Sherlock Holmes was a self-confident man in the extreme. He had never once in his thirty-seven years of life ever made a decision that wasn't purely in his own best interest. His mind could map all of the repercussions of every physical and mental action he took in a span of seconds. Thus, he very, very rarely ever made a mistake. And when he did err, it was never something he couldn't easily compensate for and correct.
Until now. They said hindsight was twenty-twenty.
Bollocks. Hindsight is a kick in the arse.
It had all been a terrible idea. A hellish, idiotic, insanely irrational and very terrible idea. He never should have asked John Watson to go in on a flatshare. Looking back on that fateful day, he wondered if some spare cocaine particles from his drug days hadn't somehow floated into his tea that morning. That was the only explanation he could currently think of that made sense. Because quite obviously something had gone wrong with his trusty bio-computer when he'd met the good army doctor.
Perhaps he'd followed a life of self-imposed celibacy for so long that he'd quite forgotten that at the end of the day and all the layers of intellect were stripped away as he lay in that semi-conscious state between wakefulness and sleep that he was only human. For years, adhering to a life without sexual contact was much like following a diet. The longer one went without indulging in that chocolate meringue at lunch the less one craved to have the taste of chocolate meringue on one's tongue.
Today it had been eight years, nine months and thirteen days since he'd last had a bed partner. He'd been living and working with John Watson for months now and God help him but day by day his fortitude was weakening. He remembered every verbal interaction verbatim including every damned misunderstanding strangers always seemed to have about his and Watson's relationship. He remembered the time in the little cantina whilst working their first case. John had asked if he'd had a girlfriend and he'd quickly replied saying that that really wasn't his area. The good doctor had then gone on to ask if he might have had a boyfriend and his response had been to tell him that he was married to his work and that while he was flattered by the interest, (he was still surprised that somehow his brain had gotten his vocal cords and lips to say those words) he really wasn't looking for a relationship. The subtle context of his statement that night about his relationships with men had been quite different from the quick dismissal he'd made about his relationships with women.
He liked to play himself off as being asexual. And indeed, with women, the illusion was easy. The veil of asexuality he wore enabled him to better streamline his thoughts without the hindrance of having to constantly feed the baser physical desires of the human condition. Feeding those desires slowed him down and filled his mind with meaningless thoughts and memories of lust and passion. He'd convinced himself he could transcend those carnal instincts and improve his mind by simply swearing off sex. And indeed he'd become celibate for many the same reasons he'd quit using cocaine and smoking cigarettes. To free himself from the confines of the addiction. For he'd had quite the reputation in London's most exclusive gay clubs for being a rather insatiable lover. In his unique line of work, the voracity of his libido was a beast best kept locked inside a deep and buried cage.
Sherlock sighed miserably, rubbing his palm across his face. His life had been absolutely bloody perfect until the night watching for the cab in that dive of a cantina.
Last night he'd dreamt of John and awoken for the first time in over eight and a half years with a very insistent erection. Contrary to what others might have thought, he actually wasn't made of stone. Wanking off in a cold shower had most certainly not been an ideal start to his day. Thank God Watson was nowhere to be found when Sherlock plopped down in front of his microscope. There was a note on top of the teapot saying he'd gone at Mrs. Hudson's request to fetch a halogen bulb for the ceiling light in front of the stairs.
It was eleven o'clock. Presumably John would return at any minute. Maybe all of the hardware shops in London would be out of the special halogen bulb needed for Mrs. Hudson's light fixture and John would have to hire a car and drive to Doncaster instead. One could only hope.
Sherlock ran through the options he currently had. He could say and do absolutely nothing and hope he could force himself to ignore his current problem. He could tell John the truth. Or he could take on the role of cold-hearted bastard and break off all association with the man. The logical self-serving part of himself prompted him to choose the latter option, but the irrational still human side balked at the idea.
"Damned if I do, damned if I don't," Sherlock muttered sotto voce. Seconds later he heard John Watson's footsteps on the stairs, followed by the appearance of the man himself into the room. The blond soldier wore a blue and green plaid button down along with a favorite pair of faded black jeans.
"Morning, Sherlock," he said pleasantly. "I bought some eggs and a rasher of bacon while I was out."
"You found Mrs. Hudson's halogen light-bulb I take it," Sherlock said.
"They even carried them at Tesco so all I had to do was make one stop."
"Ah," Sherlock responded neutrally, making a show of scrutinizing the microscope.
"Is everything all right with you?" John asked.
Sherlock didn't immediately respond. He flicked his gaze to John's and then returned his eyes to where his fingers were fiddling with the microscope.
Oh yes, everything is just dandy, John. I may have had a dream last night that prominently featured you quite violently shagging me over that chair there you're now leaning against, but no matter, everything is just fine and fucking dandy.
"Sherlock?" John queried again, this time a tinge of concern creeping into his voice.
"What?" Sherlock asked, pretending he hadn't heard John's earlier question.
John moved around the room to stand closer to Sherlock. It was all Sherlock could do to prevent himself from outwardly showing his discomfort. The doctor was less than three feet from Sherlock's chair.
"For God's sake, just spill it, Sherlock. I know that look. It's your there's something interesting on your mind look."
Sherlock couldn't help but twitch at the doctor's choice of words. "It's nothing. Really."
John snorted indelicately. "I don't believe you. Come on, let's hear it."
Sherlock shoved the microscope further up on the desk and folded his forearms in front of him. "John," he began. "It's personal."
"What did you suddenly hear from some old flame?" John asked, arching a brow.
"No. But in an oddly roundabout way of thinking it does fit that theme."
"I don't follow."
Sherlock laid his head on his arms. "I had a dream about you, John." His voice was partially muffled by the fact that his forehead was pressed into the fabric of his sleeves.
Silence. So he had heard. Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one.
"OH . . . oh God."
Sherlock's only reply was to huff into his sleeve.