I was definitely encouraged by the support for my first Sherlock fic, "Within". Now that I'm confident that at least some people like my interpretation of the characters, I present another piece of a somewhat similar vein-at least in that it is highly introspective. I intend to write a second chapter to this, but I have to warn: I am a FULL-TIME student. Incredibly full-time. As in, I literally attend three separate schools. So my updates may be slow-coming. I don't know. It depends on the state of my muse, and my homework.
This one comes with a hit of slash. (and a small warning for memories of drug use)
He felt a familiar anxiety blooming in his chest. It told him exactly what he needed at that moment.
Sherlock walked into the kitchen and opened a small drawer located at the bottom of the cupboards. John rarely opened it, he could tell. John most likely thought that its location would lend itself to being an excellent incubator for one of Sherlock's experiments. His deduction would be logical, though somewhat far from the truth.
Inside the drawer was an alarming amount of nicotine patches. A small part of Sherlock remembered what else used to occupy the drawer—and was a little disappointed. But no. He wouldn't fall to that again, not with Lestrade searching for it specifically. It is hard to hide something from someone when they know exactly what they are looking for.
Sherlock pulled out a box of patches and took it with him to the sofa. He draped himself over the cushions and, with a practiced motion, opened the box with one hand while letting the sleeve of his robe fall to reveal the thin pale wrist of his other arm.
He stared at his own flesh for a moment. Unwittingly, the image of a needle flashed before his eyes and he could almost see the track marks that had once adorned his skin. The anxiety grew worse. He quickly unpeeled a patch and slapped it onto his wrist.
He tried to stop the thought before it could occur—he could feel it coming, but despite his efforts he was already considering how, he had used the force of his gesture as a substitute for the bite of a needle. He felt a roll of disgust tumble through him for a moment. He hated how he still craved it.
But then—maybe a little too quickly—the nicotine began taking effect. The anxiety wilted a little. Sherlock took a deep and needed breath.
John was away at the surgery. He wouldn't be back for at least another few hours. That is, if he didn't find some excuse to go out and do something with Sarah.
…Oh.
My.
What was that? He found himself wondering. That sharp tinge that shot through his chest was unexpected. Was this jealousy, then? What an uncomfortable emotion. He simultaneously wanted to jump up and rip John from her siren's grasp and sink deeper into the sofa and feel himself spread between the cushions and never move again.
Sherlock still had his wrist held up. He looked at it once more. He let the box he still grasped in his other hand drop to the floor, then slowly brought his arm up to the other. His skin tingled beneath the patch. He gazed at it intensely, while not attaching to it a direct thought. Slowly, he let his thumb flutter over the too-dark-skin-coloured patch and feel its synthetic surface contrasting with the pulsing feel of his flesh.
The trace of his own fingers left trails of sensation on his wrist. He continued stroking around the patch in mild fascination.
Suddenly, a crushing desire filled him. He felt his heart speed up. He wanted that hand, causing so much feeling, to belong to someone else. He always wanted it to be someone else, even if for no better reason than pure curiosity. What was it like? The feeling of another? Skin that was not his own making contact in a soft, gentle manner.
That's what they all liked, he knew. All the others that were not him. They all had that and they all liked it and there was no reason he wouldn't like it too. But whenever he looked at another, and tried to imagine any form of physical contact, he found himself repulsed by reasons hard to define. They, everyone else, all seemed so inadequate. The desires that might drive them to such contact made his skin crawl. He wanted an equal, someone who could truly understand what he needed and why he needed it and not read into it with eyes clouded by the supposedly all-important act of sex.
But then, was it not arousal that he was seeking? Pleasure from another's touch? And yet still, that didn't seem right. A non-sexual arousal, maybe, if there was such a thing.
The anxiety was coming back. Sherlock reached down, picked up the box, and extracted another patch. This time, he laid it gently below the first, and pressed it in using slow, circular motions with his thumb.
He surprised himself by letting a small but deep moan grow in his throat. It never reached his mouth, but the vibrations in his neck were strong enough to prevent any attempts to deny what had just happened.
He felt very small and pathetic all of a sudden. Which was odd, because honestly, he loved himself. He loved what he could do. He loved watching astounded expressions occupy every face he saw with every word that left his mouth. It made him feel good. It made him feel better than everyone else. And he knew that was arrogance but he also knew he was perfectly entitled to it.
So why feel pain this now? Perhaps because, as much as he proved himself superior, there were things at which they would always be better . He may be able to read a person with one glance, and, despite what they thought, he was perfectly capable of interpreting their emotions, but he couldn't apply those rules to himself.
Something missing, something more. Who knows? Whatever it was that made Sherlock Holmes who he was inhibited any possibility to truly know another being. And maybe that was for the best? But he couldn't stop the hurt that accompanied being alone.
He was human, despite what they and even he himself wanted to believe. And humans are social creatures. Without contact with each other they whither and die.
Sherlock hated this: the loneliness and the self-doubt. He should be above all that. He wanted to be above it all. It would make things so much easier, to simply not want another. To be absolutely fine with always being alone. But he wasn't. And he hated it.
Almost as if by cue, he detected the sound of keys pinging together and the twist and drop of a lock being opened. John was back.
Sherlock glanced at the clock. Had he really been sitting there for so long? He lost track of time so easily…
John's timing was that of if he had left work as soon as his shift ended. He hadn't bothered to chat with Sarah. Interesting.
Sherlock subconsciously tapped out the steady rhythm of John's footsteps up the stairs. It was always the same tempo when arriving home from work, he had learned. Roughly 72 beats per minute, a fittingly militaristic 2/4 time. If John had spoken to Sarah it would've been faster.
But were they then no longer considering each other? Sherlock wouldn't be surprised if Sarah wanted nothing more to do with John after their last date. But John had given no hint afterwards of what state their relationship was in. So Sherlock waited to draw his conclusion when John entered the room.
As soon as he did, Sherlock knew: they were taking a break. John wore a sort of resigned stoical expression. He was disappointed, but not discouraged. He was heeding her signals by not approaching her, but he was definitely still interested, at least to some degree.
Sherlock sighed internally. He didn't know why John in a relationship bothered him so much. He should be spending his thoughts on more engaging matters.
John had paused in the doorway. He apparently sensed Sherlock's gaze and scanned the chaos of the flat before identifying the crumpled mass of robe and pajamas on the sofa as Sherlock Holmes.
He nodded in greeting. Sherlock did nothing but cover his exposed wrist and look away, intending to lose himself in thought once more.
"Have you been there all day?" was John's only verbal acknowledgement.
Sherlock made a sound in reply, though its message was unclear.
"I'll take that as a 'yes.'" John walked out of the room briefly to drop off his bags and returned to begin the process of creating something edible in the kitchen.
"So, no new cases then?" He spoke from the kitchen.
Sherlock felt himself blocking out John's voice. It wasn't for any specific reason concerning John, it was just that he hadn't quite extracted himself yet from his introspection.
The sleeve now covering his arm annoyed him. He wanted it gone. He pulled it back and maybe intentionally, let his fingers trail up his wrist slowly in the process. It was a muted feeling he gave himself, but it was a feeling nonetheless. Like sparks across his skin, he let the sensation fade but the afterimage of it was strong.
From the kitchen he heard John grumble, probably discouraged by what he had found in the fridge.
Without warning, Sherlock felt his chest tighten and the fading trails of contact on his wrist flare up.
What?
…No.
No no no no no.
Sherlock angrily swiped his sleeve down again and folded his arms tightly against his chest. Erase the feeling. He wasn't supposed to have that feeling. Not when he was actually picturing someone. Not when he was thinking of John.
But Sherlock felt his curiosity override the shock and he was already beginning to contemplate an experiment…
Please review! I am so curious as to what people think of my interpretation of Sherlock. Give me feed back! (and of course, more reviews directly correlate to more updates!)