Request: Hello! We usually see Sherlock as the asexual one in the Johnlock dynamic. So what about a sexually active Sherlock and an asexual John, for once?
A/N: This one ran away from me. I already have four more chapters ready but I need to edit them. I wanted to get chapter one uploaded today anyway, so enjoy!
John Watson did not like sharing his bed with anyone. There was something about sharing a close space with someone that didn't sit well with him. Skin pressed against skin, limbs getting entangled, two sets of rising and falling chests. The act of sharing a bed was as intimate and terrifying as sex.
Upon the news that there was only one bed available in the pub B&B his gut had dropped with instinctual fear. Sharing a bed with Sherlock was almost as daunting as staring down at the barrel of a gun. When conscious the man was unpredictable, but unconscious? The thought of lying next to a sleeping Sherlock was enough to set his heart off in his chest.
After the scare with the hound John hadn't expected Sherlock to return to the B&B, and he hadn't anticipated his friend wanting to sleep at all. The younger man had seemed so utterly rattled by whatever he'd seen, that it was probable that he would be too wired to sleep at all. This shouldn't have been a relief. His doctor side should have insisted that the man should sleep, but the side that was scared to share a bed with the detective won out.
He was only just beginning to drift off into the realms of sleep and dreaming, when he heard the creak of the bedroom door. There was the sound of gentle footsteps as Sherlock entered the room.
"John?" He seemed sorry for himself, voice so small that John had to strain his ears to fully catch the sound of his own name. "I know you're not asleep."
John turned over, his gut tense. He'd only just calmed himself down from the state he'd worked himself into over the shared bed scenario. He opened his eyes to see a much calmer Sherlock to the one that he'd left drinking in the pub. "I was almost there before you came in."
"Should I leave? You're clearly still mad about earlier."
Even in the crepuscular lighting of the room John could see the slight flinch on Sherlock's face. There was something incredibly fragile about that expression. He didn't have the heart to kick Sherlock out. Besides, where would he go? He'd probably wander around in the cold trying to solve the Henry Knight case all on his own.
"No. Stay. You look exhausted."
Sherlock nodded silently and turned to hang up his coat on the back of the bedroom door. John couldn't help but notice a tremor in both of the younger man's hands, not dissimilar to the one that had plagued him when he'd been deported back to England after his injury.
He would have offered to help, but he knew that Sherlock was far too stubborn to accept any form of assistance. So instead he watched as Sherlock struggled to untie his laces, and in the end kicked both of his boots off in annoyance.
Much to John's horror Sherlock did not stop at just his coat and boots. The rest of his clothes were unbuttoned and flung to the floor unceremoniously, until the curly haired man only had a pair of boxer shorts clinging to his last shred o dignity.
The breath in John's throat caught as he waited to see if those would come off as well. A moment later and John was privy to the sight of a very naked and shameless Sherlock. The man was clearly comfortable in his body as he strode over to the bed, completely unaware of how exposed John was feeling just by seeing Sherlock in his full glory.
As much as John tried to avoid looking at…certain areas, he found that his eyes drifted down to Sherlock's lower half automatically. He realised quite possibly that he was staring, but he couldn't help it. A mixture of awe, shock and terror was threatening to rip through him.
The mattress dipped down and Sherlock slid beneath the thick duvet covers. Thank God John would be spared of the staring, but he knew that below the material covering them both a very naked Sherlock lay. Wrapped up in a pair of thick wooly pyjamas, John felt completely inadequate in comparison.
"Are you certain you're OK with this?" Sherlock tried to look John directly in the eyes, but John averted his gaze, refused to meet eye contact. He felt so awkward that he half wished a crazed hound would barge in on them both. No such luck.
He just about managed a small nod of his head and a quiet "Yes,"
This didn't seem to satisfy Sherlock. He grabbed John's chin and forced him to look right into his piercing eagle-like eyes.
"Something is bothering you. Your pulse has elevated far beyond the norm for a resting pulse rate, your pupils are blown, and you've turned a rather splendid pink. I'd say arousal under any normal circumstances, but this is something different. More along the lines of…fear."
"Sherlock-"
Sherlock pulled away before John could finish his sentence. The younger man's brow had knitted together, his eyebrows forming a hurt little frown. "You are frightened of me? Disgusted by my nakedness?"
No!
Sherlock was reading it all wrong. He wasn't disgusted with Sherlock. Aesthetically speaking the detective was beautiful and pleasing on the eye. Perhaps daunted was a better way of describing how John was feeling? Not everyone could be so comfortable with their sexuality, or their own body.
Sherlock began to pull away.
"Wait! Don't go!"
John tugged him back into the covers, which took a considerable amount of effort. For a thin streak of a man, Sherlock was heavier than he looked. He landed a little closer to John than he'd been before.
John's reaction caused Sherlock to raise a quizzical eyebrow in response. Their bodies were now pressing up against each other. John felt himself flush a deep shade of red. "You're giving me some very mixed signals, I must admit. Most men approach me outright if they're interested in… but you're not, are you? Interested. Not in the way men usually show interest in my body."
Most men? Of course John had his suspicions about Sherlock. He was handsome and exciting, a rare breed. Is was only natural that other men were sexually interested in him. He'd just assumed that Sherlock was either Asexual, or too invested in "the work" to bother reciprocating.
"Oh Sherlock," John sighed, his breath expelling from his lungs with a stutter. "It's not you, it's me. I'm…."
"You're…? Come on, John. Spit it out."
John trusted Sherlock quite well by now, but he was about to admit something that he had never voiced before, and that scared him. There was something about Sherlock's open faced expression that made the confession flow from his lips.
"Asexual. I'm Asexual. There, heh, I said it."
He waited for Sherlock to mock him, or come up with some snarky remark, but that never came. Instead Sherlock wrapped both of his arms around John and tugged him a little closer, so that John's face was resting on Sherlock's smooth, flat chest.
"It's OK, John. I do not plan on seducing you, so you can calm down."
A deep exhale left John, as he felt a flood of relief flow through him. All of the tension that had been building up in his muscles left and rolled off him. Being in Sherlock's arms actually felt…good. Comfortable. The soft sound of the younger man's heartbeat beneath his ear was reassuring.
Soon John became so at ease that his eyes begin to slide shut again. As they did so, however, John heard a soft "I'm sorry by the way."
"F'er what?" John mumbled, voice slurred with the edges of sleep. Now that he was no longer panicking or worried about Sherlock, he just wanted to get a good night's sleep.
"For being an arsehole earlier. I was wrong. I do have friends. Just the one though."
John hummed and snuggled a little closer to the arms that enveloped him. He hoped that conveyed to Sherlock that everything was alright and all was forgiven. And as Sherlock's unsettled body tried to get comfortable, John didn't even realise he'd reached out for Sherlock's hand. He did however feel the gentle squeeze of thanks that Sherlock gave him in return.
The next day John was aware a pair of cold feet were pressed against his thigh. The weight of Sherlock's body was evident against his back. As he turned his head slightly he could see a still sleeping Sherlock spooning him. It wasn't necessarily a bad sensation. In fact… he rather liked it.
He wouldn't mind making this a more common occurrence, but John knew that whatever their relationship was going to evolve into, it didn't involve future spooning or anything else along those lines. It just wouldn't work.
From last nights confessions it was clear that Sherlock was little more sexually active than he led people to believe, and John himself fell somewhere on the Asexual spectrum, meaning that this…this small glimpse of what they could have together…was impossible.
Sherlock Holmes would never be his. And John Watson could never offer himself fully to Sherlock. They both had different needs. Neither of them would be happy.
Before Sherlock could wake John slipped out of the covers. The detective let out a small groan of annoyance, but other than that he did not stir.
As John got dressed he felt a strange sort of ache in his chest, as he pined for something that he previously hadn't even been aware he needed or wanted so badly.
The case was over. Another solved one in the bag. John would write about it on his blog later but for now he was too busy tucking into a steaming full English breakfast.
"So they didn't have it put down then; the dog."
John glanced up as Sherlock approached the outdoors bench he was sat at.
He chewed on a piece of sausage in contemplation and nodded. "Obviously. Suppose they couldn't bring themselves to do it."
Sherlock took a seat beside John, sitting a little closer than usual. "I see."
John smiled fondly at his friend. "No you don't"
"No, I don't." Sherlock admitted, much to his chagrin "Sentiment?"
"Sentiment!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes to hide the fact that he was amused. "Yes, that." Then his gaze moved to settle on John. "Sentiment is something I'm slowly coming to terms with."
John could feel heat beginning to prickle up his neck. He tried his hardest not to flush, but to his embarrassment his body had other ideas, and his cheeks were soon a bright shade of pink.
The detective gradually moved his hand so that it was placed over John's smaller one. Their fingers entangled till they were actually holding hands.
"Sherlock, stop."
Sherlock frowned, hurt, and pulled his hand away from John reluctantly. "You didn't seem to mind me holding your hand last night. I just assumed…"
"Last night was a one off, Sherlock. It won't happen again."
"Oh." John tried to ignore how much that one syllable word hurt.
He slid his knife and fork onto his plate, suddenly not feeling hungry. "I'll get the suitcase, shall I?"
The only response he received was a wordless nod.