[fic] My skin 1/3
Title: My skin
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Author comment: Basically I saw this http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h5oLoRpt9LU and got so obsessed with the song that I had to write about it. Hence comes the song fic to My Skin by Natalie Merchant. It follows the lyrics, hopefully it makes sense. Of course I advice to listen to the song before and during reading this.
Summary: Sherlock has always been different, and he had learned to accept that. It was just rational to do so. However, he can’t understand what his body and heart wants most of the time. So this is a physical and psychological travel from angst and insecurity to a healthy relationship. First time.
Warnings: Very angsty at the beginning, but I promise, there is a happy ending. It has spoilers to season 1 ending, but not that much really. It is strickly Sherlock POV, so everything that is said about the other characters is related to how Sherlock perceives them, how he thinks they are feeling. It’s probably very OC.
Word Count: Around 6220 words
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
MY SKIN
Take a look at my body
Look at my hands
There's so much here
That I don't understand
Sherlock’s brain worked much better than anyone else’s, thank you very much.
It was a conclusion he had reached quite early in his life, back when he started secondary school after years of home-schooling, and along came the realization that he was utterly and fatefully alone in the world.
No one was like him, thus no one could understand him.
No one would ever be other than insupportably boring to him.
What came soon after that first epic deduction was the rebellion, going against his body, that dirty entity that betrayed his mind and made him wish for things that could never be.
How could he long for a connection when he knew very well there could be none?
So there he was, in the middle of a world he could see painfully clear with a body that he still had no notion about, with people fussing over things that meant nothing to his highly logical mind.
It was his personal cage, his condemnation, and all he had always implicitly wanted was to find an escape from these pathetic feelings linked to his flesh.
Except that he knew now it was not possible.
He had tried self-destruction with quite an effort in the past, making his body an even more annoying wreck.
Ironically his mind could not bear wasting his only life time either.
He grew up of course, he found some sort of balance.
It went a lot with ignoring urges really, but he got so used to practicing insensitivity that it became a part of him.
Funny how things really did get easier once he was an adult.
Funny how everything went out the window the moment he realized he was in love John Watson.
John Watson of all people!
It didn’t make any sense, of course. Objectively there was nothing special about him, and Sherlock hadn’t even realized he Wanted a friend until he already had him.
Sherlock Holmes didn’t have friends, he had only one.
And now he was in love with that very friend, no doubt just a trick of his body reaching out to adapt to traditional boundaries (in quite a mad way if he had a say in it). Apparently he was craving for a connection after so many years and quite unexpectedly so, he had never thought it would come back, he sincerely thought he had got over hoping years ago.
So here he was, a stranger to a body and heart that were begging him to hug, kiss, cuddle and fuck, a stranger to love and ready for rejection.
There could be nothing else after all.
His body was just a cold cage, how could it appeal to anyone?
Your face saving promises
Whispered like prayers
I don't need them
The main problem was John’s personality really.
He was just so… lovable.
He had come into the life of a sociopath and accepted him without putting up a fight.
Oh because Sherlock was used to rejection, he usually got rejection even before trying to get close to someone, some would say it was what he sought for, and he liked everyone to believe that as well, it made things easier in his head.
He wanted to believe that as well.
Because that way it wouldn’t hurt.
John never rejected him. Never even dreamt of it.
He complained surely, but he was more entertained by his antics than anything else.
The few times he saw him truly annoyed, it was because he was too far from Sherlock to help him, (And Sherlock did try to keep him at a distance, so he had a point).
If he really looked at John, if he stared into his face as if to bear a hole in between his eyebrows, he could just see possibilities, promises of a better future, he could see himself accepted and loved.
He didn’t need that.
He didn’t want to hope for something that logically could never happen. It just didn’t make sense that it would.
I've been treated so wrong
I've been treated so long
As if I'm becoming untouchable
“Just… don’t…” he was surprised at how pathetic he sounded, stepping back from John’s touch.
The doctor looked up at him with that annoying squint, as if trying to add things up in his head and failing miserably.
“Sherlock, I need to check that wound…” he sounded professional if not for the hint of worry that wouldn’t really become a soldier.
“It’s just a scratch; we have more important matters to deal with.” He replied stubborn, and they did, he was sure they did, but his brain seemed to be seizing up with electricity at the moment and he could concentrate on nothing else.
Damn those warm fingers. And how fast they had been insinuating under his shirt! John hadn’t even asked for permission!
His skin was tingling all over and he was quite sure it wasn’t because of the blood that was rushing out of his wound.
It wasn’t a scratch.
But he wasn’t going to be forced into another moment of painful longing by those fingers, those eyes, it was just ridiculous.
John wasn’t that stupid though.
He knew he should have asked Lastrade to live with him instead; he would have been much easier to fool.
“Now you are lying down and you are letting me stitch that.” John looked at him sternly, his hands on his hips.
Sherlock winced; he hated it when he dished out the nerve of steel face. It was arousing and it really didn’t help that Sherlock just wanted to do whatever he was asked if he heard that tone.
He ignored that urge and looked at him challenging.
“Now, Sherlock.”
He shivered, but stood his ground.
“I am going to tie you up if you don’t comply.” And for the love of God, he was smirking, the bastard.
Sherlock considered the possibilities. Possibility to get caught if he complied now: 50%, if restraining was involved 99%.
“Fine.” He snapped, moving towards the couch and ignoring the pain on his side. Maybe he was even worse off than he figured; it was always so hard to understand his body.
"Nu-uh, take your shirt off first."
"Is it necessary?"
No doubt John was by now wondering why he was being such a baby. "Unless you want me to stitch the fabric to your skin as well." He muttered gathering some clean utensils; they always kept some new ones.
Sherlock had to realize John was very good at his job, he knew what was under his shirt even before the detective laid half naked on the couch, and he knew how to deal with him as well, which was something not a lot of people could brag about. Probably nobody.
Noticing this was just making things harder for Sherlock, and he covered his eyes with his arm, turning away, conscious he could not watch his body getting touched in any way.
"I am not going to hurt you, you know very well..." John said at some point, as he was applying the anaesthetic.
He huffed in reply. "I know perfectly well."
"Then what is it? I would say you are scared of doctors if you didn't look almost disgusted... Am I supposed to feel offended?" He wasn't really looking his way, concentrated in the details of what he was doing.
Sherlock laughed a bit. "Quite self-centered, are you?"
He said too much.
John looked up: "Well if it's not me, then it must be-" You.
He took a good look at Sherlock sprawled under his hands, his posture, as if assessing his value, then he sighed, in a way that made Sherlock's heart clench in his chest.
"I know what it feels like, you know." He said then, and Sherlock wanted to scoff, but his heart was stuck in his throat.
"To feel like you are untouchable."
He insistently looked away.
"But you aren't. You just aren't."
And if he took extra care in cleaning and bandaging the wound, if he caressed his skin like it was something precious, Sherlock did not comment, too engrossed in his own emotional turmoil.
Contempt loves the silence
It thrives in the dark
With fine winding tendrils
That strangle the heart
Sherlock’s lips were pursed shut for three days after John slept with random girl number five.
He knew it was bound to happen at some point, John was a man, and he was not socially inept like him, he was able to embrace his sexuality freely and he surely didn’t need to ask for Sherlock’s permission.
He didn’t even tell Sherlock.
Sherlock just deduced it, he feared it when John seemed to be coming back home quite later than usual from his date, and the confirmation was all over his friend’s body when he stumbled in.
His hair were rumpled, his clothes a mess, as he stubbornly hid his gaze from the detective.
He didn’t Need to see his eyes to know that he had fucked her.
Sherlock was smart enough to act, play the part, put on his mask, he was his usual self, at least for that night, even though he felt like he was dying inside, as if his heart was held in a painful grip he could not fight.
He had never really dealt with so much pain, and all he could do was turn silent. He held his contempt inside, as if he had any right to be angry or feel betrayed.
He was jealous, too.
To him sex was a very big deal, the greatest deal possibly, and knowing a girl he couldn’t even remember the name of had been rewarded with that kind of intimacy from John, well, that was undoing him completely.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“You are silent.” John said, it only took him a few hours to notice.
“There are no cases.” He said simply, pursuing his lips in a tense line as he watched outside the window.
“Still.”
“If you have a point, say it out loud, otherwise just make some tea will you, you are boring me.” He muttered quickly.
John rolled his eyes, and as if convinced nothing had changed, went on his merry life, oblivious to the damage.
They say that promises
Sweeten the blow
But I don't need them
No, I don't need them
Things were quickly deteriorating.
John’s attentions only made things painful.
He would get angry, he would snap and then he would sulk in his room alone.
Alone and lonely, knowing John was going to run out of his life soon enough.
It is how things work, there is always a beginning and there is always an end, no contract would keep them bound together.
The way John looked at him, by the pool, his life in danger, his life put on the line just to save Sherlock.
It was a promise all of its own.
It was undying love that would unfold and last forever, an illusion that only adrenaline could cause.
Sherlock cupped his face in his hands after all was done, checked for his pulse, checked that he was still alive and real, John was looking at him, panting, he thought Sherlock was the king of the world.
He didn’t need that.
John stood there, let Sherlock check every part of him, he just repeated he was fine, and even smiled, relieved, reaching out his arm and grabbing his shoulders in a tight hug.
It lasted longer than it should have, but it hurt to pull away nonetheless.
“I shall keep a closer eye on you, Watson.” He joked, punching his shoulder just slightly.
“Maybe you should.” And he could not tell what he really meant by that, not when his hair were ruffled and his gaze was still so adoring, scared, and so alive.
He didn’t need that.
Not when they survived and John went off to a new date.
He didn’t sleep with her, not yet.
But it was going to happen.
I've been treated so wrong
I've been treated so long
As if I'm becoming untouchable
I'm a slow dying flower
Frost killing hour
The sweet turning sour
And untouchable
He waited for it.
And when John didn't come to his summon for the first time and left him in the freezing cold of February, waiting for him, he was sure it was happening.
He stood there in front of Scotland Yard for what felt like ages, his whole body cold, his hands numb.
He didn't understand.
He thought John would never give up a case for a girl. He would have sworn on it just the day before.
And now it felt like they ripped a part of him out.
It didn't hurt though.
He was too cold to feel hurt.
Go to Part 2