The Past Is A Different Country
Oct. 14th, 2010 06:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bookish_dragonTitle: The Past Is A Different Country
Fandom: BBC-Sherlock
Pairing/characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, OMC.
Rating: PG.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes is owned by Arthur Conan Doyle, various movie-companies, and in this incarnation, by Moffat and Gatiss and the BBC.
Notes: For this prompt at sherlockbbc_fic: The reason because "it's all fine!" is that before the war, John was very well known in the seediest gay clubs you can imagine. Easy, that's what John Watson was. But the war has changed him and he has shut this part of his life away in the darkest corner of his mind. What happens when he and Sherlock have to investigate smth. at one of those clubs, maybe meet some old... acquaintances?
Bonus for public/half public sex and Posessive!Holmes^^
Summary: He knew it would come to this, eventually, knew too well you couldn't run away for ever.
He knew it would come to this, eventually, knew too well you couldn't run away for ever. But right now, John wanted to run far and fast, Army-training be damned.
“Sherlock, why are we here?” he asked, again, as he looked at the entrance of the club. It hadn't changed much in the past years.
“Because we know that Hans Meyer's killer comes here, often,” Sherlock said, again, scanning the area, and walked off to the entrance.
With a sinking feeling, which had started right after Sherlock had mentioned the name of the club, John followed his friend. “You do know what kind of club this is?” he asked. 'Just to make sure,' he told himself. 'Don't want him to freak out.'
“Yes, John, I do. Do you?” Sherlock said, glancing at the man walking behind him. Hands thrust deep into the pockets of his coat, eyes looking straight ahead, doing his damnedest not to limp. John was steeling himself for whatever faced them.
The doorman was an unknown, which gave John a vague glimmer of hope. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, if Pete had been fired. He had been such a fixture, even if he had creeped John out in the end.
Once inside the music felt both familiar and terrifying to nerves still trying to recover from constant shooting. It was crowded, but then it was Friday-evening, and they didn't attract immediate attention. All-male crowd. Women weren't allowed in. Sherlock looked around, an expression of distaste upon his face that John could qualify as 'How can anyone hear themselves think in this noise?' Which wasn't the point here, and never had been. No-one came here to think with the head on their shoulders.
John surveyed the room, seeing if the years had changed the place much, if there would be any danger to either of them. The bar was still along the far wall, with a big space in front of it for dancing. Off to the right was the staircase leading down into the dark room. He looked away from there. Those were memories he wasn't willing to relive, not now.
No familiar faces. He allowed himself to relax slightly for the first time that evening. Sherlock was still looking around, scanning the room for the black-haired, right-handed, smoking man they'd come for. He was attracting attention himself, even if he seemed oblivious to that. It was the cheekbones, John supposed, though he had little use for them himself. A pretty face alone did not make up for angry violining at all hours.
God, the crowd was so young tonight, and some looked so naïve and vulnerable it made his heart ache. So insecure, so much him he just wanted to take them home and give them tea and biscuits. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back as he looked for their man himself. Enough men with black hair around, but none that seemed who they were looking for. He got a few semi-interested glances himself, which he ignored. And now he'd lost Sherlock as well, because he'd disappeared again and how did he manage that? How hard was it to lose sight of a six-foot man in this crowd?
John was scowling when an arm dropped heavily around his shoulders, making him wince at the sudden pressure being exerted on his left by this side-hug. He turned to see whose arm it. Fuck. His heart sank into his shoes as he took in the tanned face (bed: the man would never go abroad), the too-white smile, the dark hair, and brown eyes. Fuck. The surprise was enough for the other man to drag him off to a quieter spot.
“I thought it was you, Johnny-boy,” the man said, all smile that didn't reach his eyes. It rarely did. “Some of the lads and I wondered where you'd gone off to, you were gone so sudden.”
“Pete,” John said through clenched teeth. 'Goddammit, Sherlock, find the man so we can leave.' He didn't return Pete's smile.
“So where had you gone off to?” Pete asked. He hadn't let go of John, most likely counting on his desire not to make a commotion. “You're looking good, I must say.”
“That makes one of us,” John snapped, and regretted being drawn out.
Pete pressed closer. It made John's skin crawl. Why had he ever-? “Must you go and hurt my feelings, Johnny-boy?” John elbowed him in the gut, getting out of the embrace as Pete was startled into letting him go.
*
Sherlock had often – well, not often, but in those spare moments between cases when he was out of all other stimulants – thought about John's past. The man had one, of course, but nothing to show for it but graduation papers from Barts and some military paperwork. No personal correspondence or other keepsakes. A sure sign he was running away. Nothing criminal: John didn't hold himself like an ex-convict, and Mycroft hadn't said anything either. John had a tenuous contact with his sister, so he wasn't trying to get away from his family. Having a family meant this wasn't a second life. His things could be at his parents' place. The Army had taught him to be sparse. Failed relationship was likely. Not that John talked about those. It was a puzzle that Sherlock paid scant attention to, since it was of little importance.
Until this case. It was a simple crime of passion – he couldn't fathom why he had been called in, was the Yard scared he'd get bored? – the clues leading to the killer simple – good grief, even Anderson could have figured it out.
The victim: Hans Meyer (German, married to a woman, no children, wine-drinker, in London on business and to meet his male lover) had been stabbed. Sherlock had deduced enough about the killer for the Yard to take over the case, right down to the bar the victim and his lover had been to earlier. The name of the bar had made John hesitate for a moment, before he'd clamped down on his emotions, staring straight ahead in the way that said he wasn't willing to talk about it. The same expression he wore when people tried to talk about Afghanistan with him.
It intrigued Sherlock. The bar was a somewhat seedy gay bar, but as the matter of John's sexual orientation was easy to decipher, that couldn't be the reason. Rather, it was the bar itself, not its demographic. Sherlock wanted to know why. At least it was closer than Afghanistan.
“We need to go there,” he'd said.
“No, Sherlock, we don't,” John said. “That's what the nice policemen are for.” He was standing at parade-rest.
Sherlock sniffed. “They wouldn't know who they are looking for. I do.” And he'd walked off, confident John'd follow, even now. John's body-language said he didn't want to do this, but he followed anyway.
Once inside the club, and seeing that the man they were looking for wasn't there, Sherlock had made himself scarce to observe John. Hiding in plain sight was a carefully cultivated skill. John's reaction to the man who sidled up to him was interesting. From the way the man was behaving, he saw himself as more than just a friend. An ex, then, and it had not ended well. Elbowing people in the gut had not become a normal greeting, so far Sherlock paid attention to things like that.
*
Pete glared up at him. “What did you do that for?”
“What do you think?” John said. He'd had enough time during the war, between getting shot at, and trying to keep others alive, to think about things. Figuring out what had been good, what not.
Pete righted himself, regained his composure. “How should I know? You came back after all this time, I'd think you would be glad to see your old friends. Unless...,” he leered, “you'd rather not have your new boyfriend meet us.”
John tightened his mouth. “Fuck off. We're looking for someone.”
“You always were in for threesomes.” Pete sniggered at the redness that flared over John's face. “Maybe I should tell your boyfriend?”
“We're not dating,” John said as a voice behind him said “Tell me what?”. Sherlock, who had reappeared from wherever he'd vanished to. John stifled a groan. 'Dammit, Sherlock.' Pete cast an appraising look at Sherlock, then whistled through his teeth.
“Moving up, I see,” he said, and winked at John.
“He's my friend, nothing more,” John said. “And a colleague.” A hand on his right shoulder. What was Sherlock up to now?
“And flatmate, John. Do be precise.” He stood closer to John. “Tell me what?”
“Nothing,” John said. “Absolutely nothing important.” He could see Pete weighing up the situation, and wanted to hit something. Or someone. Mainly Sherlock, for putting him in this situation.
Pete smiled broadly. This time, it did reach his eyes. Very much not good. “Your boyfriend,” he said to Sherlock, “has a very open mind, as I am sure you've found out by now.”
“Indeed?” Sherlock said, and John knew without looking that he'd raised an eyebrow. His hand on John's shoulder tightened its grip ever so slightly. It was hardly noticeable.
“Mm, indeed. There's little Johnny-boy,” and here Sherlock's hand gripped John's shoulder even tighter, “wouldn't do, when asked.” Pete was leering. John wanted to punch him. He kept his face blank, but he could feel his hands clench into fists. “It made him rather popular,” Pete said. He moved in closer. Too close.
“Personal space, what's so difficult about that concept?” His clenched hands itched.
Pete snorted. “You've never minded before.”
“That was before. Just go away.”
Pete put his hand on John's cheek, his thumb stroking across the cheekbone. “Now that was really unfriendly, and so unlike you. Whatever happened to you?”
From behind, Sherlock put his other arm around John's waist. John didn't blink at that, tried not to let show he was surprised at this.
“Get your hands off him,” Sherlock said.
“Or what?” Pete said.
John could feel Sherlock's stare. Pete was staring back, wide-eyed and looking scared.
“Or I will remove them for you.” It took a moment for John's mind to notice it was he who had spoken, John's hand clenched around Pete's wrist, forcing his hand down to the side. “We are not friends. I don't want to talk to you anymore.” Sherlock was a steadying force behind his back, a warm strength for John to lean on.
“Who said I wanted to talk to you?” Pete said, trying to get a rise out of John. He'd looked away from Sherlock.
John snorted. “I know what you want.” He applied more pressure to Pete's wrist. “It's not going to work.”
Pete yelped and tried to get his wrist free. “Bastard.”
“Sorry, I left 'doormat' behind a long time ago.” Unless you counted consulting detectives, but that was a special case Pete had no need to know about. John let go off Pete's wrist. His other hand unclenched.
Pete glared at them. “Pretty brave when you have a man behind you, aren't you?”
“The Army does teach the value of teamwork and back-up,” John said. Briefly he put a hand on Sherlock's arm and stepped out of the embrace. His head was swimming. He had never dreamed of this situation happening. He had never thought he'd come back here. He took another step towards Pete, who was still glaring. “They also teach when to go in alone.” He knew Sherlock would get his meaning. John had never thought he'd come back here with someone like him in tow.
Pete swallowed heavily. John leaned in close, looking Pete over, like he was seeing the other man for the first time. John's face carefully blank, and he turned away. “He's not here, is he?” he said to Sherlock. Sherlock shook his head. He started to walk away, John following. “Which you knew pretty soon, you bast-,” John said, when Pete grabbed at him from behind. John wondered where he'd got the courage from.
“Where are you going?” Pete said into his ear. “We're not done here.” John stiffened. It was too close to old times. His heart started beating faster. Too familiar, and his head was swimming with the old memories, and his earlier relief and determination fled through his feet. It was getting harder to breathe. Sherlock had vanished again. John should have known. Embarrassing Pete had never been a good move.
“That's better,” Pete said, as John made no further moves. “That's more like the Johnny-boy I remember.” His breath was hot against John's neck. John could feel him grin. Then it was gone, as were Pete's arms from around John. John turned slowly, to see Sherlock having twisted one of Pete's arms behind his back. He was saying something into Pete's ear, and the latter's face paled. John wanted to tell Sherlock not to do this. He breathed easier now he was free, but they were attracting a lot of attention by now, and John wanted to leave.
He walked over, touched Sherlock on the arm. “Let's go, Sherlock.”
He got an impassive look in answer. Sherlock let go off Pete, who stumbled away from the pair of them. John didn't raise an eyebrow at the arm Sherlock wound around his shoulders, though he wanted to. It felt better than Pete's.
They went home in silence, and Sherlock didn't stop touching John.
Fandom: BBC-Sherlock
Pairing/characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, OMC.
Rating: PG.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes is owned by Arthur Conan Doyle, various movie-companies, and in this incarnation, by Moffat and Gatiss and the BBC.
Notes: For this prompt at sherlockbbc_fic: The reason because "it's all fine!" is that before the war, John was very well known in the seediest gay clubs you can imagine. Easy, that's what John Watson was. But the war has changed him and he has shut this part of his life away in the darkest corner of his mind. What happens when he and Sherlock have to investigate smth. at one of those clubs, maybe meet some old... acquaintances?
Bonus for public/half public sex and Posessive!Holmes^^
Summary: He knew it would come to this, eventually, knew too well you couldn't run away for ever.
He knew it would come to this, eventually, knew too well you couldn't run away for ever. But right now, John wanted to run far and fast, Army-training be damned.
“Sherlock, why are we here?” he asked, again, as he looked at the entrance of the club. It hadn't changed much in the past years.
“Because we know that Hans Meyer's killer comes here, often,” Sherlock said, again, scanning the area, and walked off to the entrance.
With a sinking feeling, which had started right after Sherlock had mentioned the name of the club, John followed his friend. “You do know what kind of club this is?” he asked. 'Just to make sure,' he told himself. 'Don't want him to freak out.'
“Yes, John, I do. Do you?” Sherlock said, glancing at the man walking behind him. Hands thrust deep into the pockets of his coat, eyes looking straight ahead, doing his damnedest not to limp. John was steeling himself for whatever faced them.
The doorman was an unknown, which gave John a vague glimmer of hope. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, if Pete had been fired. He had been such a fixture, even if he had creeped John out in the end.
Once inside the music felt both familiar and terrifying to nerves still trying to recover from constant shooting. It was crowded, but then it was Friday-evening, and they didn't attract immediate attention. All-male crowd. Women weren't allowed in. Sherlock looked around, an expression of distaste upon his face that John could qualify as 'How can anyone hear themselves think in this noise?' Which wasn't the point here, and never had been. No-one came here to think with the head on their shoulders.
John surveyed the room, seeing if the years had changed the place much, if there would be any danger to either of them. The bar was still along the far wall, with a big space in front of it for dancing. Off to the right was the staircase leading down into the dark room. He looked away from there. Those were memories he wasn't willing to relive, not now.
No familiar faces. He allowed himself to relax slightly for the first time that evening. Sherlock was still looking around, scanning the room for the black-haired, right-handed, smoking man they'd come for. He was attracting attention himself, even if he seemed oblivious to that. It was the cheekbones, John supposed, though he had little use for them himself. A pretty face alone did not make up for angry violining at all hours.
God, the crowd was so young tonight, and some looked so naïve and vulnerable it made his heart ache. So insecure, so much him he just wanted to take them home and give them tea and biscuits. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back as he looked for their man himself. Enough men with black hair around, but none that seemed who they were looking for. He got a few semi-interested glances himself, which he ignored. And now he'd lost Sherlock as well, because he'd disappeared again and how did he manage that? How hard was it to lose sight of a six-foot man in this crowd?
John was scowling when an arm dropped heavily around his shoulders, making him wince at the sudden pressure being exerted on his left by this side-hug. He turned to see whose arm it. Fuck. His heart sank into his shoes as he took in the tanned face (bed: the man would never go abroad), the too-white smile, the dark hair, and brown eyes. Fuck. The surprise was enough for the other man to drag him off to a quieter spot.
“I thought it was you, Johnny-boy,” the man said, all smile that didn't reach his eyes. It rarely did. “Some of the lads and I wondered where you'd gone off to, you were gone so sudden.”
“Pete,” John said through clenched teeth. 'Goddammit, Sherlock, find the man so we can leave.' He didn't return Pete's smile.
“So where had you gone off to?” Pete asked. He hadn't let go of John, most likely counting on his desire not to make a commotion. “You're looking good, I must say.”
“That makes one of us,” John snapped, and regretted being drawn out.
Pete pressed closer. It made John's skin crawl. Why had he ever-? “Must you go and hurt my feelings, Johnny-boy?” John elbowed him in the gut, getting out of the embrace as Pete was startled into letting him go.
*
Sherlock had often – well, not often, but in those spare moments between cases when he was out of all other stimulants – thought about John's past. The man had one, of course, but nothing to show for it but graduation papers from Barts and some military paperwork. No personal correspondence or other keepsakes. A sure sign he was running away. Nothing criminal: John didn't hold himself like an ex-convict, and Mycroft hadn't said anything either. John had a tenuous contact with his sister, so he wasn't trying to get away from his family. Having a family meant this wasn't a second life. His things could be at his parents' place. The Army had taught him to be sparse. Failed relationship was likely. Not that John talked about those. It was a puzzle that Sherlock paid scant attention to, since it was of little importance.
Until this case. It was a simple crime of passion – he couldn't fathom why he had been called in, was the Yard scared he'd get bored? – the clues leading to the killer simple – good grief, even Anderson could have figured it out.
The victim: Hans Meyer (German, married to a woman, no children, wine-drinker, in London on business and to meet his male lover) had been stabbed. Sherlock had deduced enough about the killer for the Yard to take over the case, right down to the bar the victim and his lover had been to earlier. The name of the bar had made John hesitate for a moment, before he'd clamped down on his emotions, staring straight ahead in the way that said he wasn't willing to talk about it. The same expression he wore when people tried to talk about Afghanistan with him.
It intrigued Sherlock. The bar was a somewhat seedy gay bar, but as the matter of John's sexual orientation was easy to decipher, that couldn't be the reason. Rather, it was the bar itself, not its demographic. Sherlock wanted to know why. At least it was closer than Afghanistan.
“We need to go there,” he'd said.
“No, Sherlock, we don't,” John said. “That's what the nice policemen are for.” He was standing at parade-rest.
Sherlock sniffed. “They wouldn't know who they are looking for. I do.” And he'd walked off, confident John'd follow, even now. John's body-language said he didn't want to do this, but he followed anyway.
Once inside the club, and seeing that the man they were looking for wasn't there, Sherlock had made himself scarce to observe John. Hiding in plain sight was a carefully cultivated skill. John's reaction to the man who sidled up to him was interesting. From the way the man was behaving, he saw himself as more than just a friend. An ex, then, and it had not ended well. Elbowing people in the gut had not become a normal greeting, so far Sherlock paid attention to things like that.
*
Pete glared up at him. “What did you do that for?”
“What do you think?” John said. He'd had enough time during the war, between getting shot at, and trying to keep others alive, to think about things. Figuring out what had been good, what not.
Pete righted himself, regained his composure. “How should I know? You came back after all this time, I'd think you would be glad to see your old friends. Unless...,” he leered, “you'd rather not have your new boyfriend meet us.”
John tightened his mouth. “Fuck off. We're looking for someone.”
“You always were in for threesomes.” Pete sniggered at the redness that flared over John's face. “Maybe I should tell your boyfriend?”
“We're not dating,” John said as a voice behind him said “Tell me what?”. Sherlock, who had reappeared from wherever he'd vanished to. John stifled a groan. 'Dammit, Sherlock.' Pete cast an appraising look at Sherlock, then whistled through his teeth.
“Moving up, I see,” he said, and winked at John.
“He's my friend, nothing more,” John said. “And a colleague.” A hand on his right shoulder. What was Sherlock up to now?
“And flatmate, John. Do be precise.” He stood closer to John. “Tell me what?”
“Nothing,” John said. “Absolutely nothing important.” He could see Pete weighing up the situation, and wanted to hit something. Or someone. Mainly Sherlock, for putting him in this situation.
Pete smiled broadly. This time, it did reach his eyes. Very much not good. “Your boyfriend,” he said to Sherlock, “has a very open mind, as I am sure you've found out by now.”
“Indeed?” Sherlock said, and John knew without looking that he'd raised an eyebrow. His hand on John's shoulder tightened its grip ever so slightly. It was hardly noticeable.
“Mm, indeed. There's little Johnny-boy,” and here Sherlock's hand gripped John's shoulder even tighter, “wouldn't do, when asked.” Pete was leering. John wanted to punch him. He kept his face blank, but he could feel his hands clench into fists. “It made him rather popular,” Pete said. He moved in closer. Too close.
“Personal space, what's so difficult about that concept?” His clenched hands itched.
Pete snorted. “You've never minded before.”
“That was before. Just go away.”
Pete put his hand on John's cheek, his thumb stroking across the cheekbone. “Now that was really unfriendly, and so unlike you. Whatever happened to you?”
From behind, Sherlock put his other arm around John's waist. John didn't blink at that, tried not to let show he was surprised at this.
“Get your hands off him,” Sherlock said.
“Or what?” Pete said.
John could feel Sherlock's stare. Pete was staring back, wide-eyed and looking scared.
“Or I will remove them for you.” It took a moment for John's mind to notice it was he who had spoken, John's hand clenched around Pete's wrist, forcing his hand down to the side. “We are not friends. I don't want to talk to you anymore.” Sherlock was a steadying force behind his back, a warm strength for John to lean on.
“Who said I wanted to talk to you?” Pete said, trying to get a rise out of John. He'd looked away from Sherlock.
John snorted. “I know what you want.” He applied more pressure to Pete's wrist. “It's not going to work.”
Pete yelped and tried to get his wrist free. “Bastard.”
“Sorry, I left 'doormat' behind a long time ago.” Unless you counted consulting detectives, but that was a special case Pete had no need to know about. John let go off Pete's wrist. His other hand unclenched.
Pete glared at them. “Pretty brave when you have a man behind you, aren't you?”
“The Army does teach the value of teamwork and back-up,” John said. Briefly he put a hand on Sherlock's arm and stepped out of the embrace. His head was swimming. He had never dreamed of this situation happening. He had never thought he'd come back here. He took another step towards Pete, who was still glaring. “They also teach when to go in alone.” He knew Sherlock would get his meaning. John had never thought he'd come back here with someone like him in tow.
Pete swallowed heavily. John leaned in close, looking Pete over, like he was seeing the other man for the first time. John's face carefully blank, and he turned away. “He's not here, is he?” he said to Sherlock. Sherlock shook his head. He started to walk away, John following. “Which you knew pretty soon, you bast-,” John said, when Pete grabbed at him from behind. John wondered where he'd got the courage from.
“Where are you going?” Pete said into his ear. “We're not done here.” John stiffened. It was too close to old times. His heart started beating faster. Too familiar, and his head was swimming with the old memories, and his earlier relief and determination fled through his feet. It was getting harder to breathe. Sherlock had vanished again. John should have known. Embarrassing Pete had never been a good move.
“That's better,” Pete said, as John made no further moves. “That's more like the Johnny-boy I remember.” His breath was hot against John's neck. John could feel him grin. Then it was gone, as were Pete's arms from around John. John turned slowly, to see Sherlock having twisted one of Pete's arms behind his back. He was saying something into Pete's ear, and the latter's face paled. John wanted to tell Sherlock not to do this. He breathed easier now he was free, but they were attracting a lot of attention by now, and John wanted to leave.
He walked over, touched Sherlock on the arm. “Let's go, Sherlock.”
He got an impassive look in answer. Sherlock let go off Pete, who stumbled away from the pair of them. John didn't raise an eyebrow at the arm Sherlock wound around his shoulders, though he wanted to. It felt better than Pete's.
They went home in silence, and Sherlock didn't stop touching John.
