Let your body decide Part 5

[solrosan]

Notes: Re-written in May 2012.

Summary: Like so many others living outside of the society norm, Sherlock has come to terms with the fact that he might very well be alone his whole life. Then John comes along and tells him otherwise.

***
”I’m not his date.”

It was the second time since they’d entered the restaurant – the third time in total – John had tried to make it perfectly clear to bystanders that they weren’t an item. Sherlock hadn’t decided if he was amused or disturbed by the doctor’s discomfort with being presumed to be gay. Not that he cared right now; he had a serial killer to chase down, that trumped everything. To be honest, Sherlock couldn’t think of a time when he would care about John’s possible struggle to fit into the hetero normative society.

“You may as well eat, we might have a long wait,” Sherlock offered without taking his eyes off the road outside.

Angelo came with the candle. How cute. Sherlock liked the candle; it did indeed make it more romantic. Date or not.

“People don’t have archenemies.” John said halfway through his meal, breaking the silence that had settled just after the food arrived.

“Hn?” Sherlock had been watching 22 Northumberland Street so intensely he had almost forgotten John’s presence, “I’m sorry?”

“In real life. There are no archenemies in real life. Doesn’t happen.”

“Doesn’t it? Sounds a bit dull.” Sherlock wondered if he’d actually called Mycroft his archenemy or if that was just implied. He didn’t actually think of his brother that way, but he couldn’t deny it was a suitable description.

“So who did I meet?”

“What do real people have then, in their real lives?” Sherlock indulged in the conversation but tried to lead it away from his brother. He didn’t feel Mycroft was a good topic for dinner conversation but getting pulled away ‘Mycroft Style’ must be quite overwhelming if you weren’t used to it.

At least John hadn’t ended up in rehab.

“Friends?” John tried and Sherlock wondered if that was a synonym to ‘archenemy’ in the dictionary of John Watson, “People they know, people they like, people they don’t like. Girlfriends, boyfriends….”

“As I was saying – dull.”

“So you don’t have a girlfriend then?”

“Girlfriend? No. Not really my area.” Not that he had reconsidered it since Annie Rees, but still, not his area. People in general had turned out to not be his area.

“Oh, right. D’you have a boyfriend?” John went on with the painfully obvious second alternative, but quickly added, “Which is fine by the way.”

“I know it’s fine.”

“So you’ve got a boyfriend?”

“No.” He knew it came out a bit harsh, but it rubbed him the wrong way that questions about partnerships came so early in the getting-to-know-someone process.

“All right. Okay.” John nodded, “You’re unattached, just like me. Fine. Good.”

Sherlock shifted in his seat, not really sure of what was happening right now. He had though John was straight – or at least that’s what John wanted everyone to think. Perhaps the doctor was overcompensating? Sherlock remembered only too well what that was like, trying to convince both the world and himself of a sexual orientation that wasn’t his. It had been exhausting and he could sympathise with that, he really could, be he had to nip this in the bud before it turned into something he didn’t want it to be.

“John…ehm,” Sherlock took a breath, he had given this speech before – to Molly – he could do it again, “I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work and while I’m flattered by your interest I’m really not looking for anything…”

“No. No…I’m, I’m not asking, no.” John sounded so definite, obviously not at all comfortable being assumed to be gay, “I’m just saying: it’s all fine.”

“Good.” Sherlock felt a bit unsure, and even taken, by this sincere assurance, “Thank you.”

Before the conversation could get any more uncomfortable for either of them a taxi stopped outside 22 Northumberland Street and they were off.

It wasn’t until later Sherlock realised that the way he had left the conversation at Angelo’s probably gave John the impression that he was gay. It didn’t really matter, as he by then had deduced that John was very much straight and therefore free to believe whatever he wanted.

***

Sherlock found living with John fascinating. Hm, no, fascinating wasn’t the right word, but it was something similar to it. It was a long time since anyone had been able to stand his company for such an extended period of time. Sure, John needed him to be able to live in central London, but John’s habit of lingering in the sitting room, to do all the shopping and to just spontaneously make tea without Sherlock even asking, made Sherlock certain that it wasn’t just because of economic reasons John stayed.

Not to mention that John time and time again risked his life in Sherlock’s company.

It had been years since last time he experienced it – and this wasn’t at all as it had been back then – but Sherlock was still pretty sure this constituted a friendship. It was hard to not see parallels between John and the three friends he had once had. John smelled of tea almost as often as Tess had smelled of coffee; he sometimes let Sherlock take hair and nail-clippings for experiments (not nearly as often as Nina though); and once every blue moon he stayed up all night while Sherlock played the violin.

Fortunately for everyone, John never played duets with him like Victor had.

Obviously John wouldn’t get high with him and they never cuddled in front of the telly. They never hugged; actually they barely touched each other. It was, over all, a very heterosexual male friendship, Sherlock concluded. Sherlock didn’t press it, company and platonic partnership was far better than being alone or in a sexual relationship.

Sherlock had no hopes of making John stay forever; John had early on started his search for a real primary relationship. It wasn’t the end of the world, Sherlock had come to terms with the idea of a life alone (and he did have Herkules and the skull), but he was determined to do the best of the situation as long as it lasted.

He really liked John and John’s company, a lot of it based on how non-threatening it was. That was probably why Sherlock tried his best to adapt, but there had been so many years since he’d had to consider anyone other than himself and he seemed to fail miserably. In all honesty, he hadn’t been so considerate with himself either over the years.

Sherlock still didn’t know if it was amusing or insulting (or perhaps both?) that John kept denying every hint of anything more than a platonic relationship between them. Homosexual sister or not, Sherlock believed John had a touch of homophobia when it came to gay men. He often found himself wondering if he would have been as comfortable coming out to John as he’d been coming out to Victor and Tess.

At least he was comfortable enough with John assuming his was gay to not to correct it. That said something.

Or did it say it all?

***

John cleared his throat for the n^th time.

In the beginning Sherlock had counted how many throat-clearings it would take before John gathered the courage to say what was on his mind, but somewhere in the early double digits he’d lost track. Sure, he could indulge John and just ask him what he wanted, but it had been a slow week and this was more fun.

“Sherlock,” John finally said, clearing his throat one last time. Good god, he should have that checked! Surely Sarah could give him a physical. Oh, that’s what this was about. Sarah. Of course. Sherlock turned away from the computer and looked at John.

“Yes?”

“Err….Yeah, I was wondering if ehm….” John blushed. Sherlock found this more entertaining than trolling Wikipedia, “Sarah has water damage in her bathroom and she needs a place to stay for a couple of days and…so…yeah….Would it be okay if she stays here?”

“Do I have to do anything?” Sherlock wondered suspiciously.

“No, nothing at all,” John answered very quickly, too quickly, “Perhaps not leave any souvenirs from Bart’s lying around….”

“She’s a doctor. It’s nothing she hasn’t seen before.”

“I’m a doctor and I still prefer to not find savaged limbs in my kitchen,” John said calmly, “Please, Sherlock?”

“Yes. Yes, I know,” Sherlock sighed, “You want to ‘get it on’ with Sarah, or how was it you phrased it?”

“Something like that,” John smiled sheepishly, “And you know, if you ever want to…er…bring someone home…it’s fine with me.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. It doesn’t interest me.”

“I know, I know, you’re married to your work. But that doesn’t mean you can’t have casual… encounters. At times.”

Sherlock straightened his back and looked at John with narrowed eyes, trying to figure out what he was suggesting. Aside from the conversation at Angelo’s their first night, the topic of sex and sexuality hadn’t come up. That probably meant John still had his mind set on Sherlock being gay and that he wasn’t suggesting random sex with women and now he tried to be open-minded by allowing gay sex to happen in their flat.

How magnanimous of him.

“That’s exactly what I’m not interested in,” Sherlock said after dragging the silence out to the point of awkwardness.

“That’s what you’re not interested in? You’re not interested in casual sex?” John repeated to be sure he had got it right.

“Or any other kind,” Sherlock specified.

“You’re not interested in any kind of sex?”

“What are you? A parrot?” Sherlock snapped and didn’t understand why he became so tense. “There’s not going to be any ‘casual encounters’. At least not on my part, you can feel free to do…whatever it is you like.”

“Sorry…I’m sorry….” John sounded insecure. Sherlock found it only fair. This whole thing made him feel very insecure as well.

He turned back to the computer, for some reason feeling angry and upset. He was pretty sure he wasn’t allowed to feel either. Not yet, he concluded, John hadn’t been an arse yet, he had just failed to understand. And John tried to teach him that it wasn’t all right to be angry at people just because they were slow.

Not to mention that it was mainly Sherlock’s fault that John held the assumptions he did since he hadn’t bothered correcting him – or anyone else for that matter. Sherlock wasn’t allowed to be angry or hurt. Yet.

The anger was probably just insecurity. Sherlock found it strange how vulnerable he felt and wonder, as so often before, why was sexuality such a loaded question. A knot formed in his stomach when he realised what he had to do.

“John, I’m asexual.” Sherlock lifted his eyes just enough from the screen to see John’s stumped expression.

“Oh,” John said, licking his lip in the way he always did when he wasn’t 100 % sure how to proceed. “I…ehm. I’m sorry, I don’t know what that means.”

“Most people don’t.”

“So….” John made a gesture with his hands, encouraging Sherlock to continue.

“I don’t experience sexual attraction, to anyone or anything.” Sherlock had to force himself to not look away. He could almost see how hard John was thinking and decided to wait it out. John wasn’t stupid. At least not as stupid as most parts of humanity.

“Oh,” John blinked, still looking a bit puzzled, but at least he smiled now. “That’s…. I see. I…think.”

“You can call Sarah and tell her she can sleep over for the duration of the reparation,” Sherlock said since he wasn’t sure how to continue this discussion. He wasn’t thrilled about the idea of having Sarah here, but he supposed he owed her something after the incident at the Chinese circus.

Sherlock looked back at the computer to really show that this conversation was over. John walked to the kitchen and tried to hide the conversation he had with Sarah by putting on tea.

“So….” John came back with a mug of tea in each hand, putting one right next to Sherlock, “Highly functional asexual sociopathic consulting detective?”

“We can’t all be blogging heterosexual former army doctors.”

“No, I suppose not,” John said with a smile, “Sarah comes at seven. Please move the ears before then?”

“To any place in particular?” Sherlock asked with a smirk, tasting the tea. Good tea.

“Preferably the bin, but I’ll settle for a closed container in the fridge,” John said and turned on the telly.

Sherlock turned his head and looked at John, was that it? Coming out as asexual wasn’t even close to what popular culture had told him about coming out as homosexual. For him, coming out as gay had been the same as coming out as asexual though. The epiphany had been replaced with a slight confusion, but the acceptance seemed to be the same.

He was grateful; John seemed to have been sincere when he’d said that it was all fine. He would really miss John when he moved on with his life.

***

“Who gave you your diagnosis?”

That was something not even Sherlock could ignore. Well, he probably could, but it was hard to successfully cross link collagen in the kitchen so that strange question was allowed to disturb him.

“Which one?” Sherlock wondered, pulling of his gloves with a snap. It hurt.

“There are lots of them?” John said with a faint smile.

“You’ve given me at least seven since you moved in and just one of them was physiological,” Sherlock reminded him, “How many others do you think have given me similar ones?”

“Plenty, I suppose,” John said with the same faint smile.

“So which one in particular?”

“The ‘highly functional sociopath’ one.”

“Oh,” Sherlock shrugged, “That would be me.”

“Err…you?” John sounded confused, Sherlock had come to really enjoy making him confused, “You diagnosed yourself as a sociopath?”

“Yes.”

“Should’ve known….” John shook his head and smiled.

“Why?”

“Because there’s no other way you’d tell Anderson off with an obviously wrong diagnosis if there’d been someone else trying to stick it on you,” John said and for some reason handing Sherlock the mug of tea he’d been holding.

“’Obviously wrong’, doctor?” Sherlock tried the tea with a smirk. “I didn’t know psychological evaluations were something you did.”

“I’m more qualified than you, anyway.”

“That’s debatable,” Sherlock kept smirking, “Curiosity satisfied?”

“Yes…and no,” John turned to make a second mug of tea, “Why do you claim to be a sociopath?”

Hm. Sherlock thought about it for a moment and decided that it might be a fair question. Not for anyone, but for John.

“It excuses many quirks.” Sherlock admitted, “You cannot deny that I fit many parts of the diagnosis.”

“No. No, I can’t deny that,” John agreed with a nod and an amused smile, “but it’s a relief that no one has actually deemed you incapable of feeling empathy or remorse.”

Sherlock smirked, he actually found that a relief too. At this point in his life, he thought of himself as pretty good at not needing emotions, but he could understand if that was an unattractive feature in a flatmate.

“That particular part is very efficient at keeping people on arm’s length, though,” Sherlock confessed, blowing on his tea.

“Because people are incurable morons?”

“Yes,” Sherlock admitted and John smirked, “And because people rarely want to get involved with someone they think can’t love them.”

John almost dropped his mug; Sherlock made a mental note that, apparently, that type of confession was shocking.

“You rather tell people you’re a sociopath than allow anyone to come close to you? Do you really find people that horrible?”

“Not people. Sex.” Sherlock muttered and placed the mug on the table to pull out new gloves from the box beside him.

“Sex?”

Sherlock nodded, “I know it might sound a bit extreme, but-”

“’Might’? ‘A bit’?” John interrupted, “Sherlock, it’s insane!”

“To you, perhaps.”

“To everyone!” John shook his head in complete disbelief, “God, Sherlock.  You’re not supposed to pretend to be a sociopath to avoid having sex.”

“No, because I’m supposed to want to have it, right?” Sherlock felt something break inside him.

“That’s…not what I meant,” John sighed.

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Sherlock whispered under his breath and he turned back to his experiment.

“I never said that. It’s just…. Sex isn’t love. You don’t have to avoid one to stay free from the other.”

Sherlock ignored him and started to clean up by throwing away the collagen. The experiment was ruined. Everything was ruined.

“Sherlock….”

“John, please, stop.”

“You deserve to be loved.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and wished himself far from the kitchen. He didn’t want to have this conversation anymore, nor did he want John to remind him of what he had come to terms with living without.

John sighed, squeezing Sherlock’s shoulder when walked passed him to the sitting room. “Don’t blow anything up. I’m going to watch some telly.”

Sherlock rolled his eye when John couldn’t see him; he was working with hydrogels, there was no way he would be able to blow that up. Half-way through the second try he gave up and looked at John who seemed to have a hard time settling on what to watch. Annoying. Sherlock walked over to the sitting room, lingering in the doorway.

“The things you said….” Sherlock hesitated when John muted the sound and looked at him, “I…. Thank you.”

“Just don’t forget it.” John smiled and turned the sound back on.

Sherlock watched him for a moment before he too sat down in front of the telly. He wouldn’t forget what John had said and the broken thing inside his chest seemed almost put back together again. He realised John cared for him – like Nina, Victor and Tess had done – and if he just managed to stay clean there was a real possibility he could keep John as a friend even after he stopped being his primary relationship.

***

Sherlock let out a sigh in relief when he heard John coming up the stairs, it had to be John. He had held out for long enough. John would stop him; he would yell and be angry, but he would stop him. Save him.

“Sherlock, have you taken my phone again? I can’t….” John trailed off when he entered the sitting room. He pointed suspiciously at the glass bottle and syringe on the table in front of Sherlock, “What’s that?”

Sherlock slowly raised his head. John already looked angry and it was strangely satisfying. The anger was a proof that he cared. The anger was also proof that John knew the answer to his own question and that Sherlock had no reason to lie.

“Cocaine.”

“Coc- Sherlock!” John snatched the bottle, noticing the handwritten label as he did, “This is your writing.”

“Yes.”

“You diluted this yourself.” It wasn’t a question and it made Sherlock feel proud of John.

“Yes, I don’t trust anyone else to do it.”

“You say that as if it would make it better.”

Sherlock inhaled to tell John exactly why it was better that he made the solution himself, but when he saw how betrayed John was he exhaled an almost soundless “I’m sorry” instead.

“Where’s the rest?”

Sherlock looked confused, but John narrowed his eyes.

“Don’t try that with me, my sister’s an alcoholic. Where’s the rest?”

Sherlock hesitated, but the look John gave him made him get up and walk over to the bookshelf where he kept the stationary box he had inherited from his father. From under the false lid he retrieved the remains of the cocaine that hadn’t been used for the solution.

“Sherlock.” John prompted sternly.

Sherlock closed the box more violently than necessary and handed John the small bag with a deep sigh. It was an incredible defeat and relief, all at once.

“Anderson would never have found that one,” John muttered.

Sherlock didn’t know if it was supposed to be a joke or not, but he made an attempt to smile. It didn’t work. Instead he wrapped his arms around himself and took a step away from John who pocketed both the bag and the bottle.

“I’m…I’m going to go sit on the stairs.” John took a deep breath and pressed two fingers against the root of his nose, “Because I need to…. I need to sit on the stairs. For a bit.”

“John?”

“Just for a bit. I’ll be right outside. You’ll still see me, I won’t leave. I just, I….” John shook his head and picked the syringe off the table. Without even looking at Sherlock again he turned around, walked out the sitting-room and sat down on the top step of the stairs.

Sherlock followed but lingered in the door, studying John’s back without managing to deduce a thing. Had he ruined this now? Would John distance himself like Victor? Would he give up like Nina? Or pretend he didn’t see it like Tess?

Perhaps he would force him to stop like Mycroft?

“Come and sit,” John said without turning around and it didn’t take Sherlock long to obey.

John still held the syringe in his hand, rolling it between his fingers, and didn’t look at Sherlock when he sat down.

“First time I use one of these was on Mike Stanford. I was rubbish. He was bruised for ages, never lets me forget it.” John told, sounding lost, not in a memory, just lost.

“I can teach you, if you like?” Sherlock tried.

“I know how to do it now.” A laugh got stuck in John’s throat and shook his head, “Have you done this before?”

“No one starts with injecting cocaine, John.”

“I know, I’m not a complete idiot. And I’ve seen the nastier marks,” John put the syringe down on the other side of him, as if to make sure Sherlock stayed away from it, “I meant, have you been using since we moved here?”

“You’d know if I had.”

“And the things I have in my pocket?”

“I nicked it a year ago for a case, couldn’t get rid of it. So I put it in the stationary box.”

“Do you want me to get rid of it for you?” John finally looked at Sherlock. It was an earnest and tired question and all Sherlock could do was nod. He really wanted the cocaine gone.

John reached out and put his arm around Sherlock, gently hugging him. Sherlock immediately pulled away, but John just shook his head and pulled him back in again.

“We’re going to talk about this, believe me,” John whispered. “And don’t you dare pick-pocket me.”

Sherlock smiled. John probably attempted to make it sound like a threat but there was nothing intimidating about the situation. Not the drugs, not John’s arms around him. Not John’s smell, not the sound of his breathing, not his closeness.

He closed his eyes and reminded himself that he wasn’t wrong anymore, that he had it right. More importantly, he wasn’t alone. He had John. The feeling Sherlock had wanted to silence with the cocaine slowly ebbed away, erased by something completely different – a hug.

***

She hadn’t recognised him.

Sherlock looked up at the sky when he and John came out from the care home, trying really hard to delete the fact that his mother hadn’t known who he was. He knew it was partly his fault – he hadn’t visited her in eleven years – and the other part was, well, life. Biology. He couldn’t blame biology, but he wished he could.

Or at least Mycroft.

Oh, he really wished he could blame Mycroft for the feeling creating a lump in his chest. 

“You okay?” John placed his hand on Sherlock’s upper arm.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock cleared his throat, but after meeting John’s eyes he corrected himself, “I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

Sherlock nodded and rubbed his face with one hand, “I’m…. I think I’ll walk back.”

“Walk? Back to Baker Street? Sherlock, we’re in Sutton.”

“You can take a cab. I just, I….”

“Come. We’ll walk for a bit.” John moved his hand to Sherlock’s back, gently pushing him up the pavement, away from the care home.

They walked in silence, street after street, and John didn’t take his hand from Sherlock’s back. For the life of him, Sherlock couldn’t remember why he had asked John to come with him, but he was entirely grateful that he had. He had no idea where this walk would have taken him if he’d been alone.

Perhaps John thought about the same thing and that’s why he walked with him. Sherlock sometimes got the feeling that John knew him a bit too well.

“Have they replied to your e-mails?” John asked when they’d walked for a little more than half an hour.

“Not yet,” Sherlock shook his head, feeling a nervous twist in his gut.

“They will,” John sounded far too confident in the behaviour of people he had never met.

Sherlock hummed quietly, he didn’t know what he expected from the e-mails. Nina, Victor and Tess had known him as straight and they’d known him as gay. They had even known him as a drug-addict. Now, on John’s initiative, they would also – finally! – get to know him as asexual. Though reluctant to write the e-mails at first Sherlock had to admit, at least to himself, that it made him feel at ease. He was now officially done with anonymous blowjobs in back alleys!

Whatever happened, whatever his old friends said when (if) they replied, at least every person who had ever mattered to him would have it – him – right. And that would be true even if they didn’t write him back, even if they didn’t care, even if they didn’t believe him, even if….

Sherlock stopped dead and took a deep breath to stop his raising thoughts, earning himself a very worried look from John.

“Sherlock? Is something wrong?”

“No,” he shook his head, “Just…. Can you remind me?”

“Of what?”

“The thing you said in the kitchen.”

“What? That we’re out of beans?”

“Never mind,” Sherlock shook his head, feeling incredibly stupid, and started walking again. John grabbed his arm and forced him to stop again.

“Sherlock, remind you of what?”

“That I deserve to be loved.” Sherlock mumbled, looking at his feet.

“You deserve to be loved,” John said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and hugged him. “And you are loved. By me.”

Sherlock waited a moment, but when John didn’t let go he raised his own arms and put them around John. It felt safe. For the first time in years – or perhaps ever – Sherlock felt that he had a place where he belonged.

Finally.

Comments

[capulet-rose.livejournal.com]

I always like seeing an author's perspective on what kind of human Sherlock has hidden beneath his alien exterior. Your Sherlock's journey was bittersweet, realistic, and something that many of us can relate to at least in-part, if not entirely.

Thank you for writing.

[solrosan.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much for reading and commenting, it means the world to me :)

And I do hope that few people can relate to pretending to be a sociopath to avoid people..That would be a bit scary.