For Only You (Teenlock!/Johnlock)

Chapter 19: Conflict

John's P.O.V

The tell-tale hum of Mycroft's low voice eventually faded, the patter of his umbrella being tapped beside him as he walked away audible from even inside our room. I frowned slightly, knowing that whatever they had discussed had not left Sherlock in a good mood.

I waited patiently, expecting him to come back in as soon as Mycroft had walked away, but a new voice floated through the walls, a female voice that was almost completely unrecognisable, other than the flirting in it that was obvious to anyone who could hear it.

It wasn't unusual for someone to try it on with Sherlock; he was fucking perfect, but, most people stayed a safe distance from him, what with his ability to deduce their lives down and into pieces before them. I didn't understand why he hadn't returned yet. Though, eventually, he did, and my jaw stiffened in it's place, my eyes immediately drinking in Sherlock's state; his wide eyes and a bright red imprint of lips on his cheekbone.

"Why is there lipstick on your cheek?" I asked, my tone slightly sharp. I had every right to be a little pissed; Sherlock was my boyfriend. His face paled, stark contrast with my own red cheeks and the red on his cheek. Jealousy would be an understatement.

"I... err..."

Sherlock never struggled for words, ever. He was always right there, knowing what to say and exactly what to do, so seeing him so ruffled was making me even angrier, "Out with it!"

"Irene Adler," he said flatly, blinking slowly as though his whole world had been turned upside down. This time, it was my own face that slowly grew whiter, the secret of the woman- or rather, girl- that no one was ever supposed to hear; yet, Magnessun knew, just like he somehow knew about Moriarty, and my father, and all the things he had no right to know. An ex girlfriend shouldn't matter, but she had been so much different to everyone else, and now she was trying to take Sherlock from me.

I stood up, shrugging on my jacket and shoving my phone into my pocket, avoiding Sherlock's shocked gaze as I went to brush past him, feeling his hand clamp down on my arm.

"Where are you going?" he asked, his eyebrows pulled together in confusion. He didn't even understand. He had no idea of my connection to Irene, that much was clear. This was what I had feared at Christmas, the text and the crop; deep down I had known it was her, but I couldn't bring myself to admit it.

"Out," I snapped, pulling my arm from his sharply, not caring for the piteous look he gave me. This could not be happening, she couldn't be back, because it would ruin everything.

I'd never been able to say no.

She had manipulated me beyond compare, had me on my knees, begging for hours, and I had ran. Before that, she had introduced me to things I'd never imagined, she had used the riding crop, the exact riding crop she had sent to Sherlock, on my body. She had been my form of escape from my father, and I had never told Sherlock. I didn't think it would matter, that was, until she came back.

I slammed the door behind me, mostly pissed off at myself, rather than at Sherlock; he had done nothing wrong. I was the one who had been incapable of refusing the girl for almost a year and a half. Sighing, I walked the corridor until I found a bench to sit on, my head dropping into my hands with a groan.

"Fucking stupid bullshit twated fuck," I cursed, tugging roughly at my hair. Even though I may have denied it, I knew the truth, and I was still keeping things from Sherlock; he deserved to know the truth. It made me feel like the worse possible boyfriend on earth, for Sherlock had done nothing to deserve me keeping things from him. He didn't need to see my random bursts of fucking submission, because I had been mentally convinced that it was part of who I was; well, it was now.