#michael rowan

Fifteen smiling women stare back at you from the kitchen table. The folder that held the photos has “New York Police Department: Do Not Disseminate” printed on the front. Are you even allowed to have this?

A man named Sherlock Holmes had approached you earlier in the day. He said he was a consultant with the NYPD and asked what your relationship was to a man named Michael Rowan. Michael had asked you out some time ago, you went on dates in between his work trips and meetings. His was the kitchen table you were staring at now. You didn’t have any friends or family in the area– a fact that he had deduced by your completely empty schedule. He was sweet about it. Michael invited you to spend time with him in Albany a few months ago. He said you could keep each other company. You joked about moving too fast, asked if you were going to end up on a missing persons list. He smiled wide at that, and promised to return you home in one piece. His response gave you butterflies at the time.

You let out a sharp laugh at the memory. It was a struggle to hear Sherlock explain why the NYPD and FBI were tracking Michael, but after living with him for three months you couldn’t say it wasn’t possible. There were times when the mask slipped. A smile that didn’t reach his eyes. An unidentifiable glint behind his gaze when you found him staring at you. The longer you spent together, the longer it would take for him to shake it off, to pull you into a kiss to distract you from the chill that went down your spine.

Once, you woke up in the middle of the night to him standing above you. You squirmed under his intense stare, that same look in his eye. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Fear shot through you, but there was another feeling there too– hunger, need. You were the one to move first, tangling your fingers into his shirt and tugging him closer to you, crushing your lips against his. Thinking of the noise he made against your mouth when you pulled him to bed on top of you was enough to get you off some days.

Sherlock claimed that Michael’s most recent victim– you stumbled over the word in your head– was a woman named Rachel Garner, killed three days ago. Three days ago Michael was with you in Albany, and you told Sherlock so. It wasn’t a total lie; Michael coming home before sunrise woke you up. He had a habit of leaving the apartment late at night once you fell asleep and spending hours in the makeshift darkroom across the hall when he came home. He told you not to ask him about it, so you didn’t. As long as he didn’t come home from his late night excursions smelling like heroin or perfume, you could overlook some strange behaviors. You would never say it outloud, but for a guy as nice as Michael Rowan, you would overlook a lot of things.

You turn your attention back to the table. Three of the photos are different– Rachel Garner, Ashley Jenkins, Maddie Williams. Dead women with rubber tubing tied tight around their necks. Lifeless eyes, unfocused. Was the man you loved really the last person these women had ever seen? Could you overlook this?

---

You have always had an issue with feeling the way you were supposed to. Sherlock gave you the file in hopes you would feel pity or sadness over the loss of life, or fear of your own, and choose to help their investigation. It didn’t work. You should feel these things, but there is a much different emotion creeping down your spine.

The sudden sound of a key in the front door behind you makes your stomach drop. That unexpected thrill roils in your core and your legs begin to tremble, causing you to sink into the closest chair. You know you won’t hear Michael walk up to you; his silent steps were one of the hardest adjustments moving in with him.

“Sherlock came to see you.” His voice sounded closer than you expected it to. He had bent low to peek down at the photos from behind your shoulder. You turn to him and kiss him on the cheek, surprising you both.

“He said I forgot my phone in the apartment when we left. Used it to track me down.” Michael had rushed you out the door that day after a quick phone call. You barely spoke on the three hour drive to the city, but he kissed you sweetly before dropping you off at his house.

You hesitate for a moment. “He didn’t even charge it,” you force a nonchalant smile, pointing to the phone on the other side of the table. Michael scoffs. He taps the screen to verify it’s dead, then frowns at one of the photos on the table.

“I didn’t kill Rachel Garner.”

There is a pause. He waits for your reaction. You find Rachel’s photo, and flip it facedown. You count fourteen women.

“Sherlock wanted me to tell you he’ll be back for the file,” you say quietly.

He sighs, turns your chair, kneels in front of you. He meets your gaze and there is no mask that separates you. The feeling of not-quite-fear tingles in your fingertips.

“I’ve always had these…urges. Things that I knew were wrong. Things that I knew were bad. But it hurt not to do them. That’s how I became a heroin addict.” You recognize the words. There was a handwritten transcript in the file Sherlock gave you, dated three months ago.

“Have you ever had the urge to kill me?”

“No.”

“Oh.” You would not have said that voluntarily. A blush rises to your cheeks.

He cracks a slight smile. “You sound disappointed.”

You were a little disappointed. It takes you a minute to reflect on why. Your blush deepens as you try to find the right words.

“You kill women-”

“I’ve killed men, too.” A bit defensive, but his honesty surprises you.

“You kill mostly women,” you correct. “Is it a… A-am I not…?” The absurdity of the moment hits you. Your boyfriend tells you he’s a serial killer, and you’re insecure he hasn’t killed you yet?

He rests his hand on the side of your neck, feeling your pulse quicken at his touch. His thumb strokes your throat and you forget your own name. “I’ve wanted to touch you like this for a while,” he ignores your unfinished question. “But I promised Sherlock I wouldn’t hurt anyone while he was away. It’s easy to get a little too rough with you.” He tightens his grip and you can’t help the sound that escapes you. His hand relaxes.

“You’re afraid of me.”

“I should be,” you whisper. “But I’m not.” His touch had sparked something deep within you. You couldn’t call it fear– when did fear start to feel this good?

Your hands tremble as you grab his other hand and move it to your inner thigh. His cold fingers brush under your skirt, meeting the heat between your legs. You try to lean forward to kiss him, but his grip on your throat holds you in place. A frustrated sigh slips through your lips. This isn’t what you were used to; he was usually an accommodating lover, and seemingly always happy to yield to your needs. But the Michael you knew before seemed to be a different man than the one on his knees in front of you, the man who was now stroking you through your panties, a cocky smile playing on his lips as he feels how wet you are.

You meet his eyes and grab at the fingers wrapped around your neck, fighting to get some sort of slack. You need him, you need to feel his breath hot in your mouth, on your skin, teeth and tongue leaving his mark on you. There is a hunger growing behind his stare. Watching you struggle was giving him the kind of thrill he hadn’t had for months.

You were hoping for that.

He pulls you closer and for a moment you forget that the man in front of you is dangerous, that his role as “accommodating lover” has always been an act. You move in for a kiss. Instead of yielding to you, he takes a fistful of your hair and wrenches you from your chair onto the floor next to him. You try to roll onto your side, but he shoves you onto your back and straddles you, his knees on either side of your waist. He leans over you to pin your wrists above your head with one hand.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he says dryly.

“What should I be doing?” you try to sound coy, but your heavy breathing betrays you.

“Behaving yourself.” He dips his head until you are nearly nose to nose, looking deep into your eyes. “You’re not going to get what you want by going against what I want.” The bones in your wrists grind together as his grip tightens.

You try to kiss him anyway.

Maybe all that accommodation has turned you into a bit of a brat. Or maybe the tingling in your hands has made you stupid and needy. Your lips brush against his, sparking desire deep in your core. All he had to do was handle you a little rough, pull your hair, and now the only thought left in your brain is how to get him to take you, fuck you, make you–

He straightens up and backhands you with a loud crack.

Your head hits the ground. Your ears ring. A stab of fear, real fear, courses through you as he grabs your collar with both hands and lifts you up to his face.

“You really want to make this harder on yourself?” You shake your head frantically, then wince at the dull throb in your cheekbone where his knuckles made contact. His mouth crashes into yours. His tongue invades your mouth. You open yourself up to him, but when you move to touch his face he lets go of you and shoves you back to the ground.

You grunt in impatience, ball your fists, a sort of humiliating frustration wells up inside you as he moves one of your legs, parting your thighs with little resistance. If you move to touch him, he’ll keep teasing you like this. If you move to push him away, you imagine there will be more than just the swelling on your cheek to show for it. The idea makes you dizzy. Were you always like this? Michael gives you a knowing smile as he slides your panties down your legs. He had realized something about you long before you had– you want this. You have always wanted this. Pain, pleasure, danger, fear, lust.

You drive your foot into his ribs—a kick too hard to be playful, too soft to be fearful— and scramble backwards, but before you can even get your feet under you he has you pinned underneath him. His fingers curl underneath the collar of your shirt and rip it open. He bites your shoulder. Hard. It’s not meant to be sensual; it’s meant to be a punishment. But you can’t help the strangled moan that escapes you when his teeth tear into your skin. 

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” he says with a smile. His breath feels cool on your broken skin.

“Please…” Your brain is in a fog, you don’t even know what you’re supposed to be begging for. Michael’s weight on top of you is making it hard to breathe. The events of the day are catching up to you, the complicated emotions bundling themselves up into borderline hysteria.

“I can help you, if you’ll let me.” His voice is low, cutting through the panic. You nod dumbly, tears welling in your eyes.

He kisses the bite mark he just gave you, kisses a line up your shoulder to your collarbone to your throat. He nips at the soft flesh under your jawline and you flinch, then tilt your head up to allow him better access. He hums in approval, stroking your hair as he finishes his path up to your mouth and holds you there.

You can feel the change in him. He wanted to break you, draw this out, keep you waiting, wanting, begging for more. But watching you go against your instincts, letting him hurt you when he wanted to hurt you, was shattering his resolve.

“Help me, Michael,” you whisper against his mouth. “Please.” He melts into you, deepening the kiss. You feel his hips jerk against you, his clothed cock rutting against your bare thigh.

The tension between you snaps.

You peel his suit jacket off his shoulders as he starts to unbuckle his belt, both of you frantic. Neither of you seem to care about the discipline he had just given you for being so needy.

You loosen his tie, but he stops you before you can unbutton more than the collar of his shirt. He uses the tie to restrain you, hands behind your back. Your stomach lurches– you can’t fight back like this. He lifts your hips, tugs your skirt off your body before pulling back to free his cock from his slacks.

You don’t want to fight this.

There is no pretense between you now, no role that he has to play. One moment he is above you, admiring your trembling body beneath him, the next he is crushing his mouth against yours as he buries his cock inside you, your wet cunt accepting him with little resistance. You let out a strangled moan at the sudden fullness, but he doesn’t stop to help you adjust. He grabs your hips and starts rutting against you. The stab of pain from him fucking you open spreads and dulls into a deep, throbbing pleasure.

His breath is hot against your mouth. His fingers dig into your skin and you try to squirm away, but your hands are bound tight behind you. The soft fabric bites into your wrists as you struggle, until another hard thrust dissolves any thought of resistance. It feels like only a few moments pass before a fire starts to build within you. The mewling noises that escape you are.. new. Michael notices, laughs at you, lifts himself to watch your reaction. Your cheeks are flushed, partially from your building orgasm and partially from embarrassment. Are you panting? Your brain feels broken. He hasn’t even touched your clit, and you’re halfway ready to cum for him. Human anatomy is preventing you from spreading your legs even wider, but you try anyway. Hands grip your throat. He squeezes hard. Eyes meet.

Both of you want this.

You feel dizzy. You inhale once before his grip tightens, your pulse pounding against his fingers. He’s still fucking you. Each thrust forces air out of the meager supply in your lungs. A shiver runs down your spine at the thought of him not stopping. You can’t fight, can’t tap out, can’t beg him to stop. You don’t know if you would, if you could. A frenzy seems to take hold of him. Your eyes are locked, but he seems far away. You start to shake, fight against him. Your lungs burn.

His thrusts grow wild and undisciplined, juxtaposed against the words he whispers in your ear as your vision starts to blur. You can barely hear him over the sound of the blood rushing in your ears, but it’s enough to send you over the edge.

“How does it feel to have a killer inside you?”

There is a beat before the grip on your throat loosens, your climax followed by deep, gasping breaths that feel nearly as good. Your walls tighten around him and usher him into his own orgasm. He collapses on top of you, another hard bite to your shoulder as he jerks against you. You feel his cock twitch and he groans into the crook of your neck, coating your insides with cum.

An eternity passes.

The only sounds are your combined heavy breathing. The hard floor fights to keep you awake, but exhaustion eventually wins.

---

You wake to Michael’s arm curled around you. He looks down at you and smiles. The mask stays off, but there is a fondness in his eyes that you did not expect. A soft kiss brushes against your forehead, his fingers tracing the forming bruises on your body that you can’t see. He kisses the hollow of your throat and moves to whisper in your ear.

“You might have to start wearing turtlenecks,” he laughs.

Later, you will look at yourself in the mirror and take inventory of the damage to your sore and broken body. There is a tender spot on your scalp where he pulled your hair, a swelling on your cheek that hasn’t decided if it wants to bruise or not. Fingerprints on your hips, light circles around your wrists. There are two bite marks visible on your shoulder under the torn collar of your favorite shirt. Your neck is covered in a mix of purple and red, deep bruises that make your stomach drop when you look at them. Later, Michael will see these bruises and carry you to bed over and over and over again. Later, you wonder when he’ll finally kill you.

Elementary wrapped up Season 6 on Monday night by moving Sherlock and Joan across the pond. So how did the duo find themselves in London? After discovering that Hannah killed Michael, and that Captain Gregson was protecting his daughter, Sherlock confessed to the murder to cover for prime suspect Joan. Rather than going to jail, the PI made a deal which allowed him to keep living and working in London… and his partner followed him to Baker Street!

Below, Doherty talks about the location twist, which was borne out of believing that the show was coming to an end — don’t worry, it’s not — and Sherlock and Joan’s feelings for each other.

TVLINE | Talk to me about the decision to kill off Michael. Did you hesitate at all to lose him as a villain? No, there was no hesitation. At the same time, I can’t say that was the plan from go. The season finale was, in fact, shot in the 13th slot of a 21-episode season. Initially, we had an order for 13 episodes. We got to a point, schedule-wise, where we couldn’t wait for an order for more, and just had to assume [Episode] 13 was the end of the season, and potentially the end of the series. We had to factor those things into our arc with Michael. So as we’re approaching what we think is truly the end, we didn’t want to focus on Michael. We wanted to focus on Sherlock and Joan, and we didn’t want their lives at stake. We wanted their livelihood and their partnership at stake. Taking Michael off the board when we did cleared a path to tell a story that, if it really was the end of the show, would feel like a proper wrap-up for everybody.

I also confess to being attracted to the idea that we’ve primed everyone for a real duel with this very peculiar villain at the end of the season. I liked clearing a runway for that, and then killing him. [Laughs] I liked the surprise of it — that, in fact, Michael is not going to be the final problem. It’s the fallout of that, it’s the fact that Michael died, and it’s bringing all sorts of unwanted attention to Sherlock and Joan, and putting everything they do in jeopardy.

TVLINE | Had you known that you were going to get more episodes, would you have used Michael more in between? Yes, absolutely. Had we known from go that it was a 21-episode season, we absolutely would have spent more time with Michael. Desmond [Harrington], who played Michael, was phenomenal, just an incredible person, and a great presence to have on the set, and he made Michael everything we wanted the character to be. We were having a good time together, and it would’ve been great to find a few more slots to keep Michael alive, so to speak. But we had to tell that story a certain way. And then it became this very unique challenge once we finally did get an additional order to tell stories that could be placed in front of the finale that we had already written and produced.

TVLINE | As you were approaching this finale, did you always have Hannah in mind as the killer, or did you go through variations of who it could be? I’d say everything in the finale was sort of born whole. It was kind of of a piece. By the time we made the decision to kill Michael in [Episode] 12, we knew that we wanted Joan to become the suspect. And once Joan is supposed to be the suspect, we looked around for who else has a motive, and Hannah certainly did, because of what Michael had done to her roommate in a previous episode. Forensically, Hannah made sense. There could be some good forensic confusion that would seem to implicate Joan. So once we knew we were killing Michael, and we wanted Joan to take the fall, Hannah was really the only and best option for us.

The other thing that we loved about Hannah as the killer is that it put Gregson in such a terrible spot. It was interesting to take someone who is never anything but an ally and friend and champion, and make him part of the problem. To put him and Sherlock up against each other, we thought, was a big and interesting thing to do in a finale.

TVLINE | You end this finale in a completely different location. How much time are you going to be spending in England next season? I don’t know if I can say much more than we will absolutely be in England as the seventh season begins. We had to commit. We chose to move Sherlock and Joan to London at the end of the season because we felt it was canonically appropriate, for lack of a better term. We really liked the idea of taking our Holmes and our Watson, and putting them where, really, a Holmes and a Watson belong — bring them home, so to speak — and let everyone imagine that there are additional adventures and mysteries ahead of them in a place where they really belong.

TVLINE | How will Sherlock and Joan’s partnership and the work that they do be changed going forward? Their work is really cut out for them, as we move into a seventh season. By the end of the season finale, we’ve established that their relationship with the FBI is in tatters. That’s never good. Their relationship with Captain Gregson is in a bad place. Sherlock is not allowed to set foot in the states without being arrested, and yet they both feel a pull to the place where they spent the better part of a decade together, and to the people they’ve worked with previously. They’ll certainly be exploring an opportunity to work in New York again, but a lot of problems exist, personally and professionally.

TVLINE | You reached a new depth with Sherlock and Joan’s relationship this year. Sherlock even says to her, “We’re two people who love each other.” How will their personal relationship evolve in the new season? You’re talking about a scene that killed me to write because it was my goodbye, too. I had to assume this was the end for the series. So I thought it was time for Sherlock to stop beating around the bushes and let the subtext be the text for once. When you look at any of our seasons, what you see or feel between them is love. I think that’s the way it is for all Watsons and Holmes, or Holmeses. I don’t know what the plural is… Yes, there’s respect and friendship, but I think a Watson loves his or her Holmes, and vice versa. It’s underneath everything we do, and yet I didn’t want the show to end without somebody making that explicit. The challenge, of course, now that there’s a seventh season, is continuing to explore that and expand upon it. I don’t think it was any great revelation to Joan that Sherlock felt that way, because she feels the same. There’s nothing embarrassing about it. I don’t think it’s anything Sherlock regretted saying. But it’s something that they’ll both compartmentalize, and put away as they continue to move forward together.