Of course, I was little less than thrilled when Sherlock left me at that first crime scene. He leapt down the stairs like a gazelle, and I hobbled along behind, buffeted by the criminologists who were trying to get back to doing their jobs. I felt rather useless and abandoned.
But my hackles rose when Sally delivered her 'he's a psychopath' speech. She was obviously one of those people who preys on those she sees as 'other' to feel better about herself. Maintaining an affair with a married colleague, being outfoxed on cases by a non-police officer, and the general frustration of a woman in the law enforcement profession were all weighing on her. But she had made her choices.
Lashing out at Sherlock for her own misguided choices and impulses was petty and painted a much more shocking picture of her than him.
It's too bad. Sally probably had a promising career and life at one time. But she was letting her personal biases get in the way. Every time she called Sherlock 'freak,' I wanted to introduce her teeth to my fist.
She knew exactly what buttons she was pushing on my friend when she said that too. She was marginalizing him. She was pushing him even further away from any normal human contact.
Just because he was brilliant. And his brilliance shone so brightly.
She was probably mostly pissed at Sherlock's refusal to acknowledge any sort of her authority. He didn't defer to her opinions or patterns. He didn't do well with any sort of authority-she wasn't special. He would have been a rubbish soldier.
Although, when I think back on that ridiculous conversation at Angelo's, something sticks out to me now. Sherlock said he was 'flattered' when he thought I was propositioning him. Or hitting on him. Or just feeling him out about dating.
He was flattered. And he said so.
That doesn't fit with someone who doesn't go in for niceties because he doesn't know them or care about them. It's more like someone who only bothers with politeness when the person in question is worth it. And I was worth it.
I'm blushing.
That also fits with Sherlock's attempt at humiliating Sally about her knees and Anderson's floors. He knew that it would be uncomfortable for them to have their dalliances trotted out for everyone. He knew that it was socially unacceptable to commit adultery. And especially so with a colleague.
Same with Jennifer Wilson, the victim, who Sherlock determined was a serial adulterer. He knew that this state of social affairs which went against the stated 'acceptable order' was important to how she lived her life. Conducted her business on her mobile. Kept her jewelry cleaned and herself groomed (hair, nails, make-up). It also pointed to her cleverness that she was able to keep up the charade for a length of time.
As an anthropologist of London, Sherlock would have to understand motivations and de-motivations of human beings living in very close and constant proximity to each other. When he turned me down, he was letting me down easy.
And when he was shaming Sally about her nighttime activities, he was using the judgement of the group to do so. Classic social pressure-which Sherlock understands intimately. He's been under pressure from the day he was born, I suspect.
Sherlock tries to live in a very carefully prioritized world. It's what makes his Mind Palace possible. The structure and eschewing of anything less than relevant (in his opinion) keeps the Palace in working order. Politeness, social graces, bashfulness in the face of 'betters' are not things that are useful to Sherlock. But that doesn't mean he doesn't know about them. He just chooses not to participate.
Unless he sees an advantage in it.
The advantage used to be getting information out of witnesses or tricking suspects into confessing. That advantage now is communicating to me about his needs. Admitting he has needs.
Sometimes, it's just a touch. A light brush of his fingers on my shoulder or neck. Sometimes there are hesitant words. Words like "John, may I . . ." or "John? Will you . . .?" with the uncharacteristic pauses and hesitations that only precede requests or inquiries of a personal nature.
He knows that to ask me softly is to express his genuine need for my input. When he's brusque, it's about the Work. When he's gentle, it's about us.
And I try to respond in kind. I use my words and my gestures to indicate my needs as well as my assurances. I am here for him. No matter what. Nothing he says will ever drive me away.
He needs to know that. Often.
He knows that my words of assurance are not small talk, not polite platitudes. They are real expressions of my heart. I have taken him into that four-chambered home. I have made a place for him.
He does not need the pleasantries, but he uses them as the language of our bedroom.
After our extended bout of snogging, Sherlock pulled back to look me in the eyes.
"John?" he said quietly, then lost the nerve to keep eye contact.
I reached up for my customary brush through his luscious curls. What could have sobered him so quickly?
"What is it, love?" I asked quietly. My concern was written all over my face. And I closed my hand around the nape of his neck to keep him close.
"It's that," he said, enigmatically. "Why do you love me? No one else ever has-"
I cut him off with a finger to his lips.
"I love you as the moth loves the flame. I am drawn to you. I cannot help myself. It is as if you were made for me," I told him.
His eyes were shining too brightly.
"Oh, Sherlock," I murmured and held him even closer. "Why do you love such an ordinary intellect as mine?"
Sherlock nuzzled my neck.
"Not ordinary, John. You are my John."
"And you are my one and only Sherlock. My beautiful man, inside and out."
That settled for the evening, he proceeded to show me how much I belonged to him. Sherlock was nothing if not a generous lover.
He approached lovemaking the same way as his deducing. Using all of his senses. The pads of his fingers found my scars and lovingly caressed them in ways no one had ever done before. He used his long nose to scent me all over, his tongue licking up drops of perspiration. His eyes worshipped my skin in all of its curves and bulges, creases and crevices. And he listened to my soft sighs and feral growls to determine the best places to kiss and nip at me.
My pleasure was always before his own. And I don't mean that he made sure that I climaxed before he did. Our time together was not a race to the end. It was a long-distance journey on which we frequently stopped to enjoy new sights.
I enjoyed watching him obsess over some new mole or spot on my skin that he had not seen before. He was particularly interested in my body hair-mine being slightly more heavy than his own. He would compose whole speeches about the direction and texture of the hair on my chest and abdomen.
When I chuckled over this information, he dove in and kissed me breathless.
His questing fingers lightly tapped down my pectoral, past my ticklish abdomen, and came to rest at the base of my turgid cock. Running a long thumb up the length of me, I gasped into his mouth. His touch always thrilled me.
Then his longer-than-should-be-legal fingers encircled me. He was so very tactile and phenomenal when pulling me off. The pressure, the speed, the friction. He was a genius in all ways.
But this time, I stopped him before my climax. I wanted more. I wanted him to be gasping and writhing as well.
With our lips locked together once more, I moved our bodies to the edge of the mattress. Sherlock settled across my lap at once, knowing my plan as I did. My hands grasped his arse and kneaded the muscles. I had so lusted after this perfect arse before we became lovers.
I was still infinitely grateful to have free access to it.
Sherlock began to move slowly up and down my body, rubbing our erections together. His lips disengaged from mine as he pulled my lips to his collar bone. I nipped at the prominent outcrop, moving upward to suck a mark on his more tender neck.
"Mmmm, John," Sherlock moaned to me.
My feet planted firmly on the floor helped me balance his weight and keep my own balance. His long arms stretched around my shoulders almost twice and encircled me in white, milky skin. Softness and warmth. The food and sleep had done him much good.
And me too, benefiting from his renewed energy.
Then he, very politely, asked me to shag him senseless.