look, two thousand words! :D i'm so proud of me.
i...think i like this? i'm not sure. i do like it enough to post it, but it isn't my favorite. feels a bit draggy. thoughts?
i don't, to my great misfortune, own Sherlock or affiliates. blah, blah, blah, yada yada, get to the slash now.
Some parts of human existance simply couldn't be ignored. Water had to be drunk, food had to be consumed, and wastes had to be disposed of accordingly. Plenty of air swished in and out of billions of pairs of lungs every day, and blood pumped steadily through the veins in a constant, soothing cycle.
Fucking was also one of those unavoidable things, and no one knew this better than Doctor John Watson.
When one spent long periods of time out of an intimate relationship, life tended to become...frustrating, at times. Certainly, he had Sarah, but he wasn't rushing that. There was no hurry with her, really. She wasn't going anywhere.
Normally, John was quite capable of dealing with the stress of unfulfilled desires. He was never one for close relationships, or relationships at all, really. It never bothered him much.
Sherlock seemed to be a different case.
No one had any idea which team the man was on- privately, John rather thought it didn't matter to the curly-haired sociopath- and he never appeared to have a relationship that was anything but platonic, so John had taken to thinking that the consulting detective's primal urges were also under control.
He was, as usual when dealing with Sherlock Holmes, quite wrong.
At first, he didn't really notice the change. A hand that lingered a moment too long on his shoulder, or a sudden desire to sit almost uncomfortably close on the couch with him when they weren't out catching serial killers or rescuing each other from the clutches of the enemy. In fact, the issue was only brought to the doctor's attention when Sgt. Donovan made a passing comment in the hall one day.
"Looks like the freak's at it again. Watch your back, boy- literally."
It didn't take the brain of a Sherlock to read between the lines on that statement, and upon his understanding, John's mind flashed through a mix of emotions.
Disgust- Would that bloody whore ever lay off the insults?
Confusion- Sherlock was gay, then?
More confusion- Wait, Sherlock was after him?
And finally, astonishment- Sherlock had been in a relationship? With another person? Multiple times?
He couldn't quite wrap his head around that last one, of course, so John decided not to worry about that part. From that moment on, however, he was increasingly aware of his partner-in-crime-solving's actions. From anything to the brush of a sleeve to a flickering glance- he saw it all. And...he didn't really know what to do about it.
To confront Sherlock would not only be extremely awkward, it would most likely also accomplish nothing, as the man could be a mulish brute when he wanted. The next, and most appealing option, would be to simply wait it out and allow Sherlock to make the first move. Then...there was a lurking third idea, darting about in the corners of John's mind, refusing to be completely acknowledged, but still there all the same.
You could give in.
It was ridiculous, completely preposterous...and yet, it held a glimmer of appeal. John would drive himself mad at times, fighting an inner battle with himself so fierce that he occasionally forgot about the world around him.
Was he straight or was he not?
"I suppose I could be both...ah, rubbish. What am I thinking?" the Afghanistan war vet muttered to himself, sorting through papers on his clients. "It's got to be one or the other. I refuse to be both."
"Both what?" Sarah's voice interrupted, startling John out of his musing.
"Erm, nothing," the doctor stammered, flushing. "I was thinking about a patient I saw today, that's all."
The way she eyed him suspiciously made it clear that Sarah didn't believe him, but thankfully, she left it alone. Most likely she assumed he would come to her with his troubles when he was ready. He wouldn't of course- he wouldn't trust her with this kind of secret.
Mildly surprised at his own thoughts, John sighed and shook his head. He needed a drink.
"You're unhappy in your relationship. Perhaps it is time to end it with her?" Sherlock said the moment he trudged through the door. John opened his mouth, a sharp retort on his tongue, but sagged suddenly, all the energy leaving him in a large sigh.
"Maybe it is," he agreed with a halfhearted shrug, trudging upstairs to his bedroom and closing the door firmly. He just didn't want to talk at that moment, especially with the root of his problems himself.
John lay back on his bed and closed his eyes, rubbing his face with his hands. "It can never be easy, can it?" he grumbled to the ceiling.
"Of course not," a soft voice answered. Combat instinct had John leaping up in a flash, but a strong hand pushed him down again.
Sherlock's gaze was simply predatory as he clambered atop the startled body of his doctor. There was no emotion in those eyes; all John could see was desire.
John opened his mouth to protest, but Sherlock's hand clamped over it before he could speak. The sociopath smiled almost kindly as he stared down at the feebly struggling male underneath him.
"Say nothing. Let me handle this," he purred, eyes glittering.
He handled it, all right.
They didn't talk about it the next morning, or any time after that. Sherlock's message was clear when John awoke to an empty bed the next morning. He found himself to be quite embarrassingly sore (though whether from lack of practice or...new experiences, he couldn't be sure) and spent the remainder of the day pretending to not be, as well as hoping that Sarah didn't notice and ask questions. The doctor silently thanked the heavens that there weren't any cases he and Sherlock were currently working on, otherwise he'd have to deal with the uncomfortable 'I-told-you-so' stares from Sgt. Donovan, not to mention the snickers and leers from the insufferable Anderson. John wasn't sure if he could ever meet Lestrade's eyes again without the man seeing the guilty truth that lay behind them. He wasn't sure if he could cope like this.
Sherlock didn't appear until later that evening. John opened his mouth to ask where he'd been, thought better of it, and returned to his leftover pasta on the couch. The two barely even greeted each other, and that night, John went to bed feeling lonelier than ever.
Time began to pass, and though the incident never really faded from John's mind, he was at least acclimated to the idea. The fact that no other occurences like it helped somewhat, and slowly, life began to return to normal.
Until it happened a second time.
John picked up on the warning signs earlier on, having experienced them once before. The touching, the lingering glances...Sherlock was at it again, stalking him like an innocent rabbit, helpless against the advances of the wolf.
...Wait, did he just think of himself as a rabbit?
Incorrect comparisons aside, it was obvious that Sherlock was interested in another bedroom meeting. Still, John tried to convince himself that it was just his imagination, that he was just paranoid and panicked over something that would turn out to be a false alarm, that it would all blow over...
Something was blown over, all right. In the end, it was John's fragile belief in his own safety from the hunter that he shared a flat with. Sherlock invaded his bed once again, and John let it happen.
That had to have been the worst part. Sure, Sherlock's sex was great, but John just let it go on. Never mind the fact that he was in another relationship- with a woman, he might add- or that maybe he didn't want to be with Sherlock- his beating heart told him otherwise, but he ignored this- or anything that constituted to an even remotely sane reason to not have sex with his flatmate. No sir, if Sherlock wanted sex, John would give it to him, no questions asked.
John wanted to hate himself, or at least Sherlock, but found himself entirely unable to. The fact was, he liked the sex. It was interesting, it was good, and the things Sherlock could do with his tongue would make a man weak in the knees. Sarah...she just couldn't compete.
Still, something had to be done. John wasn't a dishonest man, and he had the full intention of confronting the consulting detective the next time he tried to sneak his way into the doctor's bed, and then, once that was worked out, probably end it with Sarah. In all due honesty, that was long overdue.
Shag me once, shame on you, shag me twice, shame on me. Shag me thrice and it's time to ask some questions, John thought, and sat back to wait.
Approximately one week later, John awoke to find a warm, large body over top his own. It was dark, and, groggy and disoriented, the Afghan veteran's combat instincts kicked in before his reasoning did. He thrust an open palm upwards, aiming for his assailant's solar plexus, and was rewarded with a satisfying grunt. The man rolled onto the bed next to him, gasping, and John's logic finally kicked in.
"Christ, Sherlock! I thought you were trying to kill me!" he gasped, sitting up and flicking on his bedside lamp. Sherlock was suddenly bathed in yellow light, rolled onto his back, holding his hands to his stomach and breathing heavily.
"Well, that was a failure," he said, staring at the ceiling.
John snorted. "Really? Because it's so surprising that sneaking into your flatmate's room at night and getting into his bed while he's sleeping with the intents to have sex with him would actually not work," he responded.
"It's sodomy, John, not sex; I had assumed that even you knew the difference," Sherlock said with a kind of boredom. Half-lidded eyes slid over to John. "However, you had no qualms about the experience before."
"I was...taken off guard!" John spluttered, flushing. And curious, he added silently. No need for Sherlock to know that; hell, he probably knew already and simply wasn't letting on for some arrogant reason. "But this time, I want to know why."
Sherlock sighed, affecting an expression of tedious boredom. John noticed that he wasn't making eye contact when he spoke, however, giving away his nerves.
"Your relationship with Sarah is obviously failing, meaning that you aren't having any sex with her. I am offering a form of...release, shall we say, from an unavoidable part of human existence." Sherlock closed his eyes, his face carefully blank. To anyone else, it would appear as though the man were resting, possibly fallen asleep, but John knew better. He'd seen Sherlock adopt that sort of expression when he was trying to suppress a particularly strong emotion. Usually, it was anger, but this time, John suspected it was something more along the lines of frustration...or perhaps fear?
He opened his mouth, closed it again, and said at length, "Were there others?"
Sherlock's jaw tightened, but he responded calmly. "Some. They didn't last long...and none were like you." He added the last part so quietly that John almost thought he'd imagined it.
"Like me?" he echoed dubiously. "You mean, a retired war vet in his thirties with a psychosomatic limp and a lack of any real intelligence? Sure, I guess you probably did better."
Sherlock's eyes flashed open, and he sat up, his face deadly serious. "You were the best, John. You are the best. You cannot possibly believe for one moment that you are anything but the epitome of excellence, and the one thing...the one thing keeping me sane."
John could only stare at the sociopath. This kind of outpouring of emotion from Sherlock was unheard of, and the fact that it was because of him... well, it felt good, actually. Right.
Sherlock was looking into John's face, searching for any kind of response. "John? Do you understand what I am saying to you?" he asked, blue-green eyes a mix of anticipation and worry. John nodded, very slowly.
"I...think so," he said, as if struggling with something. He looked up suddenly, face earnest. "If you'd wanted a relationship, you should've just asked, Sherlock. It would've saved me from all of this mess I'm in now."
Sherlock grinned suddenly. "What are you going to tell Sarah, John? She won't be pleased."
"Fuck Sarah," John said, and crushed his lips to Sherlock's.