His Raggedy Doctor

Warnings: Angst, and a bit of a different style [it just reads a bit differently from previous fics I've written – mainly just an experimentation. Hey, Sherlock has his experiments, and I have my own ;) ] and brief, not graphic depictions of sex.

A/N: I don't know why, but I have always wanted to play off of the idea that Sherlock is madly in love with John but John will never feel the same way. So….this angsty piece was born. Enjoy. xD

The first time he hears Sherlock Holmes confess his sentiments he forces himself to agree with them. The first time he is kissed by Sherlock Holmes he pretends there is chemistry. The first time Sherlock Holmes says I love you he lies. Because John Watson would be blind to not see how much Sherlock Holmes needs his raggedy doctor.

What do you expect me to say?

Is there anything I can say?

You do not want the truth. You want what you think – what you believe, with every inch of your processing and developed mind – the truth is. That's what you want. Because you believe, with everything, everything you have that you know what I'm going to say. And you believe, with everything everything you have that it's not a lie.

You're not that difficult to figure out when you're so exposed.

Everything. It's there in your eyes. In your face. Your body. Every feature screams. There's no other way to describe it. You're screaming in a way I've never experienced. Sherlock Holmes, you are usually closed up. Zipped and padlocked with the key tossed in the Thames. No one, not even expert locksmiths, can crack you.

But here you are. Standing, so close. Maybe too close. Hungry for the words I have yet to speak. Your heart is on a platter, open and pouring and never stopping. You've put out everything. For me.

What do you expect me to say?

What can a person say after a person like you has revealed themselves in such a way, making them vulnerable. Your guards are down. It's like I can see straight through – past your flesh and past your bones and straight to the nerves and blood that fuels you. That makes you. That's all open, visible, exposed.

I, of all people, have been chosen to witness this?

What do you expect me to say?

You have already said everything. Every word that cuts down another barrier and makes the skin around you that much more transparent. Words like feeling and care and want. These are such new words to you. Hearing them is like hearing another person speak. Such words I would expect from Molly. But you?

But now the shock of the words has worn off. Now there is the hesitation, the wait for my reply, the seconds that drag on while I try and figure you out. I never can.

But you've done something. You've shown me vulnerability. You've shown me the outcast you will always be.

You've shown me how much you need me. Me. A normal doctor. A doctor with a few raggedy jumpers and not much else.

I always thought you told the truth when you called me your only friend. But you lied. Because I wasn't just a friend. Not to you. To you I am something more. I am your doctor. Your doctor with a few raggedy jumpers and not much else.

I would be a foolish man if I did not see that I am yours even if you are not mine.

I kiss you first. If we're keeping count of these instances, that's probably fair to say. But you turn it into something much more. You break more of your walls, cut away more of your padlocks. Your hands cupping my face and your lips tender, yet passionate. Full of desire and want and need. It's a passionate, hungry need. You need your raggedy doctor.

You're so caught up in this desire, perhaps you don't notice my eyes are still open. Maybe from shock, I try to reason. Maybe it hasn't hit me yet. Maybe it will.

But it doesn't. There is nothing. There is only a dull doctor trying to make his best friend happy. That's all there will be.

When you finally pull away, you examine my face carefully. Looking for a reaction.

Maybe when you do not find one, you feel the need to cement everything that has happened, because you whisper I love you.

How can you know that? Is the only thing I ask.

You do not answer. You do not explain. On ordinary circumstances I could see you launching into full detail about how you know. But these are not ordinary circumstances. You still are bare and raw. You are suddenly human. In these few moments, you become human. You are not fishing for an explanation, a deduction, a reasoning. You're just looking while I look back and see a transparent man.

It hurts. It fucking hurts to see you so open. For your heart to be held on a pedestal for me to examine at my leisure. For me to be able to see through your skin and bones to your veins. To see your lifelines, to see the small part of Sherlock Holmes that cares.

Because of me. Because you need your raggedy doctor. You're willing to put everything you know, everything you worked to hide and protect, to keep me.

You cannot afford to lose me. You may even say this bit out loud.

So I lie to you in turn. By solemnly saying I cannot afford to lose you.

By telling you that I love you back.

The first time he's in bed with Sherlock Holmes he stops. . Because John Watson would be blind to not see how much Sherlock Holmes needs his raggedy doctor.

(But the raggedy doctor John Watson pretends he is, is not the raggedy doctor Sherlock Holmes needs at all)

What do you expect me to say?

Is there anything I can say?

Or have I crossed a boundary I have no hope of backtracking. Crossed into territory that I cannot retrieve from. This is a battlefield. It is not what you are convinced it is. It is not what I am trying to convince myself it is.

It's a raging war between two different sides. The side of you that wants it, the side of me that pretends to want it.

C'mon, Watson. It's not like sex is not a pleasurable experience. It should be. I should be able to want it and enjoy it.

But it's not you with whom I want it. It never has been. Being in the same bed together is like the peak of the mountain of lies. Lies to keep you. To stop you from reverting back to dangers and discover something new if I told the truth.

You need your raggedy doctor.

You don't sense my stiff muscles, or feel the way my fingernails dig into your bare shoulders, not in a loving way, but in a pained way, as you kiss me. You have me trapped in a way that I don't want to be trapped. Things were so much easier before this. Before you needed me and I started pretending.

I'm not real for you. I can't be real for you. You're inventing this, and I'm playing along. No good doctor should play along with a patient's fantasies.

My back arches in shock as you kiss my neck. Slowly and deliberately. I can feel your body in places. Your hands on my chest and your knees at my hips. Do you think it's pleasure? Do you think I am succeeding in convincing you?

When I say your name, do you think it is because I need you, too? Do you not recognize that your iron grip and grinding hips are more painful than anything?

Is it that difficult for you, drowning in adrenaline and coital haze, to make your brain function?

Is it because of me, that you are so exposed and vulnerable and depreciating in cognitive activity?

Then how badly do you need me? I ask the question softly, barely loud enough for you to hear, but you do. You stop your movements, and your eyes meet mine. Usually your eyes are storms. Clouded and unpredictable and unreadable. Now each flicker of light that passes through them is a sign of your vulnerability.

This is not the Sherlock Holmes I would ever want. And I am not the John Watson you need.

You say you need me, anyway, trying to convey it in your bright eyes that it's true.

No, you don't. The words escape my lips, a breath of fresh air at finally saying something I believe in and feel. I'm not the person you need.

You are silent for a long moment, narrowing your eyes, a flash of familiar coldness crossing your features. But it's replaced so quickly by hurt and desperation.

You don't know that, you say. You are the one I need, you promise.

But you've built an illusion.. You've built an impression of me that is wrong. I'm the wrong raggedy doctor. You're best friend, yes, that I will always be. But everything else is imaginary. You want to need me.

You're silent for another moment, your face crestfallen. Too stunned to really take it in, I think. I don't know.

I don't know. I don't know, because a few moments after I've spoken the last words I can virtually see your padlocks locking and your walls rebuilding themselves. You are becoming the person I need.

But this is who I need. I need a cold, barricaded detective. You need someone who will see through it and appreciate it. I suffice to say I cannot. The side of Sherlock Holmes I need is not the vulnerable and exposed Sherlock Holmes.

But we cannot both be happy. With you needing one thing and me needing another. I've had enough exposed, enough vulnerability, for my life.

I'm sorry, I tell you. You've caught onto all of this now, I know. You can think again. I'm sorry, but I can't.

You know. You always know. So you do not say anything.

What do I expect you to say?

There is nothing to say.

The last time he sees Sherlock Holmes before he leaves he sees the walls in place and the coldness present. Because John Watson would be blind to not see how much Sherlock Holmes really doesn't need his raggedy doctor after all.