This is my first Sherlock Fan Fic. Not brit-picked. Please be kind to me. I own zip, nadda, zilch.
Sherlock was not bored. He was silent and thinking. The fire was burning in the hearth. The wind was blowing outside, and whistling around the window frames. John sat in his chair, quiet, softly sleeping, snuffling almost. He wore the grey jumper that Sherlock imagined was soft. He wore jeans that were worn and soft from repeated wear and washing. Sherlock watched John.
He wanted to touch him. No doubt, his clothes were soft enough, but what about the rest? Men were all angles, all physical force. Sherlock needed soft things. Stimuli overwhelmed him. Soft shirts. Soft pants. Soft robes. And sometimes nothing was enough to take the flood of feeling away, not even his own nudity. But perhaps John's hands…
He did not want to be alone. He did not want John to find a woman and move out and do his Watson-ish things elsewhere. Sherlock loved the man. He was also incapable of saying so. He didn't know what it meant. He didn't know what it would mean to John. There were only so many possible outcomes. Many ended with a rejection. What would happen then? I would cease to be. Somehow. I would cease to be.
But if it could work? Perhaps he could pretend it wasn't overwhelming. Perhaps they could have love. No one would be as loyal as I am. No one else would chase after sensory pain, just to make John happy.
What if I am incapable of love? What if this is just about possession? The literature is clear. Desire to possess him, as though he were a thing, is not outside the realm of possibility.
Sherlock found the thought offensive, but then, being pinned by the needle always was. Pinned, and wriggling on the wall. Sociopath. Defined. Unable to be anything else. Still, he was tired of ignoring what was fundamental. I am gay. I am. He whispered this to the room, to his softly snoring John, and then stepped softly out, into the stairwell, and down the stairs.