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vulgarweedTitle: 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 (eventually)
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.
Chapter 5, Aught of Sacrifice
Foolish Sherlock and horny John take their places in Summerisle's great festival. The Game is On.
“All right then,” Sherlock said to Lord Summerisle and Miss Rose. “Tell us what we need to do to make this work.”
And they did, and gave them a box of clothes and gear, and a promise to warn Alder MacGregor that he had his Fool duties relieved - and that at least he wouldn’t spend the festival tied to his bedpost with a headache. (A situation he might not have minded so much had it happened under better circumstances).
Because Branch Burns had the night off, it was Ivy who drove the horse-cart that took Sherlock and John back to the Green Man Inn. She chattered non-stop for the whole first half of the trip.
“. . . ach, and you're both so handsome, when you get tired of London as all sane men must, don't hesitate to call us . . . “
“Ivy,” Sherlock finally cut in, “please stop acting dumber than you are. It's entertaining no one.”
“You’re a rude one,” she said sharply. “But I’ve met worse.”
“Does Mr. Burns always take off the night before the May Day?”
“Didn’t last year,” she said. “Oh, I hope he’s not hungover. It never bodes well for his swordwork.”
***
Back in their room at the Green Man, with at least an illusion of privacy, John whipped around and pointed his finger at Sherlock, keeping the volume of his voice down but the angry energy still in it.
“You are mad. You are absolutely fucking nuts. This is . . . actually, I'm not sure this is the craziest thing you've ever asked me to do, now that I think about it.”
Sherlock smiled sideways. “Texting a murderer?”
“No,” John said. “No. I think it was walking around like a zombie grieving for you for two years after you made me watch your very convincing fake suicide, and then letting you walk right back into my life. After that? I didn't think anything you could do would shock me anymore. I underestimated you.”
“John, I . . .think I've fallen behind on those thousand apologies.”
John just laughed tightly. “Well, at least you're here to work on it. Though you keep racking up more. You fucked-up miracle.”
“That's the only kind of miracle you can trust, isn't it?” Sherlock said.
“Are you sure you're up for this? I know it's not the farthest you've ever gone for a case, but – it's pretty damn far.” John was still feeling a sense of whirling unreality not that far removed from the one Sherlock's “death” had caused. Of course this didn't compare on the agony scale, but that didn't mean it wasn't completely terrifying in its own right.
“Of course I am. Are you? You can still back out.”
“You're using me, aren't you?” John said, more exasperated than angry. “You keep doing that. You trust me so much you never even bother to check in with me while you make your schemes.”
Sherlock recoiled. “John, I'm trying to keep us both alive. Obviously that's my highest priority!”
“And you do it by committing us to put on some kind of . . . sex show? Just because you knew that I --” John's voice trailed off.
“That you what?” Sherlock demanded.
“Have feelings for you. You couldn't even confront me with it in private like a real friend, you hoarded that knowledge up for an occasion when it would be useful to you. And now you expect me to perform like a porn star to help you solve your goddamn mystery. And you even kissed me like it meant something. Fuck you. And goddammit. Fuck or die, really? How the hell do you keep finding these ridiculous situations . . .” John trailed off, sniffing for breath like an angry goat, fists clenching. “I will fuck you to save your life, of course I will, but that is not how I would have wanted it, and . . .”
John stopped up short when he saw the stricken look on Sherlock's face. “Now what? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“It did mean something, John,” Sherlock said. “When I kissed you. You kissed me back. I hoped that meant that you understood and agreed with me. That this would be okay, because it was something we've both wanted for a long time.”
John sat down on the bed, running his hands through his hair, and just breathed. Breathe for a while, yeah, that's good. Yes, that was the accursed truth of it, when he ran the whole situation through his mental Sherlock-to-Earthling translator, it made perfect sense. In fact, it would be stupid to do anything else. In a fuck-or-die scenario, obviously you would fuck, especially if both parties actually wanted to fuck each other. Why even waste valuable Mind Palace real estate considering alternatives? It had been Sherlock's suggestion, for fuck's sake.
That was what pissed John off the most. It was so clever. And so cold and ruthless. “You just expected I'd say yes, didn't you?”
“I hoped,” was all Sherlock would admit.
“Would you really shag Lord Summerisle if I said no?”
“Yes. He's an attractive man and I'm sure he has experience and skill in that area, and he's proud enough to make sure I'd enjoy it. Hopefully it would keep him too occupied to plan any last-minute treachery, and Miss Rose would probably consider it a sacrilege to do any harm to me during the act. Of course, there's still the problem that Lord Summerisle is not the person I'm most worried about, and I'm not yet sure who that person is, though I have a few suspicions. Ideally, I'd like to keep him in position as a witness, not an absorbed participant.”
“All just pieces moving around on your chessboard, like that, is it?”
“I have faith in your abilities to multitask; I don't know him well enough to say the same of him. Besides, as I've admitted before and you keep pushing me to do again and again, I want you. Much more. A great deal. I want all of you I can get.”
John just had to shake his head at that – he had no defenses at all that could stand up to Sherlock for long, he bloody well knew it, and yet he had to stubbornly keep testing the fact. “Yeah, well, you know what? I'm proud enough to make sure you'll enjoy it too.”
Sherlock had settled down into the armchair by the window and gave John a look that wasn't the least bit apologetic. If anything, he lifted his chin a little higher and his gaze was challenging. “I know.” His posture was inviting, long limbs sprawled and loose. “Are you worried I'll make a fool of myself because I don't know what I'm doing? Maybe you should teach me some things. Right now. A dress rehearsal for the big event.”
“That's dangerous,” John said, standing up and walking slowly towards him. “Very dangerous.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said in a low voice, hissing softly on the s.
John sank down into Sherlock's lap and trapped that smart-arse, inviting mouth against his own. There was only a flash of that earlier diffidence; then everything turned hot and fierce and melting, and Christ, Sherlock was getting the hang of kissing very quickly.
John groaned and nuzzled the side of Sherlock's head, losing himself in the shampoo scent of those wild curls, bent his hand to curl and grasp around Sherlock's neck. It looked more desperately in need of licking and biting than ever, which was saying a lot, and John was still dazzled and disbelieving that he was allowed to do this now, that he could touch Sherlock like this, knowing that Sherlock welcomed and wanted it. “So what do you think would happen . . .” John murmured against Sherlock's surging pulse, “if I stripped you naked and laid you down on that bed . . . and you gave it up to me right now?”
Sherlock laughed deep in his chest and John /felt// it, close against him. “I think the good people of Summerisle would shoot us both in the head and throw our bodies in the sea.”
“Nice to know,” John said, laughing too, as he kissed Sherlock again.
They were so wrapped up in each other they barely heard the door open. Willow stood above them shaking her head, wrapped in a demure dressing gown. “I think you lads need a chaperone,” she said.
John pulled away, panting, removing Sherlock's hand from between his thighs. “I hate to admit it, but you might be right.”
She smiled indulgently. “You should sleep in my room tonight, Mr. Holmes. Your chastity is safe with me.”
“Has that sentence ever come out of your mouth before?” Sherlock asked.
“No, and I pray the gods it never will again,” she said, smirking glumly.
“Just give us a moment, I'll be right in,” Sherlock said, waving his hand, dismissing her.
“Do you need something to help you sleep, Dr. Watson?” she said. “I'm sure I have a Hand of Glory around here somewhere.” She turned and pulled the door behind her, leaving it ajar.
Sherlock stood up, started assembling his pyjamas and very metrosexual array of hair products, and then he turned to John, speaking quietly but urgently:
“Look, John, I need you to be honest with me about this. Can you do this? I mean -” and the sight of Sherlock blushing was not one easily forgotten - “are you really certain you could, er, perform in that way? With a big audience, under dangerous circumstances and tremendous pressure, and . . . with a man?”
“Do you mean, could I get it up and keep it up?”
“I'd really hoped you wouldn't need me to clarify that point, but yes.”
John felt like he might almost have the jump on Sherlock here, because he'd been asking himself that question for long enough that he bloody well knew the answer.
“If that man was you, then yes, I could. I know I could.” John nodded and smiled and held Sherlock's gaze, expecting Sherlock to look away first. He didn't. Not even when John ran a hand up the outside of Sherlock's thigh.
“So we won't need to break into Lennox's shop for real and get one of those mushrooms, then,” Sherlock finally said, with deadpan voice and gleaming eyes.
“Not unless you want me to bugger you with it,” John said.
“I doubt that would meet the either the letter or the spirit of the requirement,” Sherlock said, and then they were both laughing so hard that their terrible awkwardness and awkward terror crashed down in defeat.
Halfway through that giggle fit, John felt a wave of reassurance. Could he get it up, goddamn, what did Sherlock think he was? Underestimate John Watson's sex drive at your own peril, my friend.
What John said was, “You think I'll have a problem? That's fighting words.”
“Good,” Sherlock said, smiling widely. “You're at your best in fighting mode.”
“What about you?” John said, taking up the smile, all challenge. “Since this is so far outside your comfort zone.”
“Comfort zone, pffffft!” Sherlock said. “A 'comfort zone' is a place of habit and complacency and stagnation. Dull. Whatever mine is, I'm at my best when I'm nowhere near it.”
John looked at Sherlock awkwardly. “Okay. Well, I'm glad you're – okay. We're both okay, right?”
“Of course,” Sherlock said. All seriousness now, with a steamy gaze and a bulge in his trousers. Christ.
“All right then, well,” John stammered.
“Relax, John,” Sherlock said with a small smile. “We'll get to have sex tomorrow. Less than twenty-four hours away. In the meantime, I suggest you skim this book.” He handed a heavy red hardback to John and actually walked through the door to Willow's room.
“If you fuck her, I'll kill you!” John finally managed to yell. “Before anyone else gets a chance!”
“Not. Bloody. Likely,” he heard Willow say as the door closed.
Grudgingly, John took up the book and skimmed ahead to the section marked 'May Day Festivities.' That chapter was rather heavily hinted at, considering that it was marked with photographs that fell out when John turned the page.
Lennox's work, clearly. Nothing especially horrifying – just pictures of a procession of people in ludicrous costumes and masks.
John read about the characters that populated this rite – the man-animal, a big bearded man wearing some contraption that gave him a huge skirted body and a snapping animal head. John wasn't sure if it was supposed to be a horse or a dragon, but he didn't know if it mattered much. Realism clearly wasn't the goal here. There was the man-woman played by the village leader – John supposed that would be Lord Summerisle himself. Yes, there he was was in the photo, in a dress and wig and white stage makeup; the most unconvincing drag John had ever seen, so he had to laugh a little. This whole thing was ridiculous, so very surreal, this crude village theater performance with real sex and death.
And the Fool. Dear god. In one of the pictures, zeroed in in closeup, the Fool's mask had slipped, and those horrified eyes were so clearly the same eyes as the newspaper picture of Howie. So that was what he had done – disguised himself, and believed that the villagers were fooled. John shook his head. Sherlock could have pulled that off, maybe, he thought.
The part about the six swordsmen and the star of the sun – that bit was worrying. But worst by far was the part about the sacrifice in lean years: “but in bad years, when the harvest had been poor, the sacrifice was a human being. In some cultures, it would be the king himself. In others, the most beloved virgin.”
John had to chuckle at that. Howie certainly hadn't been Summerisle's most beloved anything. They cheat, John thought. They fudge the rules all the time. And he tried not to think about how Sherlock was certainly John's most beloved virgin. Well, he had to be. John wasn’t sure he even knew any others.
“Methods of sacrifice differed. Sometimes the victim would be drowned in the sea, or burnt to death in a huge sacrificial bonfire. Sometimes the six swordsmen ritually beheaded the virgin.”
John set the book down and took a deep breath. This wasn't relaxing reading. He resorted to some of the techniques he'd learned in the Army, to sleep in tense circumstances when one absolutely, positively had to be at the top of one's game the next morning. He managed to banish the most horrifying and gruesome and dreadful of the mental images, but he was left with one persistent one that would not go away:
Sherlock, naked and shaking – and that damned Buckingham Palace incident gave John a pretty vivid memory of what most of Sherlock looked like under those suits – on a stone altar, smiling and ready but a little bit nervous, as Lord Summerisle of all people caressed him and kissed him and coaxed him, and finally spread his thighs and entered him with whatever unimaginable fertility-god phallus might be lurking under that kilt. The startled look and then the easing smile, as Sherlock felt himself breached for the first time, adjusting to it and then beginning to enjoy it, relaxing his body and moving slowly, letting a primal pleasure overtake him.
And John just had to watch, imagining what he could not have, the feel of those lean muscles moving under that fair, downy-haired skin . . .
Christ. Fucking stop it, he told himself, looking down at his treacherous cock. Damned thing had been half-hard since his first night on Summerisle and it wasn't showing any signs of calming down now. You can't teach a stiff prick patience. Yeah, a wank is probably the thing, he admitted to himself. Battlefield medicine.
Just as he started, finally opening up his jeans and taking himself in hand, he heard a door open and close, and distinctive footsteps in the hallway and down the stairs. Sherlock. Leaving Willow's room. Going somewhere.
“Stay,” said Willow, through the wall.
John stayed, and he didn't even care anymore that Willow could probably hear him panting, desperately pumping himself towards enough relief to sleep. In his frenzy he stopped, stripped off all his clothes and let the feel of his skin against the cheap sheets bring him closer to the edge, bringing him off quickly and sharply and suddenly - and not terribly satisfyingly - and then he collapsed back against the sheets, the sultry air of Summerisle covering him all over.
It worked. It got him to sleep. But his dreams were a tangled mess of desire and horror – the clacks of swords and the roar of flames, the whirr of a helicopter and the sound of his own voice screaming, blessed at last by a soft brush against his cheek that smelled like Sherlock's hair, a calming kiss on his lips and a sweet scent of apple blossoms.
In the night, when he thought everyone must be asleep – except Sherlock, most likely, wherever he was – John opened his eyes with a strange new sense of resolve. He had preparations of his own to make, and he did so, with an eye to the costume Lord Summerisle had given him.
He might be a fish out of water here, but he wasn't going to drown without making an effort to swim.
***
The shadow that fell over John in the morning was Sherlock, who paced about with a barely-contained excitement. In a rare show of consideration, he'd brought John a cup of coffee. John decided to refrain from asking if he'd made it himself. He'd find out soon enough. “Did you have nice dreams, John?”
“Oh, fuck you,” John said fondly.
“Is that what you dreamed about?”
“I dreamed about Lord Summerisle fucking you, if you must know,” John said cheerfully.
“Oh good, I'm glad it wasn't a nightmare,” Sherlock said, bending over in an utterly gratuitous manner to fetch something out of his suitcase.
“It was for me,” John said. “You didn't seem to mind.”
Sherlock gave an impatient little huff and flitted out of the room again, leaving John to get dressed.
John hadn't worn a kilt in years, and the last time, he hadn't actually gone regimental. But the Summerislanders were nothing if not traditionalists. His and Sherlock's position was precarious enough that he didn't want to risk offending them with underpants.
“Well, laddie,” he said to his cock in a comical Scottish brogue, “looks like this is your day to shine.”
He let out a little giggle – well, what else could he do?
It wasn't the full formal ensemble – leave that to Lord Summerisle – so he put on a comfy jumper of good Scots wool that hung just loose enough to cover all his secrets, and of course they'd allow him a sgian-dubh, wouldn't they? He felt as well-armed as he was going to get – and that was before the stag mask and the crown of antlers.
Those things were heavy and sharp. He could probably do some serious damage with them if he had to. Try not to spear Sherlock in the gut when you go down on him, he told himself. Totally defeat the purpose. And then John started giggling so hard he had to sit down and contemplate the train wreck that was his life. We can't giggle, this is a ritual scene, he heard Sherlock's voice saying, and that only added to the problem.
He had to slap himself to restrain his hysteria like some Victorian doctor. But all his efforts were doomed, because he heard a jingling down the hallway, and any attempt at quelling his laughter died when he saw Sherlock standing in the doorway in a jester's cap and a pot-bellied, hunch-backed, cod-pieced costume that was obviously made for a much chubbier and shorter man. (Alder MacGregor, specifically.)
John had been feeling a little apprehensive about his own getup and was gearing up for a counterattack – until he saw the look on Sherlock's face, the way that silvery gaze of his went dark and focused beneath the black lashes as it moved up and down John's body.
“That . . . suits you surprisingly well,” Sherlock said, licking his lips in an unconscious mirror of John's own habit.
And that gave John a little thrill. He looked up straight and boldly into Sherlock's eyes and smiled a little, reading the truth: Sherlock was really, truly, at least a little bit turned on by the whole situation, and not only for the intellectual puzzle of the mystery. He liked this, John in his bizarrely masculine pagan costume – and that made John stand up a whole lot straighter and hold his chin and his antlers high, and maybe almost take the whole charade a little bit seriously. There was something to it after all, wasn't there? The primal force of the desire he'd been feeling so long, focused and channeled and understood as a powerful, important, worthwhile thing, acknowledging the fact that humans are mammals, considering the possibility that the sex drive is actually more sacred than sinful – yeah, okay. Yes. It had its appeal.
“Nice rack,” said Sherlock.
***
The village had been all hustle and bustle since dawn; a parade of children carrying a doll shrouded like a corpse through the streets; all the local people eager to show off their masks: the butcher with the bullock's head, the fisherman as the Salmon of Knowledge.
In the courtyard of the town center, Lord Summerisle held court in turtleneck and trousers with his dress draped over his shoulder, presiding over laughter and dancing, food being cooked, tar being stirred, musicians tuning and rehearsing.
“I thought the John Barleycorn song was about liquor, not bread,” John said as the baker showed off his wares.
“Both,” the baker said grinning, pointing at a life-size corpse baked out of bread, and the sun faces on cakes (one of which had eye and mouth holes – he was planning to wear it), all meant for the feast. “Either way, he'll die in style tonight. Go talk to our brewers, they're killing him too!”
“And some of that delicious cider too?” John asked hopefully.
“Running a little low this year,” the baker said. “Not as bad as some years. The mead, though, now that's a sad situation.”
“Hmmm,” said Sherlock, his features unreadable below his grotesque Punch mask.
***
Along the promenade route, John began to more fully appreciate just how small the population of Summerisle really was. He'd been here just two days, and he thought he recognised at least a third of the people, even in their eerie animal masks.
And they were weird all right. Furry and dead-eyed and stiff, and people wearing them tended to just appear and disappear; out of shrubbery, up in windows, behind low stone walls. Man, woman, or child, they all looked otherworldly. Hares and cats and badgers and boars and fish and seals. A slender woman running along a hedge with the face of a fox.
Mask vendors liked to push them on you too – once, he'd been informed that someone saw him as more of a hedgehog type. Not so good for the ego, that, even though the same person (wearing a dog mask) also insisted that the Fool was really more like an otter.
John was startled to see the haughty hawk-mask woman watching again, speaking briefly with the butcher-bull.
As the procession assembled, Summerisle split itself by gender again; the women and girls ran ahead laughing, pretty and light-hearted, while the men marched with a stiff dignity to a deep martial drumbeat and a slow, grand little brass band.
Well, dignity if you didn't take into consideration Lord Summerisle, twirling stiff-leggedly in a long black wig and flowing dress over his regular clothes, wielding a sprig of mistletoe in one hand and a curved bronze sickle in the other. And Sherlock in his supremely unflattering getup, capering “around the garden, like a fairy,” as he put it himself once.
The hobby-dragon man roamed at will, running ahead to trap girls under the skirt of his costume and snap at them with his phallic beast-head, bells jingling.
John noticed it all looked exactly like the illustrations and the photographs, except for the fact that the six swordsmen were masked this time. And John didn't think he liked that, especially when the weird parade turned through the mighty dolmen that marked the entrance to Lord Summerisle's circle of standing stones.
***
“CHOP! CHOP! CHOP! CHOP!”
God, the chant was oppressive as John stood there, sweating in his mask but with the wind chilly beneath his kilt, watching the Summerislanders one by one step up and push their heads through the sprung-anew star of swords, offering their necks to an artful tangle of very sharp blades.
In his position in the line he couldn't see their faces, but his battle instincts taught him to read body language well enough to know that at least some were genuinely afraid. And at a random pattern he couldn't discern, sometimes there would be a dreadful pause, and the swordsmen would hesitate and look at each other, and he heard the people around them freeze and draw breath. The risk was real.
Lord Summerisle went first. The blades lowered around his neck. A clap of hands, and they rose again, and he went free.
Miss Rose was second. John watched her shoulders tense. The swords lifted away.
John could barely restrain himself when the Fool was ushered forward. Surely they'd notice they had to lift their swords higher than they were used to, that this was a different man? And that the usual guy was marching in the general group with a bear mask on, relieved not to have to wear that hideous smelly thing another year? Of course they noticed, but it didn't matter. They released Sherlock too.
“It's a game of chance,” Lord Summerisle announced. “Everyone must try their luck.”
John didn't believe that for a second, so when it was his turn, he was tense. He contemplated breaking away and running, but that could ruin every single detail of their elaborate plan.
It was a test of nerves, John told himself. Nothing more. He was fairly sure he was lying to himself, but that would help him get through it. He stepped up, bent his knees, and let the masked swordsmen lower their deadly star of blades around his neck.
There was a pause. The hobbyhorse/dragon thing snapped its jaws. The chant stopped. Even the drum stopped, and in between the gaps in the swordsman's marks, he noticed a fast glimpse passing, shared, conspiring; he saw wrist muscles tensing to strike; he saw Lord Summerisle turn and stare with what seemed to be anger on his blank, painted face, and John was just about to enact evasive maneuvers when –
One of the swordsmen let out a yelp, and John heard the crowd laugh and saw the man yanking his kilt back down as his sword went out of formation. The Fool was laughing and capering away.
John lowered his head and stepped on, as the next person put her head in the blade-star. One beat, and she was freed. And so forth, and no one lost a head except a schoolboy who quickly dropped out of his papier-mache dog head. He lay there still for a while to milk it, but there was no blood, and he rose up laughing soon enough.
Later on, when the march grew more chaotic and the Fool could lean down near him, John muttered to Sherlock, “Did you just save my life by grabbing some bloke's arse?”
“Mmmaybe,” Sherlock said, clearly in the spirit of his character. “I'm afraid, probably so.” He cavorted away and swayed back later to admit, “it wasn't just his arse.”
“NOW TO THE BEACH,” Lord Summerisle bellowed.
And so they went down, for a dramatic display of sacrifice; great barrels of cider and ale were loaded on horsecarts on the rocky strand. Lord Summerisle himself stood astride them with an axe in his hands and announced, “Lord of the Sea – Mannanan Mac Lir – accept this gift!” He punctured the barrels, and men scrambled to roll them into the surf. The ocean rose up foamy as the sacrifice leached out into the salt water.
“And now, for our most - awe-inspiring sacrifice. A special request this year, and a gift has landed on our shores.”
Lord Summerisle winked at Sherlock. It was impossible to tell if it was returned.
***
The procession rose up unto the little headland over the sea where the giant wicker man stood on a pedestal of wood and kindling, full of vegetables and animals. Stealing a closer horrified look, John could see that the livestock seemed to be already dead. Silent and unmoving, anyway.
“This is a kinder, gentler Summerisle this year,” Sherlock said, appearing suddenly behind John and muttering in his ear. “They burned the animals alive that year too.” John shuddered and reached back for Sherlock’s hand. He got a brief squeeze before Sherlock turned his attention up to Lord Summerisle, who was beckoning to him. “It’s the moment of truth, John. I believe that’s our cue.”
“Here he is, come to us,” Lord Summerisle announced. “The Holly King. A wise man and a fool. Once dead and once risen. A virgin, untouched. The right kind of adult male.”
The crowd murmured and shivered, leaning close, eager to see. Lord Summerisle held up his hands. “You remember, three years ago, when we took what we needed. This May Day, it is different. Our crops have not fully failed. Our gods are not angry. What they ask is not so dire. And this time, our visitor is offering us a great gift.”
Miss Rose stood up close beside Lord Summerisle, and her voice projected nearly as deeply as his. John shivered to hear it, because it felt to him in that moment that there was a very real power in her. “He comes to us knowing and willing. We need not take his life. We will bless our fields with his seed, not his ashes.”
Sherlock stepped forward.
John watched, trembling, hands clenching, as Miss Rose and Willow and the archivist – what was her name, for now he was just going to call her Cariad Piss-Off – surrounded Sherlock. John tried so hard not to protest as Miss Rose pulled a little knife and cut the cords of Sherlock's ill-fitting Fool’s costume.
John had expected more rudeness and lewdness. But it was with great care and ceremony that Sherlock was stripped completely naked, and his clothes were folded and passed from hand to hand. Sherlock held himself tall with great dignity.
Damn, he was beautiful. He never flinched a moment as the three women attended to him. He looked lean and strong, but a little young and vulnerable now – his shoulders narrower than they seemed beneath his tailored suits, his skin given to little tremors and shivers. His flanks trembled, muscles tautening as he was ceremoniously washed and anointed with oils at forehead and chest and thighs.
Miss Rose sank briefly to her knees and kissed the tops of his feet. She rose up and kissed him low on his belly, just above the thickening of his dark hair above the base of his cock. John couldn't hear what she whispered to him as she kissed him chastely on each nipple and at last on his lips, but it seemed to be of import in the ritual, and it made Sherlock smile and laugh. So it couldn't have been too bad.
Willow and Cariad filled in too, singing, stroking him with their hair. John was sweating behind his mask. It was clear to him by now that Sherlock just wasn't attracted to women, but he couldn't help but physically respond to their intimate touches on his body, and it was hard for John to watch. Damn, Sherlock had a great cock. It had looked nice dangling and soft, but as it plumped and swelled, all John could think of was being the only one allowed to touch it.
The women wrapped Sherlock in a white robe, open and belted like a dressing gown.
“King for a night,” Lord Summerisle said solemnly, and he held up a crown – a garland woven of ivy and apple blossoms and holly branches; deep green and pale pink and studded through with red berries like spots of blood – and then he set it down firmly in Sherlock's thick curls, where it tangled and would not come dislodged, no matter what happened.
“Who speaks for him?” Lord Summerisle demanded of the crowd. “Who will act for the gods and claim this prize?”
John stared out at the sky and the heath for a frozen moment, paralyzed with stage fright until he felt Willow's hand at his back, pushing him forward.
“I do!” he cried, and his voice cracked at first, so he tried again and got a more confident voice. “I do. I claim the right.”
Miss Rose stepped forward and pushed his mask up, exposing his face and cupping it in her hands. “A warrior and a healer. Well chosen,” she said with a smile and a nod as she kissed John's forehead in blessing.
Showtime, John told himself, noting with relief that his hand had stopped shaking. There were little ripples and murmurs in the crowd – discontent – and John made his move to win them over.
“Hello, Summerisle,” he declared as he pulled his mask all the way off – keeping the antlers – like the most awkward rock star ever.
There was no more joking. No more putting it off. Even the little bottle of lube that Miss Rose had discreetly laid down spoke to the fact that it was now or never and do or die.
Sherlock stared at John. John stared at Sherlock.
John froze. I've wanted to fuck my best friend for years, gods help me. Now I have to fuck my best friend. Right now. And we're so fucking awkward about it.
Sherlock moved first. He seemed to be in slow-motion as he wrapped his big hands around John's neck and turned his face up and kissed him.
What they'd done in their room, that was primary school. This was an A-levels kiss, wild and demanding and desperate, as it determined their future. John was so grateful that it was hot enough to surrender to, and he pressed his hands against Sherlock's back, drawing him in.
“Um,” Sherlock said quietly, “what we did last night in our room. When you pulled my hair . . . and kissed my neck. I liked that a lot. Just . . . let's start with that.”
“Oh, gladly,” John whispered as he followed down, lips pressed close to Sherlock's ear, pausing to lightly lick and kiss. “I want to make it good for you. Make you feel good. Show you why people like it.”
“I am – starting to understand that now – there, use your teeth a little right there, yes - ”
“If I was reluctant to agree to this - ” John murmured, between licking, nipping kisses to Sherlock's neck, “-- it's not because I don't want you. You know that.”
“Yes, I know,” Sherlock said. “Here, will you let me touch you? I want to try...” Sherlock pressed his hands on John's waist, both sides, and started to push John's jumper up, and John stopped him, grasping his wrists to communicate no even as he worked his way back up to Sherlock's mouth, sliding his tongue in.
John put Sherlock's hands where he wanted them to show him something important: first down under beneath his kilt, to his strong, ever-growing erection. Sherlock's eyes went wide as he felt it out, and then his long fingers wrapped around it and slightly squeezed. John groaned quietly and closed his eyes for a moment, lightly thrusting as the iron core of him slid in Sherlock's grip.
Then he – reluctantly – nudged Sherlock's hand away from his longing cock and just a little bit up and over, waiting for him to feel out the leather straps in the crease of groin and thigh that led up to his waist, holstering the cold heavy metal hidden beneath his jumper and kilt waistband.
Sherlock gasped and his eyes got even wilder, bright and burning in the twilight. John could feel Sherlock's cock swell bigger against his belly.
“Wanted to give us more options, in case you changed your mind,” John murmured, nuzzling at Sherlock's shoulder, slowly caressing up his chest with one steady hand.
Sherlock's voice sounded trembling and wrecked as he wondered, “What if they'd insisted you do this, er, 'skyclad?'”
“I'd've told them it's against my religion,” John said.
“Don't think that would have helped much,” Sherlock said, kissing John again between choking laughs.
“Still okay with this?” John asked quietly in the pauses between their hungry gropes of lips and meeting of tongues.
“I haven't changed my mind,” Sherlock said. With his other hand he clenched at John's hair and dragged his mouth down John’s throat, scraping with his teeth, sucking, making John shudder and moan.
John untied Sherlock's robe, exposing his body again – oh so unfair that it should be so beautiful -- and slid hands down his chest, fondling the sparse spray of hair and testing Sherlock's nipples with his fingertips to see if he was sensitive there: oh, he was, yes, he gave a startled cry and arched his chest up for more; oh, the way his hips jerked against John was exquisite.
Sherlock gasped and jerked, pressing his chest into John's little tugs, bucking his hips. Even now, under such circumstances, Sherlock wasn't passive; his hands were sliding up the backs of John's thighs under his kilt, groping at his arse, trying to pull him in.
“God,” John moaned. “You really want to get fucked, don't you?”
“By you, yes,” Sherlock said, letting John feel every shiver of his muscles, every convulsive twitch of his arms and legs, rising up to wrap around him.
“Well, be patient,” John said with a little smile, nipping the tip of Sherlock's nose. He worked his way back down, spending a lot of time on Sherlock's neck, a little bit on his clavicle, and a lot of licking and sucking on first one nipple and then the other, until Sherlock was writhing.
John slowly pushed Sherlock back down, towards the grass. He wanted Sherlock on his back beneath him; Sherlock understood and lay down and pulled John down with him.
John was utterly wrapped up in reading Sherlock's responses to every action of his, and Sherlock was utterly abandoned in his enjoyment. John was thrilled to finally be able to do what he'd wanted for so long – kiss and lick and bite his way down Sherlock's shivering belly, and finally hear the kind of noise Sherlock would make when another human being drew the head of his cock into an eager-to-please mouth for the first time.
For that, John was willing to shut out all the noises of the crowd. The deep beat of the drum, that worked. Sex had a rhythm, and he was willing to use that one.
That noise Sherlock made was glorious. It wasn't deep and throaty at first – it was high-pitched and breathy and utterly surprised, a pathetic and vulnerable whimper.
In John's consciousness, it drowned out all other voices for just a moment. And that one moment was crucial.
For not all the crowd voices were singing. There were yelps and shouts and a struggle. For just a few seconds, John and Sherlock were so lost in each other that they missed them.
And in an instant, the woman with the hawk mask had rushed through the crowd, and with one swift twist she'd grasped the sharp bronze sickle from Lord Summerisle's hand and grabbed Sherlock by the hair. She held the wicked curved blade molded around Sherlock's throat.
“You'll take the sacrifice I sent you,” she snarled to Lord Summerisle and Miss Rose and the others. “And you'll take it the way I meant it, the way that worked before. The ancient way.”
“I told you no, Hazel,” Lord Summerisle said with a quiet, deadly anger. “I told you the gods did not ask for that, and I told you that you will never have power over me or Summerisle.”
She jerked Sherlock's head up for the knife, but her reaction to Lord Summerisle's rage gave John enough to time to whip his gun out from under his kilt and aim it at her head. “Drop the knife and let him go,” John said in a cold, ruthless voice as they stared at each other down the length of Sherlock's body. “Or I will kill you.”
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 (eventually)
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.
Chapter 5, Aught of Sacrifice
Foolish Sherlock and horny John take their places in Summerisle's great festival. The Game is On.
“All right then,” Sherlock said to Lord Summerisle and Miss Rose. “Tell us what we need to do to make this work.”
And they did, and gave them a box of clothes and gear, and a promise to warn Alder MacGregor that he had his Fool duties relieved - and that at least he wouldn’t spend the festival tied to his bedpost with a headache. (A situation he might not have minded so much had it happened under better circumstances).
Because Branch Burns had the night off, it was Ivy who drove the horse-cart that took Sherlock and John back to the Green Man Inn. She chattered non-stop for the whole first half of the trip.
“. . . ach, and you're both so handsome, when you get tired of London as all sane men must, don't hesitate to call us . . . “
“Ivy,” Sherlock finally cut in, “please stop acting dumber than you are. It's entertaining no one.”
“You’re a rude one,” she said sharply. “But I’ve met worse.”
“Does Mr. Burns always take off the night before the May Day?”
“Didn’t last year,” she said. “Oh, I hope he’s not hungover. It never bodes well for his swordwork.”
***
Back in their room at the Green Man, with at least an illusion of privacy, John whipped around and pointed his finger at Sherlock, keeping the volume of his voice down but the angry energy still in it.
“You are mad. You are absolutely fucking nuts. This is . . . actually, I'm not sure this is the craziest thing you've ever asked me to do, now that I think about it.”
Sherlock smiled sideways. “Texting a murderer?”
“No,” John said. “No. I think it was walking around like a zombie grieving for you for two years after you made me watch your very convincing fake suicide, and then letting you walk right back into my life. After that? I didn't think anything you could do would shock me anymore. I underestimated you.”
“John, I . . .think I've fallen behind on those thousand apologies.”
John just laughed tightly. “Well, at least you're here to work on it. Though you keep racking up more. You fucked-up miracle.”
“That's the only kind of miracle you can trust, isn't it?” Sherlock said.
“Are you sure you're up for this? I know it's not the farthest you've ever gone for a case, but – it's pretty damn far.” John was still feeling a sense of whirling unreality not that far removed from the one Sherlock's “death” had caused. Of course this didn't compare on the agony scale, but that didn't mean it wasn't completely terrifying in its own right.
“Of course I am. Are you? You can still back out.”
“You're using me, aren't you?” John said, more exasperated than angry. “You keep doing that. You trust me so much you never even bother to check in with me while you make your schemes.”
Sherlock recoiled. “John, I'm trying to keep us both alive. Obviously that's my highest priority!”
“And you do it by committing us to put on some kind of . . . sex show? Just because you knew that I --” John's voice trailed off.
“That you what?” Sherlock demanded.
“Have feelings for you. You couldn't even confront me with it in private like a real friend, you hoarded that knowledge up for an occasion when it would be useful to you. And now you expect me to perform like a porn star to help you solve your goddamn mystery. And you even kissed me like it meant something. Fuck you. And goddammit. Fuck or die, really? How the hell do you keep finding these ridiculous situations . . .” John trailed off, sniffing for breath like an angry goat, fists clenching. “I will fuck you to save your life, of course I will, but that is not how I would have wanted it, and . . .”
John stopped up short when he saw the stricken look on Sherlock's face. “Now what? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“It did mean something, John,” Sherlock said. “When I kissed you. You kissed me back. I hoped that meant that you understood and agreed with me. That this would be okay, because it was something we've both wanted for a long time.”
John sat down on the bed, running his hands through his hair, and just breathed. Breathe for a while, yeah, that's good. Yes, that was the accursed truth of it, when he ran the whole situation through his mental Sherlock-to-Earthling translator, it made perfect sense. In fact, it would be stupid to do anything else. In a fuck-or-die scenario, obviously you would fuck, especially if both parties actually wanted to fuck each other. Why even waste valuable Mind Palace real estate considering alternatives? It had been Sherlock's suggestion, for fuck's sake.
That was what pissed John off the most. It was so clever. And so cold and ruthless. “You just expected I'd say yes, didn't you?”
“I hoped,” was all Sherlock would admit.
“Would you really shag Lord Summerisle if I said no?”
“Yes. He's an attractive man and I'm sure he has experience and skill in that area, and he's proud enough to make sure I'd enjoy it. Hopefully it would keep him too occupied to plan any last-minute treachery, and Miss Rose would probably consider it a sacrilege to do any harm to me during the act. Of course, there's still the problem that Lord Summerisle is not the person I'm most worried about, and I'm not yet sure who that person is, though I have a few suspicions. Ideally, I'd like to keep him in position as a witness, not an absorbed participant.”
“All just pieces moving around on your chessboard, like that, is it?”
“I have faith in your abilities to multitask; I don't know him well enough to say the same of him. Besides, as I've admitted before and you keep pushing me to do again and again, I want you. Much more. A great deal. I want all of you I can get.”
John just had to shake his head at that – he had no defenses at all that could stand up to Sherlock for long, he bloody well knew it, and yet he had to stubbornly keep testing the fact. “Yeah, well, you know what? I'm proud enough to make sure you'll enjoy it too.”
Sherlock had settled down into the armchair by the window and gave John a look that wasn't the least bit apologetic. If anything, he lifted his chin a little higher and his gaze was challenging. “I know.” His posture was inviting, long limbs sprawled and loose. “Are you worried I'll make a fool of myself because I don't know what I'm doing? Maybe you should teach me some things. Right now. A dress rehearsal for the big event.”
“That's dangerous,” John said, standing up and walking slowly towards him. “Very dangerous.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said in a low voice, hissing softly on the s.
John sank down into Sherlock's lap and trapped that smart-arse, inviting mouth against his own. There was only a flash of that earlier diffidence; then everything turned hot and fierce and melting, and Christ, Sherlock was getting the hang of kissing very quickly.
John groaned and nuzzled the side of Sherlock's head, losing himself in the shampoo scent of those wild curls, bent his hand to curl and grasp around Sherlock's neck. It looked more desperately in need of licking and biting than ever, which was saying a lot, and John was still dazzled and disbelieving that he was allowed to do this now, that he could touch Sherlock like this, knowing that Sherlock welcomed and wanted it. “So what do you think would happen . . .” John murmured against Sherlock's surging pulse, “if I stripped you naked and laid you down on that bed . . . and you gave it up to me right now?”
Sherlock laughed deep in his chest and John /felt// it, close against him. “I think the good people of Summerisle would shoot us both in the head and throw our bodies in the sea.”
“Nice to know,” John said, laughing too, as he kissed Sherlock again.
They were so wrapped up in each other they barely heard the door open. Willow stood above them shaking her head, wrapped in a demure dressing gown. “I think you lads need a chaperone,” she said.
John pulled away, panting, removing Sherlock's hand from between his thighs. “I hate to admit it, but you might be right.”
She smiled indulgently. “You should sleep in my room tonight, Mr. Holmes. Your chastity is safe with me.”
“Has that sentence ever come out of your mouth before?” Sherlock asked.
“No, and I pray the gods it never will again,” she said, smirking glumly.
“Just give us a moment, I'll be right in,” Sherlock said, waving his hand, dismissing her.
“Do you need something to help you sleep, Dr. Watson?” she said. “I'm sure I have a Hand of Glory around here somewhere.” She turned and pulled the door behind her, leaving it ajar.
Sherlock stood up, started assembling his pyjamas and very metrosexual array of hair products, and then he turned to John, speaking quietly but urgently:
“Look, John, I need you to be honest with me about this. Can you do this? I mean -” and the sight of Sherlock blushing was not one easily forgotten - “are you really certain you could, er, perform in that way? With a big audience, under dangerous circumstances and tremendous pressure, and . . . with a man?”
“Do you mean, could I get it up and keep it up?”
“I'd really hoped you wouldn't need me to clarify that point, but yes.”
John felt like he might almost have the jump on Sherlock here, because he'd been asking himself that question for long enough that he bloody well knew the answer.
“If that man was you, then yes, I could. I know I could.” John nodded and smiled and held Sherlock's gaze, expecting Sherlock to look away first. He didn't. Not even when John ran a hand up the outside of Sherlock's thigh.
“So we won't need to break into Lennox's shop for real and get one of those mushrooms, then,” Sherlock finally said, with deadpan voice and gleaming eyes.
“Not unless you want me to bugger you with it,” John said.
“I doubt that would meet the either the letter or the spirit of the requirement,” Sherlock said, and then they were both laughing so hard that their terrible awkwardness and awkward terror crashed down in defeat.
Halfway through that giggle fit, John felt a wave of reassurance. Could he get it up, goddamn, what did Sherlock think he was? Underestimate John Watson's sex drive at your own peril, my friend.
What John said was, “You think I'll have a problem? That's fighting words.”
“Good,” Sherlock said, smiling widely. “You're at your best in fighting mode.”
“What about you?” John said, taking up the smile, all challenge. “Since this is so far outside your comfort zone.”
“Comfort zone, pffffft!” Sherlock said. “A 'comfort zone' is a place of habit and complacency and stagnation. Dull. Whatever mine is, I'm at my best when I'm nowhere near it.”
John looked at Sherlock awkwardly. “Okay. Well, I'm glad you're – okay. We're both okay, right?”
“Of course,” Sherlock said. All seriousness now, with a steamy gaze and a bulge in his trousers. Christ.
“All right then, well,” John stammered.
“Relax, John,” Sherlock said with a small smile. “We'll get to have sex tomorrow. Less than twenty-four hours away. In the meantime, I suggest you skim this book.” He handed a heavy red hardback to John and actually walked through the door to Willow's room.
“If you fuck her, I'll kill you!” John finally managed to yell. “Before anyone else gets a chance!”
“Not. Bloody. Likely,” he heard Willow say as the door closed.
Grudgingly, John took up the book and skimmed ahead to the section marked 'May Day Festivities.' That chapter was rather heavily hinted at, considering that it was marked with photographs that fell out when John turned the page.
Lennox's work, clearly. Nothing especially horrifying – just pictures of a procession of people in ludicrous costumes and masks.
John read about the characters that populated this rite – the man-animal, a big bearded man wearing some contraption that gave him a huge skirted body and a snapping animal head. John wasn't sure if it was supposed to be a horse or a dragon, but he didn't know if it mattered much. Realism clearly wasn't the goal here. There was the man-woman played by the village leader – John supposed that would be Lord Summerisle himself. Yes, there he was was in the photo, in a dress and wig and white stage makeup; the most unconvincing drag John had ever seen, so he had to laugh a little. This whole thing was ridiculous, so very surreal, this crude village theater performance with real sex and death.
And the Fool. Dear god. In one of the pictures, zeroed in in closeup, the Fool's mask had slipped, and those horrified eyes were so clearly the same eyes as the newspaper picture of Howie. So that was what he had done – disguised himself, and believed that the villagers were fooled. John shook his head. Sherlock could have pulled that off, maybe, he thought.
The part about the six swordsmen and the star of the sun – that bit was worrying. But worst by far was the part about the sacrifice in lean years: “but in bad years, when the harvest had been poor, the sacrifice was a human being. In some cultures, it would be the king himself. In others, the most beloved virgin.”
John had to chuckle at that. Howie certainly hadn't been Summerisle's most beloved anything. They cheat, John thought. They fudge the rules all the time. And he tried not to think about how Sherlock was certainly John's most beloved virgin. Well, he had to be. John wasn’t sure he even knew any others.
“Methods of sacrifice differed. Sometimes the victim would be drowned in the sea, or burnt to death in a huge sacrificial bonfire. Sometimes the six swordsmen ritually beheaded the virgin.”
John set the book down and took a deep breath. This wasn't relaxing reading. He resorted to some of the techniques he'd learned in the Army, to sleep in tense circumstances when one absolutely, positively had to be at the top of one's game the next morning. He managed to banish the most horrifying and gruesome and dreadful of the mental images, but he was left with one persistent one that would not go away:
Sherlock, naked and shaking – and that damned Buckingham Palace incident gave John a pretty vivid memory of what most of Sherlock looked like under those suits – on a stone altar, smiling and ready but a little bit nervous, as Lord Summerisle of all people caressed him and kissed him and coaxed him, and finally spread his thighs and entered him with whatever unimaginable fertility-god phallus might be lurking under that kilt. The startled look and then the easing smile, as Sherlock felt himself breached for the first time, adjusting to it and then beginning to enjoy it, relaxing his body and moving slowly, letting a primal pleasure overtake him.
And John just had to watch, imagining what he could not have, the feel of those lean muscles moving under that fair, downy-haired skin . . .
Christ. Fucking stop it, he told himself, looking down at his treacherous cock. Damned thing had been half-hard since his first night on Summerisle and it wasn't showing any signs of calming down now. You can't teach a stiff prick patience. Yeah, a wank is probably the thing, he admitted to himself. Battlefield medicine.
Just as he started, finally opening up his jeans and taking himself in hand, he heard a door open and close, and distinctive footsteps in the hallway and down the stairs. Sherlock. Leaving Willow's room. Going somewhere.
“Stay,” said Willow, through the wall.
John stayed, and he didn't even care anymore that Willow could probably hear him panting, desperately pumping himself towards enough relief to sleep. In his frenzy he stopped, stripped off all his clothes and let the feel of his skin against the cheap sheets bring him closer to the edge, bringing him off quickly and sharply and suddenly - and not terribly satisfyingly - and then he collapsed back against the sheets, the sultry air of Summerisle covering him all over.
It worked. It got him to sleep. But his dreams were a tangled mess of desire and horror – the clacks of swords and the roar of flames, the whirr of a helicopter and the sound of his own voice screaming, blessed at last by a soft brush against his cheek that smelled like Sherlock's hair, a calming kiss on his lips and a sweet scent of apple blossoms.
In the night, when he thought everyone must be asleep – except Sherlock, most likely, wherever he was – John opened his eyes with a strange new sense of resolve. He had preparations of his own to make, and he did so, with an eye to the costume Lord Summerisle had given him.
He might be a fish out of water here, but he wasn't going to drown without making an effort to swim.
***
The shadow that fell over John in the morning was Sherlock, who paced about with a barely-contained excitement. In a rare show of consideration, he'd brought John a cup of coffee. John decided to refrain from asking if he'd made it himself. He'd find out soon enough. “Did you have nice dreams, John?”
“Oh, fuck you,” John said fondly.
“Is that what you dreamed about?”
“I dreamed about Lord Summerisle fucking you, if you must know,” John said cheerfully.
“Oh good, I'm glad it wasn't a nightmare,” Sherlock said, bending over in an utterly gratuitous manner to fetch something out of his suitcase.
“It was for me,” John said. “You didn't seem to mind.”
Sherlock gave an impatient little huff and flitted out of the room again, leaving John to get dressed.
John hadn't worn a kilt in years, and the last time, he hadn't actually gone regimental. But the Summerislanders were nothing if not traditionalists. His and Sherlock's position was precarious enough that he didn't want to risk offending them with underpants.
“Well, laddie,” he said to his cock in a comical Scottish brogue, “looks like this is your day to shine.”
He let out a little giggle – well, what else could he do?
It wasn't the full formal ensemble – leave that to Lord Summerisle – so he put on a comfy jumper of good Scots wool that hung just loose enough to cover all his secrets, and of course they'd allow him a sgian-dubh, wouldn't they? He felt as well-armed as he was going to get – and that was before the stag mask and the crown of antlers.
Those things were heavy and sharp. He could probably do some serious damage with them if he had to. Try not to spear Sherlock in the gut when you go down on him, he told himself. Totally defeat the purpose. And then John started giggling so hard he had to sit down and contemplate the train wreck that was his life. We can't giggle, this is a ritual scene, he heard Sherlock's voice saying, and that only added to the problem.
He had to slap himself to restrain his hysteria like some Victorian doctor. But all his efforts were doomed, because he heard a jingling down the hallway, and any attempt at quelling his laughter died when he saw Sherlock standing in the doorway in a jester's cap and a pot-bellied, hunch-backed, cod-pieced costume that was obviously made for a much chubbier and shorter man. (Alder MacGregor, specifically.)
John had been feeling a little apprehensive about his own getup and was gearing up for a counterattack – until he saw the look on Sherlock's face, the way that silvery gaze of his went dark and focused beneath the black lashes as it moved up and down John's body.
“That . . . suits you surprisingly well,” Sherlock said, licking his lips in an unconscious mirror of John's own habit.
And that gave John a little thrill. He looked up straight and boldly into Sherlock's eyes and smiled a little, reading the truth: Sherlock was really, truly, at least a little bit turned on by the whole situation, and not only for the intellectual puzzle of the mystery. He liked this, John in his bizarrely masculine pagan costume – and that made John stand up a whole lot straighter and hold his chin and his antlers high, and maybe almost take the whole charade a little bit seriously. There was something to it after all, wasn't there? The primal force of the desire he'd been feeling so long, focused and channeled and understood as a powerful, important, worthwhile thing, acknowledging the fact that humans are mammals, considering the possibility that the sex drive is actually more sacred than sinful – yeah, okay. Yes. It had its appeal.
“Nice rack,” said Sherlock.
***
The village had been all hustle and bustle since dawn; a parade of children carrying a doll shrouded like a corpse through the streets; all the local people eager to show off their masks: the butcher with the bullock's head, the fisherman as the Salmon of Knowledge.
In the courtyard of the town center, Lord Summerisle held court in turtleneck and trousers with his dress draped over his shoulder, presiding over laughter and dancing, food being cooked, tar being stirred, musicians tuning and rehearsing.
“I thought the John Barleycorn song was about liquor, not bread,” John said as the baker showed off his wares.
“Both,” the baker said grinning, pointing at a life-size corpse baked out of bread, and the sun faces on cakes (one of which had eye and mouth holes – he was planning to wear it), all meant for the feast. “Either way, he'll die in style tonight. Go talk to our brewers, they're killing him too!”
“And some of that delicious cider too?” John asked hopefully.
“Running a little low this year,” the baker said. “Not as bad as some years. The mead, though, now that's a sad situation.”
“Hmmm,” said Sherlock, his features unreadable below his grotesque Punch mask.
***
Along the promenade route, John began to more fully appreciate just how small the population of Summerisle really was. He'd been here just two days, and he thought he recognised at least a third of the people, even in their eerie animal masks.
And they were weird all right. Furry and dead-eyed and stiff, and people wearing them tended to just appear and disappear; out of shrubbery, up in windows, behind low stone walls. Man, woman, or child, they all looked otherworldly. Hares and cats and badgers and boars and fish and seals. A slender woman running along a hedge with the face of a fox.
Mask vendors liked to push them on you too – once, he'd been informed that someone saw him as more of a hedgehog type. Not so good for the ego, that, even though the same person (wearing a dog mask) also insisted that the Fool was really more like an otter.
John was startled to see the haughty hawk-mask woman watching again, speaking briefly with the butcher-bull.
As the procession assembled, Summerisle split itself by gender again; the women and girls ran ahead laughing, pretty and light-hearted, while the men marched with a stiff dignity to a deep martial drumbeat and a slow, grand little brass band.
Well, dignity if you didn't take into consideration Lord Summerisle, twirling stiff-leggedly in a long black wig and flowing dress over his regular clothes, wielding a sprig of mistletoe in one hand and a curved bronze sickle in the other. And Sherlock in his supremely unflattering getup, capering “around the garden, like a fairy,” as he put it himself once.
The hobby-dragon man roamed at will, running ahead to trap girls under the skirt of his costume and snap at them with his phallic beast-head, bells jingling.
John noticed it all looked exactly like the illustrations and the photographs, except for the fact that the six swordsmen were masked this time. And John didn't think he liked that, especially when the weird parade turned through the mighty dolmen that marked the entrance to Lord Summerisle's circle of standing stones.
***
“CHOP! CHOP! CHOP! CHOP!”
God, the chant was oppressive as John stood there, sweating in his mask but with the wind chilly beneath his kilt, watching the Summerislanders one by one step up and push their heads through the sprung-anew star of swords, offering their necks to an artful tangle of very sharp blades.
In his position in the line he couldn't see their faces, but his battle instincts taught him to read body language well enough to know that at least some were genuinely afraid. And at a random pattern he couldn't discern, sometimes there would be a dreadful pause, and the swordsmen would hesitate and look at each other, and he heard the people around them freeze and draw breath. The risk was real.
Lord Summerisle went first. The blades lowered around his neck. A clap of hands, and they rose again, and he went free.
Miss Rose was second. John watched her shoulders tense. The swords lifted away.
John could barely restrain himself when the Fool was ushered forward. Surely they'd notice they had to lift their swords higher than they were used to, that this was a different man? And that the usual guy was marching in the general group with a bear mask on, relieved not to have to wear that hideous smelly thing another year? Of course they noticed, but it didn't matter. They released Sherlock too.
“It's a game of chance,” Lord Summerisle announced. “Everyone must try their luck.”
John didn't believe that for a second, so when it was his turn, he was tense. He contemplated breaking away and running, but that could ruin every single detail of their elaborate plan.
It was a test of nerves, John told himself. Nothing more. He was fairly sure he was lying to himself, but that would help him get through it. He stepped up, bent his knees, and let the masked swordsmen lower their deadly star of blades around his neck.
There was a pause. The hobbyhorse/dragon thing snapped its jaws. The chant stopped. Even the drum stopped, and in between the gaps in the swordsman's marks, he noticed a fast glimpse passing, shared, conspiring; he saw wrist muscles tensing to strike; he saw Lord Summerisle turn and stare with what seemed to be anger on his blank, painted face, and John was just about to enact evasive maneuvers when –
One of the swordsmen let out a yelp, and John heard the crowd laugh and saw the man yanking his kilt back down as his sword went out of formation. The Fool was laughing and capering away.
John lowered his head and stepped on, as the next person put her head in the blade-star. One beat, and she was freed. And so forth, and no one lost a head except a schoolboy who quickly dropped out of his papier-mache dog head. He lay there still for a while to milk it, but there was no blood, and he rose up laughing soon enough.
Later on, when the march grew more chaotic and the Fool could lean down near him, John muttered to Sherlock, “Did you just save my life by grabbing some bloke's arse?”
“Mmmaybe,” Sherlock said, clearly in the spirit of his character. “I'm afraid, probably so.” He cavorted away and swayed back later to admit, “it wasn't just his arse.”
“NOW TO THE BEACH,” Lord Summerisle bellowed.
And so they went down, for a dramatic display of sacrifice; great barrels of cider and ale were loaded on horsecarts on the rocky strand. Lord Summerisle himself stood astride them with an axe in his hands and announced, “Lord of the Sea – Mannanan Mac Lir – accept this gift!” He punctured the barrels, and men scrambled to roll them into the surf. The ocean rose up foamy as the sacrifice leached out into the salt water.
“And now, for our most - awe-inspiring sacrifice. A special request this year, and a gift has landed on our shores.”
Lord Summerisle winked at Sherlock. It was impossible to tell if it was returned.
***
The procession rose up unto the little headland over the sea where the giant wicker man stood on a pedestal of wood and kindling, full of vegetables and animals. Stealing a closer horrified look, John could see that the livestock seemed to be already dead. Silent and unmoving, anyway.
“This is a kinder, gentler Summerisle this year,” Sherlock said, appearing suddenly behind John and muttering in his ear. “They burned the animals alive that year too.” John shuddered and reached back for Sherlock’s hand. He got a brief squeeze before Sherlock turned his attention up to Lord Summerisle, who was beckoning to him. “It’s the moment of truth, John. I believe that’s our cue.”
“Here he is, come to us,” Lord Summerisle announced. “The Holly King. A wise man and a fool. Once dead and once risen. A virgin, untouched. The right kind of adult male.”
The crowd murmured and shivered, leaning close, eager to see. Lord Summerisle held up his hands. “You remember, three years ago, when we took what we needed. This May Day, it is different. Our crops have not fully failed. Our gods are not angry. What they ask is not so dire. And this time, our visitor is offering us a great gift.”
Miss Rose stood up close beside Lord Summerisle, and her voice projected nearly as deeply as his. John shivered to hear it, because it felt to him in that moment that there was a very real power in her. “He comes to us knowing and willing. We need not take his life. We will bless our fields with his seed, not his ashes.”
Sherlock stepped forward.
John watched, trembling, hands clenching, as Miss Rose and Willow and the archivist – what was her name, for now he was just going to call her Cariad Piss-Off – surrounded Sherlock. John tried so hard not to protest as Miss Rose pulled a little knife and cut the cords of Sherlock's ill-fitting Fool’s costume.
John had expected more rudeness and lewdness. But it was with great care and ceremony that Sherlock was stripped completely naked, and his clothes were folded and passed from hand to hand. Sherlock held himself tall with great dignity.
Damn, he was beautiful. He never flinched a moment as the three women attended to him. He looked lean and strong, but a little young and vulnerable now – his shoulders narrower than they seemed beneath his tailored suits, his skin given to little tremors and shivers. His flanks trembled, muscles tautening as he was ceremoniously washed and anointed with oils at forehead and chest and thighs.
Miss Rose sank briefly to her knees and kissed the tops of his feet. She rose up and kissed him low on his belly, just above the thickening of his dark hair above the base of his cock. John couldn't hear what she whispered to him as she kissed him chastely on each nipple and at last on his lips, but it seemed to be of import in the ritual, and it made Sherlock smile and laugh. So it couldn't have been too bad.
Willow and Cariad filled in too, singing, stroking him with their hair. John was sweating behind his mask. It was clear to him by now that Sherlock just wasn't attracted to women, but he couldn't help but physically respond to their intimate touches on his body, and it was hard for John to watch. Damn, Sherlock had a great cock. It had looked nice dangling and soft, but as it plumped and swelled, all John could think of was being the only one allowed to touch it.
The women wrapped Sherlock in a white robe, open and belted like a dressing gown.
“King for a night,” Lord Summerisle said solemnly, and he held up a crown – a garland woven of ivy and apple blossoms and holly branches; deep green and pale pink and studded through with red berries like spots of blood – and then he set it down firmly in Sherlock's thick curls, where it tangled and would not come dislodged, no matter what happened.
“Who speaks for him?” Lord Summerisle demanded of the crowd. “Who will act for the gods and claim this prize?”
John stared out at the sky and the heath for a frozen moment, paralyzed with stage fright until he felt Willow's hand at his back, pushing him forward.
“I do!” he cried, and his voice cracked at first, so he tried again and got a more confident voice. “I do. I claim the right.”
Miss Rose stepped forward and pushed his mask up, exposing his face and cupping it in her hands. “A warrior and a healer. Well chosen,” she said with a smile and a nod as she kissed John's forehead in blessing.
Showtime, John told himself, noting with relief that his hand had stopped shaking. There were little ripples and murmurs in the crowd – discontent – and John made his move to win them over.
“Hello, Summerisle,” he declared as he pulled his mask all the way off – keeping the antlers – like the most awkward rock star ever.
There was no more joking. No more putting it off. Even the little bottle of lube that Miss Rose had discreetly laid down spoke to the fact that it was now or never and do or die.
Sherlock stared at John. John stared at Sherlock.
John froze. I've wanted to fuck my best friend for years, gods help me. Now I have to fuck my best friend. Right now. And we're so fucking awkward about it.
Sherlock moved first. He seemed to be in slow-motion as he wrapped his big hands around John's neck and turned his face up and kissed him.
What they'd done in their room, that was primary school. This was an A-levels kiss, wild and demanding and desperate, as it determined their future. John was so grateful that it was hot enough to surrender to, and he pressed his hands against Sherlock's back, drawing him in.
“Um,” Sherlock said quietly, “what we did last night in our room. When you pulled my hair . . . and kissed my neck. I liked that a lot. Just . . . let's start with that.”
“Oh, gladly,” John whispered as he followed down, lips pressed close to Sherlock's ear, pausing to lightly lick and kiss. “I want to make it good for you. Make you feel good. Show you why people like it.”
“I am – starting to understand that now – there, use your teeth a little right there, yes - ”
“If I was reluctant to agree to this - ” John murmured, between licking, nipping kisses to Sherlock's neck, “-- it's not because I don't want you. You know that.”
“Yes, I know,” Sherlock said. “Here, will you let me touch you? I want to try...” Sherlock pressed his hands on John's waist, both sides, and started to push John's jumper up, and John stopped him, grasping his wrists to communicate no even as he worked his way back up to Sherlock's mouth, sliding his tongue in.
John put Sherlock's hands where he wanted them to show him something important: first down under beneath his kilt, to his strong, ever-growing erection. Sherlock's eyes went wide as he felt it out, and then his long fingers wrapped around it and slightly squeezed. John groaned quietly and closed his eyes for a moment, lightly thrusting as the iron core of him slid in Sherlock's grip.
Then he – reluctantly – nudged Sherlock's hand away from his longing cock and just a little bit up and over, waiting for him to feel out the leather straps in the crease of groin and thigh that led up to his waist, holstering the cold heavy metal hidden beneath his jumper and kilt waistband.
Sherlock gasped and his eyes got even wilder, bright and burning in the twilight. John could feel Sherlock's cock swell bigger against his belly.
“Wanted to give us more options, in case you changed your mind,” John murmured, nuzzling at Sherlock's shoulder, slowly caressing up his chest with one steady hand.
Sherlock's voice sounded trembling and wrecked as he wondered, “What if they'd insisted you do this, er, 'skyclad?'”
“I'd've told them it's against my religion,” John said.
“Don't think that would have helped much,” Sherlock said, kissing John again between choking laughs.
“Still okay with this?” John asked quietly in the pauses between their hungry gropes of lips and meeting of tongues.
“I haven't changed my mind,” Sherlock said. With his other hand he clenched at John's hair and dragged his mouth down John’s throat, scraping with his teeth, sucking, making John shudder and moan.
John untied Sherlock's robe, exposing his body again – oh so unfair that it should be so beautiful -- and slid hands down his chest, fondling the sparse spray of hair and testing Sherlock's nipples with his fingertips to see if he was sensitive there: oh, he was, yes, he gave a startled cry and arched his chest up for more; oh, the way his hips jerked against John was exquisite.
Sherlock gasped and jerked, pressing his chest into John's little tugs, bucking his hips. Even now, under such circumstances, Sherlock wasn't passive; his hands were sliding up the backs of John's thighs under his kilt, groping at his arse, trying to pull him in.
“God,” John moaned. “You really want to get fucked, don't you?”
“By you, yes,” Sherlock said, letting John feel every shiver of his muscles, every convulsive twitch of his arms and legs, rising up to wrap around him.
“Well, be patient,” John said with a little smile, nipping the tip of Sherlock's nose. He worked his way back down, spending a lot of time on Sherlock's neck, a little bit on his clavicle, and a lot of licking and sucking on first one nipple and then the other, until Sherlock was writhing.
John slowly pushed Sherlock back down, towards the grass. He wanted Sherlock on his back beneath him; Sherlock understood and lay down and pulled John down with him.
John was utterly wrapped up in reading Sherlock's responses to every action of his, and Sherlock was utterly abandoned in his enjoyment. John was thrilled to finally be able to do what he'd wanted for so long – kiss and lick and bite his way down Sherlock's shivering belly, and finally hear the kind of noise Sherlock would make when another human being drew the head of his cock into an eager-to-please mouth for the first time.
For that, John was willing to shut out all the noises of the crowd. The deep beat of the drum, that worked. Sex had a rhythm, and he was willing to use that one.
That noise Sherlock made was glorious. It wasn't deep and throaty at first – it was high-pitched and breathy and utterly surprised, a pathetic and vulnerable whimper.
In John's consciousness, it drowned out all other voices for just a moment. And that one moment was crucial.
For not all the crowd voices were singing. There were yelps and shouts and a struggle. For just a few seconds, John and Sherlock were so lost in each other that they missed them.
And in an instant, the woman with the hawk mask had rushed through the crowd, and with one swift twist she'd grasped the sharp bronze sickle from Lord Summerisle's hand and grabbed Sherlock by the hair. She held the wicked curved blade molded around Sherlock's throat.
“You'll take the sacrifice I sent you,” she snarled to Lord Summerisle and Miss Rose and the others. “And you'll take it the way I meant it, the way that worked before. The ancient way.”
“I told you no, Hazel,” Lord Summerisle said with a quiet, deadly anger. “I told you the gods did not ask for that, and I told you that you will never have power over me or Summerisle.”
She jerked Sherlock's head up for the knife, but her reaction to Lord Summerisle's rage gave John enough to time to whip his gun out from under his kilt and aim it at her head. “Drop the knife and let him go,” John said in a cold, ruthless voice as they stared at each other down the length of Sherlock's body. “Or I will kill you.”
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