Sociopath? Good Cover.
Characters: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-15 for language
Warning: There's only one line of dialogue in the whole thing. And it's not very fluffy fluff. :)
Disclaimer: *snort* As if I'm nearly accomplished enough for any of this to be mine. HA!
Summary: Sociopath? Good cover.
The claim of being asexual was quite a good cover. As a result, everyone seems to think he's inexperienced. Truth is that, being a sociopath, Sherlock Holmes is anything but asexual and far from inexperienced.
People often make the mistake of thinking that being a sociopath just means you don't get people. While that may be true, there's much more to it than that. It means that they feel entitled, that they are clever, manipulating, remorseless, and charming. In the case of love, it means seduction with no necessary love. Sherlock gets that about himself.
In his nearly-thirty-years of life, he has had (by his count) twenty girlfriends, seventeen boyfriends, thirty-seven casual fucks, and fifty-two one night stands. 127 lovers... and he's gotten bored of all of them. Or they of him. He's lost count of the number of times someone has told him that they want more - more commitment, more emotion, even just more sex. The latter he gladly gave, if only for a while. Soon, they all became clingy or ridiculously insistent. A screw in the utility closet was good the first few times before it gets old.
Of course, being highly functioning means that Sherlock lacks a few of the telltale traits. He has the occasional brush with remorse and only taps into the pathological lying when it's necessary. He even holds a distant capacity for love that hung in the back of his mind like an empty wineskin - in it's deflated state, no one really knows how much it holds. However, he never tires of the chase. The seduction is so much more interesting than the stagnating "love" that everyone else seems to want.
Except John. Sherlock held him at arm's length, trying to decode him. John always had an layered quality to him. Having lived with so little, it seemed like he could comfortably expect anything and accept it in turn. He liked the chase almost as much as Sherlock. And Sherlock began to feel that wineskin catch droplets of something he dared not call by name.
Then, it struck him. That need to not engulf John wasn't just for analytical purposes. Sherlock wanted to protect him. Telling everyone he was asexual was habitual by that point, but if what he was feeling was love, then he didn't want to muck it up by making the wrong move. Sherlock somehow felt like a bull in a china shop, trying to pick his way to John who was perhaps more fragile a teacup than he seemed.
Bumbling. That was the right word. He was fumbling through with an uncharacteristic anti-finesse fitting of schoolgirl. Getting John to take things out of his pockets for him, come at his call, ripping away the semtex coat - all poor excuses for suave, all terrible ways to get John to just touch him. His skin hunger made him indiscreet and he had no idea what to do about it. Sherlock never reveled in the feeling of being stumped, but he found a different kind of pleasure in this not knowing.
So when John finally brought it up, Sherlock couldn't seem to smooth the situation over. They were in the flat, so he had no flashy deduction to wave in front of John to distract him. He tried merely ignoring it, but the man just short of sat on him, tearing the book from his grasp and tossing it across the room. He had insisted. He had kissed Sherlock.
He knew the feeling should be a release of tension. That it should have felt good for the person who had been steadily condensing into the dry sack of Sherlock's love actually did it intentionally. But it didn't. Fear - real fear - sank into Sherlock's stomach and he pushed away.
John had been confused. Sherlock knew he would be. But instead of rising to leave, Sherlock held him in place.
"I don't want you to be like the others." He said.
It wasn't until later that he realised how it might have been misconstrued. He hadn't meant that John would be like the others - misleading and annoying - but rather that he wouldn't want whatever they had to be nothing but empty sex and mimicked gestures. But John seemed to understand. Another layer that Sherlock knew he would never really figure out.
But, in a strange way, he was alright with that.
Rating: PG-15 for language
Warning: There's only one line of dialogue in the whole thing. And it's not very fluffy fluff. :)
Disclaimer: *snort* As if I'm nearly accomplished enough for any of this to be mine. HA!
Summary: Sociopath? Good cover.
The claim of being asexual was quite a good cover. As a result, everyone seems to think he's inexperienced. Truth is that, being a sociopath, Sherlock Holmes is anything but asexual and far from inexperienced.
People often make the mistake of thinking that being a sociopath just means you don't get people. While that may be true, there's much more to it than that. It means that they feel entitled, that they are clever, manipulating, remorseless, and charming. In the case of love, it means seduction with no necessary love. Sherlock gets that about himself.
In his nearly-thirty-years of life, he has had (by his count) twenty girlfriends, seventeen boyfriends, thirty-seven casual fucks, and fifty-two one night stands. 127 lovers... and he's gotten bored of all of them. Or they of him. He's lost count of the number of times someone has told him that they want more - more commitment, more emotion, even just more sex. The latter he gladly gave, if only for a while. Soon, they all became clingy or ridiculously insistent. A screw in the utility closet was good the first few times before it gets old.
Of course, being highly functioning means that Sherlock lacks a few of the telltale traits. He has the occasional brush with remorse and only taps into the pathological lying when it's necessary. He even holds a distant capacity for love that hung in the back of his mind like an empty wineskin - in it's deflated state, no one really knows how much it holds. However, he never tires of the chase. The seduction is so much more interesting than the stagnating "love" that everyone else seems to want.
Except John. Sherlock held him at arm's length, trying to decode him. John always had an layered quality to him. Having lived with so little, it seemed like he could comfortably expect anything and accept it in turn. He liked the chase almost as much as Sherlock. And Sherlock began to feel that wineskin catch droplets of something he dared not call by name.
Then, it struck him. That need to not engulf John wasn't just for analytical purposes. Sherlock wanted to protect him. Telling everyone he was asexual was habitual by that point, but if what he was feeling was love, then he didn't want to muck it up by making the wrong move. Sherlock somehow felt like a bull in a china shop, trying to pick his way to John who was perhaps more fragile a teacup than he seemed.
Bumbling. That was the right word. He was fumbling through with an uncharacteristic anti-finesse fitting of schoolgirl. Getting John to take things out of his pockets for him, come at his call, ripping away the semtex coat - all poor excuses for suave, all terrible ways to get John to just touch him. His skin hunger made him indiscreet and he had no idea what to do about it. Sherlock never reveled in the feeling of being stumped, but he found a different kind of pleasure in this not knowing.
So when John finally brought it up, Sherlock couldn't seem to smooth the situation over. They were in the flat, so he had no flashy deduction to wave in front of John to distract him. He tried merely ignoring it, but the man just short of sat on him, tearing the book from his grasp and tossing it across the room. He had insisted. He had kissed Sherlock.
He knew the feeling should be a release of tension. That it should have felt good for the person who had been steadily condensing into the dry sack of Sherlock's love actually did it intentionally. But it didn't. Fear - real fear - sank into Sherlock's stomach and he pushed away.
John had been confused. Sherlock knew he would be. But instead of rising to leave, Sherlock held him in place.
"I don't want you to be like the others." He said.
It wasn't until later that he realised how it might have been misconstrued. He hadn't meant that John would be like the others - misleading and annoying - but rather that he wouldn't want whatever they had to be nothing but empty sex and mimicked gestures. But John seemed to understand. Another layer that Sherlock knew he would never really figure out.
But, in a strange way, he was alright with that.