Fic: Pleasurable The Poison
Title: The Curse of Connection Series
Part 2: Pleasurable The Poison
Author: she_burns1
Word Count: 6,617
Rating: Adult
Warnings: Language, sensuality, mentions of sex
Characters: Sherlock/John
Summary: Sherlock and John deal with the ramifications of the ‘curse’ as well as the secrets it revealed.
Disclaimers: I own nothing.
Author's Note: A sequel to ‘Sweet The Sting’ - this has actually transformed into a series (damn me and my brain) that will be three parts total. This installment is noteworthy as not only the second in the set, but also as a help_japan reward for my winning bidder, anon_aspasia. Hope you enjoy this, anon_aspasia and thanks again for your bid and donation! Also thanks to fang_lover88 for beta and sorry, still unbrit!picked - so if you notice anything, please let me know!
Previous Parts: Sweet The Sting
Sherlock stood under the spray of water watching the last remnants of his encounter with John swirl and disappear down the drain. He titled his head back, whispering to himself, “Good Lord.”
He felt shell shocked. Numb. His mind, his brilliant, keen, effervescent mind was going out of its’ way to betray him, to torment him, replaying the moment over and over again. His body too, was in on the deception, mouth tingling, lips still recalling the feel of that last kiss. All of it swarmed around him, a compendium of John - John’s scent in his nose, John’s hands on his skin, John’s taste in his mouth…
It had been too much to hope for, he supposed, the idea that the sooner that the ‘curse’ as John had dubbed it, had been dealt with, the sooner he could get back to the normal routine of his life. It had been a bad idea, too, to let John be the ‘cure’. A horrid, grotesque, absolutely morbid idea and, in reflection, when John had initially suggested it, Sherlock knew his objections should have been more resolute.
He had known John would offer. There had been no question about that. But when the time had come to crush the very notion, Sherlock’s tongue had become tied and then John had touched his knee, the barest, lightest of touches, and Sherlock knew there was no way he could possibly say ‘no’.
And it had absolutely nothing to do with the ‘curse’.
Nothing to do with relieving the symptoms, though they had pained him, no, it had everything to do with the very fabric of his being, of his relationship with John, of his blasted feelings which were mortifyingly embarrassing. Everyone knew - Sherlock Holmes did not have a heart. He did not have feelings. To suggest otherwise was an unthinkable error.
Yet…yet there were these stirrings, these god awful stirrings, that seemed hell bent on changing the very alchemy of his soul, of altering him, of irrevocably disfiguring him as an individual and they had come on so quietly, so deceptively, that he had almost missed them entirely. Like a clever, quick poison it seeped its' way through his veins, intertwining throughout his bloodstream, compromising him.
The water was beginning to get cold and Sherlock shut it off, stood there, dripping wet and his exhale echoed, abnormally loud to his ears. He resolved to delete the whole affair. That was for the best. That was what he had promised John and, more importantly, what he had promised himself. Forget the whole thing. It never happened.
One last kiss, hands tangled in John’s hair, John’s lips warm and full and soft against his own. He had needed it. Just one. Just one more…
Sherlock swallowed, blinked, and decided there was no harm in choosing to delete the memory later.
§
Sherlock initially believed the whole debacle of the curse was behind them.
He hated to be mistaken. Absolutely, utterly loathed it.
At first everything between John and himself seemed perfectly normal and natural. The status quo. But as time wore on it became more and more obvious that John was the equivalent to a volcano on the verge of eruption.
There were several half started and stopped sentences, stammers, and that look in his eyes. One that spoke of a hunger for knowledge but carried the wary weight of one who senses encroaching awkwardness should that hunger be quenched. He had seen this before but there had been a stronger element of shame, John too proud to ask for financial aid.
Sherlock did his best to avoid the confrontation. He found distractions with cases, experiments, anything to keep John and himself from discussing what was weighing on John’s mind. He alleged that, diverted long enough, John would simply forget and refocus his energies elsewhere keeping everything in its’ fine working form, in its’ intrinsic harmony.
Truthfully, he should have known better and that disturbed him as badly as being mistaken.
It was an abysmally lackluster evening when John cornered him, courage held fast as he spoke, “Sherlock, I want to ask you something.”
Sherlock, who had been sitting in the kitchen hunched over one of his experiments, sat upright and rubbed at his neck, breath hissing out between his teeth, “What?”
John licked his lips and herein lay the moment where he usually muttered a ‘nothing’ or some other randomly useless remark, but this time, this time, he managed a weak, “It’s…about that…curse.”
“What curse?”
“The-the one…you, you know, the one, um…where you-”
“I have no idea what on earth you are talking about. Perhaps it was some event that was so inconsequential that I deleted it.” This was said with the kind of stressed pronunciation that should have signaled to John to stop talking.
He didn’t.
“Sherlock-”
Sherlock chose to relent a little, quick mind offering a completely reasonable solution, “It wasn’t a curse, you know.”
“Yeah?”
“No, it was actually a narcotic. In a manner of speaking. Certainly a chemical compound. Found it on the letter our dear Romanian woman slipped under the door. Analyzed it, tested it, and there you have it. Mystery solved, questions answered, case closed.”
“An…aphrodisiac?”
“Scientifically no such drug exists and most claiming to have been under the influence of said aphrodisiacs are more likely given over to the placebo effect than anything else, but, yes, I guess you could argue that that is what I was afflicted with and, through physical transference, so were you.”
“Oh?” John asked, eyes locked with Sherlock’s, “Really?”
“Of course.” Sherlock said with the utmost air of authority.
John digested this for a moment, then, “You’re lying.”
“I am not.”
“You are. I’ve known you long enough now to tell.”
Sherlock scoffed at the very idea and seemed more than ready to return to his experiment when John cleared his throat, “Sherlock, please. This is important. I need to talk about this.”
“Fine. Talk about it. I’m sure Sarah or Mrs. Hudson-”
“I want to talk to you about it.”
“No.”
“What?”
“I said ‘no’. As in ‘no, I do not want to talk to you about it. We are not talking about it.’ That was the agreement, John. Never to speak of it again.”
“I-I know that, but…there was…there was something about how it ended…”
“Yes, I ejaculated and the ‘curse’ as you have dubbed it was lifted. Hallelujah. There is nothing more to-”
“I kissed you.” John blurted this and Sherlock froze. He didn’t look at John, eyes back on his experiment as John continued to struggle through what he wanted to say, “And it had nothing to do with the curse. I kissed you and it…it was…”
Sherlock knew what it was. He thought of what it was quite often and despised himself for it, despised John for it, and having it mentioned now set his teeth on edge. He went to open his mouth, vicious retort at the ready when John beat him to it, voice soft and sincere, “I…don’t know why I did it.”
“Yes, why did you do it?” Sherlock snapped this with the fury he had had in mind for the other words he had been planning to speak and, what was worse, he noted that there was an actually urgency behind the question. He felt his face flush and had the sickening suspicion that he was actually suffering from embarrassment, something he was entirely unfamiliar with.
He chose to combat it by settling firmly back into his anger, “No. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter what happened because it’s over. It’s in the past. Best to move on and not think about it further as there is nothing to be gained by dwelling on it.”
“I think-”
“Oh god, help us all.” Sherlock moaned dramatically, hands tossing upwards, eyes rolling to the heavens. John scowled at him and reiterated, “I think there might be something to be gained. Or, well, I mean, the thing is…I’m…confused. I keep…keep thinking about that day. The set-up, us in the shadows, the music, the sort of unintentionally romantic-”
“It was not,” Sherlock cut in hotly, practically spitting out the words, “romantic. It was necessary. I had no other options. Trust me, if I could, I would go back in time and have settled upon my earlier recourse rather than be faced with the conversation we are currently engaged in.”
“Your earlier-?”
“I had suggested death. Death would be a blessing in comparison to this.”
John couldn’t help but snort, “It’s not that bad.”
“You want to talk about emotional significance, ridiculous romanticism, and your struggles with sexual identity. With me.” He stressed this last part and then shook his head, muttering under his breath, “Again, death, a blessing.”
A silence settled over them and Sherlock sighed, thinking maybe, maybe, John had finally relented. John scratched at the back of his head, walked out of the kitchen, walked towards his armchair, the sofa, walked back into the kitchen. Sherlock rose to his feet, readjusted the rolled up sleeves of his plum colored shirt and, with much reluctance, finally looked at John.
John chose this moment to speak again, “Sherlock…why did you kiss me?”
His voice was practically a whisper but his eyes remained locked on Sherlock’s, “I kissed you, then after you…you kissed me…and…”
“Do you want to fuck me, John?” Sherlock asked this bluntly, apropos of nothing, voice icy, “Do you want to stick your cock up my arse or vice versa?” John flinched and he caught it, sneering, “No. I didn’t think so. Let. It. Go. John.”
John looked away from him but said rigidly, “I can’t.”
The sound Sherlock released sounded as if it was being physically wrung from him, “Why not? Just because of a kiss or two? Because of some emotional turmoil? Emotional turmoil is so tedious, so needless, that’s why I’ve dedicated so much of my life to avoiding it and now here you are,” Sherlock waved a hand at him, “Right. Fine. You want me to help you? Resolve your confusion? Okay, here it is - you are, in point of fact, heterosexual and have been for the majority of your life. Perhaps you’ve had some inklings of attraction for your own gender but, in the overall scheme of things, you have settled your sexual orientation firmly. The incident with the narcotics-”
“Curse.”
“Aphrodisiac, if you must, has undoubtedly caused some unexpected questions to arise in you and your otherwise flawlessly dedicated sexual preferences up to this point but let me reassure you - you, John Watson, are best served to continue on your already chosen path. One day, I assure you, you will find some nice, standard issue woman, marry her, move out, and more like than not procreate to your heart’s content. I have no doubt you will make a perfectly acceptable husband and father."
“And you?”
Sherlock relaxed slightly and wandered past John, feeling that he was steering the conversation towards a conclusion John would find satisfactory. He settled back on the sofa, eyes cast on the ceiling, “I will continue on my own course until there is no choice but to retire. Somewhere nice, quiet, out in the country perhaps - do a spot of bee farming.”
“Bees? Really? Bees?” John sounded incredulous as he left the kitchen and sat in his armchair opposite the sofa, union jack pillow discarded to one side.
“Fascinating creatures,” Sherlock murmured, happily immersed in the new subject, “Some of them are solitary their whole lives while others live in communities. The most advanced of these being eusocial - honeybees, bumblebees, stingless bees - tiny little creatures ordered into the highest level of social organization in a hierarchical classification. Astounding.”
John gave a dry chuckle, “If you say so. That it then?”
“Well, you will probably come to visit upon occasion. Your wife will naturally be supportive and perhaps even encouraging in regards to your popping by to have a chat, to reminiscence.”
“Oh, will she?”
“Hmm. You would not marry anyone less than substantial.”
“Few moments ago you were saying she would be standard issue.”
Sherlock let out a little impatient noise, “Overall, yes, but she would have to have some exceptional qualities in order for you to even consider her as a life partner, not to mention as the mother of your children.”
John’s head cocked to one side, amusement suffused throughout his reply, “There’s a compliment somewhere in there, I think, something about my taste.”
“Is there?” Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly, “Well, it is of little matter,” He abruptly rolled up from his position on the sofa, getting back to his feet, “Now! On to the rest of this evening! Are you hungry? A new Cantonese restaurant has opened and I am curious about-”
“No.” John said firmly, arms crossing, “We’re not finished yet.”
“No?”
“No.”
Sherlock resumed his seat, eyes narrowed, “John, I have addressed your dilemma down to the very letter. As much as it was a personal trial to me to do so, because frankly it was a grievous bore and the problem at hand was largely pathetic in nature.”
“My questioning the possibility of my having an attraction to you, feelings for you, is pathetic?”
“It is when I have given you the answer you wanted.” Sherlock snapped.
“But it might not be the answer I needed. It might not be the right answer.”
Sherlock was practically gnashing his teeth, “I will not do this with you. No games. No riddles. No pointless words. We will not go ‘round and ‘round on a carousel of melodramatic angst. I absolutely refuse to take part. I will not say one more word on-”
“Christ, you’re getting worked up,” John cut him off, insufferably (to Sherlock’s point of view) calm, “Having a proper fit. Is it…is it possible…do you…fancy me. Is that it?”
Sherlock’s face became a flat, emotionless mask, his eyes cold and empty. John eased forward in his seat, looking at him, really looking at him and the shock he felt caused him to become breathless, “Oh my god…that’s…that’s it, isn’t it?”
Sherlock’s jaw ticked, but so slightly, so faintly that it was lost in an eye blink. John shook his head, “This isn’t about me. This is about you. No surprise there, I suppose. Everything is about you in the end. That’s why you’re so adamant to move away from this - you’re attracted to me, you fancy me, and the idea that I might…might reciprocate-”
“You do not. “ Sherlock said with an air of severity, “You cannot.”
“Why?”
The question hung there between them and Sherlock wanted to scream, wanted to rage, wanted to find that stupid, stupid woman who had put them in this position in the first place and snap her neck. How could something so ridiculous, so laughable, so bloody stupid have led them to this moment?
He must have unknowingly said something aloud to this effect because John looked sadly bemused as he spoke, “Sometimes that’s how life is. The most absurd, trivial things can lead to unexpected revelations.”
“Or murder,” Sherlock sighed, wishing that his mobile would sound or that he’d see the familiar flash of police car lights dancing across the walls, signaling Lestrade and some new case. Instead he was faced with John shifting in his seat, asking, “So…you fancy me then?”
Sherlock was more than prepared to lie or to leave or to do anything other than answer the question when John did it for him, “You must hate it. Having something so private revealed through no fault of your own. Of having no choice in the matter. I wasn’t…I wasn’t supposed to know, was I? I was never…you would have never told me.”
Sherlock’s eyes closed and he heard himself talking, heard the flatness of his tone, “It’s not as if I write your name over and over, scribbling hearts about it. It’s not important.”
John seemed almost offended by the suggestion, “How can you say that? You just…you admitted-”
“Forget it.”
“Sherlock, I can’t just-”
“I said forget it,” Sherlock said sharply, “Delete it, if you will.”
“You’re the one who deletes things, remember?” John snapped back, his ire obviously raised and Sherlock clung to that, anger a much more acceptable alternative to the earlier melancholy, “Yes, well, best you adopt the same attitude. Now come on, let’s go get something to eat, talk about the weather, things on the telly, any blasted thing you want but not-”
“What? This?” John laughed humorlessly, “Oh no, I think we’ll talk about this some more thank you.”
Sherlock, pushed to his breaking point, shouted, “Why! Why for fuck’s sake! I don’t want to talk about this! Why do you?”
John took a deep breath, obviously steeling himself before speaking, “Sherlock…Sherlock, listen to me and listen to me very carefully. I…it’s possible I could…I might…”
It ended there, a bitten off statement and Sherlock came as close to flustered as he was capable, a litany of ‘no’s’ escaping him before he declared quite forcefully, “No, you do not.”
“Is it that I don’t or that you don’t want me to?” John asked tightly, “That you’re scared-”
“Shut up.” Sherlock warned, “I’m serious. Not another word.”
John’s anger seemed to have evaporated; his whole demeanor gentle again as he asked softly, “Is it…is it so terrifying? So horrible? The idea of you and I…”
“Fine!” Sherlock thundered, “Let’s go under the assumption that you and I were to enter into a relationship. It would be disastrous.”
“You don’t know-”
“Of course I know!” Sherlock exploded, close to manic, “I’ve done all the work, all the research! I have played through every single scenario, envisioned every single course of action. Let’s say, for instance, that everything starts off well, happily even. It should take approximately fourteen to sixteen months, give or take, for the initial euphoria to wear off and, keep in mind, I’m being generous, allowing for the pretense that you are already well informed of my worst habits and thus prepared to deal with them.”
Sherlock rose to his feet, full of energy now, pacing back and forth as he continued, “Now, after the euphoria fades away, in settles the monotony, the dissatisfaction, and, worse, the resentment. Maybe I resent you for interfering in my work or in the opposite and much more likely event; you resent me. This could be for a multitude of reasons.”
He started to fidget as he moved, gesturing wildly with his hands, “Perhaps because I am generally callous and neglectful or perhaps because I don’t recognize and acknowledge your feelings on a regular basis or maybe because you feel as if I put no effort into the relationship, regardless, you become unhappy and you begin to wish we’d never instigated this union in the first place because it's completely ruined the friendship, the partnership, we began with.”
Sherlock’s movements began to slow, to still, as he started to catch his breath, “No matter which direction we steer in, it always ends relatively the same way - you move out, we never speak again, and a perfectly good association is lost forever. And over what? A couple of potentially good shags and some circumspect kisses? No, I think not.”
The moment he stopped talking seemed to ring abnormally loud with its’ silence.
“Wow. That was…a lot. Have that on your mind a while now, have you?” John asked, slightly teasing, but also with an overall air of annoyance, “And might I say, that’s the fastest relationship I’ve ever been in. Lasted all of five minutes and I did absolutely nothing. That’s a real skill you have there. Honestly. Never have I seen someone jump from a first date to a break up so quickly. I may have gotten whiplash.”
Sherlock, still breathless from his ravings, managed a bitingly weak, “Your sarcasm is unnecessary.”
John sniffed, “I rather think it is when you’re being so cavalier about the very idea of us being involved with one another.”
“I’m not being cavalier, I am being realistic. What do you expect?” Sherlock asked sarcastically, “That you and I shall fall in love, a brass band will play at our wedding, and we’ll go off into the sunset, the words ‘happily ever after’ emblazoned over our heads? No, I think it better, kinder even, to acknowledge the truth. To not delude you or myself only to have one or both of us awakened to said disillusionment.”
“Have to convince yourself too then, I take it?” John asked smartly.
Sherlock faltered here, realizing his mistake and grimaced, “I don’t have to convince myself, John. I am convinced. I know. You and I…we are friends. That is enough.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t want anything more?” John prodded.
“Not if it means losing you.” The words were out before he could stop them. Sherlock winced, knowing it was too much and the face John made - that face as if he’d been struck - confirmed it. The only sound in the room now was their breathing.
Sherlock walked to the window, hands settling in the pockets of his black trousers as he looked outside. John spoke up behind him, trying once more to be composed, “Sherlock…has it ever occurred to you that becoming involved with me might secure the possibility of not losing me? That becoming the person I love, the person I’m attached to, will draw me closer to you than anything else?”
“No.” Sherlock replied much too quickly, voice deep, husky with certainty, “No, because, even if it were possible for you to love me, I can never love you. I can never give you what you want, what you need, and what you deserve.”
He turned away from the window; let his feet take him to where his coat and scarf hung. He quickly donned them, talking over one shoulder, “Heartless, John, is an adjective I am well acquainted with. It is, in fact, the very definition of who I am. Friendship is all I can offer you. The issue is settled and we will not speak of this again. Am I understood?”
Sherlock didn’t wait for answer. Instead, he walked briskly out the door, down the stairs, and out into the cold London night air.
§
Sherlock entered the flat to find it dark and empty. John had either gone to bed or had followed Sherlock’s cue and left entirely, perhaps to stay at Sarah’s. Sherlock took this as a good sign. Either way, he would not have to face John and hopefully the other man had finally come to his senses and realized all the things Sherlock had said were not only sensible but true.
Sherlock discarded his coat and scarf and went into his bedroom. It was not until he had clicked on the lights and almost shut the door behind him that he realized he was not alone, John resting quite comfortably on his bed. Sherlock was very rarely surprised so the curse he released was particularly colourful.
“Welcome home.” John said with dry amusement.
“Why on earth are you in my room? And, what’s more, why on earth are you sitting in here, waiting silently in the dark like some grim specter?”
“Thought I’d take a page from your book. The science of dramatic entrances and departures. Granted, my performance is nowhere near as stellar as the one you delivered earlier, but I think I deserve some bonus points for sitting here in the shadows as long as I have.”
Sherlock sighed, “John, what do you want?”
John got to his feet easily enough and approached a wary Sherlock, and, frankly, Sherlock sometimes hated how the man could come across so unassuming. Doctor John Watson. All friendly smiles, cuddly jumpers, and down to earth common man was often times a mask for a person who had nerves of steel, a steady shooting arm, and the kind of dogged persistence that put even the most stalwart of men to shame.
“Again, similar to you, I want to experiment.” John’s hand shot out and he took Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock tried to tug it away but John’s grip was quite firm, fingers pressing down, “Now, now, don’t struggle. Just checking your heartbeat.”
“My heartbeat?”
“Hmm, yes, you said you were heartless. Rather grave condition, no heart, thought I’d best check. If you don’t have a heart but are breathing and talking it’s quite the medical miracle and being a doctor-”
“You know perfectly well what I mean when I say I have no heart-”
“Shh,” John hushed him, “Stop now. Need to concentrate. There is a pulse here, yes, but a bit faint. No real acceleration.”
“Oh please, why don’t you just drag out your stethoscope to check?” Sherlock muttered nastily.
“I’ll measure it the old fashioned way, thank you.” John returned, eyes casting to his mobile so he could measure Sherlock’s pulse alongside the time.
Sherlock let out a breath and wondered where exactly John hoped to lead with this when John hummed again and put his mobile away, “Serious, indeed. Think I’ll have to explore this further.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes and in his disdain didn’t even notice that John had ushered him backwards until he felt the press of the wood against his back. The sound of his body colliding with the door gave him pause, as did John’s hands rising to the buttons of his shirt, swiftly working a few of them free of their confines. Sherlock went to open his mouth but John shushed him once more, his right hand taking Sherlock’s wrist again, his left sliding its’ way between the material of his shirt and his bare skin.
Sherlock swallowed and John grinned, “Ah, interesting. Just felt it spike up. Any reason?”
Sherlock only managed to bite off an accusingly choked ‘you’ before the rest of the words he had planned to say shriveled up and died in his throat, John pressing him fully up against the door now. John leaned forward and Sherlock instinctively tried to escape but, considering his currently pinned position, did nothing more than grind himself fitfully back against the door.
John’s mouth ghosted near the right side of Sherlock’s throat, hovering, breath hot and moist. Sherlock adamantly refused to believe he let out any noise that could be classified as a whimper as John spoke, so close Sherlock’s mind snapped with the irrationally thought that he could feel the words, “Got all the main pulse points covered. There’s certainly blood in your veins. Heart is strong, can feel it fluttering against my fingers. So fast, too.”
“John, please,” Sherlock didn’t even recognize his own voice and tightly sealed his eyes shut as he spoke, “You can’t…you know what I meant when I,” Sherlock detested the fact that he couldn’t seem to string a proper sentence together and much to his chagrin, he uttered the first words that came clearly to his mind, “I…I didn’t know you had the capacity to be cruel.”
“I’m not being cruel.” John returned softly, the tip of his nose running delicately against the skin beneath Sherlock’s ear, his head turning slightly until it was his lips there, one tender kiss placed, followed by another, this one more open, tongue slick as it licked one smooth stripe down the length of his neck.
Sherlock shivered at the action and he could feel John’s smile against him, “Earlier, I heard everything that you had to say. And you were right, I suppose, about a lot of it. Completely rational. Logical. Everything well plotted out and explained. Detailed. And yet…”
John stopped talking as his mouth opened, teeth tracing down the same path his tongue had taken earlier, stopping just above the juncture where his neck met his shoulder and then settling down, momentarily biting before sucking earnestly. Sherlock’s hips involuntarily thrust forward and much to his chagrin he outright moaned, his awareness dissolving under an exquisite mix of pain and pleasure.
The pleasurable stinging sensation drew on, driving Sherlock as close to mindless as possible before John drew back, licked at the spot as if in apology before repeating his earlier words, ‘and yet’, as if he couldn’t quite bear to continue.
Sherlock’s eyes, which had been closed for the entirety of this exchange, fluttered open and he could see John was looking at him, scrutinizing him in a way that, had circumstances been different, he would have found highly amusing. It was the same sort of absorbed attention that Sherlock himself usually dedicated for use in his deducing. It was as if John was memorizing every line, every curve, learning and cataloguing each and every feature of his face.
Sherlock swallowed and looked right back, his eyelids quickly growing heavy at the facts he uncovered, John’s pupils dilated, his breathing heavy and unsteady, lips wet and rosy from their previous activities, the slight tilt his head took now as he gazed at Sherlock’s mouth.
He was going to kiss him.
Sherlock knew it, could sense it, and something like a frozen stone slid down into his stomach, making his eyes close tightly shut again, his concentration focused on trying to find his voice, hearing it escape him in hoarse desperation, “John…stop…”
John drew back from him. Released him completely. Hands and close contact dropping away to the point where Sherlock suddenly realized how much heat they had brought him, a coldness sweeping in as John spoke, voice thick and deep, “Okay.”
Sherlock let his eyes open again and he stood before him, the air between them still charged, even more so when John said, “It’s your move now, Sherlock. You told me to stop and I did. But now you need to ask yourself - what do you want? What do you really, truly want?”
What did he want? Was that even a question? Sherlock couldn’t begin to think of how to answer that and that realization stunned him so much that the cold feeling in his stomach spread, encompassing his whole body. A puzzle, a mystery he couldn’t think to solve, to contemplate…
What did he want?
Sherlock breathed out loudly through his nose and felt his body falling forward, bending like a branch in a storm, pulled forward almost by an invisible string, hands rising to cup either side of John’s head and last time, last time he had done this they had spun around and around in circles and even then he had not felt as dizzy as he did now.
What did he want?
His forehead pressed against John’s and his eyes closed.
It was like when the cabbie had presented him with two pills. One led to death, one led to safety but either answer was final and, each in their own way, horrible. He hadn’t been bored then, he certainly wasn’t bored now. He knew what he should do, he knew what was right. He knew the correct answer, he knew the correct choice. But he floated between the two, falling in midair, grasping at nothing, trying to find purchase, trying to find safety.
Adrenaline stormed through his veins, charging him, that high of danger and usually, usually, the high of his own cleverness intertwined with this feeling but as of right now, his cleverness had seemed to have abandoned him, leaving him vulnerable and as close to terrified as he had ever been. There was nothing more frightening than the idea of having his mind - his brilliant, beautiful mind - taken from him.
But it seemed completely lost now, offering no solutions, no escapes and the man before him was so enticing, so dangerous like poison in a bottle waiting to be taken, waiting to utterly destroy him and really he had no choice.
Sherlock’s breath hitched as he drew back just enough to angle his head to one side and let his lips tentatively brush against John’s. He did it again, hesitant, but sure, then more fully, making it officially a kiss. He kissed him. The kiss short and soft and bittersweet.
His hands released John as he started to draw back, wheels in his head clicking together at last, reminding him what an awful idea this was when John suddenly came to life, throwing himself bodily forward, pressing them fully against one another, his mouth predatorily quick as it took Sherlock’s again in a new kiss, this one deep and hungry, filled with a primal greed and that kiss was followed by another and then another...
John seemed to almost curve himself up into each kiss, his whole body turning up into Sherlock’s as he took more and more of him, kissing him at every possible angle, searching deeply, tongue sliding smoothly against his own, tasting him. Sherlock had his eyes tightly closed and was trying his best to ignore how John was making him feel weak and hot. Light headed. He tried to concentrate, tried to collect his wits, something that shouldn’t be as nearly as impossible as it currently seemed.
In an effort to center himself, Sherlock let the back of his skull meet a bit more forcefully with the wood of the door and yes, that helped, the pain awakening him enough to allow him to think about how last time had merely been a serendipitous fluke. Statistically speaking, the majority of sexual encounters between two people were more often than not disappointing. There was no reason not to believe that, should this head in that direction (which it most certainly seemed to be), that this encounter would not be the same.
If, perhaps, John recognized them to be sexual incompatible, he would consider ending this madness himself since Sherlock, much to his shame, seemed unable. In that way, their friendship could still be spared.
There was also the lingering idea of reciprocity. Maybe John merely wanted his due - after all, last time they had been in this sort of predicament, Sherlock had achieved orgasm while John had not. True, this was merely because Sherlock had been inflicted with the ‘curse’ and had needed that in order to recover but, the point remained, John had not, as he often put it ‘gotten off’.
Maybe that was all he needed.
Both theories seemed more than plausible to Sherlock and he decided his best course of action was to get the ball rolling in either direction. His hands, which had been pressed hard against the paneling of the door, broke away and he clenched and unclenched his fingers before one hand darted forward, finding John’s erection, cupping it, squeezing, rising up to try and find the zip of his trousers, set on releasing him and getting this over with.
John grunted and the next thing Sherlock knew both of his wrists were pinned, John dragging his mouth from his, voice ragged, “Now, now…calm down, hey? We’ve got all night. Can take our time…”
Sherlock, who still had yet to open his eyes, knocked his head back against the door once more as a strangled sound left him. Goddammit. John was mistaking his motivations, thinking him full of an entirely different sort of eagerness and then John was kissing him in such a way that all of Sherlock’s thoughts fled like leaves caught up in a sharp wind.
It was akin to drowning, being kissed like this, and Sherlock was minutes from letting himself dissolve into nothingness when John’s mobile blared obscenely to life, the ring like a refreshing bucket of ice water. Sherlock finally managed to get a grasp on the situation, his eyes opening, words escaping between kisses, “John… your… phone…”
“Don’t care.” John growled. There was no other word for it. He growled. In fact, his kissing in general took on a more frantic pace, close to animalistic as the mobile continued its’ high pitched squeal. Sherlock struggled now, still trying to speak and finally, with a savage curse, John relented, drawing back and digging his phone out of his pocket, snarling into it, “What! This had better be-!”
His words cut off entirely and he moaned, rubbing at his face, “Christ! Harry, I’m-!”
Again no more was said and Sherlock could distinctly hear a tiny voice on the other end wailing pathetically. John’s whole face was dark, tempestuous, as he muttered, “Harry, now’s not really the time. I’m in the middle of something.”
More inaudible shrieks from the other end of the line.
John let out a bone weary sigh and he looked at Sherlock with the deepest regret, “Okay, all right, all right, just…just calm down…I’ll be there. Yes. Yes. Promise. Give me a few…yes, right, bye.”
“Problem?”
John snorted and shook his head, “I’m going to kill her.”
“Hmm, easy murder to solve if you confess.” Sherlock managed, despairing over how he panted each word. John apparently liked this, however, and cupped Sherlock’s cheek, kissed him again, softly this time, “Don’t think this is over. It’s not. Not by a longshot. This is a…bookmark.”
John kissed him once more before leaving the room and Sherlock finally moved, trying his rigid best to ignore how shaky his steps were, equilibrium slight shot as he found himself sitting on his bed. His fingers steepled together as he collected the shattered pieces of his mind.
Once fully collected he began to think of what steps he should take next. Obviously John was still under the delusion that, somehow, he and Sherlock would work as a romantic couple. Yes, they did seem to click physically, but Sherlock understood very well that love and sex were not interchangeable. Everything he had told John earlier still rang true to him - if he and John were to actually enter into a relationship, it would be disastrous and end badly.
He would lose John.
He could not let that happen.
John had managed to seduce him tonight, had managed to get under his skin. Sherlock had been weak. It was deplorable, but it was true. Sherlock had kissed him. John had asked what Sherlock wanted and Sherlock had shown him. Stupid, stupid, stupid! He knew better than that. He should have misled him. He should have lied. Sometimes, Sherlock’s own selfishness got the better of him.
If only he hadn’t kissed him…
Sherlock let his mind filter through the events of the past twenty four hours and one thing stuck out sharply in his mind. When he had left the flat, he had not had any issues, any doubts, any troubles whatsoever. Distance. That was the answer. It was not a permanent solution, by any means, but it would certainly be a temporary balm to the wound.
He couldn’t leave right away, of course, that would be far too obvious. But soon, very, very soon, he would leave. Give John some time. Give himself some time. Find a better answer, a perfect answer; find a way to fix this, to solve it.
Sherlock nodded to himself and resolved to start looking into cases with distant locales in the morning.
Part 2: Pleasurable The Poison
Author: she_burns1
Word Count: 6,617
Rating: Adult
Warnings: Language, sensuality, mentions of sex
Characters: Sherlock/John
Summary: Sherlock and John deal with the ramifications of the ‘curse’ as well as the secrets it revealed.
Disclaimers: I own nothing.
Author's Note: A sequel to ‘Sweet The Sting’ - this has actually transformed into a series (damn me and my brain) that will be three parts total. This installment is noteworthy as not only the second in the set, but also as a help_japan reward for my winning bidder, anon_aspasia. Hope you enjoy this, anon_aspasia and thanks again for your bid and donation! Also thanks to fang_lover88 for beta and sorry, still unbrit!picked - so if you notice anything, please let me know!
Previous Parts: Sweet The Sting
Sherlock stood under the spray of water watching the last remnants of his encounter with John swirl and disappear down the drain. He titled his head back, whispering to himself, “Good Lord.”
He felt shell shocked. Numb. His mind, his brilliant, keen, effervescent mind was going out of its’ way to betray him, to torment him, replaying the moment over and over again. His body too, was in on the deception, mouth tingling, lips still recalling the feel of that last kiss. All of it swarmed around him, a compendium of John - John’s scent in his nose, John’s hands on his skin, John’s taste in his mouth…
It had been too much to hope for, he supposed, the idea that the sooner that the ‘curse’ as John had dubbed it, had been dealt with, the sooner he could get back to the normal routine of his life. It had been a bad idea, too, to let John be the ‘cure’. A horrid, grotesque, absolutely morbid idea and, in reflection, when John had initially suggested it, Sherlock knew his objections should have been more resolute.
He had known John would offer. There had been no question about that. But when the time had come to crush the very notion, Sherlock’s tongue had become tied and then John had touched his knee, the barest, lightest of touches, and Sherlock knew there was no way he could possibly say ‘no’.
And it had absolutely nothing to do with the ‘curse’.
Nothing to do with relieving the symptoms, though they had pained him, no, it had everything to do with the very fabric of his being, of his relationship with John, of his blasted feelings which were mortifyingly embarrassing. Everyone knew - Sherlock Holmes did not have a heart. He did not have feelings. To suggest otherwise was an unthinkable error.
Yet…yet there were these stirrings, these god awful stirrings, that seemed hell bent on changing the very alchemy of his soul, of altering him, of irrevocably disfiguring him as an individual and they had come on so quietly, so deceptively, that he had almost missed them entirely. Like a clever, quick poison it seeped its' way through his veins, intertwining throughout his bloodstream, compromising him.
The water was beginning to get cold and Sherlock shut it off, stood there, dripping wet and his exhale echoed, abnormally loud to his ears. He resolved to delete the whole affair. That was for the best. That was what he had promised John and, more importantly, what he had promised himself. Forget the whole thing. It never happened.
One last kiss, hands tangled in John’s hair, John’s lips warm and full and soft against his own. He had needed it. Just one. Just one more…
Sherlock swallowed, blinked, and decided there was no harm in choosing to delete the memory later.
§
Sherlock initially believed the whole debacle of the curse was behind them.
He hated to be mistaken. Absolutely, utterly loathed it.
At first everything between John and himself seemed perfectly normal and natural. The status quo. But as time wore on it became more and more obvious that John was the equivalent to a volcano on the verge of eruption.
There were several half started and stopped sentences, stammers, and that look in his eyes. One that spoke of a hunger for knowledge but carried the wary weight of one who senses encroaching awkwardness should that hunger be quenched. He had seen this before but there had been a stronger element of shame, John too proud to ask for financial aid.
Sherlock did his best to avoid the confrontation. He found distractions with cases, experiments, anything to keep John and himself from discussing what was weighing on John’s mind. He alleged that, diverted long enough, John would simply forget and refocus his energies elsewhere keeping everything in its’ fine working form, in its’ intrinsic harmony.
Truthfully, he should have known better and that disturbed him as badly as being mistaken.
It was an abysmally lackluster evening when John cornered him, courage held fast as he spoke, “Sherlock, I want to ask you something.”
Sherlock, who had been sitting in the kitchen hunched over one of his experiments, sat upright and rubbed at his neck, breath hissing out between his teeth, “What?”
John licked his lips and herein lay the moment where he usually muttered a ‘nothing’ or some other randomly useless remark, but this time, this time, he managed a weak, “It’s…about that…curse.”
“What curse?”
“The-the one…you, you know, the one, um…where you-”
“I have no idea what on earth you are talking about. Perhaps it was some event that was so inconsequential that I deleted it.” This was said with the kind of stressed pronunciation that should have signaled to John to stop talking.
He didn’t.
“Sherlock-”
Sherlock chose to relent a little, quick mind offering a completely reasonable solution, “It wasn’t a curse, you know.”
“Yeah?”
“No, it was actually a narcotic. In a manner of speaking. Certainly a chemical compound. Found it on the letter our dear Romanian woman slipped under the door. Analyzed it, tested it, and there you have it. Mystery solved, questions answered, case closed.”
“An…aphrodisiac?”
“Scientifically no such drug exists and most claiming to have been under the influence of said aphrodisiacs are more likely given over to the placebo effect than anything else, but, yes, I guess you could argue that that is what I was afflicted with and, through physical transference, so were you.”
“Oh?” John asked, eyes locked with Sherlock’s, “Really?”
“Of course.” Sherlock said with the utmost air of authority.
John digested this for a moment, then, “You’re lying.”
“I am not.”
“You are. I’ve known you long enough now to tell.”
Sherlock scoffed at the very idea and seemed more than ready to return to his experiment when John cleared his throat, “Sherlock, please. This is important. I need to talk about this.”
“Fine. Talk about it. I’m sure Sarah or Mrs. Hudson-”
“I want to talk to you about it.”
“No.”
“What?”
“I said ‘no’. As in ‘no, I do not want to talk to you about it. We are not talking about it.’ That was the agreement, John. Never to speak of it again.”
“I-I know that, but…there was…there was something about how it ended…”
“Yes, I ejaculated and the ‘curse’ as you have dubbed it was lifted. Hallelujah. There is nothing more to-”
“I kissed you.” John blurted this and Sherlock froze. He didn’t look at John, eyes back on his experiment as John continued to struggle through what he wanted to say, “And it had nothing to do with the curse. I kissed you and it…it was…”
Sherlock knew what it was. He thought of what it was quite often and despised himself for it, despised John for it, and having it mentioned now set his teeth on edge. He went to open his mouth, vicious retort at the ready when John beat him to it, voice soft and sincere, “I…don’t know why I did it.”
“Yes, why did you do it?” Sherlock snapped this with the fury he had had in mind for the other words he had been planning to speak and, what was worse, he noted that there was an actually urgency behind the question. He felt his face flush and had the sickening suspicion that he was actually suffering from embarrassment, something he was entirely unfamiliar with.
He chose to combat it by settling firmly back into his anger, “No. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter what happened because it’s over. It’s in the past. Best to move on and not think about it further as there is nothing to be gained by dwelling on it.”
“I think-”
“Oh god, help us all.” Sherlock moaned dramatically, hands tossing upwards, eyes rolling to the heavens. John scowled at him and reiterated, “I think there might be something to be gained. Or, well, I mean, the thing is…I’m…confused. I keep…keep thinking about that day. The set-up, us in the shadows, the music, the sort of unintentionally romantic-”
“It was not,” Sherlock cut in hotly, practically spitting out the words, “romantic. It was necessary. I had no other options. Trust me, if I could, I would go back in time and have settled upon my earlier recourse rather than be faced with the conversation we are currently engaged in.”
“Your earlier-?”
“I had suggested death. Death would be a blessing in comparison to this.”
John couldn’t help but snort, “It’s not that bad.”
“You want to talk about emotional significance, ridiculous romanticism, and your struggles with sexual identity. With me.” He stressed this last part and then shook his head, muttering under his breath, “Again, death, a blessing.”
A silence settled over them and Sherlock sighed, thinking maybe, maybe, John had finally relented. John scratched at the back of his head, walked out of the kitchen, walked towards his armchair, the sofa, walked back into the kitchen. Sherlock rose to his feet, readjusted the rolled up sleeves of his plum colored shirt and, with much reluctance, finally looked at John.
John chose this moment to speak again, “Sherlock…why did you kiss me?”
His voice was practically a whisper but his eyes remained locked on Sherlock’s, “I kissed you, then after you…you kissed me…and…”
“Do you want to fuck me, John?” Sherlock asked this bluntly, apropos of nothing, voice icy, “Do you want to stick your cock up my arse or vice versa?” John flinched and he caught it, sneering, “No. I didn’t think so. Let. It. Go. John.”
John looked away from him but said rigidly, “I can’t.”
The sound Sherlock released sounded as if it was being physically wrung from him, “Why not? Just because of a kiss or two? Because of some emotional turmoil? Emotional turmoil is so tedious, so needless, that’s why I’ve dedicated so much of my life to avoiding it and now here you are,” Sherlock waved a hand at him, “Right. Fine. You want me to help you? Resolve your confusion? Okay, here it is - you are, in point of fact, heterosexual and have been for the majority of your life. Perhaps you’ve had some inklings of attraction for your own gender but, in the overall scheme of things, you have settled your sexual orientation firmly. The incident with the narcotics-”
“Curse.”
“Aphrodisiac, if you must, has undoubtedly caused some unexpected questions to arise in you and your otherwise flawlessly dedicated sexual preferences up to this point but let me reassure you - you, John Watson, are best served to continue on your already chosen path. One day, I assure you, you will find some nice, standard issue woman, marry her, move out, and more like than not procreate to your heart’s content. I have no doubt you will make a perfectly acceptable husband and father."
“And you?”
Sherlock relaxed slightly and wandered past John, feeling that he was steering the conversation towards a conclusion John would find satisfactory. He settled back on the sofa, eyes cast on the ceiling, “I will continue on my own course until there is no choice but to retire. Somewhere nice, quiet, out in the country perhaps - do a spot of bee farming.”
“Bees? Really? Bees?” John sounded incredulous as he left the kitchen and sat in his armchair opposite the sofa, union jack pillow discarded to one side.
“Fascinating creatures,” Sherlock murmured, happily immersed in the new subject, “Some of them are solitary their whole lives while others live in communities. The most advanced of these being eusocial - honeybees, bumblebees, stingless bees - tiny little creatures ordered into the highest level of social organization in a hierarchical classification. Astounding.”
John gave a dry chuckle, “If you say so. That it then?”
“Well, you will probably come to visit upon occasion. Your wife will naturally be supportive and perhaps even encouraging in regards to your popping by to have a chat, to reminiscence.”
“Oh, will she?”
“Hmm. You would not marry anyone less than substantial.”
“Few moments ago you were saying she would be standard issue.”
Sherlock let out a little impatient noise, “Overall, yes, but she would have to have some exceptional qualities in order for you to even consider her as a life partner, not to mention as the mother of your children.”
John’s head cocked to one side, amusement suffused throughout his reply, “There’s a compliment somewhere in there, I think, something about my taste.”
“Is there?” Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly, “Well, it is of little matter,” He abruptly rolled up from his position on the sofa, getting back to his feet, “Now! On to the rest of this evening! Are you hungry? A new Cantonese restaurant has opened and I am curious about-”
“No.” John said firmly, arms crossing, “We’re not finished yet.”
“No?”
“No.”
Sherlock resumed his seat, eyes narrowed, “John, I have addressed your dilemma down to the very letter. As much as it was a personal trial to me to do so, because frankly it was a grievous bore and the problem at hand was largely pathetic in nature.”
“My questioning the possibility of my having an attraction to you, feelings for you, is pathetic?”
“It is when I have given you the answer you wanted.” Sherlock snapped.
“But it might not be the answer I needed. It might not be the right answer.”
Sherlock was practically gnashing his teeth, “I will not do this with you. No games. No riddles. No pointless words. We will not go ‘round and ‘round on a carousel of melodramatic angst. I absolutely refuse to take part. I will not say one more word on-”
“Christ, you’re getting worked up,” John cut him off, insufferably (to Sherlock’s point of view) calm, “Having a proper fit. Is it…is it possible…do you…fancy me. Is that it?”
Sherlock’s face became a flat, emotionless mask, his eyes cold and empty. John eased forward in his seat, looking at him, really looking at him and the shock he felt caused him to become breathless, “Oh my god…that’s…that’s it, isn’t it?”
Sherlock’s jaw ticked, but so slightly, so faintly that it was lost in an eye blink. John shook his head, “This isn’t about me. This is about you. No surprise there, I suppose. Everything is about you in the end. That’s why you’re so adamant to move away from this - you’re attracted to me, you fancy me, and the idea that I might…might reciprocate-”
“You do not. “ Sherlock said with an air of severity, “You cannot.”
“Why?”
The question hung there between them and Sherlock wanted to scream, wanted to rage, wanted to find that stupid, stupid woman who had put them in this position in the first place and snap her neck. How could something so ridiculous, so laughable, so bloody stupid have led them to this moment?
He must have unknowingly said something aloud to this effect because John looked sadly bemused as he spoke, “Sometimes that’s how life is. The most absurd, trivial things can lead to unexpected revelations.”
“Or murder,” Sherlock sighed, wishing that his mobile would sound or that he’d see the familiar flash of police car lights dancing across the walls, signaling Lestrade and some new case. Instead he was faced with John shifting in his seat, asking, “So…you fancy me then?”
Sherlock was more than prepared to lie or to leave or to do anything other than answer the question when John did it for him, “You must hate it. Having something so private revealed through no fault of your own. Of having no choice in the matter. I wasn’t…I wasn’t supposed to know, was I? I was never…you would have never told me.”
Sherlock’s eyes closed and he heard himself talking, heard the flatness of his tone, “It’s not as if I write your name over and over, scribbling hearts about it. It’s not important.”
John seemed almost offended by the suggestion, “How can you say that? You just…you admitted-”
“Forget it.”
“Sherlock, I can’t just-”
“I said forget it,” Sherlock said sharply, “Delete it, if you will.”
“You’re the one who deletes things, remember?” John snapped back, his ire obviously raised and Sherlock clung to that, anger a much more acceptable alternative to the earlier melancholy, “Yes, well, best you adopt the same attitude. Now come on, let’s go get something to eat, talk about the weather, things on the telly, any blasted thing you want but not-”
“What? This?” John laughed humorlessly, “Oh no, I think we’ll talk about this some more thank you.”
Sherlock, pushed to his breaking point, shouted, “Why! Why for fuck’s sake! I don’t want to talk about this! Why do you?”
John took a deep breath, obviously steeling himself before speaking, “Sherlock…Sherlock, listen to me and listen to me very carefully. I…it’s possible I could…I might…”
It ended there, a bitten off statement and Sherlock came as close to flustered as he was capable, a litany of ‘no’s’ escaping him before he declared quite forcefully, “No, you do not.”
“Is it that I don’t or that you don’t want me to?” John asked tightly, “That you’re scared-”
“Shut up.” Sherlock warned, “I’m serious. Not another word.”
John’s anger seemed to have evaporated; his whole demeanor gentle again as he asked softly, “Is it…is it so terrifying? So horrible? The idea of you and I…”
“Fine!” Sherlock thundered, “Let’s go under the assumption that you and I were to enter into a relationship. It would be disastrous.”
“You don’t know-”
“Of course I know!” Sherlock exploded, close to manic, “I’ve done all the work, all the research! I have played through every single scenario, envisioned every single course of action. Let’s say, for instance, that everything starts off well, happily even. It should take approximately fourteen to sixteen months, give or take, for the initial euphoria to wear off and, keep in mind, I’m being generous, allowing for the pretense that you are already well informed of my worst habits and thus prepared to deal with them.”
Sherlock rose to his feet, full of energy now, pacing back and forth as he continued, “Now, after the euphoria fades away, in settles the monotony, the dissatisfaction, and, worse, the resentment. Maybe I resent you for interfering in my work or in the opposite and much more likely event; you resent me. This could be for a multitude of reasons.”
He started to fidget as he moved, gesturing wildly with his hands, “Perhaps because I am generally callous and neglectful or perhaps because I don’t recognize and acknowledge your feelings on a regular basis or maybe because you feel as if I put no effort into the relationship, regardless, you become unhappy and you begin to wish we’d never instigated this union in the first place because it's completely ruined the friendship, the partnership, we began with.”
Sherlock’s movements began to slow, to still, as he started to catch his breath, “No matter which direction we steer in, it always ends relatively the same way - you move out, we never speak again, and a perfectly good association is lost forever. And over what? A couple of potentially good shags and some circumspect kisses? No, I think not.”
The moment he stopped talking seemed to ring abnormally loud with its’ silence.
“Wow. That was…a lot. Have that on your mind a while now, have you?” John asked, slightly teasing, but also with an overall air of annoyance, “And might I say, that’s the fastest relationship I’ve ever been in. Lasted all of five minutes and I did absolutely nothing. That’s a real skill you have there. Honestly. Never have I seen someone jump from a first date to a break up so quickly. I may have gotten whiplash.”
Sherlock, still breathless from his ravings, managed a bitingly weak, “Your sarcasm is unnecessary.”
John sniffed, “I rather think it is when you’re being so cavalier about the very idea of us being involved with one another.”
“I’m not being cavalier, I am being realistic. What do you expect?” Sherlock asked sarcastically, “That you and I shall fall in love, a brass band will play at our wedding, and we’ll go off into the sunset, the words ‘happily ever after’ emblazoned over our heads? No, I think it better, kinder even, to acknowledge the truth. To not delude you or myself only to have one or both of us awakened to said disillusionment.”
“Have to convince yourself too then, I take it?” John asked smartly.
Sherlock faltered here, realizing his mistake and grimaced, “I don’t have to convince myself, John. I am convinced. I know. You and I…we are friends. That is enough.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t want anything more?” John prodded.
“Not if it means losing you.” The words were out before he could stop them. Sherlock winced, knowing it was too much and the face John made - that face as if he’d been struck - confirmed it. The only sound in the room now was their breathing.
Sherlock walked to the window, hands settling in the pockets of his black trousers as he looked outside. John spoke up behind him, trying once more to be composed, “Sherlock…has it ever occurred to you that becoming involved with me might secure the possibility of not losing me? That becoming the person I love, the person I’m attached to, will draw me closer to you than anything else?”
“No.” Sherlock replied much too quickly, voice deep, husky with certainty, “No, because, even if it were possible for you to love me, I can never love you. I can never give you what you want, what you need, and what you deserve.”
He turned away from the window; let his feet take him to where his coat and scarf hung. He quickly donned them, talking over one shoulder, “Heartless, John, is an adjective I am well acquainted with. It is, in fact, the very definition of who I am. Friendship is all I can offer you. The issue is settled and we will not speak of this again. Am I understood?”
Sherlock didn’t wait for answer. Instead, he walked briskly out the door, down the stairs, and out into the cold London night air.
§
Sherlock entered the flat to find it dark and empty. John had either gone to bed or had followed Sherlock’s cue and left entirely, perhaps to stay at Sarah’s. Sherlock took this as a good sign. Either way, he would not have to face John and hopefully the other man had finally come to his senses and realized all the things Sherlock had said were not only sensible but true.
Sherlock discarded his coat and scarf and went into his bedroom. It was not until he had clicked on the lights and almost shut the door behind him that he realized he was not alone, John resting quite comfortably on his bed. Sherlock was very rarely surprised so the curse he released was particularly colourful.
“Welcome home.” John said with dry amusement.
“Why on earth are you in my room? And, what’s more, why on earth are you sitting in here, waiting silently in the dark like some grim specter?”
“Thought I’d take a page from your book. The science of dramatic entrances and departures. Granted, my performance is nowhere near as stellar as the one you delivered earlier, but I think I deserve some bonus points for sitting here in the shadows as long as I have.”
Sherlock sighed, “John, what do you want?”
John got to his feet easily enough and approached a wary Sherlock, and, frankly, Sherlock sometimes hated how the man could come across so unassuming. Doctor John Watson. All friendly smiles, cuddly jumpers, and down to earth common man was often times a mask for a person who had nerves of steel, a steady shooting arm, and the kind of dogged persistence that put even the most stalwart of men to shame.
“Again, similar to you, I want to experiment.” John’s hand shot out and he took Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock tried to tug it away but John’s grip was quite firm, fingers pressing down, “Now, now, don’t struggle. Just checking your heartbeat.”
“My heartbeat?”
“Hmm, yes, you said you were heartless. Rather grave condition, no heart, thought I’d best check. If you don’t have a heart but are breathing and talking it’s quite the medical miracle and being a doctor-”
“You know perfectly well what I mean when I say I have no heart-”
“Shh,” John hushed him, “Stop now. Need to concentrate. There is a pulse here, yes, but a bit faint. No real acceleration.”
“Oh please, why don’t you just drag out your stethoscope to check?” Sherlock muttered nastily.
“I’ll measure it the old fashioned way, thank you.” John returned, eyes casting to his mobile so he could measure Sherlock’s pulse alongside the time.
Sherlock let out a breath and wondered where exactly John hoped to lead with this when John hummed again and put his mobile away, “Serious, indeed. Think I’ll have to explore this further.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes and in his disdain didn’t even notice that John had ushered him backwards until he felt the press of the wood against his back. The sound of his body colliding with the door gave him pause, as did John’s hands rising to the buttons of his shirt, swiftly working a few of them free of their confines. Sherlock went to open his mouth but John shushed him once more, his right hand taking Sherlock’s wrist again, his left sliding its’ way between the material of his shirt and his bare skin.
Sherlock swallowed and John grinned, “Ah, interesting. Just felt it spike up. Any reason?”
Sherlock only managed to bite off an accusingly choked ‘you’ before the rest of the words he had planned to say shriveled up and died in his throat, John pressing him fully up against the door now. John leaned forward and Sherlock instinctively tried to escape but, considering his currently pinned position, did nothing more than grind himself fitfully back against the door.
John’s mouth ghosted near the right side of Sherlock’s throat, hovering, breath hot and moist. Sherlock adamantly refused to believe he let out any noise that could be classified as a whimper as John spoke, so close Sherlock’s mind snapped with the irrationally thought that he could feel the words, “Got all the main pulse points covered. There’s certainly blood in your veins. Heart is strong, can feel it fluttering against my fingers. So fast, too.”
“John, please,” Sherlock didn’t even recognize his own voice and tightly sealed his eyes shut as he spoke, “You can’t…you know what I meant when I,” Sherlock detested the fact that he couldn’t seem to string a proper sentence together and much to his chagrin, he uttered the first words that came clearly to his mind, “I…I didn’t know you had the capacity to be cruel.”
“I’m not being cruel.” John returned softly, the tip of his nose running delicately against the skin beneath Sherlock’s ear, his head turning slightly until it was his lips there, one tender kiss placed, followed by another, this one more open, tongue slick as it licked one smooth stripe down the length of his neck.
Sherlock shivered at the action and he could feel John’s smile against him, “Earlier, I heard everything that you had to say. And you were right, I suppose, about a lot of it. Completely rational. Logical. Everything well plotted out and explained. Detailed. And yet…”
John stopped talking as his mouth opened, teeth tracing down the same path his tongue had taken earlier, stopping just above the juncture where his neck met his shoulder and then settling down, momentarily biting before sucking earnestly. Sherlock’s hips involuntarily thrust forward and much to his chagrin he outright moaned, his awareness dissolving under an exquisite mix of pain and pleasure.
The pleasurable stinging sensation drew on, driving Sherlock as close to mindless as possible before John drew back, licked at the spot as if in apology before repeating his earlier words, ‘and yet’, as if he couldn’t quite bear to continue.
Sherlock’s eyes, which had been closed for the entirety of this exchange, fluttered open and he could see John was looking at him, scrutinizing him in a way that, had circumstances been different, he would have found highly amusing. It was the same sort of absorbed attention that Sherlock himself usually dedicated for use in his deducing. It was as if John was memorizing every line, every curve, learning and cataloguing each and every feature of his face.
Sherlock swallowed and looked right back, his eyelids quickly growing heavy at the facts he uncovered, John’s pupils dilated, his breathing heavy and unsteady, lips wet and rosy from their previous activities, the slight tilt his head took now as he gazed at Sherlock’s mouth.
He was going to kiss him.
Sherlock knew it, could sense it, and something like a frozen stone slid down into his stomach, making his eyes close tightly shut again, his concentration focused on trying to find his voice, hearing it escape him in hoarse desperation, “John…stop…”
John drew back from him. Released him completely. Hands and close contact dropping away to the point where Sherlock suddenly realized how much heat they had brought him, a coldness sweeping in as John spoke, voice thick and deep, “Okay.”
Sherlock let his eyes open again and he stood before him, the air between them still charged, even more so when John said, “It’s your move now, Sherlock. You told me to stop and I did. But now you need to ask yourself - what do you want? What do you really, truly want?”
What did he want? Was that even a question? Sherlock couldn’t begin to think of how to answer that and that realization stunned him so much that the cold feeling in his stomach spread, encompassing his whole body. A puzzle, a mystery he couldn’t think to solve, to contemplate…
What did he want?
Sherlock breathed out loudly through his nose and felt his body falling forward, bending like a branch in a storm, pulled forward almost by an invisible string, hands rising to cup either side of John’s head and last time, last time he had done this they had spun around and around in circles and even then he had not felt as dizzy as he did now.
What did he want?
His forehead pressed against John’s and his eyes closed.
It was like when the cabbie had presented him with two pills. One led to death, one led to safety but either answer was final and, each in their own way, horrible. He hadn’t been bored then, he certainly wasn’t bored now. He knew what he should do, he knew what was right. He knew the correct answer, he knew the correct choice. But he floated between the two, falling in midair, grasping at nothing, trying to find purchase, trying to find safety.
Adrenaline stormed through his veins, charging him, that high of danger and usually, usually, the high of his own cleverness intertwined with this feeling but as of right now, his cleverness had seemed to have abandoned him, leaving him vulnerable and as close to terrified as he had ever been. There was nothing more frightening than the idea of having his mind - his brilliant, beautiful mind - taken from him.
But it seemed completely lost now, offering no solutions, no escapes and the man before him was so enticing, so dangerous like poison in a bottle waiting to be taken, waiting to utterly destroy him and really he had no choice.
Sherlock’s breath hitched as he drew back just enough to angle his head to one side and let his lips tentatively brush against John’s. He did it again, hesitant, but sure, then more fully, making it officially a kiss. He kissed him. The kiss short and soft and bittersweet.
His hands released John as he started to draw back, wheels in his head clicking together at last, reminding him what an awful idea this was when John suddenly came to life, throwing himself bodily forward, pressing them fully against one another, his mouth predatorily quick as it took Sherlock’s again in a new kiss, this one deep and hungry, filled with a primal greed and that kiss was followed by another and then another...
John seemed to almost curve himself up into each kiss, his whole body turning up into Sherlock’s as he took more and more of him, kissing him at every possible angle, searching deeply, tongue sliding smoothly against his own, tasting him. Sherlock had his eyes tightly closed and was trying his best to ignore how John was making him feel weak and hot. Light headed. He tried to concentrate, tried to collect his wits, something that shouldn’t be as nearly as impossible as it currently seemed.
In an effort to center himself, Sherlock let the back of his skull meet a bit more forcefully with the wood of the door and yes, that helped, the pain awakening him enough to allow him to think about how last time had merely been a serendipitous fluke. Statistically speaking, the majority of sexual encounters between two people were more often than not disappointing. There was no reason not to believe that, should this head in that direction (which it most certainly seemed to be), that this encounter would not be the same.
If, perhaps, John recognized them to be sexual incompatible, he would consider ending this madness himself since Sherlock, much to his shame, seemed unable. In that way, their friendship could still be spared.
There was also the lingering idea of reciprocity. Maybe John merely wanted his due - after all, last time they had been in this sort of predicament, Sherlock had achieved orgasm while John had not. True, this was merely because Sherlock had been inflicted with the ‘curse’ and had needed that in order to recover but, the point remained, John had not, as he often put it ‘gotten off’.
Maybe that was all he needed.
Both theories seemed more than plausible to Sherlock and he decided his best course of action was to get the ball rolling in either direction. His hands, which had been pressed hard against the paneling of the door, broke away and he clenched and unclenched his fingers before one hand darted forward, finding John’s erection, cupping it, squeezing, rising up to try and find the zip of his trousers, set on releasing him and getting this over with.
John grunted and the next thing Sherlock knew both of his wrists were pinned, John dragging his mouth from his, voice ragged, “Now, now…calm down, hey? We’ve got all night. Can take our time…”
Sherlock, who still had yet to open his eyes, knocked his head back against the door once more as a strangled sound left him. Goddammit. John was mistaking his motivations, thinking him full of an entirely different sort of eagerness and then John was kissing him in such a way that all of Sherlock’s thoughts fled like leaves caught up in a sharp wind.
It was akin to drowning, being kissed like this, and Sherlock was minutes from letting himself dissolve into nothingness when John’s mobile blared obscenely to life, the ring like a refreshing bucket of ice water. Sherlock finally managed to get a grasp on the situation, his eyes opening, words escaping between kisses, “John… your… phone…”
“Don’t care.” John growled. There was no other word for it. He growled. In fact, his kissing in general took on a more frantic pace, close to animalistic as the mobile continued its’ high pitched squeal. Sherlock struggled now, still trying to speak and finally, with a savage curse, John relented, drawing back and digging his phone out of his pocket, snarling into it, “What! This had better be-!”
His words cut off entirely and he moaned, rubbing at his face, “Christ! Harry, I’m-!”
Again no more was said and Sherlock could distinctly hear a tiny voice on the other end wailing pathetically. John’s whole face was dark, tempestuous, as he muttered, “Harry, now’s not really the time. I’m in the middle of something.”
More inaudible shrieks from the other end of the line.
John let out a bone weary sigh and he looked at Sherlock with the deepest regret, “Okay, all right, all right, just…just calm down…I’ll be there. Yes. Yes. Promise. Give me a few…yes, right, bye.”
“Problem?”
John snorted and shook his head, “I’m going to kill her.”
“Hmm, easy murder to solve if you confess.” Sherlock managed, despairing over how he panted each word. John apparently liked this, however, and cupped Sherlock’s cheek, kissed him again, softly this time, “Don’t think this is over. It’s not. Not by a longshot. This is a…bookmark.”
John kissed him once more before leaving the room and Sherlock finally moved, trying his rigid best to ignore how shaky his steps were, equilibrium slight shot as he found himself sitting on his bed. His fingers steepled together as he collected the shattered pieces of his mind.
Once fully collected he began to think of what steps he should take next. Obviously John was still under the delusion that, somehow, he and Sherlock would work as a romantic couple. Yes, they did seem to click physically, but Sherlock understood very well that love and sex were not interchangeable. Everything he had told John earlier still rang true to him - if he and John were to actually enter into a relationship, it would be disastrous and end badly.
He would lose John.
He could not let that happen.
John had managed to seduce him tonight, had managed to get under his skin. Sherlock had been weak. It was deplorable, but it was true. Sherlock had kissed him. John had asked what Sherlock wanted and Sherlock had shown him. Stupid, stupid, stupid! He knew better than that. He should have misled him. He should have lied. Sometimes, Sherlock’s own selfishness got the better of him.
If only he hadn’t kissed him…
Sherlock let his mind filter through the events of the past twenty four hours and one thing stuck out sharply in his mind. When he had left the flat, he had not had any issues, any doubts, any troubles whatsoever. Distance. That was the answer. It was not a permanent solution, by any means, but it would certainly be a temporary balm to the wound.
He couldn’t leave right away, of course, that would be far too obvious. But soon, very, very soon, he would leave. Give John some time. Give himself some time. Find a better answer, a perfect answer; find a way to fix this, to solve it.
Sherlock nodded to himself and resolved to start looking into cases with distant locales in the morning.