The Case of the Cuddle Chapter 4

Dear all, thank you again for all your lovely comments and favourites, please keep them coming as things are about to get very hairy here. I hope you like it, but I'm not sure that 'like' is quite the right word.

Warmth, and sweet morning breath. John had not had a nightmare in three weeks. Of course, he was not sure how much his trips to the army psychiatrist were helping, but he was pretty sure that waking with Sherlock, and more importantly, sleeping beside Sherlock, was the root cause of the cure.

The detective had been right of course. John no longer feared sleep. But he looked forward most of all to waking up. Waking up like this, with that long body curled round his, radiating gentle heat, slender thighs tucked under his legs like a human chair, arms twined jealously around his chest, gentle gusts of expiration on the nape of his neck. Sherlock was always the last to go to sleep, but that invariably meant that he was also the last to wake, which allowed John lengthy, delicious spans of time to bask in the glory of these simple moments of togetherness.

'I've found an anchor,' he explained to the psychiatrist, Dr Prebble, a sharp-featured little man with a shiny pate and heavy, horn-rimmed spectacles. 'It's as if I have been drifting without a rudder or engines all my life, and now I've got an anchor, something that is holding me still and safe against the storm. Something to steady me, something to hang onto.'

'Someone,' Prebble pointed out.

'Yes,' John said.

And then, 'He saved my life.'

'From what you've told me, it sounds just as much that you saved his.'

'Maybe.'

Sherlock sighed. John knew he was starting to wake. He didn't want to move, didn't want this perfect moment to end. He hated it when Sherlock let go of him, and the long hours of the day when the few feet by which they were physically separated felt like the distance from London to Vladivostok. He was beginning to be aware of a physical craving for Sherlock's body, a need to shelter in the lee of that tall, lanky frame, a need that bore into him like a drill. At night he would sink into the bed with delirious relief, let the darkness embrace him, knowing that in a few short hours that warm body would slide between the sheets beside him, enfolding him in comfort and tenderness.

'Can you be addicted to cuddles?' John had asked Prebble at their most recent session.

He shrugged. 'You can be addicted to any behaviour. The question is whether the addiction is damaging or not. What does it give you when you accept Sherlock's physical affection?'

'I suppose it makes me feel he needs me.'

'That gives him the power in the relationship. What does feeling dependent on him give you?'

'I feel safe, looked after.'

'And?'

'I abdicate control over my own wellbeing. I get to blame him if things go wrong.'

'Do you fear they will go wrong?

'They invariably do. Sherlock isn't an easy man.'

'You said he was a sociopath.'

'His diagnosis, not mine. I know he is capable of empathy. I've seen him display it.'

'And yet you continually expect him to hurt you.'

'You would call that a victim mentality, I suppose.'

'What would you call it?'

'Realistic.'

Prebble smiled. 'Is your dependence on him healthy, given his psychological profile?'

'Is his dependence on me healthy, given mine?'

Dependence, John thought now, recalling the conversation while Sherlock went through his unconscious waking-up habits like a cat circling on a bed. The flattening of the palm against John's heart. The nuzzling into the back of his neck. The little, fluttering sighs. The slight wriggling of the hips, a resettling of the pelvis. And the last of them, that delicious purring noise in the base of his throat when he was almost awake, but still clinging to the velvet world of dreams. All of these minute actions so precious to John, so wonderful. Is this dependence, John wondered as Sherlock made his little whirring noise, or interdependence?

This morning, John decided he would turn over, so that when Sherlock actually woke, when he opened his eyes, John would be looking back at him. It took some squirming, and required him to lie on his left side, which was always a problem given his damaged shoulder. Sherlock growled a protest, but when he opened his eyes, his face dawned into a smile.

'Good morning,' he rumbled.

'Sleep well?'

'Mmmmm.' Sherlock pulled John against him, buried his face in his chest. 'You?'

'Fine.'

'No bad dreams?'

'Nope.'

'Told you.'

'Be a little more magnanimous, clever clogs.'

Sherlock let out a sigh. 'Do I have to? It's too early in the morning for magnanimity.' He blinked lazily, like a cat. John couldn't help reaching out to stroke his sleep-tousled curls, and Sherlock responded, butting his head against John's palm to encourage him. 'Mmm, nice.'

'Look at me,' John said.

Sherlock lifted his head. 'What?'

'Just something Prebble said last week.'

It had been a carefully planned attack on the part of the psychiatrist, he was sure.

'And what about increasing your level of intimacy? Have your thought about where this interdependent relationship is heading in the longer term? Will your embraces become sexual? How will you feel if they do? Are you willing to risk your heart, John, for such short-term comfort?'

The doctor looked down into the eyes of the detective in his arms, and wondered about that. He'd had no qualms about his answer to Prebble at the time. Now he wanted to test himself. And Sherlock. Because if Sherlock was repelled, then he knew the answer to the earlier question of whether John was safe in this mercurial man's hands.

He reached out and pressed his lips to Sherlock's.

There was a moment of hesitation, but he was not shoved roughly away. Instead, the pliant mouth under his seemed uncertain as to what to do. John withdrew, a little puzzled. Sherlock was looking up at him, a little crease between his brows. Worried, then.

'I'm sorry, did I overstep-'

'No! I mean – do it again, would you?'

John leaned in a second time. It was strange, kissing another man. He'd never done it before. It shouldn't be any different, at least in theory, but it was, and he couldn't quite put his finger on why. Was it the broadness of Sherlock's mouth, or the width of his lips? Of course, the stubble had to come into it, but then what? Perhaps the fact that Sherlock did not seem to be reacting.

'What's wrong?'

'I – I don't know how.' There was something in his eyes that told John this was not one of Sherlock's little wind-ups. Never been kissed, John realised.

'Do you want to?'

'Oh, yes,' Sherlock breathed, gazing up at him. 'So much.'

A little tremor passed through John at the words, an electric thrill.

'Just relax,' he whispered. And tried again. This time it was perfect. Sherlock's mouth, so soft under his, following his lead as he caressed, explored. The taste of Sherlock, garlic and Ovaltine and cherry flavoured boiled sweets. Sherlock's tongue, finally; tentative, then excited, delving.

Heat bloomed up inside his body. Sherlock grabbed his waist and pulled him over, on top. He took his weight on his elbows as the long, sensitive hands slid down his back from shoulder blades to lumbar. Their legs slithered together. John pressed his hips down, an involuntary grind. Sherlock's leg bent up, raising his thigh so that John could thrust against it. Bellies and chests rubbing together. Desire writhed in John's gut, leaching out down the backs of his legs like cold fire, to the soles of his feet. His itching fingers massaged down Sherlock's body, finding the hard nubs of his nipples through the thin cotton of his tee-shirt, and rubbing. Sherlock's moans igniting more need. Now John was really hard. Panting, thrusting his tongue deep into the open, receptive mouth, he edged his own thigh up. And that was when he felt it. Against his hip. Softness. A vacancy.

There was nothing going on.

He pulled away, looked down at the man under him in shock. Pupils dilated, cheeks and chest flushed, pulse racing, heart pounding, and all that besides that wonderful, voluptuous mouth gulping like the maw of a hungry chick. Everything above the waist was happening just as it should. Sherlock had even wrapped one leg around John's.

Sherlock blinked up at him, realised what had happened, and suddenly pushed him away, scrambling for the edge of the bed.

Dazed, John said, 'Sherlock, what is it? What have I done?'

The detective was shaking. John reached out to touch him, but he flinched away.

'Talk to me,' he begged.

'It's always been like this. As long as I can remember. Nothing. It's dead down there.'

John's head was spinning. 'But- but-' he stuttered. 'Have you seen-'

'I've seen every bloody doctor there is!' Sherlock almost screamed, launching himself onto his feet and starting to pace. 'I've had every bloody test, I've been probed and poked from pillar to post, and nothing's made any different. No sexual responses. I am inert.'

'But you do have sexual responses,' John told him. 'I just witnessed them!'

Sherlock didn't seem to be listening. 'It's nothing wrong down there, oh, no,' he snarled, and jabbed brutally at his temple. 'It's all up here, they tell me. I'm missing some vital connection! So now you see. Sally is right. I really am a freak!'

'Sherlock, you're not a freak. At least no more than I am.'

'Would you still want me if I was a woman?' Sherlock's eyes were taking on a slightly manic look. 'There are places, you know. In Thailand. I'd do it for you, John. I'd do anything for you.'

'Christ, Sherlock! I'm not having you mutilate yourself for me!' John was appalled.

'Well, might was well hack the bloody thing off! Fat lot of use it is to me like this!' He was in tears now, wretched with craving and grief for something he had never even had. John grabbed him and dragged him down onto his lap, encircling him tightly in his arms.

'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I should never have –'

'It's not you, it's me! I'm the one! I'm the freak!'

'You are not a freak!' John almost shouted. 'You are beautiful and perfect just as you are, and I love you.'

Suddenly they were staring at one another, dumb with shock.

John realised it was his turn to make this alright, just as Sherlock had done after his dreadful nightmare.

'Yes. It's true. I love you. So we're both damaged? So what? I love you. And I believe that you love me. And when you touch me I know everything will be alright. We'll manage somehow. But this is my fault. I pushed the boundaries. I'm sorry. I should have given you some space. I should have-'

'Don't. Please.' Sherlock stroked his cheek, calming a little.

'Tell me what I can do to make it right?' John pleaded.

Sherlock pressed his face into the curve of John's neck. 'Just hold me,' he whispered. 'If that's all I can have, then it'll be enough.'

When John got back from work that night, the flat was in darkness. It was not until he switched on the landing light that he saw the figure in the shadowy living room, silhouetted against the orange haze of the street lamps. A shape sitting upright in the armchair, square and erect in the silent dark, long pale hands stretched out on the arms.

'Sherlock?' John peered into the shadows. He couldn't see the detective's face, only its chiselled shape.

'It's come back, John. The darkness. The memories have come back for me.'

Tomorrow, the terrible truth...