Things went on in that vein for a while. We reached a comfortable semi-schedule about the sleeping thing: Sherlock came to my bed whenever he felt like it, which evened out to about three nights a week. I never went to his bed, because if he wanted to share beds he came to me. That way I didn't intrude where I wasn't wanted. We held hands more, much of the time, really. Sherlock seemed to see it as the ultimate in comfort, in declaration of affection. Kisses stayed rare enough that they were monumental events. And we were whatever we are, and everything was fine.

Then I bumped into someone I'd known before, Mary, and she asked me out. And I didn't know what to say, so I said I'd call her. And I went home to Sherlock and sat listening to him regale me with the answer to the safari case, and tried to figure out how to broach the subject.

Because it's one thing to say "Date whoever you want," and another to actually do it, to go on a romantic excursion with someone other than the person you're in love with. I liked Mary, she was a lot of fun and great in bed, and she was one of the few exes with whom I had anything close to a friendly relationship. But this was Sherlock, and he was more important than any of that, and I didn't…I didn't want to ruin that, or threaten it, or make him feel even for a moment that he wasn't enough for me. But the words wouldn't come, and I couldn't say what I wanted to say.

—-

"Sherlock," I said softly that night as he slipped into my bed, "I have a question for you."

"You've met someone you want to date."

"Um. Well."

He closed his eyes. "I thought you were being awfully quiet this afternoon." Opened them again. "I told you, it's perfectly logical. You feel sexual urges, and you should fulfill them. Go on dates, have sex. I understand."

I wanted so much to say no, to tell him I didn't need anything more than what we did, to find the words to make him see that I wasn't like that, I wasn't going to. But he was right, really, I'd gone without almost a year now and my own abilities were beginning to fade in appeal. "I don't want to hurt your feelings. Or. Um. Our relationship."

"Nonsense." He'd closed his eyes again, his face blank and slack. "Now go to sleep."

—-

Mary and I had a laugh, a dinner, and now she was pulling me upstairs into her room. And I wanted nothing more than for my head to be empty of Sherlock, because he was all I could see: his smile, his hands, his sentimentality about everything we did together. Probably it was all guilt, over not telling Mary anything about my situation. But how was I supposed to explain it to her? I'm living with a man I love with every fiber of my being, but he doesn't do sex and I do, so he told me to get laid whenever I need to and surprise, you're it? That sounds horrible and is completely wrong, and so I just let Mary think I was available.

And so we were kissing, open mouths and hungry, and I hated myself for getting hard. But at some point my brain shut off, as it does during these situations, and I watched myself strip, watched Mary take me into her mouth, watched myself shudder and moan and hold back, push Mary back onto her bed, lower myself to her, bury my face between her legs. I watched her twitch and curl and arch, watched her pull me up to kiss, watched myself thrust into her, again and again and again, do that thing with my thumb that always made her come. And I returned back into myself at the moment I came, thrumming and shuddering and sighing a name.

And then it all went to hell, because of course I said "Sherlock," and of course Mary took it as…well, as exactly what it was, which was me thinking of someone else despite fucking her, and eventually she dragged it all out of me and I felt like even more of a piece of shit. And she threw me out, and honestly I don't blame her at all.