment and their lips met. For
a moment they both froze, then John’s eyes slid closed and Sherlock leaned into
the kiss. Their lips moved slowly, then with more surety, until they were
kissing with deep tenderness, their tongues exploring the inside of their
mouths. When they drew back for air Sherlock’s pupils were blown and John
imagined he looked the same.
“Was that okay?” Sherlock asked, so much uncharacteristic uncertainty in his
voice.
“Yeah,” John replied, his voice husky, “That was better than okay.”
“Good,” Sherlock replied, “Then I’d like that tea now.”
John huffed out a laugh, “Sure. Git.”
Sherlock smiled softly and John stood to get his tea, promising himself that he
wouldn’t screw this up… whatever it was.
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