I will burn the heart out of you
Moriarty always called Sherlock Holmes "The virgin" and decide to take matters into his own hands. Contain mentions of male on male rape and maybe suicide attempt in later chapters.
NOT a John/Sherlock slash-fic, just a very strong friendship.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, nor anything that come from BBC
English is my third-language, so please excuse some (hopefully) minor errors.
Sherlock Holmes was a very private man. He did not like to be touched, nor did he like to touch others. He followed society's expectation to handshake when meeting new people and tolerated the occasional slap on the back after he had solved a difficult case, but in general he avoided physical contact.
It was just the way he was brought up. The Holmes's didn't show affection by touching. As Mycroft once said, while observing a grieving couple at the morgue, "caring is not an advantage, Sherlock".
Sherlock had found it difficult, when as a small child he had tried to curl up against his parents or hugged them in affection, only to receive an occasional stroke on the head in return. It was not that his parents did not care about Sherlock and Mycroft, touching was just not their way.
His hugs and kisses became less and less frequent, and now, as an adult, he didn't even consider touching anyone to show them that he cared about them, or to comfort them. Not that he had a phobia, he just didn't see the need for unnecessary touching.
It was not only his upbringing, of course. In his kind of work he had to stay distant of human emotions as good as possible. He had seen too many people in the police force making mistakes because they cared, really personally cared, about the victim they tried to rescue, resulting in errors that could have been avoided. Errors or mistakes were not an option for Sherlock, so he shut down as good as possible. Letting his intellect rule his personality he quickly earned the nicknames "The Robot", " The Freak" and" The Psychopath". He remember arriving at a crime-scene once and Donovan going "Brrr, it got so cold in here. Oh, never mind, it's just Sherlock entering".
Well, when you can't make people's impression of you go away, you just have to embrace it and make it part of who you are So as the years went by, Sherlock took pride in seeing the details on and around the victims, but not the victim itself.
And of course, as John once put it ;" he was also just an arrogant prick without manners".
The morning had started normal enough, or as normal you would call the life they led at 221B Baker Street.
John had just stormed off in disgust after opening the fridge and finding an eyeball neatly put on top of his dinner-leftover-saved-for-breakfast.
Sherlock had tried to explain that John's spaghetti Bolognese had the perfect level of moisture to keep the eyeball fresh, yet not damaging the aqueous humour, but John had grabbed his coat, claiming he "needed some air".
"Oh, come on, John", Sherlock had shouted from his perch in the brown leather chair, "it was not even a human eye; it came from a cow this time!"
Hearing the slam of the front door, Sherlock sighted, slid down the chair so that his long legs rested on the seat of the neighboring chair and grabbed the nearest newspaper.
After becoming an "internet phenomenon" (Lestrade's words), that damned picture of him in that hat popped up everywhere. Sherlock himself hated all the attention he got from the tabloid press, but Mrs. Hudson, thrilled that "her boys were famous", happily bought them every paper that featured him and John.
Today, bright red letters welcomed him; " LOVER'S SPAT BETWEEN FRICK AND FRACK?", featuring a picture of a seemingly scowling John stalking off a crime scene, while himself and a slightly bemused Lestrade watching him go.
Sherlock groaned and slid deeper into the chair. He remembered that case, several dog-walkers had been found dead and John had simply hurried home to get his allergy tablets (being terribly allergic to canine fur), and the photographer had just gotten a picture of John's "I am in a hurry"-face.
As Sherlock had said to John on their second day of knowing each other, he considered himself married to his work. He had never wanted a romantic relationship or children, and was happy with his little family consisting of John, Mrs. Hudson and sometimes Mycroft (mostly when he needed to "borrow" Mycroft's identity). Apart from Irene Adler, which he admired for her drive and intelligence, he never even looked at a woman twice (not needing to, a single glance was all it took to read their life story anyway), but that did not mean that he was attracted to men, nor that he was in a physical relationship with his flat-mate.
Tossing aside the newspaper, he got on his feet and crossed the room. Peering into the fridge, he was pleased with the consistency of the cow eye, still staring out from John's leftover-dinner. What Sherlock was less pleased with, was that they were out of milk. He thought he had at least one carton of milk yesterday, brought by John or Mrs. Hudson. Oh, no wait, he had used it to store a jawbone from a victim that had been found yesterday. Making a mental note to remove the milk from the fridge before John had another fit, he pulled on his coat, scarf and made his way down the stairs.
Left handed, slightly asthmatic, student in…history, a tea drinker, living with two females and one small child and is getting used to new contact lenses. Non-smoker.
"One Espresso Macchiato without sugar, extra black" . The woman in front of the coffee shop called, reading the name scribbled across the paper cup. " For… Sherlock, innit? That's a funny name, never 'eard anyone else bein' called Sherlock. Hang on", she said, peering at him from behind the counter", you're the bloke from that blog, yeah?"
Sherlock managed a tight smile, accepting his coffee-to-go and made his way hastily out of the door. He had planned to sit in the coffee shop for a bit, but he sure as shit wasn't going to do that now. If he had, it would just be a matter of time before he had people swarming about him, telling him about "cases" you had to be blind as a bat not to see the answer to.
"Damn you, John. And damn your blog", he muttered, taking small sips of coffee. Suddenly the light seemed a lot brighter than it had two minutes ago, and he felt a sudden pressure somewhere behind his eyes. Feeling the familiar feeling of something forcing itself up from his stomach, he staggered in to the nearest back alley. Dry heaving and leaning with his hands on the rough concrete walls, the light became brighter and brighter until Sherlock felt like his head would explode by the pressure. Then everything went dark.
"Wakey wakey, pretty boy"
"I think he's still out cold, sir"
"What, sleeping away while we are all anxious to greet him. And on his birthday, of all days. This will just not do."
"Do you want me to wake him up, sir?"
"Well, I don't want him to sleep through our surprise, now do I, what is the fun in that?"
"Do it again".
Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, blinking against the unfamiliar light. Shutting them with a groan, he heard snickering from somewhere on his left. His pulse going a bit quicker, he had to remind himself that this was not the first time he had woken up in an unfamiliar place. He just had to stay calm and not let himself be intimidated, and everything would be fine.
Eyes firmly shut against the slight light, he tried to feel his surroundings. He was standing upright. His left arm was bound against something hard, maybe a board. Concentrating on his right hand, he confirmed it was the same with that one. Both his legs were trapped to the same board, making him feel like a fully clad Vitruvian man. No sound of traffic, they must be quite a distance from the city. He heard dripping in the distance, making echoes as the drops hit the floor. An empty warehouse?
"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. When you sleep in the afternoon, you can't expect getting to sleep at night. Now open your eyes and look at me!"
Forcing his eyes open, his focus taking some time to settle, until it landed on a very smiling Jim Moriarty.
"Well, hello, Sherlock."
Trying to look bored, Sherlock answered "Hello, Jim. Fancy meeting you here".
Looking delighted, Moriarty rubbed his hands together. There were a small gathering of elegant clad men in the background, watching them.
"You know me, always where you don't expect me to be. Well, I have read in the papers these last few days that it's just not working out between you and the good doctor, and me and the boys just wanted to cheer you up, this being your birthday and all".
Frowning in confusion, Sherlock asked "My birthday?"
"Yeah" Moriarty said gleefully, as he signaled to the other men to come closer. "Haven't you heard?"
Leaning so close to his ear that Sherlock could feel the warmth of his breath, Moriarty whispered " This is the day where I burn the heart out of you".
Whew, that was the first chapter.
Please review, and feel free to include ideas or wishes, if it's something specific you would want to happen next.