Let your body decide Part 1

[solrosan]

Note: Re-worked in May 2012.

Summary: Sherlock discovers early on that sex with a woman isn't what popular culture had made him believe, but of course, popular culture had more wrongs than rights. As a young man Sherlock was supposed to want sex 26 h a day, so when he doesn't, where does it leave him?

***
Sherlock lay flat on his back, staring up the ceiling, feeling confusingly violated and…empty. Slowly, the emptiness was filled with epinephrine and, in response to that, his heart rate increased, his vision closed and it became harder and harder to breath properly. He wasn’t completely sure, since he’d never done it before, but he didn’t imagine sex would lead to a panic attack.

It wasn’t what popular culture had made him believe. Popular culture just showed how amazing and wonderful and desirable it was. He had constantly during his seventeen years been told that he was supposed to long for sex, live for sex. That he was supposed to breath for it. Especially since he was a young man. Apparently young men only had one thought in their head: getting up girls’ skirts and down their blouses. Or did that constitute two thoughts?

Popular culture lied a lot though. It presented an ideal that few, if anyone, could live up to. Beauty, wealth, fashion, fame…whatever. It was easy to dismiss, easy to see how exaggerated it was. At least to him. But evidently you were supposed to be fooled by all of this to fit in, to not stand out. To be accepted.

Sherlock hated the ideal but, luckily, it was rather easy for him to live up to most parts. He came from money, was more or less raised in designer clothes and fitted right into what popular culture deemed as handsome. A part of him had thought it would be the same with sex; something he didn’t really see the point of but still perform well beyond average. That part of him actually thought he would understand what the fuss was about once he’d done it.

Obviously, he had been wrong.

He was just lying there, naked, smelling like sweat and…and…euh. He winced. The bed was too small, the room was too hot, his skin was too tight, the body next to him too close.

The body next to him.

The body almost on top of him.

The body that also smelled of sweat and intimacy and… sex.

The body, or Annie Rees as might be the proper way to think about his sex partner, was suffocating him. Not physically but psychologically; her arm was holding him down, her leg was between his legs, her hot breath was frequently attacking his neck. Her breasts were…well…soft actually, but too close, pressed up against him.

He felt claustrophobic.

Sticky.

Nauseous.

Sherlock concluded that there were no way people normally felt like this after sex because, if that was the case, the human race would have ceased to exist a long time ago. Perhaps sex was something that got better in time, like the taste of caffeine beverages and cigarettes? The problem was that he couldn’t see why anyone would try it a second time if the first time left everyone feeling like this.

Curiosity had made him to here. Curiosity and a non-recognised wish to be like everybody else. Annie Rees was just the means; his underachieving lab partner who still put up with him. She was nice to him and those persons were rare. He had convinced himself he loved her because he had felt more for her than he had for any other female.

Now he just wanted to flee and never see her again.

This wasn’t love. It couldn’t be. Once again, popular culture had fooled him. Stupid. He was supposed to be better than this. Smarter than this. Love had been promoted by popular culture a lot longer than sex though and it was harder to see through emotions.

Suddenly Sherlock felt something wet against his neck. Oh no…. She was awake. She was kissing his neck. Correction, she was sucking on his neck like a vampire.

Stop.

Please, stop!

No words came out of his mouth, just a whimpering sound that apparently was mistaken for approval because she continued. She changed position to be able to kiss his mouth. He didn’t respond. Didn’t react. Just closed his eyes and hoped she would think he was sleeping.

Naive hope.

Her hand went down between his legs and he bit his lip in panic when he felt his body reacting in ways he couldn’t control. She would definitely misinterpret that. He had to do something to stop this. He wanted it to stop, he needed it to stop, and he forced her hand away, putting one of his between their mouths.

“What?” she said, turning on the bedside lamp, looking confused, and a bit amused, by his actions.

“Please don’t,” Sherlock said in a weak voice.

“But you want to,” she said, giving his erection a telling look. It was not a question. It was a statement. He had an erection. He was a teenage boy. He always wanted it.

Except he didn’t. Never really had, especially not now.

Sherlock shook his head. It was frustrating that words – his otherwise loyal allies – seemed to fail him when he needed them the most. Sex had ruined him!

“Why?” she asked and he could read disappointment and hurt feelings on her face, “You didn’t like it?”

Even though he wasn’t accustomed to the proper etiquettes in post-coitus situations, Sherlock was fairly sure the truth would be a disastrous way to go. He rarely picked up on those things. Perhaps sex hadn’t just ruined him; perhaps it had made him more attentive to other people?

“I….” he started, “I don’t have another condom.”

That wasn’t even a lie, but he hoped his relief wasn’t too obvious. At least not as obvious as her disappointment. It did the trick though and she settled on just giving him a thorough kiss. That much he could stand when he knew it wasn’t going to be anything more.

***

It never became anything more, at least not with Annie Rees. She wanted to, but Sherlock was very careful to always slip away before anything became too…intent. It was torture to be around her in class, during lunch hours, just all the time. She didn’t want to give him any space, at all, but he knew she was going to get bored soon enough (perhaps even angry) when he didn’t perform and then he would be alone.

In the end, popular culture was right about one thing: sex changes everything.

***

The opportunity to move away to university couldn’t come fast enough. Not just to get away from Annie Rees, but to get away from all the childish drama, all the idiotic bullies, all the pointless classes…. Sherlock wanted the opportunity to start over and see if there was any truth in the popular cultural idea of “finding one’s true self” during the whole university experience.

He was in a great need to find himself. Figuring himself out.

It didn’t take long before his new classmates found the same version of him as his former ones had seen though. When they described him “eccentric” and “brilliant” were the few kind words they used. Sometimes “musical genius” was added, but it was mostly just his neighbours who knew that side of him and they didn’t appreciate violin music at odd hours of the day. Therefore, his musical skills were added to the more insulting list of descriptions: “know-it-all”, “complacent”, “vainglorious”, “freak”…. Sherlock stopped keeping a list during his second semester when he realised that people at uni weren’t cleverer in their insults than thirteen-year-olds.

Still, university life was a huge improvement; the classes were challenging and not everyone was an ignorant prick. There was a tangible sense of belonging and Sherlock felt like he fitted here, like universities were made for people just like him.

For people just like him and Nina and Victor and Rainflower (who might be the only person Sherlock had met who hated her own name more than he despised his). For the first time in Sherlock’s life he actually had friends. Equal minds.

That was probably the biggest improvement of all.

He met Nina late one night in the chem. lab when she snuck in after hours and preformed the unnecessary task of picking the lock – Sherlock had already picked it for the very same reason. Victor was the lead violinist in the university’s orchestra and he was amazing. So amazing that Sherlock had to complement him on it after a concert and as one thing lead to another they ended up playing duets at least two times a week. Rainflower worked extra as a barista at one of the coffee shops on campus and had asked insulting and curious questions about his name every time he’d been there. Most of her repertoire had been novel enough for him to come back just to see what she would come up with next.

The first time Sherlock got high was on a Persian rug in Nina’s bedsit and he got to cut all of her long, black hair of for an experiment (under the condition he provided a sperm sample for her). He trusted Victor to play his Stradivarius and Victor took him back stage at Royal Albert Hall once. Rainflower introduced him to mystery novels and taught him how to roll his own cigarettes and in return, Sherlock called her Tess.

The intimacy Sherlock shared with these three people was like nothing he had felt before; in groups of three (all four rarely happened since Victor and Tess didn’t stand each other for some reason) or tête-à-tête he always felt he could be true to himself and therefore, comfortable.

***

What happened when Sherlock and Nina tried a new “chemical experiment” on the Persian rug was probably inevitable. They lay on the rug, looking into each other's eyes and giggling like idiots to a tape recording of Victor playing Corelli. Then, as a natural next step, their lips touched. It was initiated by Nina, but not refused by Sherlock. Not even when Nina opened her mouth and put her tongue inside his mouth. Nina pulled him closer to her, wrapping one leg around him.

The kiss was sloppy and wet and...completely off mark. Sometimes it was hard to really tell if they were kissing or washing each other's faces in one of the world’s most impractical ways. It was most likely highly unsanitary, but Sherlock noted that it wasn’t completely repulsive and he kept giggling as the kiss prolonged.

It was a familiar closeness: the body, the smell, even the sounds. It was Nina. Therefore, and perhaps in combination with the...chemical experiment, it took some time for Sherlock’s body to react to what was happening. Even longer for his mind to notice.

Nina slid herself on top of him, her weight making it harder to breathe. She felt his face with her fingertips, smiling at him in that adorable way he liked. He was probably just as intoxicated as she was, but he still noticed her extremely dilated pupils because they made her eyes appear completely black. Without the smile, she would have looked scary. With the smile, she looked insane….

He raised his hands to feel her face the same way she felt his, but instead of letting him do that she guided his hands down to her breasts. Sherlock let her, but for some reason her breasts felt threatening. Sherlock frowned because he couldn’t understand how that was even possible. Breasts couldn’t be a threat; they weren’t different from a foot or a nose. To prove this he moved his hand from her breast to her nose.

She giggled, of course she did. He liked her giggle and joined in but they both stopped when Nina abruptly kissed him again. It was just as the last time – messy but not repulsive – but Sherlock's response wasn't as enthusiastic this time.

The weight of her body and her mouth against his made him feel claustrophobic. Her way of grinding against his crotch and the hand on its way down to his hip made him feel alarmingly panicked. His fight-or-flight response kicked in, but his brain told him that there was nothing to fight off, nothing to flee from. It was just Nina; no matter how hard his heart was beating or how fast he was breathing. It was Nina and, no matter what his reptile brain told him, she was no threat. The sane, analysing part of his brain knew that. Even under the influences of whatever it was they had smoked tonight.

Nina got up from lying on top of him and instead seated herself on his thighs. That was nice per se, since it made breathing easier, but she smiled in a way Sherlock had never seen before and it frightened him. She giggled as she pulled off her top and let it fall to the floor.

Sherlock's instincts fought hard to take control over his body, his mind. His actions. It didn't work; he was paralysed under her touch.

A sudden gasp left him when her hand was back in his pants, stroking his penis, and – finally! – his body responded to its great urge to make her stop. He grabbed her wrist, hard enough to make her squeal.

“Please don't,” he said in a low, pleading, voice as his erection slowly started to disappear when she stopped moving her hand.

“What?” Nina said curiously, tilting her head. Sherlock had a sudden flashback to the last time he had asked a woman take her hand of his private parts. He let go of her wrist. Her hand slipped out of his trousers and instead she placed both hands on his belly.

“Please don't,” he repeated, whimpering.

“What is it, luv?” Nina looked worried and moved her hands again, placing one of them on his cheek. The touch was innocent again; he could feel the difference and sniffled in relief.

“Oh Hon...” she said, rolling off him and pulling him into a hug, “Are you having a bad one?”

Sherlock shook his head and closed his eyes to get away from her gaze.

“I'm sorry, luv,” Nina said and kissed him in the same platonic way he'd seen her kiss her sister (still on the mouth, it freaked Victor out). “Why didn't you tell me?”

Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at her for a minute, a week, a year.... Her pupils were still oddly dilated, but still there was understanding there somewhere. He was envious, he wanted that understanding too. What was it she understood that he was supposed to have told her? Did she – who obviously thought a sexual relationship was something to strive for – know why he couldn't live up to this part of the popular cultural ideal just as easily as he could wear designer brands?

“I don't want things to change,” he finally whispered.

“Nothing's going to change, hon,” she ensured him, stroking his cheek.

“Yes, it is,” he said, sounding confident in this conclusion; the only thing he actually got out of his last sexual encounter was that sex changes everything, leaving him alone.

“No, Sherlock, it isn’t. I don't care if you're gay. Honestly, I don't. I just wished you'd told me so I wouldn't have made an idiot of myself.”

Victor's recording changing form Corelli to Spohr and something deep inside Sherlock fell into place. Of course he wasn’t heterosexual! That was why he didn’t want to have sex with women. He...he was gay? He tried the theory in his somewhat foggy mind. It fitted, or at least it could. It didn't not fit.

“I...don't think I knew before,” he said truthfully and confused.

“Says the man who told me I fell off a horse and broke my wrist when I was in my prepubescent,” she said with a little laugh. It was hard to tell if she didn't believe him or if she was amused by the fact that he was oblivious about things concerning himself.

“That was obvious,” Sherlock said and she laughed again.

“You silly little boy,” she said and held him closer, “And don't worry, it changes nothing. Nothing. I still love you.”

He trusted her when she said she still loved him, but he knew she was wrong when she said nothing would change. His whole world and reality had already shifted there in Nina's arms as he tried to grasp his new identity and this new person he had suddenly become.

Part 2: Or Gay?