Summary:
John Watson is just a man. A man whose tolerance for sexual frustration has almost reached its limit. The object of his desire? Sherlock. The problem? Sherlock thinks he's straight and John doesn't think Sherlock's interested. Sherlock is just a man too, but he doesn't want to jeopardise their friendship. The solution? A prostitute who looks a lot like Sherlock. This is never going to end well...
Notes:
The idea for this just came to me. Or at least, a scene in one of the last chapters just appeared in my head and then the whole story came out of that. Yeah, I know - the basic idea is pretty far-fetched, but give it a chance... there's a logical explanation for it near the end. There's going to be a lot more drama in this story than in "Never Change a Running System" and not quite as much humour, but I hope you still have fun!
THIS IS A TRANSLATION OF MY GERMAN FANFIC "Wo du schon glaubst, da denk ich noch". Translator was the wonderful SwissMiss – you can find her on Ao3.
Reason goes before a Fall
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Difference
To the eagle spoke the dove:
"Where thinking ceases, there begins faith."
"Right," he replied, "but with this difference, where you already believe, I still reason."
Ludwig Roberg (1829)
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Chapter 1: I'm Sinking in the Quicksand of My Thoughts
(Chapter title from 'Quicksand' by David Bowie)
A forget-me-not lies pressed between the pages of a book of poems - tucked away yet not forgotten. Ensconced between two leaves of violet tissue paper like a priceless treasure, preserving the delicate blue of the dainty blossom. The book with its mundane yet precious contents resides on the bookshelves of none other than Sherlock Holmes.
He safeguarded this specimen of the local flora with his own two hands, for the forget-me-not was the same shade of blue as the sky on the day John Watson gifted him with the flower, along with several of its sisters.
This is the story of how that came to pass.
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John set out one unseasonally mild spring evening with a deliberate goal in mind.
Blaring neon lights, questionable bars and pubs, and dark corners distinguished this part of the city.
You'd never find a regular pedestrian here. Instead, there were young men loitering around the street lamps and leaning against walls. Single or in groups. Most of them dressed skimpily, or at least with their shirts unbuttoned most of the way. Inquisitive glances were sent John's way whenever he walked past them. He'd been here fairly often, but he'd never spoken to one of those young men before. He'd tossed the idea around, but never actually acted on it.
Today was going to be different.
He was going to talk to one of the streetwalkers.
John H. Watson was, after all, just a man.
A man whose tolerance for sexual frustration had reached its limit some time ago. The object of his desire, unfortunately, was none other than his flatmate and friend, Sherlock Holmes. To make matters worse, Sherlock thought John was straight and only interested in women.
Nothing could be further from the truth, but the misunderstanding was entirely John's fault.
Through the course of his life, John had gained erotic experience with both women and men. To be honest, all of his interactions with men had taken place while he was a soldier. However, in contrast to most of his fellow soldiers (at least those who'd been interested in that kind of thing) who never looked at another man after they left the service, John acquired a taste for it and diagnosed himself as bisexual. Since he was wounded, though - since he was back in London - he hadn't had any intimate contact with anyone. Other problems had simply been more important, and he hadn't felt like it yet.
That all changed as soon as Mike Stamford introduced him to Sherlock Holmes. His behaviour was even more eccentric than his appearance, yet John had found both of them quite unique and rather appealing. His interest was piqued and then utterly hijacked when Sherlock winked at him at the end of their first meeting. He could hardly have been more direct and unambiguous. And Sherlock didn't appear to be entirely disinterested, either.
The prospect of sharing a flat with this fascinating man triggered all kinds of interesting feelings in John, for the first time in a long while.
Desire was certainly one of the main ones. It didn't change anything that John knew Sherlock was in a completely different league and should have been way out of his reach. John had never much bothered himself with thinking along those lines, and had done quite well for himself as a result. His rejection rate with highly desirable women - and men - was astoundingly low.
There had to be sinister powers at work if he couldn't convince this man of his positive qualities eventually. After all, they'd be sharing a flat and spending several uninterrupted hours there every day.
The only thing that unnerved John was the suddenness with which his libido had reported back for duty after he'd thought it long since buried.
But then things had happened very quickly, and before John knew it, he found himself involved in a murder case on an altogether different sort of battlefield than what he was used to. And then there had been that dinner at Angelo's, which - in retrospect - had been nothing short of a disaster...
The dinner where he'd bollixed up any chance he had with Sherlock, once and for all. Why had he been so vehement in his denial when he was referred to as Sherlock's date?
Had the sudden, strong feelings for a man he didn't actually know at all been a little too much for him? Had he been embarrassed at how easy he was to read? Was his amorous desire written so clearly on his face? Or was it more that Sherlock had been so completely … oblivious to Angelo's remark? Neither denying nor confirming it?
John didn't know himself anymore the whys and wherefores - but his contrary nature had been aroused, and he'd protested. Only to realise a moment later that he'd just made a very, very stupid mistake.
In order to regain lost ground, he'd tried to sound Sherlock out regarding his current relationship status … even if he didn't have anyone here in London to share the rent and his bed with, it was possible he had a boyfriend or girlfriend in another part of the country.
Looking back, John had to admit that his attempt at a come-on might possibly be the worst one ever in the history of flirting. The only defence he could offer was that he'd never really flirted with a man before. He'd had good success with the direct approach in the army.
Sherlock's rejection was therefore to be expected, yet John had been so insulted that he ended up denying everything and saying he was only interested in women. He could have kicked himself for that later. But right at that moment, he wanted to:
a) save face and
b) make sure he could still flatshare with Sherlock, as even after such a short time, he couldn't imagine life without this man. Which is why he didn't hesitate to shoot Sherlock's adversary later that night, accepting the death without a flicker of conscience.
Since then, several months had passed, and his attraction to Sherlock had grown continuously rather than fading away, as he'd half hoped it would do.
He wouldn't want to give up this life for anything. The excitement, the danger, the fun they had together; not even the late-night violin playing or the human body parts in their refrigerator could dissuade him.
But most of all, he didn't want to give up the sight of Sherlock … in his pyjamas, in his dressing gown … in those suits and shirts that were all cut just a bit too tight …
But, as has already been mentioned, John H. Watson was just a man. A man who needed an outlet for his sexual frustration, and soon, before he did something extremely stupid.
It had now reached the level at which it was no longer enough for him to touch himself frantically under his sheets.
Tonight, he simply needed another cock.
He flinched at his own crudely formulated thought, but there was no way around it. It had been over a year since he'd given another man a blowjob … and he needed it tonight, or he just might go mad.
He couldn't explain it himself. Maybe it was because he felt lonely. Sherlock had left the house without him more frequently recently, sometimes murmuring something about the morgue or the lab, other times mentioning the library, research, or experiments. When John ventured to ask for details once, Sherlock had reacted in an extremely testy manner.
"If I wanted to have to account for each and every second of my life, I could have asked Molly to move in with me." Those were his exact words.
John had been a bit hurt, admittedly, but that's just how Sherlock was. It was possible, however, that that remark was the final straw that broke the camel's back.
John had tried to appease his reawakened libido by dating women. Of course it wasn't the same, but he still hadn't given up the hope that there would end up being one from amongst his many liaisons whom he might... whom he could see himself with...
Actually, despite his orientation, John had never doubted that he'd end up meeting a woman, falling in love, getting married, and having a family with her. As exciting as it was to be with a man, he'd never believed he'd spend the rest of his life in a happy, same-sex relationship.
Since he'd met Sherlock, the dream of a house, a wife, and the statistically expected 1.3 children had lost much of its charm.
He was annoyed over how easy it was for Sherlock to chase away all of his girlfriends (or even make John do it himself), but he didn't really try to stop it. He was still attracted to women, but it was somehow more about the excitement of the conquest rather than the satisfaction of keeping her that interested him at this point.
John had considered, now and then, trying it with a man. Maybe that would help him get over his bloody obsession with Sherlock. Of course he'd have to do it secretly, but that wouldn't pose an insurmountable problem. It would be a challenge, to be sure, to keep something like that from Sherlock, but John was certain he could do it.
And now he was walking down this street, looking for... what, exactly?
He didn't rightly know himself, but he thought he'd recognise it when he saw it. He'd briefly played with the idea of finding a young man who was tall, slender, and dark-haired, like Sherlock, but that would probably only have made him depressed. And he really didn't need to be any more depressed than he already was. So tall and brunet was right out. Should he go for the polar opposite? Short and blond? John had to bark out a laugh at that. He might as well stand in front of a mirror in that case. While he was trying to find a middle ground, a light, full-bodied laugh reached his ear, and out of the corner of his eye he registered a broad motion. He stopped where he was and turned around.
The motion and the laugh came from a man with his back turned to him. He was gesturing loosely with his left hand, in which he held a burning cigarette. John inspected the back of the … man? boy? … attentively.
Skin-tight, bleached jeans, with an open shirt made of the same material in the same colour hanging over the top of the jeans. He was tall - but probably shorter than Sherlock, as this young man was wearing black cowboy boots with high heels. He was slender and had short hair whose colour flickered between a gentle dishwater blond and a faded brown. It was about as short as - if not shorter than - Sherlock's hair, but much curlier.
One of the other men in the group surrounding him seemed to notice John looking at them, as he whispered something to the man in the faded jeans, causing him to turn around. He caught John's eye and approached him, swinging his hips.
His resemblance to Sherlock hit John almost like a physical blow. His mouth was shaped almost exactly like Sherlock's. His cheeks were a bit rounder but just as breathtaking. His movements, however, were mincing, playful, eccentric, and seductive. That, along with the hazel brown eyes and the high, bright voice - which carried a hint of a foreign accent - diminished any similarity to the detective to a very small measure.
"What can I do for you, cheri?" the young man asked, looking at John expectantly, his right hand braced flirtatiously on his hip. An unadorned silver chain glittered on his flawless, hairless chest.
"What's your name?" John heard himself ask.
The man smiled coyly. "What would you like me to..."
John shook his head firmly. "What's your name?" he asked again.
Something in the man's eyes shifted. "Peter," he said.
John shook his head, and the man grinned.
"Fine," he said after a moment. "Pierre. My name's Pierre. If you prefer, I can say filthy things to you with a terrible accent … or I could just speak French."
"Can't you do it without the accent?"
Pierre smiled in surprise. "Most people don't even notice it. You have a good ear." He looked at John as if anticipating something before licking his upper lip. "All right - what'll it be? Not that I want to rush you, but..."
"No, it's fine... I mean..." John stammered nervously. "I... erm... blowjob?" he said, feeling like the last idiot.
"French?" The smile again. "My speciality! I'll only do it with a johnny, though. For twenty. For thirty you can come on my face." Cool, businesslike, but still with a friendly interest.
John was ashamed to realise that his ears were getting hot. "No... not me..."
"Oh?" A look of surprise. "You want to give me one? That doesn't happen very often. All right … let's say fifteen. I wouldn't care, but... with or without?"
"With..."
"You don't need to be embarrassed about it. All right... where should we go? Do you have a car or... the landlord of that pub over there will let us use his toilet for a fiver. If you want a room it'll cost extra. We could also go over there... to the park..."
"Aren't there police in the park?"
"We have someone who plays lookout. The park then? All right, come on."
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Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock Holmes was also just a man. He'd lost his active virginity when he was seventeen. He'd kept his passive virginity two more years, in order to surrender it in a planned encounter on his nineteenth birthday.
Over the following eight years, he'd gained experience with both men and women, and determined that he found the male physique and the opportunities it offered more attractive than its female counterpart. In addition, he was hardly going to run the danger of ending up in a relationship and married to one of his male acquaintances before he'd had a chance to blink.
After those eight years, he'd lost most of his interest in sexuality and eroticism. In his opinion, he'd made a thorough study of the subject and explored every subdomain in detail. In short: the whole thing started to bore him, and so he stopped. Ever since then, he'd found it sufficient to pleasure himself every couple of weeks (luckily, his body didn't signal a need for such things more often than that), and beyond that he was married to his work - just as he'd told John that first evening.
John.
John was something else altogether.
Sherlock needed a flatmate. That's how it all started.
His old flat had become too small for all the files, masses of paper, and experiments. Not to mention that his landlord hadn't looked too kindly on the fact that his bedroom wall was no longer in its original condition following an unforeseen explosion in the course of one of the aforementioned experiments. They'd even found pieces down on the pavement outside.
His stay there was therefore cut short. Luckily, Mrs Hudson - who owed him a favour and had taken a liking to him - had an empty flat to let. The only problem was that his affairs weren't quite running according to plan, and the rent was too steep for him on his own.
Asking his brother for financial support was out of the question, so he'd have to get a flatmate. At least that was the lesser of two evils.
Sharing the flat with a woman was right out. She'd only end up demanding that the place be kept clean, and filling containers with greenery in an attempt to 'brighten things up'.
The mere thought made Sherlock shudder.
It would have to be a man. But it couldn't be anyone Sherlock would normally find attractive. After all, he didn't want to be distracted from his work. On the other hand, it shouldn't be some tiresome dunderhead. He'd end up strangling someone like that on the first day, of that Sherlock was certain.
So he asked Mike Stamford if he knew anyone...
Stamford was a bit dull, but well educated. Good-natured but no doormat. Bourgeois but not narrow-minded, and most importantly: definitely heterosexual. Sherlock was certain that Stamford only knew like-minded men, which was how he imagined the perfect flatmate to be.
And then Stamford dragged John in.
John.
Patient but used to taking orders, and with nerves of steel. A little square - good God, the man wore jumpers! - but a medical doctor, and therefore intelligent enough not to annoy Sherlock too much. Attractive? Not in the typical vein of being tall and handsome, but he still managed to arouse Sherlock's interest. A tiny bit.
That's when Sherlock should have known to stay away.
He didn't.
He even winked at him … partly to find out something about John's sexual orientation, and partly for the hell of it.
That memorable evening at Angelo's, Sherlock figured out that John was bisexual at the very least, and was definitely flirting with him.
And so Sherlock did the only smart thing - in his vaunted opinion - he'd ever done when it came to John.
He turned him down.
John had definitely been interested, and now he hid behind a mask of unmitigated heterosexuality. A mask that had so many holes in it that Sherlock was able to see through it in no time. Still, he acted as if he believed John.
He felt sorry about the rejection - and regretted it as well, in a way - but did he have any choice other than to rebuff John's amorous advances? No.
Because although he didn't want to encourage John's erotic interest, he did want to share the flat with him.
And where else was he going to come up with another flatmate who was so perfect at such short notice? Mrs Hudson wouldn't be able to keep the flat open for him forever.
Secretly, Sherlock knew that he would have had the choice to keep away from John entirely.
But again, he didn't do that.
It was quite pleasant for a change, rather than being cursed and reviled for his talents and actions, to reap honest, astonished, awestruck admiration.
And so Sherlock kept John as a flatmate, against his better judgment.
It was admittedly a weakness, but how much damage could that one little nod to his vanity do?
Unfortunately, quite a bit - as Sherlock began to realise through the months.
He started to desire John Watson.
And that was completely out of the question.
Sherlock wasn't willing to give up everything they'd achieved together - everything they were together: friends, colleagues, flatmates - merely to slake some base need.
He knew that, once a relationship - no matter what kind - failed, there was no way back to the safe haven of friendship.
The worst part was that it was easy for Sherlock to see what was going on inside John.
John was on the best way to falling in love with him.
To make matters even worse, John wasn't opposed in the least to the feelings he was developing for Sherlock. Sherlock could see that as easily as if it were written across John's forehead.
Still, John didn't stop going out with women. Sherlock had to admit it amused him how easy it was to torpedo John's relationships with those women. He enjoyed doing it, over and over again. Deep inside, he knew he shouldn't, but if he couldn't have John, he didn't want anyone to have him. Neither a woman nor a man … Sherlock hadn't quite understood, however, why John never dated a man. Of course he would have had to do it on the sly, as he was still living in a dream world in which Sherlock accepted his heterosexuality. Still... no matter how stealthy he might be... Sherlock would have known if he'd done it.
And so John was well on his way to developing feelings for him.
Sherlock couldn't allow that to happen. The status quo of their friendship couldn't be allowed to be endangered or interfered with in any way; even so, both men were drawn more and more to each other. No matter how much Sherlock fretted over it, he couldn't see how to break the spiral that was leading them straight to disaster.
On the one hand, both men needed an outlet for all of the pent-up sexual tension. On the other hand, Sherlock needed to make sure that John didn't leave him for someone else. He wanted John, the man. And he wanted him all for himself. But he knew if he gave in to that desire, he'd only end up destroying their unique friendship and successful cooperation in the long run … and if John left him some day … then he'd be left without the man, without a friend, without a blogger.
He wanted the man, but he also wanted to keep his friend.
It was like squaring the circle - or put more simply: Sherlock wanted to have his cake and eat it too.
An insoluble dilemma.
At least that's how it appeared.
But then Sherlock observed something, as accidental as it was illuminating, and he came up with the perfect plan by dint of his perfect intelligence.
Unfortunately, it's always the perfect plans that end up failing catastrophically.
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to be continued…
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(Updates: every Thursday)