Denial

A/N: A sequel to "Obsession." Sherlock's side of the story. I'm working on my dark!John story as well, but I felt that Sherlock needed this. A lot of stories are all, "Sherlock likes to experiment with sex and John will teach him yay fluff!" Some of them are very well-written, I like them a lot and I like the smut. But Sherlock has a *reason* for not having sex in 35 years, and its more than "he just hasn't met the right man."

This is going to be shorter than Obsession. Two or three chapters only. No clue if there will be more shagging, but I suspect it'll happen.

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Sherlock Holmes woke up to an empty bed, and he was relieved. He would have to face John eventually, but not immediately. He needed time to regroup. To think. Except he couldn't think about anything rational. John had—Sherlock had—he didn't even like to think of it. It was too horrific, too surreal. Was this how teenaged girls felt after their first shag? God, he was comparing himself to a little girl.

John, John. Why John? Very puzzling. It wasn't because he was good-looking. He would note a person's attractiveness, but only as it pertained to the problem at hand. And his mind...it was dull, slow-witted. Not as bad as most people, but nowhere near genius. John Watson had absolutely nothing to recommend himself to Sherlock. So how had he managed to get Sherlock into bed when no other human being could even tempt him?

The bedroom didn't smell right. Sherlock had always hated it when a writer wrote that "the room smelled like sex" but now he knew what that smell was and it made him want to vomit. The sheets would have to be washed immediately and even though he felt clean bodily, having already taken one shower, he wanted another.

He went to the door and listened—yes, John was in the flat, rattling around in the kitchen while trying to be quiet. Maybe he would leave. Was he working at the surgery that day? No, it was a Sunday, and it was already four in the afternoon. Stanford could call—he held poker games in the evening now and then (no one would let Sherlock play—he was extremely good at poker). Yes. Let Stamford call, and John would go out and then Sherlock could leave the safety of his room.

He, the Sherlock Holmes, had let logic and reason fail him, and he had stooped to the lowest of primal urges like an ape that had yet to evolve. He had for quite some time (his entire adult life and a large bulk of his teenage years) believed himself to be an evolutionary step above the average man, and the very idea that he was as weak-minded as the rest of the idiots on the planet made him want to cry.

He hadn't expected it to feel good (oh his mind was spinning in circles now, and it was all selfish, irreverent stuff that had nothing to do with the work, by god John had ruined him after one night). as a rule, an organ designed to be an exit should not be used as an entrance, no matter if there were feel-good bits stuck up there or not. He wasn't concerned that his pleasure in the act made him a sexual deviant (god, the word sexual could now be used to describe him). Gay, straight, it didn't apply because up until that night he was not...like that. What would people think of him now if they knew that he had...done it?

He paced the room—he was still naked. How had he not noticed that? His mind was falling to pieces already. He scrambled into some clothes and stood in the middle of the room, not sure what came next. Drugs. Drugs come next.

His hands shook as he went searching for his stash, not even looking at Irene's phone or the music he had written for her. Sentimental rubbish. He thought he was over that, but no, there was John instead. He found the cigarette box and fumbled it open. He ignored the cocaine, calm was what he needed, and snatched up a cigarette.

The tobacco was soothing, it calmed his nerves but not his brain. The pot was useless. He had it because sometimes he needed to smoke whether nicotine was involved or not. The best the damn stuff did was make him dizzy when he stood up.

Sherlock chain smoked the remaining cigarettes. No good no good no good wait! John! Sometimes Johns old shoulder wound would ache, and there was—he forgot about hiding and swooped out of his room to the bathroom. He threw the medicine cabinet open. Vicodin, vicodin it had to be there somewhere yes!

The cap was being difficult, and he had left the safety of his room. "Sherlock? What are you doing?"

Sherlock spun around. "John. I-" he raised his hand to the fat lip and black eye he had gotten the nigh before. "My face hurts." John would buy it.

"Oh! Of course, of course." He took the bottle out of Sherlock's hands, twisted it open expertly, and dropped one pill into Sherlock's open palm. "You don't want to over-do it, right? I know you and drugs."

"Right," he said, masking his disappointment. "Thank you John."

"I like how you say my name."

Oh, this was a disaster.

"I made some tea and some sandwiches," John said. "I, um, wanted to let you sleep, after the last few days you've had." John was uncomfortable too at least. Good. John would realize it was a horrible mistake and it would never happen again.

"Thank you John," Sherlock said, and went into the kitchen where an unnecessarily large spread and Mrs. Hudson's good china set out. He surveyed the table with distaste and noticed John hovering in the doorway, waiting for approval with puppy-dog eyes.

"It's...very nice," Sherlock managed to say.

John smiled and swooped in, the sneaky devil, and the next thing Sherlock knew he was being kissed again.

This was why he had left. This was why he went under cover for a few days, to get John to calm down and realize he was being an idiot.

Half of Sherlock wanted to kiss him back, half didn't know how, and half wanted to run. Too many halves-your mind is slipping.

He pushed John away. "I can't do this. I just can't."