Guilty Pleasures

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John drops the plate he's washing back into the sink, but it thankfully doesn't break, even though he winces at the sound. Those words, sounding so puzzled, go right through him. If the world's only consulting detective, one of the most observant people on the planet can't come up with any sort of reasonable explanation for his actions, then what kind of defense could he possibly offer? He grips the edge of the sink in frustration.

 

"I don't know Sherlock. Damnit, I'm sorry, I am so, so sorry, but I just don't know. I don't know why I did it. Would you like me to go, stay somewhere else? I don't want you feeling uncomfortable. You don't need to be afraid in your own home, I... Christ, I'm Sorry."

 

Dishes forgotten, he turns towards the man whose eyes he can't bring himself to meet right now.

 

He doesn't know what he'll do if Sherlock says 'yes', maybe stay at a bedsit or a hostel, but at the same time he hopes that Sherlock does kick him out, that the man will start protecting himself, defending himself against this monster that obviously John has no control of, and no idea how to fight, a monster John wants to rip apart with his bare hands. He'd die for Sherlock, nearly has several times. Heck he killed for Sherlock within two days of knowing the man, and now after two years, something inside of himself wants to destroy what he wants to protect. To literally be at war with yourself, he wonders if this is how it feels to go mad.

 

"No, you don't have to go anywhere. I'm not afraid of you." His companion says gently, and while the words warm his heart, they also sink like a stone in his gut, because it means Sherlock still won't fight this, won't fight him even though he should, and that kills him. Because John knows he's not strong enough to walk away, even though he knows he should, that the best way to protect Sherlock right now is to stay as far away as he can get, but he can't. He has been inextricably trapped in the web known as Sherlock Holmes since day one, and he can no more fight that fact than he can fight against gravity. Unless Sherlock cuts him free, he's stuck.

 

"I'm afraid of myself." John admits, even though he doesn't want to, and then his heart is shattered anew as his beautiful Sherlock, the one he hurt, and forced, and practically raped holds out his hand to him.

 

'NO!' John's mind screams, 'Don't forgive me, don't you dare let this one slide! I saw your cheek, hips, and shoulder! I nearly ripped your arm out of the socket, I fucked you until you almost bled so don't you dare-'

 

"I don't want you to go. Please John."

 

And John breaks, he gives in just like he always does. He takes that hand and is pulled towards his pale eyed lover and wraps his arms around the one he hurt. It's when Sherlock's arms wrap around his waist and pull him closer that John begs the beast inside him, whatever it is, to tear into him instead, or the rest of the world, anyone else. It can maim and kill every criminal they come across without impunity or hesitation, but this, this one person, his Sherlock, don't hurt him again please, please just let him be.