Chapter Text
His hands trembled as he reached for the doorbell. One arm grasped his side, which was still burning with pain. He shook as he stood there in the pouring rain, lips blue and legs numb. He was both desperate and terrified for the door to open. Both anxious and nervous to be somewhere safe. He was terrified to know how his friend will react- to everything. The bruise, the shaking, the state of him. How weak he was.
After an agonizing wait the door opened, and the kind face of a tall brunet appeared in the doorway. Locks of curly hair fell into the other one’s face so that he had to brush them away to get a good look at Sherlock.
At last their eyes connected.
“Sherlock?” Victor whispered.
Victor Trevor stared at him for a moment, his hand frozen on the doorframe. He wished he would let him in; although not a soul is on the street in Victor’s elite Norfolk neighborhood, he felt like all eyes were on him. He was wrapped in a soaked jumper, tattered jeans, and trainers with beaten soles, but he felt completely naked.
In a moment of panic Victor opened the door, grabbed his hand, and pulled him inside.
“Sherlock,” Victor whispered. Once inside the warm foyer Sherlock shivered, having difficulty adjusting to the temperature change. He couldn’t speak, and he simply stared at his friend, hoping he would somehow understand. “Did you come from London like this?”
He nodded weakly. The simple gesture sent an electric shock of pain through his head. Victor seemed to notice and he raised a hand to his face, gently, cautiously, but Sherlock still flinched as cool fingers caressed the dark bruise beneath his eye.
“It was just someone from the neighborhood,” he stammered, voice so hoarse he could hardly hear himself. He swallowed, trying to gain more confidence. “They were high, they didn’t know-“
“Bullshit.” Trevor’s voice was dark and cold, and Sherlock could hardly bring himself to meet the fury brewing in his eyes, though he knew it wasn’t directed at him. “Did you phone the police?”
He shook his head. The pity gazing back at him was almost as painful as the injuries. It was then that Victor noticed the arm wrapped around his waist, and he reached forward, forcing the hand away. Sherlock groaned, hesitant, but allowed him to continue. He stole a quick glance himself and was relieved to see the bruise was rather small, no bigger than a tennis ball. Yet Victor’s eyes lit up with hatred.
“The bastard,” Victor mumbled.
“It’s nothing-“
“Bastard!” Victor exclaimed. “Fuck, Sherlock! You’ve got to contact the police this time!”
“No!” Victor stopped at his pathetic cry, at his eyes, wide with fear. “Please, just…let me stay. Please. I just need somewhere to stay.”
They were only months apart, and yet Victor seemed so much older than him then. He never depended on him more, and he let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding when Victor reluctantly nodded his head.
“Come on,” Victor whispered.
Grasping his hand, he was led to Victor’s bedroom. He lingered in the room alone as Victor disappeared first back to the kitchen. He returned with a bag of ice.
“Here,” Victor said, thrusting the ice at him.
“I don’t need-“
His pounding head protested, as did the flash of Victor’s eyes. He sighed again as he accepted the ice and placed it against his eye, shuddering at the coldness of it. Victor then disappeared into the washroom, and a towel was thrown his way.
“I suppose you didn’t bring anything,” Victor muttered.
“Didn’t have time,” Sherlock admitted.
Again, the pity. He swallowed nervously; it felt like a spotlight was hanging over him, highlighting just how helpless he truly was. Instead of protesting, Victor stepped inside his wardrobe. A pair of pajama bottoms were thrown at him, followed by a freshly laundered jumper. The clothes felt brand new compared to what he was wearing.
“Strip,” Victor ordered.
Sherlock just stared at him; his knees went weak. Victor rolled his eyes.
“Change,” Victor explained. “God, you’re so…”
The words trailed off his tongue as he must have realized he was going in the wrong direction. Sherlock gazed at him a moment longer before finally peeling off the soaked sweatshirt. An old t-shirt was underneath, one he had worn for years, and he could see the disapproval of his fashion choice in Victor’s eyes. His skin prickled with nerves as he was watched. The shirt brushed against the bruise ever so slightly, but he still winced violently. Victor rushed toward him, a hand at his side in an instant.
“Does that hurt?” Victor asked, pressing his palm lightly against his stomach. Sherlock shook his eyes even as he flinched at the touch. “Maybe you need to go to the A&E or something.”
“No!” Sherlock pleaded.
His throat was sore by now, a product of the cold rain. Victor gazed at him, not arguing. He really was trying to understand, Sherlock realized. Suddenly a hand reached up to his chin, turning his bad eye toward Victor. Sherlock’s trembling seized as another hand locked in with his fingertips. His eyes widened in surprise as he realized what was happening.
He didn’t budge as Victor’s lips closed in on his, capturing him in a familiar gesture of what he could best describe as empathy. He let his hand rest on Victor’s shoulder, which prompted his boyfriend to pull him closer. He shivered as his bare chest touched Victor’s jumper, and on instinct Sherlock’s hands shimmied up his back. They broke apart for a moment, breath hot against each others' lips before kissing again.
“I shouldn’t have let you leave last time,” Victor whispered against his lips when they parted again.
Sherlock forced him back into another kiss for a moment before responding:
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not,” Victor protested with a groan. Hands suddenly found their way up his own chest, and Sherlock let out a soft moan. “Tell me if I hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
Their eyes met, and he had never been so desperate for Victor’s acceptance. He wasn’t sure if boyfriend was the right term for what Victor was, but it was the best way he could describe their relationship. They had been together for the better part of sixth months, having met studying in the university library, of all places. Their relationship was their secret, although he had a feeling Victor’s father suspected they were doing more than just reading books in his son’s bedroom. It was three months before Victor found out what was happening at his own home, and another three weeks before he would actually open up about it. Soon Victor’s house became the place to escape to, to run away to until Victor’s family got tired of hiding him there.
“Where’s your family?” He asked.
“Dad’s at work,” Victor said. Their lips brushed together. “Hailey’s at orchestra practice until five. Grandmother’s in a nursing home.”
Sherlock pulled away, gaping at him.
“I didn’t know that.”
“I know,” Victor said. Without missing a beat, their lips brushed together again. “Can we please not talk about my grandmother right now?”
“Is she alright?”
He was honestly concerned, but he wasn’t even sure Victor heard him. Victor took the opportunity of his mouth opening to slip his tongue in; Sherlock gasped at the sudden lack of oxygen but slowly eased into the kiss. Suddenly they found themselves stumbling back until Victor’s knees hit the bed, and Sherlock unceremoniously fell into his lap. The smallest of grins broke out across his face, which seemed to ease Victor’s worrying for the moment; but as soon as he felt better a finger brushed against his bruised eye once again a sickening pit settled in his stomach. He reached up, forcing the hand away.
“You’re so cold,” Victor whispered.
He responded by pressing himself even more closely against his boyfriend, settling into the heat formed by the friction of their bodies. He stiffened; his jeans were becoming incredibly uncomfortable and Victor seemed to realize this.
He froze when Victor reached for his zipper.
Their eyes met, Sherlock’s full of fear while Victor silently pleaded with him not to be afraid. Sherlock breathed deeply as he remained silent, allowing Victor to continue. A hand gently pulled at his neck, pulling him further into the kiss. He allowed the dance of their tongues, the exploration of mouths, to distract him from the awkward sensation of having his clothes pulled off. He then felt himself being pulled toward the pillows. With one hand still on his neck, Victor used the other to pull the bed clothes over them. Sherlock relished in the warmth of the comforter and was secretly grateful for at least some sort of privacy. He realized he hadn’t thought to return any favors to Victor, but his boyfriend didn’t seem to mind as he tugged away at his own trousers. Lips found his neck then, sucking lightly at the skin. He moaned into Victor’s neck; tiny shivers traveled up and down his body. They were pressed together, every inch of them, and the feeling was all of maddening, frightening, and brilliant.
It was only then that he realized: I have no idea what I’m doing.
He stopped and pulled back to gaze at Victor, hoping he would understand. His body was hot with embarrassment as he clung to Victor. Victor nodded, and in one swift movement he was tossed onto his stomach. His heart was racing, thumping against his chest so hard it hurt.
“You’re taking this well,” Victor smirked.
“Yeah, I was feeling pretty confident right until about…now,” he admitted.
Victor grinned against his back before leaning down to continue to devour Sherlock’s neck with his lips. Sherlock simply lay there, unsure what he should be doing. His legs were going a bit numb again, and he cursed himself for giving into such human reactions.
He heard the bedside drawer open and close.
“Relax,” Victor whispered.
A cold hand ran up and down his back, still damp from the rain, and he let out a low whine. Victor’s chest lowered against his back, and suddenly the cold, damp feeling turned into a burning heat. His breath hitched as soft kisses trailed across his neck. With his head buried into the pillows, he let out a small moan. A finger brushed against his back, tracing his spine all the way down to his arse. The finger disappeared, returning moments later slick with lube. He twitched as the finger settled between the cheeks; a firm hand rest against his lower back to keep him still.
“Easy,” Victor whispered.
Though soft spoken his voice sounded so close, like the world was closing in. Like the only thing happening right there, at that moment, was the two of them. The weight of Victor’s body pressed against him slightly as he pushed the finger inside him, and Sherlock clenched around him.
“Victor,” he trembled desperately.
He began wrapping his arms around the pillows, unsure of what else to do with them, but Victor’s free hand stopped him.
“Alright?” Victor asked as he gently pushed the finger in and out. He nodded; sweat was pouring down his face. “How about now?”
A second finger pushed into him, and Sherlock shut his eyes even tighter. He let out a slow breath, forcing himself to ease into the feeling inside him. He felt so tense, so tight, that he couldn’t see why anyone would think this felt good.
“I know,” Victor whispered; he trembled again, feel uncomfortable knowing Victor could tell what he was thinking. “Breathe.”
It seemed like an odd command but he obeyed, letting out a long, shaky breath. He was surprised to actually be able to relax for a moment…then he felt Victor lift him slowly with his free hand. The other continued to push in and out as he was brought to his hands and knees. All at once Victor removed his fingers, and Sherlock shuddered. He thought he would feel relieved, but he realized he actually felt empty. As awkward and uncomfortable as it was, his body was left begging for more.
One hand roamed his back as the other drew close to his chest, finding one of his nipples. He gasped, breathing hard at the sensation of skin on skin.
“God I hate you,” Sherlock moaned.
“No you don’t,” Victor whispered, breath hot against his chest. “Are you fine like this?”
Sherlock nodded feverishly. He wasn’t sure how else he should be.
Suddenly Victor’s fingers pushed into him again, scissoring him open, he realized. He almost flinched on instinct, but then he realized:
“Fuck.”
It actually felt amazing this time. Victor grinned.
“Is that good?”
Sherlock wished he would stop asking these questions. He wasn’t sure how else it should feel.
“Yes,” he groaned. “Fuck yes.”
This seemed to be a signal for Victor to move faster. Sherlock suddenly sucked in a sharp breath. His body seemed to lock up in a blissful haze.
“Yes!” He was shocked to find his voice again past the hoarse moans. “There.”
“There?” Victor smirked, brushing the spot again.
Sherlock nodded desperately. God he was actually panting.
He added a third finger, and Sherlock nearly burst.
“Oh god.” The groan seemed to ripple through the room. Sherlock was grateful for the echoing sound of rain pattering against the windows. “Fuck. Oh my god.”
“Christ I haven’t heard you talk this much in ages,” Victor mumbled.
Sherlock let out a shaky laugh.
“You should really work on your dirty talk,” Sherlock shot.
“That can be arranged,” Victor growled. The flick of a tongue traced across his earlobe, and he thought he might simply die, just like this. “How does that feel?”
His knuckles brushed the spot again, and Sherlock was certain every cell of energy in him was crying with desperation.
“Please.”
“Shit, I didn’t think I’d have you begging.”
“Fuck…bastard!”
Suddenly Victor removed his fingers altogether, and Sherlock’s eyes went wide. Victor’s own breath seemed to hasten as rested his hands rasped his arse tightly. Sherlock winced as fingers dug into the skin for a moment before disappearing again. Something wet and hard brushed against him, and he realized Victor was lining himself up. Sherlock drew in a sharp breath on instinct, clenching at the sheets as Victor pushed in. He closed his eyes, willing himself not to cry out as Victor began pushing into him.
“Fuck,” Victor mumbled behind him.
A scream escaped him still, erupting through the house as Victor finally pushed all the way inside him.
Victor paused, panting. Sherlock kept holding his breath, trying to not think about the pain. It felt sharp and tight and yet warm and right all at the same time. His own cock begged for relief below him; his eyes widened as he watched Victor’s hand creep down his abdomen toward it, until his fingers brushed against the shaft.
It was like everything he could ever feel was rushing through him. His own frantic breaths echoed loudly. Victor was sucking at his neck again as he allowed him a moment to adjust.
“Victor-“ he warned.
He wasn’t going to last long at all.
“Fuck. Sherlock.”
He shuddered as his named rolled off his boyfriend’s tongue, so desperate. He wanted to reach for Victor’s hand, wanted to hold onto something other than the drenched sheets. Instead, Victor’s fingers began stroking his cock just as he began to thrust into him.
“Victor.”
“Too much?” Victor panted. He shook his head. “Alright?”
“Please!”
He didn’t care how he sounded. He didn’t care how the bed rocked in a fury that would shake the whole house. He didn’t care that the covers were slipping off of them by now, fully exposing what they were doing.
“Sherlock,” Victor whispered again.
He nearly sounded like he was crying. Victor stopped for a split second.
“Please,” he pleaded as Victor slipped out of him.
He could feel his boyfriend’s wet, sloppy grin against his back. Victor gave a tight squeeze to his cock before pushing back into him.
“Oh god!”
He could feel his orgasm rushing to surface, shaking him to the core. He never felt so alive, so aware of every inch of what he was feeling. Flashes of hotness erupted at various breaking points in his body. Victor was panting like mad, just above his face.
“Fuck!” Victor’s voice shot through the house. “Sherlock!”
Pupils blown wide, Sherlock grasped the sheets in horror as Victor’s hand sped up, meeting each thrust perfectly. He began pushing back as Victor pushed into him, and the sensation was so overwhelming, so fantastically perfect that all in one moment it became too much.
“Victor!” He exclaimed. “Victor, I’m-“
Victor sped up his thrusting; the force of it took his breath away. As much as he wanted to keep his eyes open he couldn’t. It was all too much, too much to take in. He closed his eyes as Victor continued to pound him, shoving them both deeper and deeper into the mattress.
“Oh god! Oh FUCK!”
His cry seemed endless. Victor screamed his name as he filled him, but the rhythmic push-pull didn’t need to last as Sherlock came. At last his eyes flew open again, just in time to watch as his come spilled into Victor’s hand. His body seemed to freeze as he clenched around Victor.
“Oh god,” Victor muttered one final time before collapsing on top of them.
They lay there for a moment, panting and still joined together. Then as his head seemed to deflate and feeling returned to his legs Victor slid out of him. Even that sensation sent shivers down his spine.
“Fuck,” Sherlock grunted as he was freed.
Victor rolled beside him, grinning amongst the sweat and come drenching the sheets.
“Oh my god,” Sherlock whispered.
It was one of the only two phrases he could think to say. Victor leaned over him and their lips brushed together, as gently as ever. Everything was still normal. When they pulled away Sherlock smiled, truly honestly smiled, for the first time in what felt like days.
But Victor was frowning. He watched, confused, as his boyfriend’s hand trailed down to the bruise on his stomach.
“Oh my god,” Victor moaned, sounding sick and disgusted, which only made Sherlock feel ill. Just like that, all the brilliance of it seemed to disappear. “That was too much. Shit, it wasn’t the appropriate time. I’m sorry, Sherlock, I-“
Sherlock reached up, holding a hand against his chest.
“It’s fine,” he said. He was still breathing hard, finding it difficult to catch his breath. The entire day had been too much, from the incident to being here, in bed with Victor and perhaps Victor was right. But he was relieved for the escape, for being able to know that someone cared about him enough to fully accept him like that. He brought a hand to Victor’s cheek, stroking it lightly. “Promise.”
They gazed into each others' eyes, and while Victor looked hesitant he nodded. Reaching up, he allowed their lips to meet one final time before they fell asleep.
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Eleven years later Sherlock woke with a start, shooting straight up in his darkened room. He looked around, confused for a bit as he remembered where he was. London, 2010. Baker Street. With a shaky sigh he lay back down, throwing himself back into the sheets, which were full of sweat. It had been ages since he last saw that memory in his dreams but lately, since moving in with John, it was every night. He had been flatmates with the doctor for almost six months now, just as long as he and Victor were together before-
“Sherlock!”
He groaned as John’s shouting echoed through the flat. Pulling on his dressing gown and slippers he threw his door open and thundered down the stairs.
“What?” He shot.
John stared at him, surprised at being snapped at. He looked around, realizing suddenly they were in the foyer and John had a guest ready to meet him. Sherlock’s eyes found the man’s loafers first- designer new, comes from money. He trailed up the man’s wardrobe, thinking that the man dressed sickly similar to Mycroft, down to the waistcoat and-“
He froze.
The kind face that greeted him broke into a sheepish smile as he allowed Sherlock to take in what was happening. He may have been fifteen years older, but Sherlock recognized him instantly. Recognized him in his brown eyes, the hair- though cut much shorter now, the smell.
He knew he was being watched. He knew John was grinning with curiosity.
“Sherlock, who’s this?” John asked.
His eyes met his former lover’s for the first time in nine years, and his entire soul nearly melted. There, in that man’s eyes were his most guarded, secrets. Every ounce of emotion he had ever possessed. Every trace of trust he ever allowed another to have.
He swallowed, suddenly struggling to find his voice. He couldn’t even say his name, not after so long. Not when there was still so much raw, unresolved, hurt even to this day. Instead he simply whispered, sounding completely empty:
“He’s my ex.”