Sherlock fic: On the Edge of Normal
Title: On the Edge of Normal
Fandom: BBC’s Sherlock
Pairing: Hotson
Words: 2,475
Summary: When Sherlock’s mother is ill John considers their relationship.
Rating: Sex and discussion of drug use… so adult.
They were in Scotland Yard. Sherlock was agitated and John wanted to ease that but he thought a case, a few hours of distraction, might help Sherlock get centred before the days ahead of them. But when Donovan called him a freak for the umpteenth time Sherlock fixed her with a stare, turned around and walked out. John was on edge too or he wouldn’t have done what he did next.
He turned to Lestrade and said, “Can’t you ever once muzzle your dogs? Next time you call make sure they’re in check. It takes a big man to admit when he needs help. But it’s sad that there is no one in your department that is competent enough to do their job. Either get better sergeants who can work without his help or manage your own to be polite to him.”
“Would he be willing to come in later?” asked Lestrade looking defeated. “Could you talk him into it?”
“No, we have to go to see his mother tonight.”
“Why?” asked Lestrade.
“She stopped responding to the chemo,” said John. “We’ll be gone for at least a few weeks.” He saw that Donovan at least had the good grace to look ashamed. “Good day.” He left, going to find Sherlock. His cell phone rang and he picked up without looking at caller ID, able to guess who it was. “Hello, Mycroft.”
“Shall I expect you earlier than we agreed?” John made a noncommittal noise. “I’ll get take-out. I doubt you’ve gotten him to eat in the last few days.” John gave another noncommittal noise. “I’ll send a car at the train station.”
“Not Anthea, he doesn’t like her,” said John. He hung up as he walked out into the street and saw Sherlock, leaning against the wall.
“Mycroft called,” said Sherlock. It wasn’t a question. “He’ll get food. So we’d best eat. It will irritate him.”
“You’re starting a round of baiting Mycroft before you’ve even seen him?”
“It’s my favourite game, John, indulge me.”
John nodded, “Fine. Thai?” Sherlock nodded. They started to walk towards their favourite Thai place and Baker Street. As they walked John repeatedly bumped their shoulders and Sherlock had a small smile. It was the only display of affection Sherlock would ever have permitted in public. They got the take-out (catfish for Sherlock and shrimp for John) and went home. Sherlock was quiet as they ate and John said, “Are you alright?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” asked Sherlock, an edge to his voice telling John to tread carefully.
“You left after what Donovan said.”
Sherlock shrugged, “It’s become so boring. She says freak, I imply she’s a whore. It’s boring, known, I need excitement.”
“You’re not a freak,” said John not letting it drop, needing to say it. Sherlock just looked at him. “You’re brilliant, you’re amazing. You’re different; special: not a freak.”
“Sociopath,” reminded Sherlock.
“You love me,” said John, “sociopaths don’t love people.” Sherlock studied him again. “You’re antisocial, cold and mean. You’re only a little sociopathic.”
Sherlock gave him a brief smile. “The staff doesn’t like me.”
“Which staff?”
“Mummy’s staff. They think I’m a freak. They don’t say it to my face, but they watch me. They like Mycroft, he covers well.” John knew this was true, had seen it first hand on the few occasions Sherlock hadn’t been able to find an excuse to not go. Sherlock loved his mother, another sign that he wasn’t fully sociopathic, so occasionally they’d had to visit.
Sherlock didn’t care about the individuals who didn’t like him. He didn’t care that people thought he was odd. He only cared when people who should have liked him called him a freak. But there was some little part of Sherlock, the bullied child long gone, that got cut by the word freak. There were people like Sebastian Wilkes, an over grown bully, who would call Sherlock when he was in trouble and pay him exorbitant amounts to fix it but never once call him for a drink. Sebastian, a supposed old friend, called him a freak for his skills while paying him to use them. And as much as Sherlock mocked the man and seemingly messed with him in a glib, friendly, way there was that little hint that Sherlock loathed everything the man was.
John left the line of thought and shook his head. “Mycroft is a full blown psychopath. Psychopaths cover better. I think you’re the only person on Earth who he loves and yet he has so many friends.”
Sherlock smirked, “True… but he does love me.” While Sherlock was rarely given to self examination he was sometimes depressed and there was a downcast look in his eyes even as he joked.
John rounded the table and kissed Sherlock firmly but chastely. “I do too. And I will be with you should any of the staff say anything. You’re not a freak: you’re mine.”
Sherlock ran his fingers over the tattoo on the inside of John’s wrists, the simple letters SH. On his own there were the letters JW. It was the only commitment either of them needed because it was the largest thing either of them could ever give, more permanent than a ring, more meaningful than words. They could be covered by sleeves or a watch, kept secret from the world, from any form of outside judgment, but they were always there.
It had all started so slowly. It began with Moriarty saying that he would burn the heart out of Sherlock. He’d obviously meant John. Afterwards they hadn’t discussed it, hadn’t touched the subject. Then one day, months later Sherlock had said, “Quit the surgery.”
John said, “I’m supposed to help you pay the rent, remember?”
“We get paid five figures a job. We don’t need money. We’ll share it, it doesn’t matter. This will be so much more fun.”
“But why should I quit?”
“I need you with me. I always miss one small thing, you always spot it. I don’t like doing this alone. You appreciate me, you help. I like the audience. Quit the surgery.”
John had thought about it and nodded, “Okay.” And so he’d become the Consulting Detective’s Consulting Physician, blogger and personal doctor. He was the one who reminded Sherlock that no matter how hard he hit a dead body with a riding crop it would never bruise. He was the one who cajoled Sherlock into eating occasionally, cutting back on the nicotine patches, to sleep sometimes. He was Sherlock’s captive audience and working together was fun.
A few months later Sherlock had studied him over a body and said, “Congratulations.”
John had looked up and said, “Why are you congratulating me?”
“Eleven months. This is the longest anyone has ever been able to stomach me.”
John had smiled, “We’re having fun aren’t we?” He remembered when Sherlock had said almost the same thing over Jennifer Wilson’s body on their first case. At the time John had found it distasteful but he’d become… acclimated.
Sherlock had almost smiled, “Yes, yes we are.”
A few days later Sherlock had said, “I lied.”
“This isn’t the longest you’ve had a flatmate?” asked John confused.
“When we went to meet the pink lady’s murderer you said it would be fine if I had a boyfriend. I agreed that it was fine. It’s not fine.” John hadn’t thought Sherlock cared enough about human interaction to have an opinion on the matter.
“It’s not fine?” repeated John.
“No. They leave, they get fed up, demand what you are incapable of giving and go. You fall back into old patterns because you’re bored and then your brother locks you into your flat for two months even though you swear you’ll stop doing the cocaine. So no, having a boyfriend isn’t fine.”
John thought about it. He gave it a few beats and then said, “I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock. I’m staying right here.”
“No,” said Sherlock. “I’m married to my work and you are dating… what’s-her-name.”
“Sarah? You always miss something. You said so yourself the first night.”
“And what have I missed?”
“We broke up over six months ago.”
“No, that can’t be. Over six months, I wouldn’t have missed that.” He looked at John who shrugged. “Why?” asked Sherlock watching him keenly.
“An ultimatum, she said she was sick of playing second fiddle to a madman with a fiddle. I told her where to get off.”
“Why?” repeated Sherlock.
“Because I’m on your team, not some girlfriend’s. And I don’t like people who give ultimatums.” And that was when Sherlock had lunged at him and kissed him demandingly and searchingly. As they broke apart John had said, “What about your work?”
Sherlock had shrugged, “It’s an open marriage.”
It was only a day later when Mycroft had abducted him and this time instead of offering him money to spy on Sherlock he offered him money to leave Sherlock. But through their previous meeting John had understood the motivation and said, “Mycroft, I’m not going anywhere, not for money, not over a fight, not out of frustration. I’m not leaving and you won’t have to get him off cocaine. Stop worrying.” He’d stood up and said, “I’ll see myself out.”
He’d gone home to where Sherlock was staring at the kettle as though he could think it into making a cup of tea. He was in pyjamas but that wasn’t unusual, he was never dressed when at home. John moved around him setting up the cups and making it for them both. Sherlock turned and watched him, “How is my brother?”
“How do you do that?”
“Simple. You smell like his aftershave. He wears too much. It permeates the air.”
“He tried to pay me to leave.”
“Did you take it?” asked Sherlock.
“No!”
Sherlock looked irritated, “John, how many times must I tell you: when Mycroft offers you money you take it. Then you run away laughing and we split it.” Then he leaned in and smelled him. He licked over John’s pulse. “Still smell like me underneath it. You’re fantastic by the way, for someone who has only done that three times before, really quite astonishing.”
“How?” asked John feeling totally flummoxed. “How could you possibly know that?”
“I could tell you the when and the who, at least, who they were to you. I could even tell you what you told yourself afterwards. But wouldn’t you like the mystery?”
“You guessed.”
“I never guess.”
“You just did.”
Sherlock smirked, “I was torn between three and four.” John laughed and Sherlock said, “Lestrade will call this afternoon, missing money. It’s not on the news yet. Come back to bed. The tea can wait.”
Three months later they’d gotten the tattoos at one in the morning, punch-drunk and giggly after a close call at the end of a case. Back home he’d taken Sherlock against the wall while Sherlock had moaned against him neck. He knew that Sherlock loved the tattoos; saw them as concrete proof that John wasn’t going anywhere. When someone as cold and detached as Sherlock got hurt the wound didn’t heal easily and trust was slow in coming.
They had known each other for over three years now. Dozens and dozens of cases later it was still fun, never boring, always theirs to share. John studied him over the empty take-out containers. “You should pack and I’ll clean out the fridge.” Sherlock nodded and left, going towards the bedroom. John opened the fridge and grimaced. Calling after him John said, “What do you want me to do with the human foot in here?”
Sherlock came back in and said, “The freezer will ruin it for the experiment. But it will smell like a corpse if we’re away long enough and Mrs. Hudson might get curious.” He looked at the foot, clearly going through a thousand scenarios in his mind. “Put it in the freezer, I’ll think of a new experiment.” John nodded and moved the bag holding the foot to the freezer. The rest was easier to deal with.
He went into the bedroom to see the damage Sherlock had caused by being left alone. But Sherlock had actually packed. He was sitting naked on the bed, holding a small vial. “No,” said John taking it away.
“John, I might need it.”
John picked up the box of nicotine patches from the bedside table and handed it to Sherlock, “No cocaine. You’re past that. These are better for you.”
“I like cocaine.”
“It’s illegal and bad for you.”
“Everything interesting is.” Sherlock unbuckled John’s belt.
“Are you saying I’m bad for you?” asked John pulling his tee-shirt over his head.
Sherlock kissed his stomach as he slid his hands into John’s trousers. “You encourage me.”
“True,” John kicked off his jeans as Sherlock pushed his briefs down and started to lick and caress him to hardness.
Once he was fully hard Sherlock leaned back and started to move up the bed. “Need this, John.” John kissed his way up Sherlock’s body but Sherlock was impatient and tugged John up to kiss him. “Done with foreplay.”
“You’re always done with foreplay,” said John reaching for lube.
“I let you hold me like a woman afterwards.” Sherlock bit his neck; it was just this side of painful. It spurred John on as he started to stretch Sherlock roughly, the way Sherlock loved it and Sherlock wound his fingers into John’s hair to pull him in for a biting kiss. Sherlock was still too tight but he liked it a little painful so John slicked his erection with lube and pushed into Sherlock. John saw the way Sherlock’s pupils dilated, the same way they did when he put on too many nicotine patches. Sherlock used a leg to pull John closer, deeper. Sherlock kissed him deeply, putting every emotion he had trouble saying aloud into the sucking, nipping amazing kiss.
Sherlock held him tightly and John knew there would be bruises but he just couldn’t bring himself to care. He stroked Sherlock’s hair and back, the gentleness easing the violence of the sex. Sherlock was silent which was a bad sign. It showed he was thinking too much which was an accomplishment for Sherlock who was always thinking. Sherlock came with a small groan he kept rocking with John until he came and slumped down against Sherlock. “I don’t want her to die,” he said. John curled around him and held him close. Sherlock rested his forehead against John’s. “She’s only sixty-three, John.” John kissed him slowly, lots of tongue and without brutality. “I’m very fond of her.” Sherlock never said he loved people, not even John, but that’s what he meant. “Stay with me?”
“Always, Sherlock, I’ll always stay.”
Sherlock watched him, studied him and then nodded. “I believe you.”
Fandom: BBC’s Sherlock
Pairing: Hotson
Words: 2,475
Summary: When Sherlock’s mother is ill John considers their relationship.
Rating: Sex and discussion of drug use… so adult.
They were in Scotland Yard. Sherlock was agitated and John wanted to ease that but he thought a case, a few hours of distraction, might help Sherlock get centred before the days ahead of them. But when Donovan called him a freak for the umpteenth time Sherlock fixed her with a stare, turned around and walked out. John was on edge too or he wouldn’t have done what he did next.
He turned to Lestrade and said, “Can’t you ever once muzzle your dogs? Next time you call make sure they’re in check. It takes a big man to admit when he needs help. But it’s sad that there is no one in your department that is competent enough to do their job. Either get better sergeants who can work without his help or manage your own to be polite to him.”
“Would he be willing to come in later?” asked Lestrade looking defeated. “Could you talk him into it?”
“No, we have to go to see his mother tonight.”
“Why?” asked Lestrade.
“She stopped responding to the chemo,” said John. “We’ll be gone for at least a few weeks.” He saw that Donovan at least had the good grace to look ashamed. “Good day.” He left, going to find Sherlock. His cell phone rang and he picked up without looking at caller ID, able to guess who it was. “Hello, Mycroft.”
“Shall I expect you earlier than we agreed?” John made a noncommittal noise. “I’ll get take-out. I doubt you’ve gotten him to eat in the last few days.” John gave another noncommittal noise. “I’ll send a car at the train station.”
“Not Anthea, he doesn’t like her,” said John. He hung up as he walked out into the street and saw Sherlock, leaning against the wall.
“Mycroft called,” said Sherlock. It wasn’t a question. “He’ll get food. So we’d best eat. It will irritate him.”
“You’re starting a round of baiting Mycroft before you’ve even seen him?”
“It’s my favourite game, John, indulge me.”
John nodded, “Fine. Thai?” Sherlock nodded. They started to walk towards their favourite Thai place and Baker Street. As they walked John repeatedly bumped their shoulders and Sherlock had a small smile. It was the only display of affection Sherlock would ever have permitted in public. They got the take-out (catfish for Sherlock and shrimp for John) and went home. Sherlock was quiet as they ate and John said, “Are you alright?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” asked Sherlock, an edge to his voice telling John to tread carefully.
“You left after what Donovan said.”
Sherlock shrugged, “It’s become so boring. She says freak, I imply she’s a whore. It’s boring, known, I need excitement.”
“You’re not a freak,” said John not letting it drop, needing to say it. Sherlock just looked at him. “You’re brilliant, you’re amazing. You’re different; special: not a freak.”
“Sociopath,” reminded Sherlock.
“You love me,” said John, “sociopaths don’t love people.” Sherlock studied him again. “You’re antisocial, cold and mean. You’re only a little sociopathic.”
Sherlock gave him a brief smile. “The staff doesn’t like me.”
“Which staff?”
“Mummy’s staff. They think I’m a freak. They don’t say it to my face, but they watch me. They like Mycroft, he covers well.” John knew this was true, had seen it first hand on the few occasions Sherlock hadn’t been able to find an excuse to not go. Sherlock loved his mother, another sign that he wasn’t fully sociopathic, so occasionally they’d had to visit.
Sherlock didn’t care about the individuals who didn’t like him. He didn’t care that people thought he was odd. He only cared when people who should have liked him called him a freak. But there was some little part of Sherlock, the bullied child long gone, that got cut by the word freak. There were people like Sebastian Wilkes, an over grown bully, who would call Sherlock when he was in trouble and pay him exorbitant amounts to fix it but never once call him for a drink. Sebastian, a supposed old friend, called him a freak for his skills while paying him to use them. And as much as Sherlock mocked the man and seemingly messed with him in a glib, friendly, way there was that little hint that Sherlock loathed everything the man was.
John left the line of thought and shook his head. “Mycroft is a full blown psychopath. Psychopaths cover better. I think you’re the only person on Earth who he loves and yet he has so many friends.”
Sherlock smirked, “True… but he does love me.” While Sherlock was rarely given to self examination he was sometimes depressed and there was a downcast look in his eyes even as he joked.
John rounded the table and kissed Sherlock firmly but chastely. “I do too. And I will be with you should any of the staff say anything. You’re not a freak: you’re mine.”
Sherlock ran his fingers over the tattoo on the inside of John’s wrists, the simple letters SH. On his own there were the letters JW. It was the only commitment either of them needed because it was the largest thing either of them could ever give, more permanent than a ring, more meaningful than words. They could be covered by sleeves or a watch, kept secret from the world, from any form of outside judgment, but they were always there.
It had all started so slowly. It began with Moriarty saying that he would burn the heart out of Sherlock. He’d obviously meant John. Afterwards they hadn’t discussed it, hadn’t touched the subject. Then one day, months later Sherlock had said, “Quit the surgery.”
John said, “I’m supposed to help you pay the rent, remember?”
“We get paid five figures a job. We don’t need money. We’ll share it, it doesn’t matter. This will be so much more fun.”
“But why should I quit?”
“I need you with me. I always miss one small thing, you always spot it. I don’t like doing this alone. You appreciate me, you help. I like the audience. Quit the surgery.”
John had thought about it and nodded, “Okay.” And so he’d become the Consulting Detective’s Consulting Physician, blogger and personal doctor. He was the one who reminded Sherlock that no matter how hard he hit a dead body with a riding crop it would never bruise. He was the one who cajoled Sherlock into eating occasionally, cutting back on the nicotine patches, to sleep sometimes. He was Sherlock’s captive audience and working together was fun.
A few months later Sherlock had studied him over a body and said, “Congratulations.”
John had looked up and said, “Why are you congratulating me?”
“Eleven months. This is the longest anyone has ever been able to stomach me.”
John had smiled, “We’re having fun aren’t we?” He remembered when Sherlock had said almost the same thing over Jennifer Wilson’s body on their first case. At the time John had found it distasteful but he’d become… acclimated.
Sherlock had almost smiled, “Yes, yes we are.”
A few days later Sherlock had said, “I lied.”
“This isn’t the longest you’ve had a flatmate?” asked John confused.
“When we went to meet the pink lady’s murderer you said it would be fine if I had a boyfriend. I agreed that it was fine. It’s not fine.” John hadn’t thought Sherlock cared enough about human interaction to have an opinion on the matter.
“It’s not fine?” repeated John.
“No. They leave, they get fed up, demand what you are incapable of giving and go. You fall back into old patterns because you’re bored and then your brother locks you into your flat for two months even though you swear you’ll stop doing the cocaine. So no, having a boyfriend isn’t fine.”
John thought about it. He gave it a few beats and then said, “I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock. I’m staying right here.”
“No,” said Sherlock. “I’m married to my work and you are dating… what’s-her-name.”
“Sarah? You always miss something. You said so yourself the first night.”
“And what have I missed?”
“We broke up over six months ago.”
“No, that can’t be. Over six months, I wouldn’t have missed that.” He looked at John who shrugged. “Why?” asked Sherlock watching him keenly.
“An ultimatum, she said she was sick of playing second fiddle to a madman with a fiddle. I told her where to get off.”
“Why?” repeated Sherlock.
“Because I’m on your team, not some girlfriend’s. And I don’t like people who give ultimatums.” And that was when Sherlock had lunged at him and kissed him demandingly and searchingly. As they broke apart John had said, “What about your work?”
Sherlock had shrugged, “It’s an open marriage.”
It was only a day later when Mycroft had abducted him and this time instead of offering him money to spy on Sherlock he offered him money to leave Sherlock. But through their previous meeting John had understood the motivation and said, “Mycroft, I’m not going anywhere, not for money, not over a fight, not out of frustration. I’m not leaving and you won’t have to get him off cocaine. Stop worrying.” He’d stood up and said, “I’ll see myself out.”
He’d gone home to where Sherlock was staring at the kettle as though he could think it into making a cup of tea. He was in pyjamas but that wasn’t unusual, he was never dressed when at home. John moved around him setting up the cups and making it for them both. Sherlock turned and watched him, “How is my brother?”
“How do you do that?”
“Simple. You smell like his aftershave. He wears too much. It permeates the air.”
“He tried to pay me to leave.”
“Did you take it?” asked Sherlock.
“No!”
Sherlock looked irritated, “John, how many times must I tell you: when Mycroft offers you money you take it. Then you run away laughing and we split it.” Then he leaned in and smelled him. He licked over John’s pulse. “Still smell like me underneath it. You’re fantastic by the way, for someone who has only done that three times before, really quite astonishing.”
“How?” asked John feeling totally flummoxed. “How could you possibly know that?”
“I could tell you the when and the who, at least, who they were to you. I could even tell you what you told yourself afterwards. But wouldn’t you like the mystery?”
“You guessed.”
“I never guess.”
“You just did.”
Sherlock smirked, “I was torn between three and four.” John laughed and Sherlock said, “Lestrade will call this afternoon, missing money. It’s not on the news yet. Come back to bed. The tea can wait.”
Three months later they’d gotten the tattoos at one in the morning, punch-drunk and giggly after a close call at the end of a case. Back home he’d taken Sherlock against the wall while Sherlock had moaned against him neck. He knew that Sherlock loved the tattoos; saw them as concrete proof that John wasn’t going anywhere. When someone as cold and detached as Sherlock got hurt the wound didn’t heal easily and trust was slow in coming.
They had known each other for over three years now. Dozens and dozens of cases later it was still fun, never boring, always theirs to share. John studied him over the empty take-out containers. “You should pack and I’ll clean out the fridge.” Sherlock nodded and left, going towards the bedroom. John opened the fridge and grimaced. Calling after him John said, “What do you want me to do with the human foot in here?”
Sherlock came back in and said, “The freezer will ruin it for the experiment. But it will smell like a corpse if we’re away long enough and Mrs. Hudson might get curious.” He looked at the foot, clearly going through a thousand scenarios in his mind. “Put it in the freezer, I’ll think of a new experiment.” John nodded and moved the bag holding the foot to the freezer. The rest was easier to deal with.
He went into the bedroom to see the damage Sherlock had caused by being left alone. But Sherlock had actually packed. He was sitting naked on the bed, holding a small vial. “No,” said John taking it away.
“John, I might need it.”
John picked up the box of nicotine patches from the bedside table and handed it to Sherlock, “No cocaine. You’re past that. These are better for you.”
“I like cocaine.”
“It’s illegal and bad for you.”
“Everything interesting is.” Sherlock unbuckled John’s belt.
“Are you saying I’m bad for you?” asked John pulling his tee-shirt over his head.
Sherlock kissed his stomach as he slid his hands into John’s trousers. “You encourage me.”
“True,” John kicked off his jeans as Sherlock pushed his briefs down and started to lick and caress him to hardness.
Once he was fully hard Sherlock leaned back and started to move up the bed. “Need this, John.” John kissed his way up Sherlock’s body but Sherlock was impatient and tugged John up to kiss him. “Done with foreplay.”
“You’re always done with foreplay,” said John reaching for lube.
“I let you hold me like a woman afterwards.” Sherlock bit his neck; it was just this side of painful. It spurred John on as he started to stretch Sherlock roughly, the way Sherlock loved it and Sherlock wound his fingers into John’s hair to pull him in for a biting kiss. Sherlock was still too tight but he liked it a little painful so John slicked his erection with lube and pushed into Sherlock. John saw the way Sherlock’s pupils dilated, the same way they did when he put on too many nicotine patches. Sherlock used a leg to pull John closer, deeper. Sherlock kissed him deeply, putting every emotion he had trouble saying aloud into the sucking, nipping amazing kiss.
Sherlock held him tightly and John knew there would be bruises but he just couldn’t bring himself to care. He stroked Sherlock’s hair and back, the gentleness easing the violence of the sex. Sherlock was silent which was a bad sign. It showed he was thinking too much which was an accomplishment for Sherlock who was always thinking. Sherlock came with a small groan he kept rocking with John until he came and slumped down against Sherlock. “I don’t want her to die,” he said. John curled around him and held him close. Sherlock rested his forehead against John’s. “She’s only sixty-three, John.” John kissed him slowly, lots of tongue and without brutality. “I’m very fond of her.” Sherlock never said he loved people, not even John, but that’s what he meant. “Stay with me?”
“Always, Sherlock, I’ll always stay.”
Sherlock watched him, studied him and then nodded. “I believe you.”