The Science Of Seduction
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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep
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Chapter Three: Jiminy Cricket
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I shouldn't have revisited the subject, though when I look back, I realise that doing so set in motion the chain of events leading to my current situation. Still, if there had been some way other than arguing about the nature of human emotion with Sherlock Holmes, I would have gladly taken it. Arguing with Sherlock is like trying to nail jelly to a tree, even though I clearly had the upper-hand in this particular spat...|
"I'm sorry, what?"
"I said, love is pointless. Do try to keep up, John."
"Yes, that's what I thought you said," John snapped, frowning. "I had thought I'd misheard, since it has to be the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard you say."
"Not ridiculous, John, logical. Love does more for good for homicide statistics than it does for people."
"You can't honestly think that!"
Sherlock snorted, gesturing smoothly with his chopsticks. "Obviously, I can, if I've just told you that I do. What motives could I possibly have for lying about it?"
Rolling his eyes, John stabbed at his moo goo gai pan viciously. "I don't know, because you know it would bother me?"
His companion regarded him calmly over the dining table (he had whined when John had cleared away his experiments), contemplative as he toyed with the lo mein, absently rearranging it into a rough model of the human digestive system. He spoke again after long moment.
"Why are you always so determined to force me into whatever mold you think I, as a human being, should fit?"
"Oh, for God's sake-"
"I'm serious, John," Sherlock said, dropping his utensils and leaning forward onto his elbows. "You've known from the first what sort of person I am, just as I knew you. I have never sought to make you less emotionally...messy, so why do you persist in trying to make me messier?"
It was John's turn to stare, mind whirling through thoughts and memories, trying to figure out how to put something so intangible as his perception of Sherlock into words. Part of the problem was that he hadn't noticed himself doing so, but that was exactly what happened, wasn't it? Most of the time, John didn't think of Sherlock as unemotional, or removed, or sociopathic, or whatever descriptive an outsider might use. Most of the time, John thought of him as Sherlock, not a collection of individual traits, but a person. An exceptional person, true, but normal in his abnormality. An equal, not in intellect, certainly, but as fellow denizens of the mortal coil. Neither of them were normal, were they?
As he thought further on the problem, he realized that it wasn't Sherlock's lack of empathy that bothered him. As a doctor, he had some working knowledge of psychological disorders, and he knew perfectly well that no matter what he said, Sherlock was not truly a sociopath (fear, in his eyes, in his voice, in the shaking of his hands...smiling, just a bit, pleased to be accepted, to be understood...kindness, unexpected and unasked for, in fifty pound notes for the homeless and a kiss for a mother-figure). Considering oneself above the tangled, often pointless affairs of humanity did not make one actually above it. Simply not wanting to feel didn't mean one never felt.
Certainly, the man had trouble making emotional connections. He could recognize emotions, but didn't fully understand them. In fact, John had been so fascinated by his flatmate's obvious differences from the world at large, he had done a little research into the subject, and had come to a tentative conclusion that he probably had Asperger syndrome, or a similar form of high-functioning autism. It would explain his lack of empathy, his social awkwardness, his habit of talking more to people he liked and ignoring those he didn't, even the obsessive way he focused on "the work".
The only reasoning for his behavior he could think of was that he was upset by the way Sherlock cut himself off. Whatever had happened in his life to make him believe he was completely incapable of connecting with people must have been terrible, but even worse was that all of John's anger and frustration and pleading could not make a dent in his colleague's armor. It was infuriating, filling John with despair. If Sherlock would not allow himself to connect to people, what reassurance did John have that he meant anything to the detective, anything at all?
No, that wasn't right. He did mean something to him. Sherlock referred to him as a friend, worried for him, laughed with him, trusted him. That was something, wasn't it?
"Maybe," he said slowly, trying to get the words the right way around before he said them, "it's because I do know you. And because I know that there's a big difference in not wanting anything to do with emotions, and not having anything to do with emotions."
Sherlock looked at him.
It wasn't a judging sort of look, or a dismissive look. It was closed, like he'd suddenly donned a Sherlock Mask, and John knew that whatever was going through his mind was something he didn't want John to be privy to.
Hate it when he hides from me, hate it, hate it, hate it.
What was wrong with him lately? These sorts of thoughts just weren't normal, weren't him. It was almost as though he...
No. No. Just...there was no way. He couldn't have lost his mind that badly.
"Emotions are pointless, John. They do more harm than good, even to ordinary people."
"That's not true," he shouted, startling Sherlock and himself as he leapt to his feet, banging both knees against the edge of the table and scattering their egg rolls across the floor. Ignoring the throbbing of his kneecaps, John leaned over and slammed his hands onto the tabletop. "And you might actually believe that, Sherlock Holmes, but that doesn't mean you don't have emotions. I know you do. I know you. You can lie to everyone else, you can lie to yourself if it keeps you happy, but you can't lie to me. Not anymore. Ordinary people can learn from their mistakes, too, Sherlock."
Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock leaned back in his seat. "You're insinuating that I make mistakes, John."
"Even the gods make mistakes," John muttered, storming out of the kitchen and towards his room.
The next day, John got up to make tea, only to find they were out of milk. Sighing explosively through his nose, he made to grab his jacket, only to hear his phone chime at him from the pocket. A text. From Sherlock, no doubt, telling him to come quick or to pick something up from the Yard, or just giving him more information about transvestitism than he really wanted.
But no, it was a simple declarative statement, and all of John's ire and frustration melted.
Picking up the milk. 20 minutes. SH
It had taken ages to convince (translation - train) Sherlock to pick up the groceries without being forced. A sidelong glance at Mort made John grin. Odd as it seemed, he could definitely understand Sherlock's attachment to the skull. Maybe it was odd, or even morbid, but talking to Mort made John feel better. Sort of like he was a mutual friend, something to connect him to Sherlock.
"What do you think, Mort," John murmured, moving to lean back against the mantelpiece. "Am I going crazy?"
The laquered human skull on the mantlepiece didn't answer, but that was, perhaps, an answered in and of itself.
"It's not like I've never been attracted to a man before, but this is just...it's outrageous. I can't think straight with him around, and when he's gone, I just think about him! Do you know how often I think about Sarah when I'm not with her?"
Silence.
"Yeah, about that much." Sighing again, John rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "I just don't know what to do about this, Mort. I'm in a relationship with an incredible girl, I have a steady job at the surgery, my life is getting back on track; why is it that all it takes is one word from him, and I'm rushing across London like an obedient dog, risking everything I've gained just to watch him poke corpses and annoy the police?"
The thought of Sherlock's last run-in with Sergeant Donavan brought a warm feeling to John's insides and a goofy grin to his lips. They had just arrived at the scene of a vicious double murder, a man and his mistress scattered about the room in bits. Sally had been her usual, prickly self, perhaps even a bit moreso than usual. She hadn't even opened her mouth to greet the consulting detective with her usual "freak" when Sherlock had smirked at her.
"You know, if you don't want to be kicked to the curb every time your lovers' wives come home, perhaps you should consider sleeping with single men."
As Sally had blustered at him, John couldn't help but snigger, prompting Sherlock to raise an eyebrow at him bemusedly. He liked it when he amused Sherlock, especially if he could make him laugh. Sherlock's laugh made him giddy and breathless and-
"Oh, God, I'm so fucked."
Mort looked on gleefully as John let his head fall into his hands.
I'm in love with Sherlock Holmes.
That was not something he was pleased to realize. In fact, it made him want to run screaming out of 221B Baker Street and never look back. In love with Sherlock? He might as well tear out his own heart and offer it to the man on a plate, for all the good it would do him.
It didn't matter whether or not he was capable of loving John, because he would never give in to or accept such emotions. They were useless to him, interfering with "the work" and rendering him utterly human. No, there would never be a place for John in Sherlock's life, not as a lover. It was surprising enough that he considered John his friend. Pushing him would only serve to force him away, and that was unacceptable.
"I have to put this behind me, Mort," he whispered, as though if he spoke too loudly, Sherlock would hear him all the way at Tesco's. "I have to put it out of my mind, forget about it. Go out with Sarah, love Sarah, and forget about these feelings.
"I can't lose him." Swallowing hard, he reached out and patted Mort on the top of his head. "You understand, right," he asked, chuckling shakily. Mort smiled back at him. "Of course you do."
When Sherlock returned from the shops, dumping the bags on the counter and leaving John to put the goods away, he noticed that his skull was turned away from the door, towards the other end of the mantlepiece. It wasn't the first time he'd found it askew, and he said as much to John, who shrugged and smiled tiredly.
"I did a little dusting."
If his genius flatmate noticed that the dust on the mantle was as thick as ever, if only disturbed by grasping fingers and the brush of a sweater, then for once, he didn't remark on it.
It was the most despairing feeling in the world, the thought that I would have to live the rest of my life loving a man who would never notice. I should have known better, really. Hadn't I already learned by then that there was nothing that Sherlock didn't notice? Well, if I hadn't learned it before, I would, very shortly. This was because, two days later, Mycroft called again with an invitation. The plot, as plots were wont to do, was about to thicken...
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To Be Continued...
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A/N - Aaand, another chapter down.
Mort!
If you think this will be his only appearance, you don't know me very well. Mort is very swiftly becoming my favorite character to write. he's certainly the easiest.
I would like to point out here that I'm trying to keep spelling and slang in John's blog entries as British-English as possible...since he's British. You've probably already guessed that I'm about as American as it gets (an anglophile, sure, but definitely American), and therefore my attempts to keep John's writing British may not be entirely fruitful. If anyone notices any discrepencies, please let me know.
I should also point out that these chapters are posted before my beta goes through them. She reads them once they're posted, and I edit them after. I know, I should wait for her to edit before I post, but I get impatient. I have a system, and I don't like to alter it, which makes me incredibly irritating to beta for, I'm sure. Anyway, any typos or misspellings are my fault, entirely.
If anyone's wondering why I called this chapter 'Jiminy Cricket', it's because I can't shake this whole idea of John being the heart to Sherlock's brain - he's his conscience, in that way, just like Pinocchio.
Speaking of puppets, John/Sherlock fans (and I assume that all of my readers are John/Sherlock fans) should read 'Strings' by MrsSueKapranos. It's in my favorites, if you don't like searching, and it's worth it. She also wrote a short piece called 'His Colour' that is...wonderfully disturbing.
Review, please!
Songs for this chapter: 'Bite Hard' (Franz Ferdinand) and 'Freak the Freak Out' (Victoria Justice).
Peace.
Akiko
