solrosan

Notes: Re-worked in May 2012.

Summary: Sherlock finally get it right, unfortunately most other parts of his life are wrong.

***
Third time’s the charm. That’s what everyone kept saying.

Like the popular culture of yore.

This was the third time Mycroft had admitted Sherlock to a clinic. To this clinic. Sherlock wasn’t completely sure it was legal to force someone into rehab, but it was a long time since technicalities of the law had seemed to bother his brother.

Sherlock knew the drill by now: a black car picked him up from a street corner – whether he liked it or not – he was driven out to the countryside and left at a clinic where people knew him without introductions. There he was forced into withdrawal and then, as soon as he was well enough, he escaped. So far, he hadn’t seen a glimpse of his brother, but there was no doubt who was behind it. It had Mycroft Holmes and his nosiness written all over it.

Sherlock had no reason believing anything would be different this time (no matter what the proverbial statistics said) and he had been planning his escape since the black car had pulled up next to him. It was going to be a real spectacle. Hallucinating and puking his guts out for almost three days didn’t change his plan or his determination.

Seeing Mycroft entering his room on the fifth day of captivity shook him a bit though.

“Hello, Sherlock,” Mycroft said and the door locked behind him.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock snorted, but forced himself to sit up on the bed, “Not that I wouldn’t have loved seeing you wipe my sick off the floor, but I’m afraid you’re too late for that.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and, after what looked like careful deliberation, he sat down on the edge of the bed.

“This is getting tedious, Sherlock. It’s a terrible waste of time.”

“I know. Please stop.”

“You first.”

“No, thank you,” Sherlock turned away from him, “Please leave, I have an escape to plan.”

“Yes, you do,” Mycroft nodded in confirmation but didn’t get up, “How are you feeling?”

Sherlock had at least four lippy responses on the tip of his tongue, but for some reason he swallowed them all down. He didn’t dare looking at his brother because something in his voice had been so uncharacteristically human and caring. It was the voice Sherlock knew Mycroft used when he talked to their mother.

“You can’t send me away,” he finally said, his voice cracking when he added, “I’m not mother.”

“I didn’t send her away.” There was a sting of anger spurred from guilt in that statement, but after a short pause Mycroft continued in his normal, calm manner, “And you’re not like mother.”

“Are you sure?” Sherlock whispered and looked down on his hands. He saw Mycroft nodding in the corner of his eye, “Then what’s wrong with me?”

“You are a stubborn idiot who don’t know what’s best for you; you don’t have any goals in life and therefore you don’t have any motivation whatsoever. You behave like a child and think that you are better than everyone just because you are more intelligent than most. Not to mention that you have no idea how to treat the ones who care about you.” Mycroft shrugged as if he couldn’t think of anything else “Other than that, and your reluctance to get clean, there is nothing wrong with you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me?” Sherlock stared at him.

“There is nothing wrong with you.” Mycroft emphasised every word. “Why do you think there would be?”

“Because I….” Sherlock hesitated and looked down on his hands again. “I don’t like sex.”

“Then don’t have it.”

“Biologically speaking, I should want to reproduce. This is not normal to-”

“We are almost 7 billion people in the world.” Mycroft interrupted, “Biologically speaking, as a race, we need more people who are not interested in spreading their genes. ‘Not normal’ doesn’t equal ‘wrong’. Normal is just a word for the denominators that describes the vast majority of people.”

“Normal is dull.” Sherlock muttered.

“Quite,” Mycroft said with the resemblance of a smile. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“Why haven’t you told me before?”

“I honestly thought you knew,” Mycroft smiled ruefully at this misconception and got to his feet. “Well, I should get going. Don’t want to keep you from flight preparations.”

Sherlock snorted.

“Before I leave though,” Mycroft said as he knocked on the door to be let out, “You do remember that if you stay here until they discharge you there will be a flat waiting for you, don’t you?”

Sherlock just wiggled his fingers to wave him off. Mycroft left without as much as a change in facial expression. Sherlock found that very impressive, personally he would never been able to leave without at least rolling his eyes.

He fell back on the bed and stared at the same spot in the ceiling he had been looking at when Mycroft had arrived. The longer he lay there, the more he started to doubt what Mycroft had said.

He needed some research, because he couldn’t take Mycroft’s word for it. No matter how much he wanted him to be right this time. It was a strange feeling wishing that Mycroft was right, that it wasn’t anything wrong with him and that it was all right not wanting to have sex.

He had a lot to think about and he wasn’t stubborn enough to not see that it was easier to think when you were clean, sober and warm than when you were high, drunk and cold. He was going to take Mycroft up on the flat-offer.

When he had made that decision he closed his eyes and whispered over and over again: “There is nothing wrong with me.”

***

Asexual.

There was a word for it.

There was a word for him.

Why hadn’t he heard it before? It was a simple word. So etymologically simple. He should have thought of it, it followed the same pattern as every other sexual orientation. At least all sexualities accepted by society. He was very satisfied that the sexuality that fitted him didn’t end with “–philia”.

Sherlock hadn’t felt this at ease for years, not since before he’d had sex with Annie Rees. That was a lifetime ago. It was three friendships ago – four if you counted Annie Rees. It was a cocaine addiction and a university education ago.

He finally got it right. He got it right! The feeling was more satisfying than cocaine had ever been.

He and 70 million other people were biologically programmed to not desire sex. 70 million people. That’s a lot of people. Not compared to the roughly 6.93 billion sexual people in the world, but it was a hell of a lot more than just him.

Asexual.

He had a label. Finally. It scared him a bit how much he liked being able to put himself into a category. It didn’t ruin the feeling though; the feeling of finally figuring it out. The feeling of figuring himself out.

So what should he do now?

Popular culture had never informed him about the coming out process for asexuals. Actually, popular culture had never told him that asexuality existed. Everything in popular culture was just sex, sex, sex, sex. Maybe he should just stop listening to popular culture all together? It had a very low accuracy rate anyway and he had never liked what it pretended to stand for.

Sherlock felt that he wanted to come out, to share this brilliant news with someone. Then he thought about it and realised that he had already come out once. He had made a big deal about being homosexual and he had tried very hard to be it too, to convince himself and his surroundings that what he said was true. If he came out again as something else there was a great risk that no one would believe him. Perhaps they’d all think he just wanted the attention.

This far into his reasoning Sherlock had another realisation: when he thought he was gay he’d had three friends to come out to, three people who cared. Now he had no one.

It was a devastating insight.

For the first time Sherlock saw what his cocaine addiction had cost him. What it had really cost him. The euphoria he felt subsided and an unfamiliar loneliness filled him instead. He was all alone. He had no one to share good news with, no one who cared about him. Except for Mycroft and Sherlock wasn’t ready to talk to him again.

The rest of the evening, and the following night, Sherlock sat on the floor of the flat Mycroft had arranged for him, fighting with every cell in his body not to contact his old dealer.

***

Victor had been the easiest to find; one quick Google search and Sherlock had found two different pages selling tickets to concerts he was giving. Nina’s doctoral thesis had been just as easy to find (and Sherlock had loved every word of it, it was amazing!) Nina herself had been more difficult because she had married in Canada and moved to the United States. Tess seemed to have disappeared completely. At least if you asked your various free search tools on the internet.

He wrote an e-mail to Nina; a short one, apologising for everything he’d done, congratulating her on her PhD and telling her that he was clean now. He wrote nothing about his newly discovered sexuality; it wasn’t as important as all the other things he wanted her to know.

Just before pressing send he added a post scriptum asking if she knew where he could find Tess.

After that act of bravery he tried booking a ticket to Victor’s next solo performance. The stakes were higher because he would have to get dressed up and interact with other people. He hadn’t done that in a long time. Not to mention that he hadn’t see Victor since choosing cocaine over their friendship.

It was hard to get properly dressed on Sherlock’s budget and it was even harder to get a good seat at the concert. But beggars cannot be choosers and he put on the only suit he could afford without asking Mycroft for more money and settled on one of the cheapest tickets.

He didn’t want to think about it, but he was well aware that it could end in disaster.

When the curtains went up and Victor walked out on stage none of it mattered though. Sherlock got goose bumps just by watching Victor put the bow onto the strings. He couldn’t see it, but he was sure Victor closed his eyes for a short moment before starting to play. He had always done that.

The music was…amazing? brilliant? wonderful? divine? The music was Victor. Sherlock couldn’t find any other way to describe it. Victor sounded so calm, so at peace. So happy. Sherlock never wanted it to end; he could sit there and listen for the rest of his life.

At least that’s what he thought until Victor played a piece by Corelli. When hearing the familiar melody Sherlock remembered the last time he had heard Victor play: he had been shooting up in Tess’ flat, listening to the tape recording he always had listened to when doing drugs.

The memory was overwhelming; he could almost feel the needle puncturing his skin, reaching his vein. He clenched his hands and closed his eyes, but the association between this music piece and cocaine was too strong. As soon as the music ended (and applauses filled the hall) Sherlock left.

He waited outside the entrance where Victor was most likely to exit, working through half a package of cigarettes in the process. In an attempt to erase the memory of the melody, Sherlock tried to remember the last time he had played with Victor. He couldn’t, he had probably been high. Actually, he couldn’t even remember the last time he had played the violin at all.

Sherlock froze.

His violin.

Herkules Stradivarius.

His perfect, beautiful violin, that always forgave his tiny mistakes and his haste. He had lost him and the panic caused Sherlock to do something stupid and regretful: he texted Mycroft.

Do you know where Herkules is?
SH

The answer came fast.

If you are referring to your violin, yes.
MH

It was a huge relief; the lost-and-found Stradivarius had not been lost again due to his stupidity.

Victor came out before Sherlock had the time to type up an answer. Victor wasn’t alone though, at his arm he had a handsome, Indian man. They looked happy, they looked in love. Even in the streetlight Sherlock thought he saw a ring on Victor’s finger. He looked blissful but tired; Sherlock could imagine it being exhausting to play for such a long time.

They kissed. The other man took the violin case from Victor and they walked towards the car park. Sherlock didn’t make his presence known. He didn’t want to intrude, ruin their moment, one of many moments, he supposed.

Suddenly Sherlock regretted not taking Victor up on the offer on gaining some sexual experience with a man; perhaps then he’d be the man on Victor’s arm and not the one alone in the shadows. Sherlock dismissed that thought, if he’d had sex with Victor it would most likely have ended their friendship more than a year earlier.

It didn’t change the fact that he felt completely alone right now. Outside the bubble that was university people’s primary relationship didn’t consist of friendships; out in the real world people’s primary relationship always seemed focused on a partner. A sexual partner.

And he couldn’t be that. He couldn’t do that.

He lit another cigarette and started the long walk home. When he finally closed the door to his flat he was proud of himself for not taking a detour to acquire cocaine. At least he pretended that it was his willpower and not his lack of money that kept him from doing so.

To be sure he didn’t do anything stupid he turned off his mobile and went to the kitchen to make tea. It wasn’t even close to what he wanted right now, but he reminded himself that tea was better than cocaine. Tea didn’t ruin relationships.

Neither did cigarettes, but he was out of those.

The first thing he saw when he entered the kitchen was the violin case on the table. It was a beautiful case. It wasn’t his old one, but his name was printed on it. He traced the writing with his finger and looked around the room for other signs of Mycroft’s visit but didn’t find anything out of place. It was annoying and impressive at the same time.

He opened the case and there he was, his Herkules Stradivarius. His beautiful, beautiful violin.

And a note in Mycroft’s handwriting.

There is nothing wrong with you.

Sherlock shook his head and contemplated crumpling the note to a ball but placed it next to the case instead. He ran his fingers over the strings and the cool, slightly discoloured wood and he smiled. Right now it didn’t matter that his old friends had moved on with their lives, he could find meaning in his life in other places. Whatever happened, he would always be Herkules’ primary relationship.

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” he said in a low voice and went to put on the kettle.

***

He received an e-mail from Nina two days later; she sounded happy to hear from him and promised to keep in touch. She asked that maybe, perhaps she could call sometime if he gave her a number. She hadn’t heard from Tess in years and even though it was a disappointment Sherlock felt encouraged learning that even non-addicts lost contact with friends.

It was sad, but it made him feel better.

And he gave Nina his number.

Part 5: Everything must be unsteady on the first go-round.