The Case of the Cuddle Chapter 17

Dear all, thank you again for the wonderful and instructive reviews. I was a bit troubled that I obviously didn't make Sherlock rude enough to Sarah, such that some of you thought they were friends. I'm not sure Sherlock would be capable of that just yet, although it might be nice in the long run. Will he and John be invited to her wedding, for instance? That's one to play with in my idle moments... Anyway, I shall make him much ruder next time!

Apology: I have to be absent on Parent Duty this weekend, so there won't be any more updates till Monday. I hope you won't abandon me. I promise you a corker to make up for it! And also, sorry for the stereotyping in this first section, but I thought Sherlock needed an EarthMother to get him through this.

Warning: discussion of sex, sexual dysfunction and child sexual abuse continues.

Now, without further ado...

Hettie Masekele was a broad black woman of South African descent. She was also Sherlock's new counsellor. It took her less than ten minutes to work out exactly how to handle his arrogance, hauteur and mercurial moods. She wouldn't tolerate his tricks and obfuscations. She challenged him and chased him, pushed every boundary he had. And on the days when he just had nothing to give, she gathered all six foot of him onto her ample lap and rocked him tenderly, like the little child he was inside.

'Is it possible to fall in love with one's counsellor,' Sherlock asked John one afternoon after an especially harrowing session. Sherlock had been forced to call John and get him to pick him up from the Counselling Centre because he couldn't face hailing a cab on his own. John had poured him into the back of the taxi and wrapped him in his arms, but this sudden question from his tearstained beloved had taken him aback somewhat.

'Er-'

'No, I don't mean romantically,' Sherlock smiled, and burrowed his face into John's jacket. 'She's cleverer than Mycroft and I put together, that one. A worthy adversary.'

'You mean she gives you a hard time?'

'No, I mean she doesn't let me get away with anything. She makes Moriarty look like a toddler with a biting habit.'

John giggled. 'She must be formidable.'

'Utterly terrifying. Do you think she'd let me adopt her as my mother?'

'I thought you were going to adopt Mrs Hudson?'

'I can have two mothers if I want!' Sherlock was getting a little petulant. It was obviously one of his 'small child' days, as John thought of them.

'Three,' he corrected.

'I don't count my real mother.'

'I meant me.'

'You aren't my mother.' Sherlock raised his head and looked up into John's eyes. There was a misty quality to his pupils.

'Thank you,' John whispered. Although sometimes he wondered.

Sherlock kept his council through the long summer months. He never mentioned a word of what Sarah had said to him the night of the dinner party, nor did he press John to discuss the only closed subject between them. He was biding his time. This was not something he was usually capable of, which spoke volumes, he presumed, of how important it was to him to wait. When John was out, he did his research. Some of the images he found on the internet distressed him immensely. But some of them excited him in ways he could barely understand. He took mental notes on technique. He spent time deep in thought, plotting. He knew what he wanted. For once in his life, he was prepared to wait to get it.

August had reached its sultry heights when they finally caught the Square Mile Fraudster. Rachel Kemp preyed upon City hedge fund managers and took them to the cleaners. Lestrade was obviously of the opinion that the bloodsucking bastards deserved it, but nevertheless, he stood his whole team a round at the pub the night Kemp was taken into custody.

It was sweltering. London was bathed in a sweat, its streets a tangle of dust and melting tarmac. Everyone was thirsty. Even Sherlock had two gin and tonics, which he never would have considered otherwise. John had two pints of Stella, then levered Sherlock up from the table.

In the taxi on the way home, he rolled the windows down and closed his eyes to the limpid breeze. Sherlock held his hand quietly. They stopped in the midst of a traffic jam. The evening sun sliced a golden shaft down between the high buildings and into the cab. It gilded Johns cheek, caught threads of bronze in his eyelashes as he blinked lazily.

Sherlock's breath was stopped in his throat. He knew he had never seen anything so beautiful. That was the moment he made up his mind. He couldn't wait any longer.

They had closed the curtains in the flat to keep out the blazing sunshine. It kept the place cool, but left it stuffy. When they got in, John went round opening windows. He did the bedroom first, then came downstairs. Which was where Sherlock accosted him, right in the middle of the living room rug, resting his palm tenderly on his doctor's broad chest.

'John,' he breathed.

John must have known and understood his tone. He looked up into Sherlock's eyes, slightly blurred from the gin and success.

'John, I want to make love to you. Let me make love to you?'

A tremor went through the little doctor's body.

'I.. we..,' he struggled. 'You know we can't.'

Sherlock craned his head down and nuzzled John's cheek. 'I don't see why not.'

'Because you can't.'

John turned away suddenly.

'Well, thank you for reminding me,' Sherlock snapped. 'I would have forgotten otherwise.'

'It's for your own good, Sherlock. I don't want you to have a relapse.'

'Bollocks!'

'What?'

'This has nothing to do with my own good, as you put it.'

John stared at him, shocked.

Sherlock tried to calm his vicious streak and start again. 'I talked to Sarah. That night at the dinner party.'

'What? You talked to Sarah? About our sex life? What the fuck-'

'She thought that your refusal to have sex with me is as much to do with your own issues as it is with mine.'

'My issues?' John was getting red in the face now. Sherlock began to have doubts about his mode of attack, but it was too late. He was committed, he couldn't go back.

'She suggested it might be to do with the fact that you have never had a relationship with another man.'

'Unbelievable,' John said, rubbing his palm over his flushed face and shaking his head. The gesture suddenly made Sherlock feel vulnerable.

'Is that true, John? Would you have had sex with me by now if I was a woman? Do I disgust you?'

John goggled at him in horror. 'God, no, Sherlock! How could you think that?'

Sherlock could feel his face twisting with pain. This was hard, this talking about things. That was why he had put it off, he realised now. Perhaps it had been better not knowing.

Then the dam broke. He had no idea how he'd done it, but John gave in, flung his hands up in despair.

'Okay, okay. It's not to do with you, it's me, alright?'

He rubbed his face again and then went to the window. Sherlock saw the muscles in his shoulders ripple as he yanked up the sash. A gust of hot breeze came in, ruffling the papers on the desk. John lent against the window frame, looking down at the street, his good arm up, his body silhouetted against the glare.

He seemed more beautiful than ever.

He turned his head to the side beam of the window and brought his forehead down smartly against it with a thud several times. Then he stood there, leaning into it, eyes scrunched shut, willing himself to break out.

'There were four of us that day,' he eventually said, in a voice full of pain and power. 'I was the only one that lived. Tom Medford was standing next to me when the firefight started. His wife had just had twins. Why did I live, and not him? They had to restart my heart twice in theatre, did you know that? I shouldn't be here. I didn't deserve to survive, and I don't deserve this, Sherlock. I don't deserve to be so happy.'

Hardly knowing what he was doing, Sherlock crossed the floor and stood close to John's back. He slipped his hands around his love's waist, feeling the way John pressed back against him, responding even against his will.

'I'm a bad man, John,' he told him. 'I'm cruel and vicious, and I don't give a damn about other people's feelings. The only thing I've cared about is the job, and I've sacrificed everything to that. Arrogance, ambition, lies. I've done it all - I've done things in my life that would make your pretty hair curl. I didn't deserve what Lasky and Nicholls did to me. But I don't deserve you either. I don't deserve to be as happy as you make me. I don't deserve your love. But I love you. Please let me show you how much I love you, John? Please?'

As he spoke, he pulled John tighter against him, resting his cheek against the naked skin above the doctor's collar, letting his breath ghost across it till goosebumps raised there.

'I want to take you to bed, John,' he whispered. 'I want to undress you and kiss every inch of your skin. I want to caress you. I want to give you pleasure. I want to make you as happy as you make me. I want to make you come, John.'

John's head lolled back against his shoulder.

'This is impossible,' he murmured, his eyes shut fast. 'You can't-'

'No, I can't. But you can. Let me give you this, my love, please? Let me give you this gift?'

Sherlock gently turned his lover in his arms and pressed him back against the wall beside the window. The light chiselled John's cheek, deepened the cornflower blue of his irises, brought out the silver threads in his fringe.

'God, you are breath-taking,' Sherlock couldn't help but gasp.

John reached up and grabbed a handful of Sherlock's hair to drag his head down. He kissed him with something akin to savagery. Sherlock knew his mouth would be bruised in the morning. He was thrilled.

His hands slid over John's body, feeling the muscle through the sweat-dampened cotton of his shirt. Then John pulled away.

'Anything, Sherlock. Anything you want,' he said, his voice deep and hoarse with desire.

On Monday, Sherlock and John start to get to grips with the problem at hand...