Chapter Text
It had all started with Irene. At least, that's what John liked to tell himself because it made the most sense. At the palace he'd been so intrigued by the idea that he'd frozen in place, but luckily they all thought it was for a very different reason. In the midst of trying to help Sherlock solve the case and trying to protect him from that woman, he'd been doing research. He would change his password everyday, and twice a day when he started actually communicating with someone. He wasn't so much afraid of Sherlock finding out he liked this sort of thing, but more Sherlock's finding out about the fact that he was going to see a man about it.
When the night finally came, John dressed up as if he had a date. He came downstairs trying to act as normally as he could, moving to grab his jacket. "I'm going out," he called. Sherlock was looking into his microscope so John figured that he probably didn't even hear him, and more importantly, wouldn't even notice he'd left until he came home later.
Sherlock heard John leave but did not acknowledge it. John had been acting different all week. Sherlock knew that, wherever John was going, it was not usual. It piqued Sherlock's curiosity, of course, but he did his best to restrain himself: John obviously did not want to talk about it so he should respect that. But this in and of itself piqued his curiosity even more. Why didn't John want to share? He and Sherlock were friends, yes, not just colleagues? Perhaps John assumed Sherlock already knew what was going on. Perhaps he had been leaving clues for Sherlock. This was a dilemma.
Two hours later John came home, nervous to go upstairs. Sherlock was sure to figure it out. There were marks on his wrists from the restraints, marks on his arms and back from the riding crop, and he was sure his arse was still red from the hitting. Not that Sherlock would see those things, but John felt every one of them. He was also limping slightly, trying to get used to the after effect of bottoming. He climbed the steps slowly, came into a thankfully dark flat and went straight for the stairs, not even bothering to remove his coat.
Sherlock was in his room when he heard John come in. He waited but John did not call for him. John did not do anything at all actually except go to his room. Sherlock thought for a moment about privacy, about how John's extraordinary control of his laptop recently clearly meant John wanted privacy. But Sherlock also knew that John did not like secrets, he always wanted Sherlock to tell him everything. That was what was making this thing so intriguing: John was the one with a secret. Sherlock called out, "John, could you come in here for a moment?"
John froze the base of the stairs. "Um. . . . can it wait until morning, Sherlock?"
"I'd rather it not," Sherlock said. "Unless it must."
John tugged his sleeves down a bit, wondering if he should insist on it waiting. He walked over to the door of his room and peeked in. "Yes?"
"Come in, please," Sherlock requested.
"I'm kinda tired," John said quietly, still hovering around the door.
"Please, John," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "I need to talk to you about something." Sherlock felt a mix of anxiety and annoyance. He felt like if he could just see John, he'd know if the secret was something Sherlock should investigate or just leave alone.
John's stomach dropped a bit. He really should have insisted it wait until morning. He walked further into the room and looked up at Sherlock. "What's going on?"
Sherlock inspected John who seemed not to want to hold Sherlock's gaze. "Why has your limp returned?"
John flushed. "It hasn't . . . I just hit it while I was out -- it's still just a bit sore," he said.
This was a lie, Sherlock knew. He also felt fairly certain that John knew that Sherlock knew it was a lie. But John offered no more explanation. "John," Sherlock said simply. "Would you say we are close? As in, close friends? The kind of close friends who do not keep secrets from each other?"
"Yes," John nodded. "But I also know we can have things we don't wish to talk about . . ."
Sherlock filed this comment away for future use. "I see," Sherlock said. "Then that is all I needed to know." He paused. "I hope you found your evening enlightening. I shall see you in the morning." He leaned over and turned off the lamp before slumping back on his bed, turning away from the door. He did this even though he knew he wouldn't be going to sleep anytime soon.
"Um, right. Yes . . . good night," John said, turning and leaving his room. He headed for the stairs again, hanging his coat up as he passed the hook.
Sherlock spent the night trying to suss John's secret. Yes, he respected John's privacy; however, this felt different. What kind of secret causes a person to be afraid to be seen? What kind of secret causes a limp? He thought and thought until he fell to asleep, waking when he heard the flat door slam shut. Sherlock got up to find a note from John, saying he wouldn't be back until the evening. Sherlock stretched to wake himself up. He glanced at John's laptop but decided against investigating it. Instead he went to John's bedroom. His bed was made, as usual. Sherlock stood over it and smoothed his hand across the top. He had an urge to slip into it, but when he lifted the duvet, he saw blood on the sheets. This was definitely a different kind of secret.
Sherlock went out to check his phone. No messages.
Whatever is wrong, please let me help. SH
One of the agreements about John working with this dom was that he could be called upon whenever he was wanted. Doing something like this in the middle of the day seemed a bit intense to John, but he couldn't say no. He didn't want to say no. Barely healed from the night before John went and had another go. When they were done and he was leaving, he found the message.
Nothing is wrong, I promise. -JW
I'll be at the surgery for a bit. -JW
John went to his office, told Sarah he was only there to do some paperwork and closed himself in. He put some cream on his bruises and sat very gingerly at his desk.
Sherlock read the messages. John had written. Nothing is wrong. I promise. John would not promise something if it were a lie, Sherlock felt almost certain of that.
Yet if nothing was wrong, that meant there was something right about there being blood on John's bed.
Sherlock felt enormously confused. He was confused about what was wrong and what was right. About which secrets were allowed and which ones weren't. He also felt confused about something that he had previously believed: that he was the most important person in John's life. Was this what was bothering him the most: the fact that John had a secret with someone other than Sherlock?
This was all upsetting the balance he had grown used to in their relationship. He picked up his phone.
I went into your room. There is blood on your sheets. You are allowed to have secrets, I know. But this one concerns me. SH
And he hit Send before he could regret his honesty.
John's eyes widened at the message, and he took several deep breaths before replying.
Why did you go into my room? I told you everything is fine. -JW
Please don't be cross. Things don't seem fine, John. Have you hurt yourself? Please. Don't make me worry. SH
I haven't hurt myself, Sherlock. I appreciate your concern, really, but everything is fine. -JW
Is someone else hurting you? SH
John stared at the message. Saying no now, after Sherlock had seen the blood, would be very silly. How would he explain that? Convince Sherlock he was hurting himself? The lies would be pathetic and even more embarrassing than the truth. Perhaps he could avoid it -- tell him only half truths and hope that he'd leave it alone.
Not on purpose. -JW
I do not find that answer satisfactory. Why is he hurting you? SH
John's eyes fixed on 'he' for a long time before he typed back an answer.
It doesn't matter. It's not going to happen again. -JW
Why not? You said everything was fine. Perhaps it has already happened again. SH
Everything is fine, Sherlock. Just let it go, please.-JW
I don't want to let it go. I don't like the idea of someone else hurting you. Of someone else. SH
John stared at the message. He didn't like the thought of someone else? John had never said he was dating . . . but then Sherlock was always a bit weird about dates. Maybe Sherlock assumed John was meeting another friend -- a friend Sherlock didn't know about. But would that sort of thing make him jealous? Was John putting too much into it?
It's not what you think, okay? You have to trust me.-JW
John sent the message and grabbed his coat. He couldn't stay in his office forever, but what was going to happen when he got home? Perhaps he should just tell Sherlock who he was meeting. He had no right to judge him, after all. It would be embarrassing but this lying couldn't continue.
I have absolutely no idea what I think so your response does not reassure. SH
I do trust you. I wish that you trusted me. SH
John flushed at the message, feeling guilty all of a sudden.
I do trust you, Sherlock. I'm just embarrassed. -JW
John winced at the wording. Why should he be embarrassed about something he enjoyed?
I lied. I'm not embarrassed. It's just not an easy thing to talk about. -JW
Very few things are easy for me to talk about, John. But I do. To you. SH
When will you be home? SH
Ten minutes. -JW
John decided to walk home, already feeling like it was easier than the first day. He hesitated outside again and mentally prepared himself for the conversation he was about to have with Sherlock. As he climbed up the stairs, he tried to think of the perfect way to word it.
I am in my room. The lights are off and do not need to be turned on if darkness would be beneficial. I would like for you to come talk to me. I will accept it if you do not. SH
John read the message as he hung his coat up, slowly making his way to Sherlock's room. He stood in the door frame. He knew he didn't want them to keep secrets from each other.
Sherlock was much relieved when he heard John outside his door. At least momentarily. He felt so uncomfortable not knowing something and it made it a thousand times worse that he had spent so much of the last twenty hours trying to figure things out. It was so different to the normal dynamics of John and Sherlock's interactions: it was almost always Sherlock knowing and John asking. But now at least, hopefully, John would talk and Sherlock would understand.
"I've been . . . I've been seeing someone," he started. His finger slid across the red mark on his wrist.
Sherlock felt a little sick at John's opening line. Thankfully, the lights were out so John couldn't tell. He wouldn't be able to explain his reaction. Or perhaps he could but didn't want to. It was the verb 'seeing'. One doesn't say 'I've been seeing my bank manager.' There are only two groups of people that one might be 'seeing' -- medical professionals and lovers.
But John had assured him everything was fine, so it seems less likely this was a medical issue. In the past with the women, John had used the word 'dating.' This was different -- something much, much different. Selfishly but truthfully, Sherlock wasn't sure which option -- health or heart -- would have been easier for him to face. He sat up abruptly from the bed.
"I've changed my mind -- I've bullied you into it. You do not have to say anymore unless you are sure you actually want to. If you'd prefer it never be mentioned again, it will not be," Sherlock said to the darkness.
John looked up now, trying to see Sherlock's face. "I don't want you to be upset," he said.
"You needn't worry about me, John. The blood threw me, but you seem fine, you say you're fine. Clearly, this has absolutely nothing to do with me and I am sorry I interfered," Sherlock tried to sound calm and detached but was sure he did not.
"You don't sound fine," John said softly. He was feeling guilty again.
"I said you were fine. That's all I was worried about. You said last night that we each have things we don't wish to talk about. I should have respected that. If you had wanted to share this with me, you would have. I'm sorry."
John nodded. "Thank you," he said quietly.
"You can keep this secret for as long as you like. I do not need to be told who he is or where you are going or how you are spending your time. It's your life. It has nothing to do with me. We're flatmates after all, right? You don't owe me any. . . thing."
"Don't, Sherlock. Don't say it like that," John said sadly, looking up at Sherlock again. "You're my friend, you know that."
"Quite frankly, John, I feel very much like I do not understand what is going on," Sherlock said. How had this turned into Sherlock's confession? "My head is very . . . muddled."
"How can you tell me that you don't even know if we can be friends while I have this secret and then tell me I don't have to tell you?" John asked desperately. "My secret is not more important to me than you, Sherlock."
"I didn't mean . . . I don't know . . . you know that I am limited in my experience of friendship," Sherlock was struggling to say the words he meant. "I liked things how they were. I liked it when you told me things. When our friendship was the most important thing, it seemed, in our lives. But now I worry that I got things wrong again and I feel foolish and don't know how to . . . be, I don't know what you want me to be to you."
"I want you to be my friend," John said. He moved into the room and sat down on the edge of the bed. "If you want me to tell you what I've been doing, I will. But you can't . . . you can't say anything."
Sherlock leaned back on the bed. The darkness made him feel safer about the strange way this conversation had gone, but also slightly anxious about what was going to come next. "I won't say anything," he promised.
John took several deep breaths, wringing his hands before finally speaking. "I've been seeing a dominant," he said quietly.
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but then stopped himself. He had promised.
John waited, his heart slamming in his chest. "I meant don't make fun of me," he said. "Say something!" He couldn't stand the silence any longer.
"And you trust this person?"
"What?" John asked, surprised by the question. "I . . . it's his job," he shrugged.
Sherlock was puzzled. He was genuinely confused. "Do you . . . pay him?"
John flushed and was very thankful for the dark. "They don't do it for free," he mumbled.
"That seems . . ." Sherlock wanted to pick the right word, one he meant but wouldn't seem like he was making fun, "odd."
"I know," John said.
"Why would you pay a stranger?"
"I -- I told you they don't do it for free. I was curious and . . . and I found someone to -- to do it," John said.
"That's the bit I don't understand. I can understand the curiosity. But I don't understand why you would turn to someone you did not know."
John looked up now, confused by the remark. "Who else would I have asked? I can hardly ask any one I know to -- to do that," he said.
"I have to be honest, John," Sherlock said. "Asking someone you know seems a lot more sensible than asking a complete stranger who will only oblige if money changes hands."
"No, Sherlock. It's not sensible to ask your friends to tie you up and -- " John cut off suddenly and shook his head. "It's not."
"John," Sherlock said gently, reaching out in the darkness for John's hand. "I hope you do not regret that you told me. I know this isn't about me, but I am glad I know the secret."