Fic for snarryfool: Chances Are (3/3)
We leave the market area behind and walk east towards the city centre. John suddenly stops in front of the luxurious Mondrian hotel and announces. “I have a room here for tonight. I used a gift certificate I won in a hospital fundraiser last year. ”
I am mildly surprised that he has chosen this use up his expensive certificate for his tryst tonight. It’s my cue to go, and once again, I turn to flag down a cab.
“Wait!” he says. He runs a hand through his hair, takes a deep breath, and adds, “Do you want to come up for a drink?”
My mind misfires different interpretations of what he might mean by that (apart from the obvious). I am not often surprised by John’s actions and words. He is for the most part quite transparent to me. I have no idea what he is doing. Imaginary Mycroft rolls his eyes at me.
The logical side of my brain is reviewing all the data and spewing out the obvious conclusion ‘I’m person X.’ The emotional side of my brain is fiercely trying to refute the evidence. I can’t be X. It seems so impossible. I’m too male, too rude, too different.
“Well?” John inquires nervously.
“I’m not remotely thirsty,” I blurt out uselessly. Both sides of my brain groan in misery.
“I know, I know,” John says. “I’m not really asking for a drink. It’s just an expression. It means, er, it means I don’t really want us to go our separate ways right now.”
I know that (Really, I do!) I’m forced to accept that I’m X.
But why? Is John doing an experiment? Is this a trick? I’m missing something. John might want my company but I’d be very surprised if wanted me in that particular context.
It doesn’t add up. I’m missing something, I conclude once more.
Why is John seeking my company when he clearly is ready to have sex again?
And why has he chosen a venue fit for a honeymoon night and---
Oh.
OH.
I’ve been a blind idiot.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
How did I manage to misinterpret all the signs? John sad and off-kilter. John pre-occupied and fidgety.
I promptly remove myself from the list. Of course, I’m not person X. Why would I be? Why would I be X on anyone’s list? (You’re a chore to be with, Sherlock. You’re hard on the head, Sherlock.)
John had me tag along all day because he doesn’t want to be alone on the anniversary of the day he lost his family. And despite the fact that he has never forgiven Mary for all of her lies, the memories of how it all ended is still traumatic to him.
I remember how last year he spent the anniversary with me in Baker Street, completely intoxicated and inconsolable.
I suddenly panic when I realize that it’s up to me to console John again tonight. I’m not exactly what you would call the comforting type. (You’re the selfish type, Sherlock). I don’t really want the task but the feeling passes quickly.
Of course, I am the perfect person to distract John on this day of memorial. And John does not want pity. He wants to take his mind off his past.
“Yes. I will come up with you-but no drinks.”
John seems both surprised and pleased. A warmth fills my belly at the thought that I’ve made him feel good.
We walk in, and John checks in. I check my phone. There is a message in my Science of deduction inbox. I ignore it. I won’t abandon John tonight.
John returns, key in hand, and we walk to the elevator. We enter and he pushes on the number 8. I look at John in the mirror of the elevator and I am presented with multiple views of my friend.
He looks good.
His hair has grown out a bit (he’d gone back to short military style after the deaths of his wife ). He is due for a haircut. I like the colour and I would probably like the texture. It seems dense; coarse. I have a strong urge to touch it.
Who cares, who cares… John’s hair doesn’t matter to me. Follicles. That’s all.
The rest of the ride up is normal. We continue different strands of different conversations that we both know where we’ve left off. John tells me that he is interested in taking a medical forensic course and what do I think of that?
Of course, I think any course is useless and that they are all imbeciles.
But I refrain from voicing my opinion as I in fact don’t know much about the content of the course. Also, John’s interest benefits me. I’m pleased that he’s interested in pursuing a field in medicine that is closely tied to the Work.
We arrive in front of room 832. John slides the key and opens the door to the room. It’s a nice room; a large suite with a small red sofa and French doors that open on to the bedroom. There are large panoramic windows overlooking the city.
John takes off his jacket and toes off his shoes. He gives me a small smile and walks to the window.
I take off my Belstaff, hang it up in the closet, and wonder what I’m supposed to do next. Part of me regrets figuring out John’s mood. It would be easier to just up and leave.
John is still looking at the view of the city, and I (ironically) get myself a bottle of water from the mini fridge. My throat is so dry.
“Do you need to talk about Mary?” I ask, taking advantage of the fact that he has his back to me.
He turns and gives me an odd look. “No, not really,” he says.
Oh, he probably already did when we were sitting on the bench earlier. Now it’s time for me to distract him, isn’t?
There’s not much in terms of distractions here. “Do you want to watch a movie?”
He grins. “Yes, sure, I’ll just use the loo first.”
When he returns, we both sit on the bed, legs stretched out, our backs leaning against the headboard, and our heads propped on several oversized pillows.
John turns on the TV. There’s a documentary about evergreen trees playing and the host of the show is discussing Christmas trees, needles, and photosynthesis. For some unknown reason, this is what we decide to watch instead of a movie.
Photosynthesis is fascinating chemistry and I find I’m enjoying myself even though the host is overly simplifying things
I’m secretly pleased that John is interested. “Christ, I memorized all this in uni but I never really understood the light reaction.”
“I’ll explain it to you if you want,” After all, there’s nothing like non-cyclic photophosphorylation to take your mind off things.
“Why not?” says John, amused. He reaches over to the bedside table and grabs the hotel stationary and a pen. “Let’s see if you can do a better job than Dr Garbary.”
He hands me sheet after sheet as I scribble out notes, explanations, and diagrams. He laughs as they spread and litter the surface of the bed around us.
He picks up one of the notes and frowns. “Okay, now you’ve lost me.”
I huff impatiently and grab a different paper. “That’s the one you need to understand.” I toss it at him.
He takes it and tilts his head. “Is this supposed to be a plant?” He’s focusing on the irrelevant part. Annoying. (Charming.)
“It’s a sunflower. And this is a three dimensional sagittal view of a leaf,” I explain.
“Ha. You drew a flower for me. That’s so sweet.”
He looks at me and I feel heat creeping up the back of my neck.
“You know, I didn’t invite you here to teach me about photosynthesis,” John says, playful. There’s a light in his eyes. It makes me hopeful and at the same time it scares me.
“Why did you invite me then?” My question comes out anxious; breathless. (Pathetic.)
It takes a long time for John to reply.
He smiles. “Your company… nothing… this,” he says waving his hand to indicate the litter of notes on the bed.
His expression is odd. A mix of wistfulness and fondness. Yes, definitely fondness. But there’s also a hint of challenge in his eyes. My heart is beating very fast (as if John has slipped stimulant in my water). We stare at each other for a few interminable seconds until John unconsciously wets his bottom lip.
Then it hits me and I can’t ignore the facts anymore. I’m in a hotel room, sharing a bed with John, and John is more than likely flirting with me.
I am X after all.
I’m so ridiculously stupid that even imaginary Mycroft can’t be bothered to make an appearance.
John wants to have sex with me. I have no idea what to do with this information. I can’t think anymore. There is a coiling warmth spreading through me, weakening my limbs and more worryingly; weakening my mind.
I stand abruptly and merely point to the bathroom.
Is John indeed asking to change the parameters of our friendship? If yes, what are the benefits to me?
I enter the bathroom and lean against the (fake) marble vanity top. There is a small tube of toothpaste and John’s toothbrush is wet. There is a guest toothbrush on the counter.
I really need to think this through carefully. I wish I had my violin to help me process the multitude of emotions I suppose hotels don’t provide guest violins, do they?
After everything John and I have been through, I never thought it would ever come down to this. I can admit to myself that I’ve pinned for him until it physically squeezed the lining of my stomach. And, of course, I love him, I think impatiently.
But love does not necessarily equal sex.
But apparently, John does want me that way. I question his self-preservation instincts.
Think, think, think…
All evidence points in the direction that he has thought about this. This entire night (day!) was planned. In fact, he ‘s been romancing me all day.
But why a hotel? Why not just meet me in 221B?
Why not tell me I’m X?
Ha. He wants me to figure it out. He wants me to make the first move. I could go home right now and pretend that I never caught on. John would then know I am not interested or extremely clueless and therefore not aware enough to be interested.
I shake my head in disbelief. How long has he been exploring if we can be more to each other? (Probably when he became nervous around me).
He must’ve had flares of attraction?
Is he confusing his intense admiration of me for lust?
The thought worries me. I don’t necessarily want lust. I don’t like to lose control of my body or my emotions.
I can understand losing control to drugs… but to another person? It feels unwise… unbearable. Terrifying.
Sadly, I must concede another point to Mycroft. Sex does alarm me. Though, that being said, I am not a technically a virgin. (I take back the point.)
I’ve witnessed Victor Trevor under me, in my hands and in my mouth, yet I have never, ever wished to be on the receiving end. To completely lose faculties-even for a few seconds of intense pleasure cascading down your neurological pathways-is not worth it.
It’s not that I physically can’t. I have urges. I’m flesh and bone. It’s just that I’ve always been able to repel any desires before they reached their targeted destination.
Are you made out of Teflon, Sherlock? Victor had asked teasingly. (Maybe in hindsight he had asked sadly-I was not too good at catching nuances back then. I suppose I’m still not that gifted at it now).
What if I can’t let go when I’m with John? Would I be making him sad too?
I develop different flow charts in my mind in order to speculate on different eventualities.
If I do not make a move at this junction and leave the hotel now, chances are John will still move in with me. But for how long? Until our old age? That would be my preferred outcome.
But chances are he will meet someone new and I will lose him again. Chances are that this new person (henceforth known as person Y) won’t be understanding of our unique friendship. And what are the chances that Person Y would accept me and let John solve cases with me? I calculate the odds and they are slim. It’s very likely that within a year from now, Y will be cozily snuggling up to John Watson, and I will be cozily snuggling up to a cocktail of opioids.
John hasn’t moved back in yet, and the thought of him leaving again is unbearable.
I make my decision. I will have sex with John.
I reach for the guest toothbrush still wrapped in a clear protective plastic shield. I rip it open (will John deduce my decision from the brisk sound of plastic being crunched? Not likely.)
I use the hotel toothpaste and brush my teeth for a ridiculous amount of time. I would also like to wash my feet. I take a deep breath and push down my slight bout of OCD. There’s no need for me to scrub my feet clean. John does not care about Corynobacterium.
I jump in the shower. I can’t help it. John does not care about my eccentricities.
I come back into the room and John glances away from the TV to smile at me. Once again, it hits me just how disproportionately happy his pleased expression makes me.
He pats the bed, indicating that I am still welcomed to share the space with him. He begins to fill me in about something-the show-that I missed.
I don’t care, John. I don’t care. I’m nervous.
I feel a sensation low in my lower abdomen. I don’t know why people refer to it as butterflies-it’s stupid. At least butterflies can fly away. But this is cortisol, and cortisol does not fly. It chokes you and squeezes your esophagus and it seems there’s nothing I can do about it except swallow a few times.
I sit on the bed stiffly and I am once again reminded just how much I dislike not being in control of my body.
But nothing happens. We just continue to talk about plant physiology and such. I begin to relax and John and I recapture the easy camaraderie from before. John doesn’t mention the shower. My hair is wet surely he has noticed?
Of course he has. I remind myself that he is letting me decide. Letting me make the first move…
We watch holiday special on TV. Even though our eyes are glued to the telly, I don’t think either of us is paying much attention to the show (something about the history of Saint Nicholas around the world).
I glance at him from the corner of my eye and he does the same thing. We turn away at the same time. Millions of seconds pass and still nothing is said.
At this point, I could turn on my side, and John might then do the same. We could find the right angle and we could kiss. It seems time is distilled down to this moment. The two of us lying on our backs until one of us turns. It’s like there is a large gap between us and neither one of us wants to get too close to the edge.
From my side of the bed, I turn and I look at John. He turns too, props his head on his hand, and looks at me. Am I communicating how I feel? This is a foreign language to me. My mother tongue is numbers and codes. But surely he would say something, maybe crack a joke, if that wasn’t the outcome he was gambling for?
I take a calming breath. I’m fairly certain that if I’ve miscalculated the situation, John will forgive me a kiss more easily than he would a suicide.
I reach across the abyss and my fingertips touch his face gently as if reading braille. I feel his pores, eyebrows, nose, and his lips. His eyes are fixed on me the entire time. I rise up on my elbow and l reach over and slide my hand in his hair (it’s soft, not coarse). I pull him towards me and I finally press my lips against his.
He lets me.
I kiss him again and then my lips are everywhere on his face. I move back to his mouth and trace his lips with my tongue. John shivers. He likes it.
“I didn’t get it wrong,” I whisper into his mouth.
“You rarely do,” he replies. His cheeks are flushed, and his voice is breathless. He gathers me into his arms, and presses his face into my hair. “God Sherlock…” is all he says. I tuck myself snuggly against his chest. There, I let him hold me.
After a while, I find myself wishing to touch his skin. It seems John has toned down my jitters and desire rises to the surface. I pull his shirt out of his trousers, and sneak my hand underneath. I explore his back and then his buttock.
“Are you sure, John?” I ask. It’s an incredibly clichéd question, I hope the sheer stupidity of it doesn’t summon Mycroft in my mind. (Oh, Sherlock, the man has been planning this for weeks, obviously, he’s sure.)
John laughs, the sound rattling softly in my ear. “No,” he replies. “I’m not sure. Not at all. It’s a bit of a gamble. I don’t want to risk our friendship.”
John’s surprising admission dissipates my doubts. I’m a much better gambler than John is. “Odds are we’ll be fine.”
“Well, come here then,” he says. I scuttle up his chest until we are face to face. He kisses me. My mouth opens and our tongues meet. The sensation is soft and silky like warm honey. I’m drowning in bliss and for once I’m not thinking about papillary tissue infused with amylase.
We are engulfed in slow, explorative, drugging kisses for a long time.
My desire to know is now a raging thirst. I kiss him with a fierce ruthlessness that surprises John. My lips are crazed and eager.
Eons ago, I accepted I longed for John. Now, I begin to feel a longing so strong, so desperate, I fear it will drive him away in its sheer intensity.
I kiss him deeply over and over until our bodies are tangled in the sheets, until it’s obvious John has made me a little demented.
I don’t hold back the flash flood of lust that gushes through me. It flows and pounds away at the walls of my blood vessels. I’m a little amazed-and more than a little embarrassed-at how aroused I am already.
John, what are you doing to me?
When we both come up for air, John laughs. “Go figure,” he says out of breath. “Go bloody figure you’d be like a fucking volcano in bed.”
Somehow, in between manic bouts of kissing, we manage to undress each other until we are both naked in the middle of a nest of white sheets and oversized pillows. John gathers me in his arms and tells me I’m fucking beautiful.
He rolls on top of me (maybe to prevent me from floating away) and his knees anchor me down. John’s thighs are touching mine and our cocks are warm and hard pressed together between our bodies.
He slides down next to me and then his hand is around me, moving up and down my shaft in long, slow strokes. It seems my neurological process has been reduced to one functioning synapse that keeps firing the same message: John. I am now a one-celled organism; possibly an amoeba.
I’m drowning into the rhythm of his hand as random observations play hide and go seek with my consciousness.
Love
Warm
John
Heartbeat
Humbled
Static in my groin chases all thoughts away. I thrust in John’s fist, buzzing at the base of his hand. He leans his forehead on mine. Through the pulsing in my ears, I hear him murmur things like ‘Beautiful creature, I love you so much it scares me, Jesus look at you.’ Finally, I let go and I let him witness my free fall. A work of art made of stained glass shatters to pieces in my head and I climax in John’s fist and unto my stomach. I’m a blank slate smeared in breathtaking colours.
I come out of my fog and John is falling apart at his own hand, his face buried in my shoulder. I reach out and place my hand over his and I follow his rhythm, my thumb moving over the tip of his cock. “Yes,” he stutters, “God yes.” He comes fierce and hard on my groin. He is, by far, the most beautiful man alive.
After a while, John moves and gives me a tiny, bashful smile. “Well…” he says, his cheeks crimson. “Jackpot.”
I groan at his miserable attempt at gambling humour. He ruffles my hair and gathers me in his arms. We are curled around each other like cats. I keep still, enjoying the sensation of John’s body warm against mine until we both fall asleep.
~~~***~~~
Ten days later, we are getting ready to go to my parent’s house for Christmas dinner. John looks dashing in his new periwinkle shirt and charcoal suit. He is so handsome that I contemplate how long it would take to strip him naked, kiss him senseless, and have sex again in front of our fireplace before heading out.
It seems I have become quite fond of letting go.
But even if we had time I don’t think John would be overly interested. I have never seen him so nervous in my life. He is fidgety and a little short-tempered. He keeps rubbing the back of his neck, checking the time, and shaking his head briskly as if trying to keep negative thoughts at bay.
“What’s wrong, John?” I finally ask. It’s quite annoying to me to have him so jittery. “Is it something to do with my parents?” I prompt. It’s the only variable that makes sense.
John closes his eyes and sighs, “Yeah.”
When he opens his eyes again, I fear he might cry but instead, he collects himself, and takes the bottle of wine that’s on the table and holds it up towards me.
“This doesn’t feel like it’s enough Sherlock. What do-What do I say to your parents Sherlock? ‘Hi, I know last time you invited me here, my wife had just shot your son because of me, and then your son drugged both of you because of me, and, as if that weren’t enough, your son also killed someone because of me… but anyway, here’s a nice bottle of Merlot to go with dinner. Don’t worry, I didn’t bring a loaded gun into your home this year. Peace on Earth and goodwill to all!’”
I stare at John blankly. I have no idea what to do with this outpouring of complicated emotions. I’m not even sure why any of this matters. I want to tell him that I’ve done so many awful things in my past that my parents are quite used to it. But John looks so tense, so unhappy, and I sense that this is not what he wants to hear.
“I’m sorry,” I say because this seems to be the thing that works best when John is upset.
“No, Sherlock, it’s not you.” John puts the bottle back down on the table and sighs. “I don’t think you understand…” (I don’t) “But I really want your parents to like me. Christ, I want your parents to know that I would do anything for you as well. I want them to know how much you are loved and cherished and God- God, I don’t want them to hate me because I plan on being with you for the rest of my life!”
I do my very best not to call him an idiot. Thankfully, I succeed.
John is being ridiculous. My parents adore him. They know the only reason I’m alive is because of his presence in my life. They know that he has humanized me and that he’s mon point de repère when I’m socially lost.
I cast a quick look at John before I continue my explanation. John is still looking miserable, staring at his feet like a school boy waiting to see the headmaster for something he’s done wrong.
It dawns on me that I should probably reassure him out loud.
I reach over and lift his chin up. His blue eyes stare at mine solemnly. He is so handsome. I would much prefer kiss him than talk. But I suppose he needs to hear this.
“John, you’re an idiot,” I start. (Oh well, I tried. But what can I say, he is!) “I can assure you that my parents don’t hate you. They know everything you’ve done for me. They also know that you offered your life at the pool in exchange for my life. They are well aware that you knew nothing about my death and were horrified that I let you believe that you couldn’t talk me out of committing suicide in front of you. Also, I attract danger, John. They know that Mary would not have been placed in your path if it weren’t for me. They know that everything that followed was my fault. They know you’re… ”
my best friend, my confidant, my mentor, my doctor, my conspirator, my teacher, my caretaker, my blogger, my lover.
The words get jammed in my throat and I can’t talk anymore. I gather him in my arms and hide my face in his neck. When the tightness in my windpipe recedes, I finally finish my sentence. “You’re my everything.”
I feel John’s warm breath caressing my hair and I can tell that he’s smiling now. We pull apart and there is a suspicious moisture gathering on his lower eyelashes. He swallows. “Sherlock, you’re my everything too. I love you and--”
“I know, I know,” I say. I give him a quick kiss in apology for interrupting. But if we continue this absurd romantic nonsense, chances are we’ll never make it to my parents place tonight (though, that would be an excuse I’ve never used before).
“Shall we?” I say, pointing to the door.
John picks up the bottle of wine again and nods. We go down the stairs and John opens the door for me. We step outside the cool evening air, he takes my hand, and leads towards the black vehicle waiting to take us to my family home.
“I still don’t think that’s enough,” John says about the merlot sitting on his lap.
He still doesn’t realize that the real gift to my parents is bringing me home alive and well (and in love).
~~~The End~~~