The Middle Distance

Title: The Straw Man Fallacy
Fandoms: Sherlock/The Wicker Man (1973)
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Other Characters: Lord Summerisle, Miss Rose, Willow MacGregor, Alder MacGregor, Mr. Lennox, The Librarian, other Summerisle villagers and OCs
Rating: NC-17/explicit

Summary:
“Mr Holmes, I'm not in the habit of approaching . . . consultants. But you are correct. I have great faith in our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. And until recently, I also had faith in the rule of law. Only the second one has wavered. Three years ago my fiancé, Sgt. Neil Howie of the West Highlands Constabulary, went to investigate an anonymous report of a missing child in a remote place called Summerisle. He never communicated with me while he was there, and he never returned.”

Summerisle is not a welcoming place to visitors, but it shows its best face at May Day. For ulterior motives.

Epilogue: Attained at the End of Desire

One year later, Sherlock and John make a return visit to Summerisle. This time, it's personal.

This story is now COMPLETE. Completely.

Read it at AO3 if you prefer.



“Ack! Antlers!” John cried as the sharp tines clashed and locked together, caught up in the matching garlands of flowers and ivy.

From the foreheads up, Sherlock and John looked more like fighting stags than human men doing what the rest of them were doing.

With his one free hand, Sherlock managed to extract his own heavy antler crown from his tangled hair, and threw it to the floor.

John’s antlers were caught in the brass grill of the bed. Between that and his wrist tied to Sherlock’s, he was almost in bondage. He rather liked it.

For so long, he and Sherlock had been caught up in kissing and non-dominant-hand undressing, making a half-arsed job of it as they thrashed together in that now-familiar bed at the Green Man Inn, panting and desperate. “It’s a good thing we’re both wearing kilts now,” Sherlock gasped.

Sherlock’s shirt and jacket were undone but still on him. He’d hiked his kilt up and tucked it into its own waistband, letting John see him: rampantly erect and predatory, but with a soft openness in his face.

John lay back to give him a show, wriggling his hips to push his own kilt up, spreading his legs, showing himself obscenely hard and eager.

Sherlock crawled up upon him quickly, so hungry for it, but a little shy too like an uncertain wild creature, as he clumsily shoved the tartan wool up John’s thighs and hips to his waist, slicking himself with lube - awkwardly, with his left hand - and spilling half of it across the sheets where it leached under John’s back, cold and clammy. He’d get stickier before this was all over.

John grasped at Sherlock’s cock - awkwardly, with his right hand, and helped guide him to the correct place. “Come on,” he urged in a strangled voice. “It’s my turn. I want you inside me, come on.” He opened for Sherlock, everything, his legs, his arms, his heart.

In retrospect, this wasn’t the best choice of position for their situation. But at least they were both so worked up they wouldn’t have to maintain it for long. John still gave a blissful little moan as Sherlock breached him, sank into place, and began to writhe; Sherlock’s sharp, angular face took on a joyous softness in his pleasure, bright eyes hooded and blinking.

Sherlock lowered his face near John’s ear, and between his deep breaths starting to come harder and faster as he pulled nearly all the way out and sank only half in again, again, deeper the next time, he murmured, “With my body, I thee worship.”

He hadn’t said anything like that in the ceremony. Sherlock: perfectly willing to let himself get fucked senseless in front of the Goddess and everybody, but oh, the things he’d say, sometimes, only for John, only in private. John tightened his legs around Sherlock’s lower back, arching his neck and throwing his head back as he rocked his hips to meet Sherlock’s movements - pulling him in, absorbing his force, arching up when Sherlock bent his spine enough to take John’s mouth with his own, sealing them together at both ends in a closed complete circuit. John swallowed down the desperate sounds they made, his own shameless little whimpers and the low broken moans Sherlock emitted with each rolling, oceanic thrust.

A year later. This wasn’t the first time. But it was a first. Sherlock was a sensual creature after all, wantonly tactile, melting and grasping with complete abandon, chasing every pulse of sensation. This mirrored their first time, though now there were no witnesses (unless you counted the serenaders outside the window); penetration, reversed positions, John giving it up this time - or rather he was taking - taking Sherlock inside and holding him as though he would never let go. And now he had indeed vowed that he never would.

“Oh. Oh John, hold tight, I’m--”

He didn’t say “hold me tight.” But John knew that was what he meant, and so he did, shuddering together until the bed rocked and creaked.


Afterwards, Sherlock at last consented to removing the cord that bound their wrists. They set to it, and it was a struggle - the knots were pulled tight and damp with sweat. John reached for his pocket knife in his askew, weirdly-dangling sporran.

“No, don’t!” Sherlock cried, and kept tugging at the knot until he managed to work his own wrist loose. Then he was able to untie the knots, digging at them with fingernails and teeth until the red silk cord slithered away, intact, and Sherlock gathered it up and wound it carefully around his hand into a neat little coil, which he set carefully on the edge of the pillow.

John watched him as he finally took off his own antler crown, and he smiled groggily. “You’re really doing this by the book, aren’t you? Don’t tell me you’re feeling superstitious.”

Sherlock just snorted at him, but then he lifted John’s wrist to his lips, kissing tenderly. John shivered and stroked Sherlock’s hair with his finally-freed left hand. Then at last they could finish the job of undressing each other, freeing familiar, well-loved bodies from binding jackets and scratchy wool and wet spots and stains, and at last crawling into a skin-to-skin embrace.

“Hazel’s death was not a complete accident,” Sherlock said with a little sigh. “Though she was moments away from slitting my throat at the time, so I’m not inclined to raise much of a fuss about it.”

“Well, that changed the mood real quick,” John said, shaking his head. “Yeah, I can’t be too upset about that either. But what the hell are you talking about?”

“I mean . . .” Sherlock’s voice trailed off a bit. “Well, since we can no longer be compelled to testify against each other, I should say . . .”

“Oh, you are such a romantic,” John said, laughing quietly.

“I do believe . . . I know what I witnessed. Miss Rose had put herself into an altered state of consciousness. There are countless ways to do this. Every human culture has had a form of it.”

“I think we just did it ourselves,” John said, nuzzling Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Oh yes,” Sherlock agreed. “One of the oldest and most effective methods.”

“Your Mind Palace - that’s another one.”

“Yes. Though it’s based entirely on rational principles, I can’t deny it’s a mental state somewhat removed from what most would call ‘normal’ consciousness.”

John ran two fingertips slowly up Sherlock’s left cheekbone, toying with a sweaty curl in front of his ear. “You have no idea what normal consciousness feels like, do you?”

“I have my own baseline,” Sherlock said.

“Drugs?” John asked with a little sigh.

“Crude and limited, but reliable.” Then Sherlock drew back a little, as if he’d said too much and wandered off in a direction he hadn’t intended. “At any rate, there is nothing I could prove. There is no material evidence of Sergeant Howie’s death remaining. All I know is what I know. Summerisle could have kept their trail covered completely simply by killing us, but that would have complicated things far worse for them in the long run. Lord Summerisle has powerful friends who are very skilled in looking the other way, but there are limits. One unmourned policeman - hostile terrain, inclement weather. One disappearance of an unstable woman, possibly suicidal? This is a popular region for that sort of thing: isolated, remote, some say romantic. But to harm us would have crossed a line. I don’t need to prove anything. It’s enough for me to know. And I know that Miss Rose is the reason that the bees attacked Hazel and no one else.”

“But you don’t believe in magic or gods or any of that.”

“No. But Aleister Crowley once wrote that his work concerned elements of the supernatural - and yet it’s immaterial whether any of them exist. By doing certain things, certain results follow. His students were most earnestly warned against attributing objective reality or philosophic validity to any of them.”

“And yet . . . ?” John prodded, stroking Sherlock’s hair.

“And yet. By doing certain things, certain results follow. Magic is the art of changing consciousness at will. Miss Rose had changed her consciousness.”

“And you . . . changed yours,” John said as he thought he might be beginning to understand. Slowly. “So . . .you wouldn’t take the cord off until the right time. And you certainly wouldn’t cut it.”

“I . . . preferred to do things properly,” Sherlock admitted.

“All right,” John said, smiling. “Since you’re in confessional mode, are you ever going to tell me what was the deal you struck with Anthea? What was in it for her?”

Sherlock chuckled. “You mean the pleasure of possibly saving my life and getting to watch me being publicly debauched wouldn’t be reward enough for anyone?”

John laughed and guided Sherlock’s head down to rest on his shoulder. “Well, certainly that was an honour, but . . . "

“You must have realised that even though Howie’s murder is solved in my mind, there would never - could never - be any legal repercussions for Lord Summerisle. At least not in this instance. As I’ve said, there is nothing that can be proven at this late date, and of course he is very well-connected. Anthea has always had a closer relationship with her father than her brother does, and this gave her a chance to, shall we say, show her quality. Lord Summerisle has no legitimate heirs, so he’s bound to acknowledge his scheming little bastards eventually. It wasn’t Branch’s inheritance that was settled by this little escapade. It was Anthea’s.”

“And yet you were the one who had to get naked. Not that it was much of a burden for you, I gather.”

“We may never be completely naked again, John,” Sherlock said quietly, with a little smile.

“Why do you say that?” John said, suddenly worried.

“Well, we aren’t now, are we?” Sherlock said, running his hand up John’s arm until their left hands met. Sherlock reached over to fondle his own ring, and the place where John’s matching one clicked against his as their fingers laced. “I don’t plan to ever take this off, do you?”

John pressed his eyes shut for just a moment to prevent an embarrassing emission from them. “Nope. Never.”

What a day it had been. John was so exhausted, and he was going to need to get a few winks in before Sherlock woke him in the middle of the night for another round, as he was wont to do even when it wasn't his wedding night.

 

***

"May Air inspire you; may Fire excite you; may Water refresh you and Earth sustain you. May you never hunger. May you never thirst. May the Moon keep your secrets, and the Sun speak of your love,” Miss Rose had whispered in her blessing.

The Sun, at least, held up its end of the job.

HOLMES AND WATSON OFF THE MARKET? BIZARRE PAGAN-CULT GAY WEDDING RUMOURS EXPLODE! HERE’S THE PROOF!

You read it here first: these pictures were received from a source who wishes to remain anonymous. They depict a Pagan occult wedding ceremony between two men held yesterday on a remote, mysterious Scottish island called Summerisle, where the residents are hostile to outsiders and said to be very protective of the secrets of their lewd and primitive cult.

Look close – those two men wearing kilts and flower-decked antlers are none other than celebrity detective Sherlock Holmes and his long-time live-in companion and blogger Dr. John Watson.

Our source apologises for the poor quality of the photos, but says he had to keep his distance because he fears the wrath of the sinister Lord Summerisle, who bears him a personal grudge. But you can clearly see these two no-longer-confirmed-bachelors have their wrists tied together with red cord.

Our source – who is very well-versed in this bizarre cult's shocking practices – tells us that this cord is traditionally not removed until after the couple has consummated their union. He also explains that stag antlers are symbols of masculinity. Both grooms in this wedding (there was no bride) wore them, so inquiries along the lines of “who’s the girl?” would not be welcomed.

We are told by our source that though the wedding was highly private and exclusive, there were a few guests from London. A lady pathologist whose name has been linked with Holmes in our pages before; clearly she doesn't hold a grudge. A lady of a certain age who nonetheless demonstrated impressive exotic-dancer moves on a maypole. A certain detective inspector of New Scotland Yard who made it clear he'd rather enjoy the festivities than issue any citations for public indecency – which would have run him ragged.

The only Summerislander willing to speak to our source on the record was Miss Willow MacGregor, a “sex educator and counsellor” who lives at the quaint, rustic Green Man Inn, where the newlyweds spent the night. The inn lacks a honeymoon suite, but Miss MacGregor supposes it has one now: “Everyone is going to want to **** in that room now. For luck.” The inn has thin walls, so she can definitely confirm that the Holmes-Watson marriage was consummated passionately, “and in private this time,” which implies that on other occasions they were not so discreet.

You can see more of pretty Willow tomorrow on Page 3.

***

 

“Mycroft could have stopped this,” John seethed as he stared in horror at the tabloid on his mobile, one hour out of Glasgow.

“He did,” Sherlock drawled bitterly. “Note that he redacted any reference to his own presence there.”

Of course he did, John thought. He breathed deep and set his phone down and took Sherlock’s hand as the train rocked and rolled, and closed his eyes, pretending to nap. (It wouldn’t fool Sherlock, but if John was lucky it might signal to Sherlock that he ought to pretend it fooled him for just a few minutes.)

It bothered John a little, the lack of justice for Howie. That had to have been a terrifying and painful death, and Sherlock knew that perfectly well. Yet, for Sherlock, it was enough to have solved the puzzle and to know the truth for himself - punishment for the perpetrators wasn’t important to him in this case.

John drifted off a little, full of the past few weeks of mind-numbing knowledge about the finer points of Scottish marriage laws, no residency required, legal ceremonies can be performed by Pagan clergy, gender no object anymore. Well, why not? John thought to himself. Might as well have the officiating done by a couple of murderers. Suits us, I suppose. Nice enough people once you get past that whole human sacrifice thing. Thanks, Anthea, it was lovely.

John still heard Lestrade’s words, from years ago: “. . . a great man, and someday if we’re very lucky, he might be a good one.”

He is, John thought fiercely. The best man I’ve ever known.

Really? said John’s inner contrarian. He’s all about the puzzle and the solution. The law isn’t his priority. Never has been. He’s got a sense of justice in there somewhere, but it’s fucked up. He’s fucked up. You know that.

John lifted his chin a little, and another part of him argued back, defiant. No shit, Watson. Of course I know that; I know him better than anyone. There’s no turning back now. Problem?

Nope, we’re good, said the other side of John’s self. We do what we have to do. We’re no angel ourself. And we’re finally happy down in the heart where it counts, so no beef.

“No beef,” John muttered aloud as he dozed off on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Pardon?”

John jerked his head up, only slobbering a little. “Chicken. When we get back to London I want chicken, not beef. Um. Nap.”

Sherlock laughed a little. “Take a good nap now, because when we get back to London I’m going to want to have sex again right after we arrive at Baker Street. I’ll place an order online and set a delivery time for your chicken, one hour after our ETA. Kung Pao or vindaloo?”

“Tikka masssssala,” John murmured. His body slumped sideways and his head landed on Sherlock’s thigh, and he closed his eyes, and dammit, he was sleepy.

John heard the tinny clicking sound of Sherlock’s keys as he texted in the order.

Terrible flatmate in so many ways, but so far at least, not a terrible husband.

***

From the Blog of Dr. John H. Watson, May 4



On Rumours

All right, all right, please stop already. This time, it’s actually true. Readers, I married him. Happy now?

Comments:

Marie Turner: Yes, very.
Marie Turner: This is Mrs Hudson, by the way. Now I have married ones too!
Marie Turner: This is actually Mrs Turner. I had them first.
Molly Hooper: I caught that reference! Mr. Rochester or the madman in the attic?
John Watson: I think I got a twofer with him. :)

Harry Watson: Congratulations! Thought you were supposed to be the straight one! Obviously not. Glad you wore dresses so the bridesmaids didn’t have to!

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John Watson: Not dresses. Kilts. Kilts are very manly.
NSY SILVER FOX: Especially on a windy day. I got one of Sherlock on my phone that looks just like that famous Marilyn Monroe picture.
John Watson: Terrible pseud, even I know who you are. When did Marilyn ever wear antlers on her head?
NSY SILVER FOX: You know what I mean.

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John Watson: Sherlock, have you got any further on that project to invent a chemical pesticide to kill off homophobic trolls on every message board forever? Cause we could really use it right about now.

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theimprobableone: OH. You’re pagans?
John Watson: No, we haven’t converted. We just spent time on Summerisle last year on a case, and we had an offer of hosting. Scottish marriage laws happened to suit us well. The details of the case must stay confidential for the time being, sorry.

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theimprobableone: Is that how he did it, for real? Witchcraft?
John Watson: Yup. He had a flying broomstick under his coat. He was only willing to tell me the truth and show it to me after we were married.
theimprobableone: Really?

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John Watson: Of course not.
Harry Watson: And now you ride each other’s magic broomsticks all the time!
John Watson: Go home, Harry, you’re drunk.
Harry Watson: I AM home.
Harry Watson: I still can’t get over it. My straight brother finally caught himself a husband!
John Watson: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bisexuality

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John Watson: Sherlock, that troll-wiper would really come in handy right about now.
Sherlock Holmes: Get off the computer, John, this is our sex holiday.
John Watson: Every day with you is a sex holiday.
John Watson: I’m deleting this whole post, swear to god. Either you saw it or you didn’t.
Blossom: Blessed BEE!

***

Blog of John H. Watson, May 5.

[May 4th post deleted]


Let My worship be in the heart that rejoices, for behold, all acts of love and pleasure are My rituals.

Let there be beauty and strength, power and compassion, honor and humility, mirth and reverence within you.

And you who seek to know Me, know that the seeking and yearning will avail you not, unless you know the Mystery: for if that which you seek, you find not within yourself, you will never find it without.

For behold, I have been with you from the beginning, and I am That which is attained at the end of desire.

(Gerald Gardner, Doreen Valiente, Starhawk, The Charge of The Goddess)

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~END

Entire Story on AO3

Chapter 1 on LJ
Chapter 2 on LJ
Chapter 3 on LJ
Chapter 4 on LJ
Chapter 5 on LJ
Chapter 6 on LJ
Chapter 7 on LJ


Whew. What a long, strange trip it's been. Huge thanks go out to winter_hermit and snogandagrope for epic beta-reading, and to all the readers who've supported this story chapter-by-chapter. Could not have done it without you. Truly.