Disclaimer: I still don't own a thing.
They'd barely sat down for their session, the following day, when doctor Reese inquired jokingly, "So? Did you do your homework?"
That already put John in a mood – he really hoped this case was solved soon, as psychotherapists and he were clearly incompatible – so he just nodded. Sherlock – Steve, he needed to think in terms of Steve – clearly agreed with him, because he snapped, "Of course we did. What kind of idiot consults an expert and then ignores what he's been told?"
"It might sound illogical, I'll give you that, but the answer actually is way more than you'd think – and that's okay. Expected, even," the therapist replied evenly.
"Thanks for yet another confirmation that everyone is an idiot," the sleuth huffed.
Instead of letting himself be derailed (as John had been silently hoping he might), doctor Reese just smiled at them and urged, "So…?"
Christ, it was like being at Ella's all over again. She would spend the whole session prodding him to, "Share, John, it'll do you some good"…
And John would stubbornly keep mum because he hadn't yet figured out a socially acceptable way to say, "Not your fucking business, and believe me, you might think you know what you're doing, but no matter how trained you have been, you have no fucking idea of what the matter even is, so for your own good stay out of it."
"So we cleared up some misunderstandings. It appears we both were acting out of assumptions, which I am ashamed for, it's not what I usually am, but we felt so blessed to have each other that neither of us wanted to possibly pressure the other and push our luck. Now we agreed to jump each other's bones any time the whim arises. Are you happy?" Sherlock replied, crossing his arms. It looked as if he was trying to be dismissive, but coming across more confrontational.
John blushed and tried not to roll his eyes. Good to know that the sleuth's complete lack of shame had been maintained in his new persona. He idly wondered how much of the emotion his friend was displaying was fake, and how much of it was his gut reaction to the most annoying category of human beings, in the doctor's experience.
"It doesn't matter, Steve," Reese remarked evenly, "I'm not the one who needs to be happy, not today nor by the end of this therapy. The point is how all this – the discovery you were wrong in your assumptions, the new agreement, the prospect for the future – makes you both feel."
For once, the blogger decided not to just glare at a shrink. "Like an idiot," he admitted, shrugging.
"Well, at least for you it can't be a new feeling. I can't believe I was that blind," the detective grumbled. "Stupid emotions."
"Emotions drive us all…even frustrating ones like feeling unsure of the stability of a relationship. The more you want it to work, the more you're likely to go through something like this, in truth. Honestly? People like you are the ones that are the easiest to work with – I'm sure that whatever issue lays between you, we'll be able to work it out soon," the therapist encouraged them, before pointing out, "you're still sitting far apart, though. What are you leaving room for? Or who?"
Sherlock got up and in one long step he was finally sitting properly at John's side – flush with him, actually – and for good measure, one possessive arm was circling his supposed husband's waist. "There's nothing," he growled, voice the deepest his blogger had ever heard it. "We just don't need to be glued together every minute."
"Yeah, it would make things awkward when I'm examining patients otherwise," John pointed out, as usual using humour to deflect an awkward conversation. He patted himself mentally for not shivering at his flatmate suddenly unleashing enough pheromones to choke a whole block of flats.
Reese smiled at them. "Of course. It is healthy to be able to deal with a significant other's absence, even for a lengthy amount. But going out of your way to give each other space makes me wonder if your discussion yesterday bore the fruits we hoped."
"Are we supposed to give you a sex diary now, like the food diary one would write when dieting? And before you ask, no, I have literally zero body image problems – I don't care enough to worry about that. But my brother will put on weight if he so much as looks at cake, so I have learned some things, to my displeasure," the sleuth stated, raising an eyebrow.
The mere hypothesis made his blogger choke on his own saliva. If that was true, it wouldn't surprise him if their killer was a past client. Ruining the man professionally, in case he insisted to be privy to each and any intimate act of theirs, sounded like a commendable plan, actually.
"No, no, of course. Not unless you feel it would help the two of you. If you think so, you're welcome to write one…but I won't request to see it if you prefer to keep it private. But it is not a common practice or one I usually recommend," the shrink reassured them, waving the idea away.
"Then why wonder about 'the fruits'?" John challenged. "Because that seemed awfully as if you were inquiring about it."
"Because changing consolidated patterns can take time and strength. Just because you gave each other permission to be physically affectionate, it doesn't mean that you will actually be jumping each other any minute," doctor Reese explained, "I'm here to help you understand the languages of love – best to start with the one that seems more lacking, don't you think?"
The blogger shrugged, and then asked pointedly, "So, what are you suggesting?"
"Baby steps. You don't need to keep close only when someone threatens to snatch one of you away. If you want to be more comfortable with the physical side of your love, you should start small. Don't sit as far away from each other as the room allows, for one. I'm going out on a limb, but I suspect that each of you keeps to his side of the bed, too, when you're not making love," the therapist remarked, tone slightly interrogative.
John tried to offer his best poker face. They hadn't really discussed if they needed to lie about that, and while there'd definitely been touching, it had happened while they both were asleep, so it didn't count…did it? He's surprised to see Sherlock's features loudly proclaim "Guilty as charged," even without the detective having to say a word. But of course, he managed to move away before the other realised, and apparently that is consistent with the image that they need to project.
"Thought so," Reese continued, acknowledging Sherlock's silent admission. "And I'm assuming the pattern didn't change yesterday night, or I'm sure one of you would have pointed that out," he added.
Again, no answer came, but none was needed. The man was trained to read people enough to know that they would have definitely – loudly, and probably scathingly – corrected a false assumption on his part.
"Barring medical conditions making this uncomfortable for one or both of you, I have to encourage you to…and don't give me the look because of the word I'll use…cuddle, tonight. Consider it an experiment, if you wish," the shrink suggested.
Neither gave him the look, but the sleuth redirected the conversation, waving away such a proposal. If it was an "of course we will," or a, "don't be ridiculous, obviously we won't" Reese wasn't entirely sure. "You said languages of love. If I am to understand physical contact is one of them, what are the others?" the detective inquired, putting his fingers together and appearing to focus.
"Words, of course," the therapist started, counting on his fingers, "not just actual I love you, but pet names, vocal praise…"
"Oh, we have that covered," John cut in, with a snort of laughter. Was he exposing himself too much? Would Sherlock deduce how he felt, after this? But no, his friend could be amazingly oblivious sometimes. Besides, he wasn't himself at the moment. That had to count.
"You have that covered. I should try to do better," the consulting detective corrected, "but please do go on, doctor Reese."
"It seems you don't believe yourself really perfect, Steve. I'm glad you are aware of your weak points. Then, of course, there's quality time…and I understand if, with both of you having demanding careers, you cannot have as much of it as you'd want," the shrink continued.
"Do cases count?" Sherlock asked, frowning.
That seemed to take the therapist aback, but John nodded solemnly. "Cases definitely count, love. You see, sometimes I consult with him – on the medical analysis of a dead body – and it might make us uncommon, but I adore seeing him at work. He's positively dazzling." He grinned.
"Well then, of course what you say goes. I'm glad work can be part of quality time, every now and then," Reese nodded. "Another language of love – one of the most commonly used – is gifts. Any kind, of course, not necessarily the expected ones – Valentine Days, anniversaries. I would say, if it's a primary language for either one of you, random ones are much more probable."
John shrugged. "I don't think that's a matter of high importance for either of us," he said, trying hard not to think of the nonchalance with which Sherlock always offered his credit card, or the time he got home with a lucky cat, despite having no wife who'd like it. It wasn't a gift for Sherlock, not exactly. Just something that would look nice on the mantelpiece, to make a pair with the skull.
"Well, not everyone puts the same importance on the same languages. What matters is to understand your partner's and fulfil what he needs. And to close the subject, the last language is acts of…I know the word can seem odd…service. Doing the chores. Cooking. Acting with consideration. Whatever requires you to actually do something for your beloved," Reese concluded.
"I hope we have that covered, both of us," Sherlock said quietly. Well, obviously John would seem the most well-versed in that language. But his years away had to count. Didn't they count? John might not be very happy about it, but he'd been acting to keep him alive. Then again, John being alive was in his own self-interest. Why were things so confusing?
Well, at least his blogger wasn't loudly objecting. "I suppose you can be like that…when you want to," he acknowledged.