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Thanks for the cigarettes.
Notes: My fic for this year's Asexy April. It wasn't the fic I was planning to write, but alas, April was too short. I promise to have that one done over the summer.
Summary: He just needed a break, some air, some distance from… people.
The air outside was cool compared to the vibrating dance floor he’d just left. Sherlock took a deep breath before he walked away, putting on his coat as he did so. He walked through the garden toward the car park. He could call for a cab and be back in London in less than two hours; he could probably hot-wire a car and be back in London in less than that, but he wouldn’t leave John’s wedding without a word. He just needed a break, some air, some distance from… people.
The dark was soothing, a change from London’s pretend-darkness, and when he looked up he could even see stars. Not that it was impossible to see them in London, but it was far easier here. When he got to the car park his hands, out of need and old habit, went to his pockets in search for cigarettes, but he hadn’t bought any since he came back to London. He cursed under his breath.
“Leaving already?”
Sherlock startled, much to his annoyance, and turned in the direction of the voice. He frowned. “I thought you said you wouldn’t come.”
“As you pointed out,” Mycroft said, reaching into his pocket to get out a package of smokes to give his brother. “There should always be a spectre at the feast.”
Sherlock didn’t reply, but took the cigarettes. It wasn’t Mycroft’s usual brand, not even low-tar. Sherlock had a hard time deciding which was more disturbing: that Mycroft had picked up these especially for him or that he actually appreciated the sentiment.
“Ligh—“
Mycroft lit a match before Sherlock had finished the word, the flare lightening his face enough for Sherlock to notice the concern. It irked him, but he leaned forward and lit his cigarette nonetheless. He took a deep drag. Damn, that was good. As he took the second drag, leaning against Mycroft’s car, he knew he was going to regret this for the next couple of weeks, but right now he didn’t care. He offered Mycroft to take a cigarette as well, but his brother declined by shaking his head slightly.
“Why are you here, Mycroft?”
“You called me, remember?”
“To invite you to the reception, yes. Not to have you lurk around the car park.”
Mycroft shrugged. He, too, leaned back against the car and they looked in the direction of the party, the music reaching all the way out to where they were standing.
“What will you do now?” Mycroft asked after a long silence.
“What do you mean?”
“That. This project has been your sole focus for months—“
“I’ve taken cases.”
“—and now it’s over. Some post-production depression wouldn’t be surprising.”
“I’m fine.”
”If you say so.” Mycroft sounded doubtful.
Sherlock pretended that he didn’t notice and almost disobediently raised the cigarette to his mouth again. The burn in the back of his throat was pleasant, as was Mycroft’s presence out here in the dark. Both were things that would cause him grief later on, but for now it was an odd relief to not be left to his own device. The situation felt dauntingly familiar: the grief Sherlock didn’t understand or could put words to, the unease he felt, Mycroft by his side offering him cigarettes… It all reminded him of when he had misidentified Irene Adler’s body all those years ago. It was ridiculous, no one had died tonight. He had seen to that – he and John had seen to that.
Sherlock finished his cigarette, dropped it on the ground and put it out with his foot. “Why is it always about sex?”
A moment of weakness and the words tumbled out, just like the other time. Caring is not an advantage. That’s what Mycroft had said the last time and it still made Sherlock cringe inside. Not just because it hadn’t been an answer to his question, but also because it was true. Perhaps even more true tonight than it had been outside the morgue.
Mycroft gave him an odd look before it seemed to click what he was talking about. “Because it’s sex.”
Sherlock snorted, but stubbornly kept his eyes straight ahead in the vain hope that Mycroft wouldn’t see him as exposed as he felt. He then put his hands back in his pockets, one of them now unsurprisingly finding a cigarette package. He caressed it with his fingers, taking comfort in its mere existence – before they parted tonight he would make sure Mycroft gave him the matches as well.
“I know you find the answer unsatisfactory,” Mycroft continued, “but there isn’t much more to it or more clever ways to explain it. There’s obviously the puritanical hysteria about it and the long history of religious guilt coupled with the desire to assure that the children you raise are indeed your offspring that creates a rather alluring and mystical aura around sex, making it – in lack of a better word – ‘special’, but when it comes down to it you know that culture can’t outsmart such a strong biologic drive.”
“You know perfectly well that I don’t ‘know’ that,” Sherlock muttered, taking out his mobile to read the text message he’d received during Mycroft’s little speech. It was from John (Where are you?) and it surprised Sherlock to the extent that he couldn’t find it in him to write back right away.
“Anything important?” Mycroft asked, obviously pleased about something.
Sherlock glared at him, as he answered John. Needed air.
You okay?
A satisfactory warmth swept over him, John worried about him. Sherlock smiled before he had a chance to stop himself and when he found himself enough to school his expression again he knew that Mycroft had already seen it so he didn’t bother.
Perfectly fine. Get off the phone, it’s your wedding night.
“Monogamy,” Mycroft started as Sherlock typed up the last text and dropped his phone back in his pocket. “With all its well-meaning traditions and misguided ideals, is an illusion and the height of it is celebrated here tonight. Though I won’t put bigamy on the national agenda anytime soon, there are far more relationship constellations than the one our parents have or that our traditions and culture teach us that we should strive for.”
Sherlock frowned. “Are you trying to tell me that you’ve found a goldfish?”
“I’m telling you that a committed relationship comes in many different forms and that it isn’t limited to sexual relationships or heterosexual monogamy.”
“Can I have the matches?” Sherlock held out his hand to Mycroft.
Mycroft raised his eyebrows at the abrupt question, but reached into his pocket to take out the matches. When he gave them to Sherlock he took a firm grip of Sherlock’s hand, willing Sherlock to meet his eyes.
“You’re not alone, Sherlock, even if you might feel lonely right now,” he said. “You haven’t lost anything tonight.”
Sherlock nodded slightly. “Thanks for the cigarettes.”
Mycroft nodded as well, letting go of his hand. Sherlock turned away almost immediately and started to walk away from the car park, even if not yet back to the party. Mycroft’s words were reassuring to hear since it was something different than all the comments about how a legal document and an overly-sentimental ceremony would change everything, about how this was it, but it wasn’t Mycroft he really needed to reassure him. Mycroft was however the only one he wasn’t proud enough to ask for it from. So it, along with his own rationalisations, would have to do. At least for now, until he hopefully would find the evidence that could support the hypothesis that a wedding didn’t, in fact, change things.
Summary: He just needed a break, some air, some distance from… people.
The air outside was cool compared to the vibrating dance floor he’d just left. Sherlock took a deep breath before he walked away, putting on his coat as he did so. He walked through the garden toward the car park. He could call for a cab and be back in London in less than two hours; he could probably hot-wire a car and be back in London in less than that, but he wouldn’t leave John’s wedding without a word. He just needed a break, some air, some distance from… people.
The dark was soothing, a change from London’s pretend-darkness, and when he looked up he could even see stars. Not that it was impossible to see them in London, but it was far easier here. When he got to the car park his hands, out of need and old habit, went to his pockets in search for cigarettes, but he hadn’t bought any since he came back to London. He cursed under his breath.
“Leaving already?”
Sherlock startled, much to his annoyance, and turned in the direction of the voice. He frowned. “I thought you said you wouldn’t come.”
“As you pointed out,” Mycroft said, reaching into his pocket to get out a package of smokes to give his brother. “There should always be a spectre at the feast.”
Sherlock didn’t reply, but took the cigarettes. It wasn’t Mycroft’s usual brand, not even low-tar. Sherlock had a hard time deciding which was more disturbing: that Mycroft had picked up these especially for him or that he actually appreciated the sentiment.
“Ligh—“
Mycroft lit a match before Sherlock had finished the word, the flare lightening his face enough for Sherlock to notice the concern. It irked him, but he leaned forward and lit his cigarette nonetheless. He took a deep drag. Damn, that was good. As he took the second drag, leaning against Mycroft’s car, he knew he was going to regret this for the next couple of weeks, but right now he didn’t care. He offered Mycroft to take a cigarette as well, but his brother declined by shaking his head slightly.
“Why are you here, Mycroft?”
“You called me, remember?”
“To invite you to the reception, yes. Not to have you lurk around the car park.”
Mycroft shrugged. He, too, leaned back against the car and they looked in the direction of the party, the music reaching all the way out to where they were standing.
“What will you do now?” Mycroft asked after a long silence.
“What do you mean?”
“That. This project has been your sole focus for months—“
“I’ve taken cases.”
“—and now it’s over. Some post-production depression wouldn’t be surprising.”
“I’m fine.”
”If you say so.” Mycroft sounded doubtful.
Sherlock pretended that he didn’t notice and almost disobediently raised the cigarette to his mouth again. The burn in the back of his throat was pleasant, as was Mycroft’s presence out here in the dark. Both were things that would cause him grief later on, but for now it was an odd relief to not be left to his own device. The situation felt dauntingly familiar: the grief Sherlock didn’t understand or could put words to, the unease he felt, Mycroft by his side offering him cigarettes… It all reminded him of when he had misidentified Irene Adler’s body all those years ago. It was ridiculous, no one had died tonight. He had seen to that – he and John had seen to that.
Sherlock finished his cigarette, dropped it on the ground and put it out with his foot. “Why is it always about sex?”
A moment of weakness and the words tumbled out, just like the other time. Caring is not an advantage. That’s what Mycroft had said the last time and it still made Sherlock cringe inside. Not just because it hadn’t been an answer to his question, but also because it was true. Perhaps even more true tonight than it had been outside the morgue.
Mycroft gave him an odd look before it seemed to click what he was talking about. “Because it’s sex.”
Sherlock snorted, but stubbornly kept his eyes straight ahead in the vain hope that Mycroft wouldn’t see him as exposed as he felt. He then put his hands back in his pockets, one of them now unsurprisingly finding a cigarette package. He caressed it with his fingers, taking comfort in its mere existence – before they parted tonight he would make sure Mycroft gave him the matches as well.
“I know you find the answer unsatisfactory,” Mycroft continued, “but there isn’t much more to it or more clever ways to explain it. There’s obviously the puritanical hysteria about it and the long history of religious guilt coupled with the desire to assure that the children you raise are indeed your offspring that creates a rather alluring and mystical aura around sex, making it – in lack of a better word – ‘special’, but when it comes down to it you know that culture can’t outsmart such a strong biologic drive.”
“You know perfectly well that I don’t ‘know’ that,” Sherlock muttered, taking out his mobile to read the text message he’d received during Mycroft’s little speech. It was from John (Where are you?) and it surprised Sherlock to the extent that he couldn’t find it in him to write back right away.
“Anything important?” Mycroft asked, obviously pleased about something.
Sherlock glared at him, as he answered John. Needed air.
You okay?
A satisfactory warmth swept over him, John worried about him. Sherlock smiled before he had a chance to stop himself and when he found himself enough to school his expression again he knew that Mycroft had already seen it so he didn’t bother.
Perfectly fine. Get off the phone, it’s your wedding night.
“Monogamy,” Mycroft started as Sherlock typed up the last text and dropped his phone back in his pocket. “With all its well-meaning traditions and misguided ideals, is an illusion and the height of it is celebrated here tonight. Though I won’t put bigamy on the national agenda anytime soon, there are far more relationship constellations than the one our parents have or that our traditions and culture teach us that we should strive for.”
Sherlock frowned. “Are you trying to tell me that you’ve found a goldfish?”
“I’m telling you that a committed relationship comes in many different forms and that it isn’t limited to sexual relationships or heterosexual monogamy.”
“Can I have the matches?” Sherlock held out his hand to Mycroft.
Mycroft raised his eyebrows at the abrupt question, but reached into his pocket to take out the matches. When he gave them to Sherlock he took a firm grip of Sherlock’s hand, willing Sherlock to meet his eyes.
“You’re not alone, Sherlock, even if you might feel lonely right now,” he said. “You haven’t lost anything tonight.”
Sherlock nodded slightly. “Thanks for the cigarettes.”
Mycroft nodded as well, letting go of his hand. Sherlock turned away almost immediately and started to walk away from the car park, even if not yet back to the party. Mycroft’s words were reassuring to hear since it was something different than all the comments about how a legal document and an overly-sentimental ceremony would change everything, about how this was it, but it wasn’t Mycroft he really needed to reassure him. Mycroft was however the only one he wasn’t proud enough to ask for it from. So it, along with his own rationalisations, would have to do. At least for now, until he hopefully would find the evidence that could support the hypothesis that a wedding didn’t, in fact, change things.