Let your body decide Part 2

[solrosan]

Note: Re-written in May 2012.

Summary: Most sex people have is not for reproductive purposes, so not wanting to have sex with women as a man isn't all that biologically off. But what if sex with men isn't any better than sex with a woman? What if nothing fits?

***

According to popular culture the coming out process was supposed to be hard.

Sherlock had to give popular culture right on that one because it was absolutely exhausting. The reasons listed as to why it would be hard were completely wrong though.

Popular culture stated that the fear (and possibility) of being rejected would be the worst part of the coming out circus, but Sherlock never saw that as a risk. It had, after all, been Nina who pointed it out and Victor was (semi-)openly gay. When he told Tess and Victor they both seemed to have the same epiphany as Nina, as if everything fell into place and they finally figured him out.

Sherlock knew he was supposed to be grateful that his friends accepted him for who he was, but he was more annoyed quite honestly. He didn’t understand why he was annoyed. The more he thought about it, the more he realised it was just because they accepted him for who he was without questioning it. It didn’t sit right with him. If it was so obvious, why hadn’t they seen it before? Not to mention that he couldn’t see why he, the person it concerned the most, didn’t feel as enlightened as the rest.

The hard part about coming out was therefore not the non-acceptance of his surroundings, it was his own lack of conviction.

Sherlock stood in front of his bedroom mirror, watching his naked body as if the answer should be written on it. He had no problem with his body, he'd had it all his life and was used to it. Obviously there were better parts and worse parts, but as a whole he liked it, felt comfortable with it and knew he could have done much worse. He even knew that some people desired his body in ways he couldn’t comprehend.

Gay.

It seemed to fit this naked body better than straight. The sexual norm wasn’t for him, that much he was certain of. Just to try it out he had flipped through two dozens of porn magazines with naked women and he had been more anatomically curious about what the female body could do than he had been aroused. Ergo: not straight.

So, gay it was. Or, he was.

Or?

Why couldn't he be as sure as his friends? It was his body after all, it was his sexuality. His homosexuality. Almost to prove a point to himself he grabbed his penis and looked into the mirror while forcing images of a naked Victor – the only other gay person he knew – into his head. The images were fleeing and hard to catch; the idea of picturing any of his friends naked had been unthinkable until just days ago.

Still he came. He always did when he masturbated. It was biology and he knew that biologically he worked the way he was supposed to; his penis responded to external stimuli, got erect and ejaculated. But to get aroused by the thought of Victor naked? Or any man.

Or anyone at all….

He had made a mess. This was the reason he usually did this in the shower.

Still in the nude he went to get a towel to clean up.

***

“Are you all right?” Victor asked one day, pausing in the middle of Concerto for 2 Violins. Sherlock continued for two cords before holding up.

“Yes,” Sherlock said as if he didn't understand the question.

“I don't believe you,” Victor said, lowering his violin, “You've missed three notes and now you came in too late. You never do that. If anything, you're early...but you’re never late.”

Sherlock placed his Stradivarius on the desk, contemplating what Victor said. Victor was the only person Sherlock allowed to critic his playing, probably because Victor was the best violinist Sherlock had ever met. Not heard, but met.

“Have you told you family yet?” Victor wondered, looking disturbingly worried; Sherlock had often wondered if Victor had lost loved ones because of his sexuality.

“No,” Sherlock shook his head, “but I am certain Mycroft has known for years and never bothered telling me.”

“Your family is beyond weird,” Victor smiled, “But what is it, then? Something's off.”

“I don't know, you tell me,” Sherlock shrugged and sat down on the bed.

“No, that's what you do,” Victor smirked and sat down next to him, “I'm a musical prodigy and you figure things out by looking at people.”

“Then why can't I figure this out?” Sherlock asked, looking at Victor in hopes of getting all the right answers.

“I don’t know,” Victor smiled faintly, “Some things are hard to come to terms with. So hard that your mind tells you it's not even there because that's what you want to be true.”

“Wonderful,” Sherlock muttered, picking his nails, “How...when did you know?”

“At the very same moment I found out there was such a thing as homosexuals,” Victor sounded embarrassed, as if he knew his answer wasn't helpful at all.

“Wonderful,” Sherlock repeated and got up from the bed. Without another word he picked up the violin, clearly stating that this awkward conversation was over. If his mind wasn't to be trusted anymore, at least he still had Herkules Stradivarius. He felt the smooth wood under his chin and placed the bow onto the strings. It fitted, everything fitted so well.

Everything except him.

“Why doesn't it fit?” He abruptly asked as Victor did his own preparations to start playing again.

“Why does what not fit where?” Victor wondered confused.

“Me. Why doesn't it fit me? Why is it wrong?” Sherlock felt wild, probably looked it too, and without realising it, he had swung the bow as if he was auditioning for a lead role in The Three Musketeers.

Victor's first reaction was to free Sherlock from the Stradivarius before something terrible happened to it. More careful than if it had been an infant he placed the violin in its case. Then he turned around and hugged Sherlock.

Sherlock felt the warmth from Victor's body; felt the heart beat in his chest and the steady breathing. It was soothing. It was a comfort hug, like the one Nina had given him after she’d figured all this out. Sherlock liked that sort of intimacy and therefore he just stood there, receiving it, letting it do what it was supposed to do: calm him down.

Then he suddenly realised that this closeness with Victor could be misinterpreted – just like Nina had misinterpret the situation on the Persian rug. Being gay just made the physical contact between him and women, or him and straight men, safe; physical contact with another gay man was still threatening.

He pushed Victor away, looking both panicked and shameful as he did.

“Sherlock,” there was a sting of blame in Victor's voice, but the rest of the man radiated the type of compassion that could only be felt by someone who has gone through the same thing. “It's okay. I'm not coming on to you. I'm just giving you a hug.”

“And Nina and I were just kissing,” Sherlock muttered.

“What?” Victor laughed, “I keep telling you it’s dangerous to smoke that shit.”

“I'm so confused,” Sherlock rubbed his face.

“That's okay too.” It sounded like a promise and Sherlock hoped it was. “Do you have any experience with men at all?”

“I've hugged you,” Sherlock said after a moment, not that he needed it to think about it, but it felt appropriate.

Victor smiled and took his hand, squeezing it. “Do you want some more?”

If it wasn’t for the fact that Victor suggested this in the same way he’d suggest they watch telly Sherlock would most likely felt uncomfortable. Now he took it into consideration instead.

It was (almost) obvious that Victor had no romantic interest in him, which would make it emotionally safe to take him up on the offer. If nothing else, to see if sex with men triggered a similar response as sex with women did.

But no, Sherlock shook his head and let go of Victor's hand.

“Sex changes everything,” he said.

“It doesn't have to, but okay,” Victor said and took his violin again, nodding towards Herkules for Sherlock to do the same. “You can take me up on the offer later if you change your mind.”

Sherlock was sure he wouldn't, but produced a smile instead of answering. He picked up the violin and followed Victor back into the melody they had left before.

Afterward, Victor told him that he still was off in his playing, but at least Sherlock felt better. He didn’t know what had he done to deserve such wonderful friends.

***

The alley was narrow and smelled like rubbish and vomit. It wasn’t the most romantic setting, but when receiving a random blowjob from a bloke you had just met things like romance weren’t very important. Right now Sherlock couldn't think of any situation he would ever care about romance.

He was as high as the five-storey building he leaned against; his whole body was numb and oversensitive at the same time. He liked that about the gay scene; there were a lot of interesting chemical substances floating around. It was, so far, the only thing he liked about the scene. Tonight he had lost track of what – and how much – he had taken and, even in this fog, he knew it wasn't a good thing. He didn’t feel he had much of a choice though; there was a man with his face pressed against his crotch and he wouldn’t be able to stand if he’d been sober.

For almost two months Sherlock had visited gay bars in the area, trying to get sexual experiences with men without jeopardising a friendship. Until tonight he hadn’t been successful, not due to lack of suggestions but lack of nerves. It was just something about the thought of another man's penis in any of his body's orifices that freaked him out. He had to ask Nina or Tess how women could be so fine with it. Now it was his penis in a wet, warm orifice. It was better, but not good.

The mouth, well, the man, was sloppy and, from what Sherlock could tell, not very good. Why was he touching his balls like that? No one should ever touch his balls like that! Sherlock's arms were too numb to do anything about it, all of him was too numb. It didn't hurt, it just wasn't at all comfortable. Not to mention how very unpleasant the feeling of a tongue against his erection was. Why did he even bother with this, he was fairly certain he wasn't going to come. Too drugged out. At least he could conclude that a sexual encounter with a man was different than one with a woman. Mostly in the way of execution. When it came to emotional responses he was not in a state to tell.

“Oy! Sherlock, what the hell?”

Victor's voice cut through the fog and the unpleasantness. Sherlock turned his head to see Victor stepping over rubbish on his way towards them and the stranger on the ground let go of his penis.

Finally.

Sherlock smiled in Victor's direction. Victor had come to save him from the man sucking on him.

“Boyfriend?” the man on the ground asked.

“Yes,” Victor answered, not sounding nearly angry enough to be convincing, “Now off you go...and use a bloody condom next time you're expecting someone to come in your throat, you idiot!”

Sherlock took Victor's face between his hands to be able to focus his eyes. It was hard, but he managed. His Victor, his kind and thoughtful Victor who even thought about the stranger; if Sherlock would have a boyfriend he should be like Victor.

Sherlock kept smiling even though he was pretty sure Victor was upset with him for some reason. He couldn’t understand why; he hadn't cheated on Victor.

“What the hell are you on this time?” Victor forced Sherlock's right eye open with his fingers. It hurt. Why did he do that? Oh, probably checking his pupils. Sherlock wonder how they looked, and more importantly, if Victor could tell anything by just looking. Victor wasn’t all that clever when it came to things like this. Inexperienced.

“I've been looking everywhere for you,” Victor informed, starting to lead Sherlock out of the alley after he had tucked him in and zipped him up. The touch and the closeness felt right, so much more right than everything else had felt to night.

“You saved me,” Sherlock murmured, “You're my knight.”

“You only need saving from yourself right now,” Victor told him as they both almost tripped over a bin.

“I love you,” Sherlock blurred out.

“I know, I love you too,” Victor said in his softest voice, stroking Sherlock's chin and even giving him a small kiss on the lips. A non-threatening kiss. Not like the ones he had shared with the man in the alley.

“Shag me,” Sherlock murmured in Victor's ear.

“No,” Victor said calmly, “We're going to get you home and then I'm going to phone Nina so she can make sure you're not ODing or something.”

“I'm not,” Sherlock assured him. Poor Victor, he just didn’t know anything about things like this.

“Forgive me for not taking your word for it,” Victor flagged down a cab, “And I'm not going to take advantage of you when you're like this.”

“It's not advantage if you do it as a favour,” Sherlock tried to explain as they entered the cab with some difficulty.

Victor didn’t answer, or maybe he did and Sherlock just blacked out. Either way, the next thing he remembered was puking in the shower – of all places – and hearing himself solemnly swear to never do this again.
***
There was a black car outside Sherlock's flat. It had been standing there for almost 30 minutes now and Sherlock had been watching it from behind the curtain for at least 17.

Sherlock knew exactly why the car was there; Mycroft wanted him to come along to visit their mother. His brother, curse him, had a point; he should visit mother, but Sherlock didn't want to. He really, really didn't want to.

It was a battle of stubborn minds and Sherlock was determined to be the more stubborn this time. Sherlock was fairly sure Mycroft could wait forever after seeing him peeping in the window and therefore it was a surprise when his brother stepped out of the car and made his way up to the flat. 

That was an outcome Sherlock had not expected, nor the reward he had wanted for his stubbornness.

The first two times the doorbell rang Sherlock ignored it but the third time he caved; cursing Mycroft as he unlocked the door.

“Please, Sherlock,” Mycroft greeted, sounding more annoyed than pleading. Sherlock closed the door again and moved to the sofa.

“I actually thought university would help you mature, not recess you to a five-year-old,” Mycroft said when he entered the flat.

“Speaking of recession, how's the economy coming along?”

“Do try to keep up with recent events, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed, “The recession was over more than two years ago.”

“Then 'recent' isn’t the correct word, is it?”

“You're behaving like a child.”

“Only because you persist on treating me like one.”

Mycroft gave him a demeaning glare to which Sherlock found no other response than to exhale loudly; his brother had really turned patronising into an art.

“I don't want to see her, Mycroft,” Sherlock finally admitted in a low, uncharacteristic insecure voice and a tense expression fluttered over Mycroft's face.

“You've made that perfectly clear, but she wants to see you.”

Sherlock snorted, “Last time she didn’t even recognise me.”

“Don't take it out on her. It’s not her fault,” Mycroft sighed, but there was still no attempt to negotiate any terms of a visit. Sherlock found that very odd.

Sherlock met Mycroft’s eyes and actually found a hint of sympathy there. He didn’t want sympathy, he just wanted to be left alone and he could only think of one thing to say that would make his brother go away.

“I'm gay,” he said after taking a deep breath. Telling Mycroft made it feel even more unsuitable for him than it already did. It really wasn't right. He felt it. The words combined with the terrible experience he'd had in alleyway made it all so obviously absurd. Desperate times call for desperate measures though, and popular culture had got a few things right. So maybe Mycroft would be repulsed enough to just disappear...perhaps....

“No, Sherlock, you're not,” Mycroft said with absolute certainty after giving his brother a scrutinising look.

“Why can't you just accept me for who I am?”

“I am the only one who accepts you for who you are,” Mycroft sighed, “But when you're done getting anonymous sex in alleys, can you please come and visit Mummy?”

“It's not going away.”

“Then it will be safe for you to promise me to visit her.”

It felt like a trap. It had to be a trap. Still, it was a way to get Mycroft out of the flat; a quick solution he was sure he’d have to pay for in the future. He didn’t care about the future now.

“I promise,” he muttered.

“See you later, Sherlock,” Mycroft nodded, looking smugger than Sherlock was comfortable with. Sherlock threw a pillow after his brother, hating himself for proving Mycroft right about that five-year-old statement.

He jumped up and rushed to the window, making sure the black car really left and that it contained Mycroft when it did. Somewhere deep inside he knew Mycroft was right, he just knew. Like he supposed everyone else just knew. Unfortunately it was Mycroft who had pointed it out and therefore Sherlock was going to spend the next couple of years trying to prove him wrong just to spite him.

Part 3: Is it right to feel this way?

Comments

[kari77.livejournal.com]

Oh, my, this is brilliant. It feels so real, true to the character, true to the journey of trying to find oneself. (Damn, if that doesn't feel familiar.)
Perfect head!canon right here for Sherlock's years before we meet him on the show.

So much to love about this story: I like Victor in particular, and Mycroft's reaction is spot on. He would know the truth, wouldn't he.

And on top of the top notch story telling, your writing is exquisite.
All of this makes your story an absolute joy to read.
Thank you!

[solrosan.livejournal.com]

I got so moved when reading your comment, thank you so much! Both for reading and commenting :) Thank you! Especially the last three lines I'm taking to my heart.

I hope the rest will live up to this (I like Victor a lot too, I hope he can get a bigger part).

[zevbaldwin.livejournal.com]

Marvelous!

[solrosan.livejournal.com]

Thank you.