The Man with the Twisted Limp
The pain shot up his leg the moment he put his weight on it. He stumbled and lurched onto the coffee table, grabbing it to support himself. What had happened? No sprains; no breaks; no bruises; no stretching of the muscle; he wasn't even prone to night aches. He was still a young man who was in shape, so he could rule out most diseases. Only one conclusion.
Psychosomatic.
Sherlock frowned.
"May I borrow your cane?" Sherlock asked over toast and tea. He glanced at John. Shadows under eyes fifty percent reduced since last week – good, that meant his nightmares were decreasing. Traces of semen under his right-hand fingernails – no girlfriend, was still reliant on his good friend masturbation. Slightly more stubble on his upper lip than his jaw – dear God, he wasn't thinking of growing a moustache, was he?
"All right," said John, biting into his slice liberally spread with jam. "This for a case?"
"Yes." And, in truth, it was: the case of the sociopath who had apparently had a big enough emotional upheaval to warrant a psychosomatic limp. He was just going to need something to lean on while he solved it.
John checked his watch and began clattering the plates towards the sink. "I know it's just transport to you, but even transport needs refuelling, so make sure you get a bite to eat before chasing after killers today, okay? And don't bother Mrs Hudson for it, she's got a life besides you."
A rush of warmth filled Sherlock at John's concern for him. Perhaps today Sherlock might reciprocate. "I have heard masturbation in bed is more comfortable than in a shower; it might be a better idea to do it there. Also, don't bother with the moustache. It will age your face into that of a sex-offending pensioner."
John strode to the door with arms stiff and fists clenched. "Thanks a lot, Sherlock."
Right, then. To work.
This was one of those cases that would require Sherlock to reason backwards. Idiots found getting from cause to effect simple. Effect to cause caused them to trip over their own feet in bewilderment. So, the effect – psychosomatic limp. Now for the cause, the motive.
What could possibly have warped his almost non-existent emotions into a physical pain? He hadn't relapsed in five years. There were the same amount of dull cases as ever, but those had never bothered him to this extent. The violin still provided him with enjoyment. His experiments were going well. The one comparing the effects of citric and hydrochloric acid on various fabrics had been particularly fascinating, although John rather objected to the holes it had left in his jumper.
John. Perhaps Sherlock should ask him for advice. He had lived with a psychosomatic limp for some months before meeting Sherlock, after all. But something in Sherlock screamed not to tell John. Something told him it would be a terrible idea.
He was a consulting detective. His business was in solid fact, not 'somethings'. Instinct was a primal force left over from the days before reason. Yet instinct had on more than one occasion served to protect him from criminals and their punches.
Sherlock decided to listen to his instincts. He lay back on the couch, and resumed hunting through his mind palace.
That evening, John declined takeaway. "I'm going out," he said.
"With whom?" Pain flared up again in Sherlock's leg. He grasped the cane, and hobbled to where John was giving his hair another brush down. He paused several times, being sure to dramatically gasp for breath.
John glanced at him from the mirror. "A woman, you haven't met her – you all right?"
"Fine. Fine," panted Sherlock, leaning on the armchair for support. "Just a pulled muscle." He drooped his head, the absolute picture of suffering.
"Here, let me take a look at it," John said. Sherlock momentarily perched on the arm of the armchair, to find John on his knees before Sherlock.
Oh, this was so very not good.
The last time they had shared this much personal space was by the poolside when Sherlock had hurled the bomb from John's body. Even then, what with adrenaline and the weight of their lives pressing on Sherlock's mind, he had not given the matter much thought. But now they were home. Now they were comfortable, alone together. Now John had rolled up Sherlock's trouser leg and left his skin bare to warm, careful touches as John examined Sherlock's shin. John shifted slightly so his body was between Sherlock's legs, and Sherlock jerked his head away to stop the heat threatening to pool in his groin.
"Weird. There doesn't seem to be anything the matter," came John's voice from below. From a million miles away, Sherlock began to remember exactly why John was there.
"My mistake," he said, and looked down. John was looking up and they made eye contact for the first time since John had gotten on his knees. A long moment passed. Sherlock stared, and John stared, and something fizzled between them like Coke under an about-to-be-popped lid. John blinked first. He cleared his throat and stood up.
"I'd examine your thigh, but, well, I'm straight, and I'm pretty sure there's nothing the matter," he said with a quick smile. "Anyway, I've got to run if I'm going to make it to Angelo's on time."
"Go. Enjoy yourself." Sherlock felt suddenly empty, like a Coke can drained and battered into the wrong shape.
John looked back from the doorway more softly, as he would probably look at a beautiful and charming and considerate woman over flickering candlelight in a few minutes' time. "Thanks a lot. I will."
Sherlock really did need the cane when he went to look out of the window.
Lust was pedestrian. It was something Sherlock had encountered before, despite his claims to the contrary. The solution was simple, if irritating. If interest was mutual, one-night stand. If not, masturbation. He masturbated over John that night, thinking it would make his new emotions towards John go away.
It didn't.
Still, at least he had some idea where the psychosomatic limp had come from. It had flared up when John had shown disinterest in copulation with Sherlock. Therefore, it was simply a case of overwrought lust. Therefore, soon it would pass and he could delete it at last.
It didn't.
Instead, Sherlock began noticing new things about John. The way the wrinkles on his face creased when he laughed; the way he was just the right height for his head to slot under Sherlock's chin if they embraced; the way his eyes were the exact shade of the blue-grey that was rain. He wanted to capture that colour, pinpoint it on the spectrum. Surely one colour could mean only one thing. Yet to Sherlock, that blue-grey was cosiness and rain on rooftops and violin music and tea. It was also abandoned drenched streets and running footsteps and a hidden gun and a thrumming heart.
According to Sherlock's research, this was not love. Love was shot in soft-focus. Love meant you were never annoyed with the other person, not even if they removed your kidney samples from the oven. Love was idiocy. Love was oversweet chocolates and anatomically incorrect hearts and something called 'butterflies in the stomach' which was apparently pleasurable.
And yet Sherlock craved capturing each day he spent with John. He invented excuses to save John's smile on his Blackberry. He catalogued John's hair and skin cells under the microscope, making sure each piece of John was eternally preserved. His laugh was long since recorded on Sherlock's phone; it was beginning to compete with Beethoven for Sherlock's favourite piece of music. He longed to stop time whenever John found a grey hair or another wrinkle. Someone so beautiful and priceless should never have to age or decay or die. It simply should not happen.
But Sherlock should not waste energy on this. It was not the Work, after all, and the Work was all-important. If he squashed all of this stupidity down, it would leave him.
It didn't.
And still, Sherlock limped.
One month after the night John had knelt before Sherlock, they sat together in 221B. It wasn't a night for cases, experiments or dates; the woman John had met in Angelo's had turned out to be a nose-picker obsessed with cats. It wasn't a special night at all. Sherlock sat with a leather-bound volume, while in the opposite armchair, John flicked through the newspaper. A carpeted kind of hush filled the room.
They caught each other's eyes over their reading materials, grinned. John's smile was a little tenser than usual. Sherlock's was a tiny bit gentler. Then John frowned as his eyes lingered on the cane leaning against Sherlock's armrest.
"Are you ever going to tell me how you got that limp? I'm supposed to look after you – not just as a friend. Hippocratic Oath and that."
Sherlock shook his head, rapidly, and returned to his book.
"I'm sure it's not as bad as all that."
"It is." Sherlock was appalled at how small and petulant his voice sounded.
"Tell me."
The words came tumbling from Sherlock's mouth before he'd even had a chance to think about them. "It's psychosomatic."
"Mm-hm." John's tone was brusque. "Sherlock, when are you going to stop lying to me?"
"I'm not."
"Psychosomatic limp, my arse – you're so emotionally stable you might as well be a lump of rock!"
"Don't say that," Sherlock said, more assertively than before.
"Then don't fucking make fun of the problems I've had." John stopped even pretending to read. So did Sherlock.
"What makes you think I'm mocking you?"
"BECAUSE YOU LOVE IT!" roared John, making Sherlock jump. "It's your favourite little pastime, isn't it? Out of deducing things, playing with your chemistry set and scraping at that bloody violin you'd a million times prefer messing with people's feelings till they don't know which way's up! Go on, play your little genius game. Keep faking that you love me until like an idiot I finally admit that I love you too!" John paused for breath, eyes wide.
Sherlock stared. "Please," he said. "Say that again."
"Why? So you can record it on that phone of yours? I've seen you doing that, you know."
"No," whispered Sherlock. "Because I love you too."
John looked as though he was desperately trying to be cold. "Prove it."
So Sherlock walked to John's armchair, swung a leg over John's lap, took John's face in his hands, and kissed John hard on the mouth. It was no fuzzy, fluffy, happy kiss. Their mouths were open and wet from the start and teeth clinked against each other. Tongues wrestled for dominance and as they broke apart for air, Sherlock felt himself grow hard.
Between pants for air, Sherlock breathed, "Do you believe me now?"
"I might. But I'll need more proof. It's a bad idea to theorise before you have the data, after all," John smirked.
As they moved into Sherlock's bedroom, John got all the proof he could ever want. They slept curled into each other's arms like a pair of lions.
Neither of them ever limped again.