Archenemies. People don't have archenemies.
But what about nemeses? I had a nemesis back in basic training. Big, hulking bloke who was really very nice. He was polite and friendly to me. But I still competed with him in my mind at least. Everything seemed to come so easily to him-everything physical of course. But he wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer.
So maybe he was just more a rival than a nemesis then. Just someone I competed with in my own mind but went out for beers with in reality. Everyone has those 'friends' and acquaintances who drive you to distraction. But you can't really come up with a decent excuse to excise them from your life.
Because all of the excuses you do come up with make you look like a petty wanker.
But Sherlock. He is the kind of man who would have nemeses (plural). He played socially oblivious. True, he didn't go in for niceties, but he did seem to like antagonizing people purposely. Like that crack about the policewoman and the criminalist. He did that just to embarrass and shame them. He knew it would. He's not a social void as much as he puts on.
Maybe that's why he demurred at Angelo's.
Since I'm in a confessing mood, I'll admit that I was hitting on Sherlock. Clumsily. But I was. Even after trying to convince the restauranteur that we weren't on a date, I still hit on him.
He didn't dispute Angelo's calling me his date. Maybe he had brought other dates here.
He also smiled at Angelo in a distinctly human way.
"So do you have a girlfriend?" I asked him, casually.
"Not really my area," was his immediate response as he continued to stare out the window behind me. That seemed like a very layered response. Was I supposed to infer something?
Ah, I thought. "Boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way." Stop being so cloying, Watson, I scolded myself.
"I know it's fine," he was quick to defend again. Oh, crap, I didn't mean to indicate that I was covering up any latent homophobia. I should have just stayed with 'boyfriend?'
"Right. So you're unattached. Just like me," I lamely offered. My normally steady hands fiddled with the menu. I couldn't believe how un-smooth I was being. You're going to fuck it up, I thought.
I swallowed my laughter when Sherlock told me he was married to the Work. Yeah, right. Ok, we'll play it that way for a while then.
I wasn't so hard up that I couldn't commit myself to a long courtship. Walk around the edges of it for a while. Let it simmer and expand while we got to know each other on other levels.
Simply put, friendship was a wonderful basis for a romantic relationship. Always made the sex more fulfilling to truly desire the pleasure of the other person. One-night stands were about getting yourself off. Committed sex was about getting off on getting the other person off.
The work you had to put in became part of your own arousal. Knowing just where and how and for how long. That was the kind of intimacy that I craved. It was the kind of intimacy that I hadn't had much in my life.
But I wasn't dead yet. And I was still looking.
And, by god, looking at Sherlock did nice things to me. The low lighting of the restaurant produced amazing shadow-play on his features. And the spark in his eyes from the thrill of the hunt was intoxicating. I had forgotten about my walking cane well before we had leapt up from the table to pursue the cab.
I felt heat creeping up through my abdomen as I pretended to peruse the menu. I swallowed hard to try to keep any tell-tale flush from reaching my neck or cheeks. I already knew that Sherlock's attentive eyes would catch everything. He could probably hear my heart rate speeding up.
I was truly grateful when the taxi stopped on Northumberland street and we started running. It was a much more satisfactory way to explain my elevated blood pressure and heavy breathing. Plus, the endorphins.
How I didn't reach over and clench my fingers in those lustrous curls when we were panting together in the hallway back at Baker Street, I'll never know. Perhaps I was too caught up in the intrigue of the case. Too focused on the moment of the danger we had faced and come away from unscathed.
But I also respected his choice to obfuscate his sexuality that night. We had just met. It really was rather forward of me to hit on him when we were considering-practically had decided by then-becoming flatmates. What if he had given over for a one-nighter that first night?
We probably wouldn't have considered the flat share after all. I'm glad that he was smart enough, and restrained enough, to rein me in. He knew, as I did, that there was something sparking between us that had nothing to do with sex.
Luckily, a handy drugs bust interrupted our trains of thought as well.
"I know you do," Sherlock replied to my assurances.
I couldn't resist kissing him again, trying to swallow his words. I love his voice. It does amazing things to me. Just like that violin. It reverberates through me, his lips the bow on my taught strings.
He knows just how to play me.
"John," he said, sultry and warm.
"Yes?" I responded and looked up into his eyes.
Sherlock took his long fingers and ran them from the inside of my eyebrows over the bridge of my nose and out onto my cheeks. Then they went up to my temples and rubbed little circles.
"You look tired too," he observed.
"I shouldn't be. It's only half past four. And I slept rather well last night. I think the rainy Sunday afternoon is getting to me," I said. My hands slid down to cup his perfectly round ass. He hummed in appreciation.
"Take off your clothes and lie down with me," Sherlock suggested.
Why the hell not? We've got nothing else on.
I shucked at a leisurely pace, something we were both trying to observe. Passion was lovely and all, but savoring moments was important too. Especially when you faced your mortality almost weekly. We didn't need to rush the quiet moments and make them too much like when we are running through London, dodging bullets and bad guys-all sweat and adrenaline.
After folding all of our clothing and placing it in a neat pile or on a hook, I returned to stand at Sherlock's feet. He had stayed sitting up on the bed to watch me move. He always liked to watch me.
After our first kiss, Sherlock told me that I didn't dress like a homosexual. I was too 'conservative' and 'prudish'. That led to a long talk about stereotypes. I had often wanted to broach that subject with the Great Detective, but had always been distracted by something more urgent.
Just how many of Sherlock's deductions are couched in stereotypes? He likes to use phrases like 'balance of probability' and 'statistically significant,' but aside from his and Molly's chemical tests in the lab, most of what he does is much less scientific.
Mycroft asked me what I knew about Sherlock's heart that he chose to be a detective instead of a scientist. I didn't know at the time. But I do now.
I know that Sherlock's disdain for human beings is only surpassed by his fascination for them. Not so? Ah, but look at the facts.
Why would a man who claims that his body means nothing and his mind is all take the profession of a private detective-a profession notorious for Mycroft's dreaded 'legwork'. That necessitates a body that is at least equal if not superior to his opponents, doesn't it?
Why not shut himself up in a think tank somewhere and cure cancer, colonize Mars, and clean up the oceans? Why not retreat into a purely intellectual world?
Simple. Sherlock likes to be around people. He likes to puzzle them out. He's an anthropologist. But he can't resist interjecting himself into their little domestics. Hence he solves their crimes, their puzzles.
And he wouldn't have to deal with the likes of Mrs. Hudson, Molly, or me. But he likes us. He even loves a few of us.
So his pure intellect came crashing down the night I kissed him and undressed him. His stereotypes about men and women were turned on their heads. And he has had a great many things to think about since then.
When he's not thinking about having sex with me, that is.
"Are you watching, Sherlock?" I asked as I ran my hands through is locks. He tilted his head back to look me in the eyes.
"Mm-hmm," he agreed. Then his eyes closed slowly indicating I had found the sweet spot on his scalp.
I stepped closer to his body so that my groin brushed against his stomach. His arms snaked around my waist and held fast. I continued to massage his follicles and rubbed my slowly awakening penis on him.
After a moment, he tilted his head back forward into my upper abdomen. I felt his lips start to kiss me softly. I reminded myself that he was tired and that this shouldn't be a full-on languid session. Sometimes the slower you go, the more exhausting it is. Marathon versus sprint.
"Lie back," I told him. He complied immediately, holding out a hand to me to join him.
I cuddled up next to him on my side. Sherlock was not a back sleeper, but he preferred to be on his back and have me face him when we were snuggling. Sherlock Holmes, snuggling. What a fun picture it always is in my head.
I planted a few more soft kisses on his collarbones and neck.
"Let's try to get some sleep, ok?" I suggested.
"Yes, John," he rumbled through his chest, making me wiggle next to him.
"That's not helping," he chastised me.
"Nor is that voice of yours. You know what it does to me," I countered.
His light chuckle was the last thing I remember before falling asleep with my arms full of warm detective.