A quick note on the term muppet: as far as I know it's British, derived from the Muppet Show, not to be confused with moppet, and a very affectionate version of idiot (at least, David Crystal says so …):-)

And again: thank you for your reviews.

Sex doesn't alarm me

John left the ICU, took out his phone and called Mary. Waiting for her to pick up, he stood in front of a window and watched the boats on the Thames. The water was as grey as the sky, and the heavy rain reduced the buildings on the other side of the river to blotches of black and white. He was careful to avoid looking at the spot where Sherlock had fought for his life.

"Mary," he sighed when she finally picked up.

"How are you doing?" she asked without preamble.

"I'm okay," he answered automatically.

"And how is he doing?" she continued.

"Better," John sighed. "Really better – had a bad start today, but thanks to Mycroft, he's calm now. Don't know what magic big brother worked, but it did the trick. Mycroft the miracle worker," he chuckled. "Never thought I'd say so, but I'm glad he came. I -" he trailed off.

"John," Mary interrupted, "you sound shaken. To the core. What happened?"

"Nothing unexpected. It's just … there was one entry in the diary, an audio file, that was … pretty harsh." He swallowed back tears. "Sherlock was injured and, um, alone, and pretty close to dying I guess. It seems he … he imagined I was there to help him," he broke off, uncertain how to describe what he had heard.

"He's not alone now, John," Mary said, her voice firm. "And he knows it. He has a home to come back to, and so do you. He's making progress?"

"Yeah," John breathed, "but there are no guarantees."

"There never are in life, right?" He could hear the smile in her voice. "We'll just have faith in him and hope for the best. John," she continued, "do you take care of yourself? Have you eaten?"

"Yeah," he assured her. "The nurses remind me if I forget. I guess someone told them to – can't imagine who, can you?" he smiled.

"No idea," Mary chuckled. "Do you need anything else? Clothes, books, mp3 player?"

"No," he shook his head, "just needed to hear your voice." Suddenly, he laughed. "There was one entry where Sherlock mused about our relationship." He giggled. "He wrote he hoped you were good in bed."

"Ah! What did you tell him?"

"Nothing," John protested. "I'm not going to discuss my sex life with him. Not even when he's unconscious."

"Pity."

"What?"

"I had hoped for some shameless boasting."

John burst out laughing. "He wouldn't know what to do with it."

"How do you know?" Mary quipped.

John coughed. "He's a virgin, for all I know. Sex is not his area. Sentiment, and so on." John cleared his throat, uncomfortable. "At least his brother assumes so, and I don't think Mycroft gets anything wrong – well, at least not in that area. Uhm. How's your fight with the juicer?" he quickly added.

"Oh, I won," Mary replied. "Wrenched the pineapple crown back out of it. Do you think Sherlock cares for smoothies? Would be a quick and efficient way to get some vitamins into him. We could get him a juicer for 221B."

John grinned. "I'm afraid he would rather use it to extract unsavoury juices from less-than-fresh body parts. Might be a nice Christmas present, though."

"Excellent. I'll put it on my list."

"What list?" John asked, confused.

"Oh, Mycroft asked me to compile a list of things I think might contribute to a healthier lifestyle once Sherlock's back at Baker Street."

"Mycroft," John repeated dumbly. "You're on first-name terms with him now?"

"Well, I could hardly refuse," Mary declared.

"Wait – what else have you got on that list?" John asked, suddenly curious.

"A dog."

"What?" John blurted.

"A dog, John. It's obvious, isn't it? He needs a companion."

"You're replacing me with a dog?" John burst out, mouth agape, and thought back to Sherlock's fear of being replaced by a mediocre woman – a human being, at least.

"Oh, that's utter nonsense, John, no one's replacing you, and you know it. Mycroft thought it was a brilliant idea."

"Uh-huh. Glad you two agree," he added lamely.

"Come on, John, it's the perfect solution – he can train the dog to sniff out god-knows-what or go after suspects, and the dog will patiently listen to his rants, get him out of the flat at least once a day, and remind him of the necessity of food and sleep. Mycroft even considered having it trained in advance, you know, like a service dog, to indicate mealtimes and the like, but I talked him out of it."

"Uh – okay. Sounds … kind of sensible. Why did you talk him out of the service dog thing?"

"The dog would get depressed."

John burst out laughing. "True. Even dogs need the feeling of success."

Mary chuckled. "Indeed."

They debated for a while what kind of dog would suit Sherlock, but realised soon enough that it would have to be genetically engineered to meet all the requirements. A stalwart creature with a modicum of intelligence and infinite patience, in any case. Mary promised to talk it over with Mycroft.

John felt a lot better when he returned to Sherlock's bedside. Sniggering, he flopped into the chair and announced: "Sherlock, we have a surprise for you: one more reason to wake up! You must be curious – and desperate to berate us for our silliness."

He leaned forward to see whether there was any reaction, but Sherlock seemed to be asleep: his face was fairly relaxed, and he was breathing evenly, despite the rattling sound in his chest. John just hoped he had not slipped deeper into the coma again, but neither was he keen on a repetition of the pained agitation from a few hours ago. They would have to wait.

"Right," John sighed. "So what did you do next? Must have taken you a while to recover from that injury."

John,

I'm recovering well, and as ridiculous as it is, my next plan requires me to give the impression of health and fitness. Therefore, I have decided to go to a tanning shop to alter my – admittedly deathly – pallor to a somewhat healthier shade.

I have never understood why people accept the risk of melanoma and cataract for the sake of an entirely arbitrary ideal of beauty that requires a procedure which, in fact, leads to premature skin aging and thus the destruction of said debatable beauty – but then again, intellectual prowess does not seem to be the most prevalent feature of the average sunbed user.

I now perfectly understand why the term 'tart toaster' was coined.

John, I told you thinking about you and Mary and relationships in general – and yes, I admit it, about the bond of our friendship – gave me the epiphany I was looking for: how to get into Michail's house and steal his secrets. It would seem the house, the man, and his minions have no weak spot.

But his wife has.

She's lonely.

So am I.

S

John blew out a surprised breath. "You getting a tan? I wanna know what that looks like – but what do you mean, his wife has a weak spot? You going after her?" Muttering, he scrolled down to find a photograph of Sherlock at the end of the text. "Jesus!" John's mouth dropped and his eyes went wide as saucers. "You – you …" He failed at a description. "You have freckles?" he blurted, feeling silly instantly.

The man in the picture, lounging on a sofa in a hotel suite, was Sherlock, all right, but then he wasn't. He looked younger, his curls tamed into short waves, their colour lighter than usual; he wore a dark suit with a midnight blue shirt, no tie, an expensive but unostentatious watch, and a slim signet ring; his skin gleamed golden, his eyes were bright with barely held back energy, and he had the air of a shy but dangerous hunting-leopard. The new persona was an international businessman with the body of a male model and the eyes of a philosopher, with just the right amount of vulnerability in them to break a lonely heart. The epitome of edgy elegance and understated cool.

John frowned, puzzled. Why was the picture so alien? Sherlock's hair was not that different, just swept back, and the suit could have come from the closet at 221B; apart from the signet ring, there was nothing truly out of order.

And then it struck him. It was the absence of two things: Sherlock's customary air of superiority, and the hint of eccentricity that resided in his longish curls, his body language, and last but not least his coat. He was always impeccably dressed, but not according to the latest fashion, and he was never groomed to gleam with the sleekness of a lizard.

John raised his brows. "That poor girl, whoever she is. She stood no chance, you posh prig."

It turned out the lady was no girl, but a 46-year-old Russian matron named Irina with dozens of fur-coats in her closet, and more pearls and diamonds in her jewel case than an American film diva. The daughter of a high-ranking politician, she was well-educated and not at all stupid, and thus bored out of her mind. Irina had no other place in her husband's life than to represent him and his position, and she had also never had an affair, thanks to his paranoia. He did not really lock her up, and after 28 years of marriage he seemed to trust her to a certain extent, but she had never found anyone interesting enough to risk her husband's wrath. She was not inclined to play with fire.

"But she was inclined to play with you," John mumbled, looking at Sherlock lying in the hospital bed, looking a lot older than in the photo. And a lot less healthy.

"So, Sherlock, how did you charm her, hm? I bet with a mixture of intelligence, shyness, and relentless determination. Or did you play the knight in shining armour?"

Sherlock remained vague on the subject, but it seemed to have taken quite some time and effort on his side; apparently, in the end the lady fell for the brilliance of his mind rather than his body. Anyway, she smuggled him into the house.

It's odd, John, but this is the safest place for her. Michail would be suspicious if she stayed anywhere else at this time – he knows all her appointments and her friends. So, no hotel, no illicit encounter at a friend's place, but straight to the dragon's den. Here I am and it unsettles me.

It seems I cannot avoid taking her to bed. Michail's study is next to their bedroom, and she has the code to get into it (she keeps her jewelry there), so I cannot just knock her out. I need her to open the door and I know how: Michail collects stone age artefacts and keeps a particularly rare statuette in his study. After joking at a party that the female figurine bears a resemblance to her, Irina promised to show it to me. However, she wants sex first and I do not want to make her suspicious since it was so hard to win her trust.

As irrational as it is, I feel strangely connected to her; she is as lonely as I am, and desperate for affection, though in a more physical way. She is starved for attention, craves appreciation and touch, both mentally and physically, and tonight sex, of course. I can act convincingly enough, but now I am apprehensive – I'm not sure whether I can carry out the act without the carefully constructed persona falling away; there is a moment when you have to stop pretending, and maybe it is easier for women in this instance, I cannot know.

Underneath it is just me then, intimate with a strange person I do no trust, engaged in something I quite possibly loathe. Do not get me wrong, John, I feel no performance anxiety – if I did, there are substances to remedy that; but during this act of intimacy, I am bound to give up control and be myself in the end, not just a persona; and I hate to share this with someone who is not close to me.

To be more precise: in a way, she would know me better than you, at least in that one instance, and I cannot abide that idea.

There are technicalities, of course; I do not want her to end up like the prostitute in Helsinki. I need her to be asleep when I break into Michail's study, hence the signet ring with the drug; and Michail himself must never know what happened, neither of my theft nor her infidelity. He would skin her alive, literally. He keeps statues of Marsyas all over the place, and he is known to have carried out this punishment several times. He enjoys it. Therefore, I must erase all traces of my presence.

There is a considerable risk of discovery, though: Michail will come home tonight – I made sure of that. Irina does not know, otherwise she would never have let me in. The point is: I cannot open Michail's safe without his fingerprint and his code; the fingerprint is no problem, I have already taken one off a glass during a party and manufactured a skin-like replica which I can slip over my own fingertip. The code, however, is not so easy. Basically, I need Michail to be there and open the safe for me – I have installed a tiny camera that will record the code once he opens the safe, without him realising, of course. Which is why I'm currently hiding in his office, waiting for him, whiling away my time by writing to you. (If I narrate in present tense occasionally, do not worry, I'm not having sex with Irina and typing behind her back – it's only that the memories are yet unprocessed and recalled as a whole.)

She is surprisingly endearing, John, displaying the self-assuredness of a middle-aged society woman combined with a girlish insecurity when it comes to intimacy. I suppose I appeal to both her motherly instincts and the sexual needs of a mature woman who feels neglected. It is difficult to get her to relax, though, she switches between the roles constantly, and her anxiety prevents her from giving in to her desires. It takes all my determination and concentration to read her and react accordingly – I am surprised, John, that seducing her, now, in her bedroom, is such a laborious task – she has already committed the infidelity, has accepted the risk of discovery the moment she let me into the house; whether we complete the act or not is irrelevant. It is not logical.

I was not aware that having sex can be as much a psychological act as it is a physical one. At least with her, it depends far less on technique and more on my response to her emotional needs. I find it a stunningly demanding task.

I relish a challenge, John; for a case, I can do almost anything, and it is not entirely unpleasant. I did not know that a person can reveal so much during sex, not only preferences and aversions, but hidden desires, anxieties, attitudes, beliefs.

I have only one fear: that I do so as well.

But people do not observe. It is a mercy, right now.

I observe all the time, I cannot help it. I cannot shut it down, even if the flow of information threatens to overwhelm me. I am grateful she has complied with my request to forgo perfume.

She is soft and pliant, John, with a plump body – dyed blond hair, extensions, heavy make-up (three-layers at least plus primer, tastes slightly bitter) weekly anti-cellulite treatment (ineffective), wrinkle fillers (no Botox, she dislikes the side-effects), face lift more than seven years ago (clearly by an American surgeon), had her double chin removed last year, wants to have her throat done as well, but afraid of nerve damage), spider veins on her thighs (Sclerotherapy twice), 21 moles on her back, wears plenty of shapewear normally, feels insecure now without but does not want me to see the lingerie, thus discarded it an hour ago (lines still visible on her flesh), displays high degree of nervousness when I undress her – why the insecurity?

I do not understand, John. So much information, it is fascinating, an entirely new way of gathering data, it is thrilling! Why would I mind her sagging breasts (they are perfectly normal for her age) or the fact that her labia minora protrude between her labia majora? It is neither a medical condition nor in any way relevant to achieve a satisfactory sexual experience.

I consider telling her, but I'm afraid it might be what you call a bit not good, John, so I decide to show my appreciation without words.

It works. Surprisingly well. I may have overdone it because she is growing bolder and wants to experiment with techniques she has never tried. I just about manage to dissuade her from giving me a prostate massage.

I am worried that Michail might arrive early – even if I notice him in time, he will undoubtedly hear Irina, since by now she voices her pleasure rather loudly (during her first orgasm she barely gasped, biting down on her lips so hard they bled), and I need to be hidden in his study when he comes home. I tell Irina that I want to look at the figurine before I'm too exhausted to care, and she unlocks the door to the study. I admire the figurine, but tell her that it's no match for her – then we leave. I have the door code. All I need now is the code to the safe.

I ask her to give me a minute before we try anal sex, and go to the bathroom, preparing a glass of water with the soporific concealed in the signet ring. When I come back, Irina is soundly asleep. I fail to rouse her, so I tuck her in, remove all traces of our former activities, and hide in Michail's office.

And he is coming now.

John looked up from the phone.

He cleared his throat.

Twice.

It still felt tight.

"Sherlock, I am not going to comment on this. I'm just not."

Sherlock frowned slightly, sighing in his sleep.

John said, "Right." Blinked. "Virgin. Right."

Then returned to reading.

John, it's hilarious!

Michail came in, opened the safe (conveniently typing in the code in front of my tiny camera), stored the latest backup of his business data (I made sure he would do so today), closed the safe again and left to visit Irina. He found his very sleepy wife rather confused, and whatever gave him the idea (pheromones in the air? This calls for an experiment!), he decided to sleep with her. While Michail and Irina were busy with each other, I opened the safe at leisure, copied the data, put everything back in, and left without a trace.

There was no hurry when exiting the house – they were still engaged in rather vociferous activities. It would seem Irina was inspired. She was probably also aware that I was still in the house and thus determined to keep her husband's attention. Brave girl.

I'm confused, John. I have the data, the mission was successful and it was a great achievement – I am certainly pleased, but strangely, the memory of Irina breaking into tears during her second orgasm fills me with more pride than the theft of the data. I cannot quite place it; partly, it is the power of manipulation I managed to exert, but there's more to it, and I cannot identify precisely why that memory gives me a rush of exhilaration.

The crash comes a few hours later. I have stripped off the persona and deleted the entire existence. I'm holed up in a drab hiding place, evaluating the data (more codes to crack). My skin is tingling all over with memory, and with the abominable sanitary facilities here, it proved to be impossible to erase all traces of smell resulting from various sexual practices. It is horribly distracting.

What I find more disconcerting, however, is the hollow feeling inside me – I have no idea where that comes from. It's as if someone has shot a bullet right through me, blowing a hole into the middle of my body. This is completely irrational, imbecilic, really, but I can't erase it.

Maybe I'm just hungry. Transport.

I'm vomiting.

Not hungry, then.

Stress, I suppose.

I will concentrate on cracking the codes. Mycroft is going to dance on the table if he gets this – he promised to do so, with me watching. Of course, he was just taunting me, firmly believing that stealing Michail's data was an impossibility. Too bad. He will have to fulfill his promise now. :-)

John, I hope you and Mary are close to each other, in every way. I believe I now understand better why you enjoy sex, but I find it unsettling, and I do not wish to share intimacy – neither physical nor mental – with someone I do not know and trust to the last fibre of their being.

I say this because I know you wonder whether I am straight, gay, bi- or asexual, or belong to any other of those ridiculous categorizations people seem to need. I told Mycroft the truth when I said 'sex doesn't alarm me' – I'm not so sure about intimacy, however.

Take care.

S

John took a deep breath and turned his face away, not daring to look at Sherlock. For some reason, he felt embarrassed, as if intruding on something very private, although Sherlock had written down the experience solely for him to read. But his frankness seemed a way of apologizing for faking his suicide, and John strongly believed that he should not feel the need to do so.

He was also appalled at Sherlock's dismissal of his own needs. Apparently, the eating problems had already started back then, but Sherlock had refused to acknowledge them. To be honest, there was not much he could have done about it anyway, and John granted him that retrieving the data that had eventually prevented a terrible act of terrorism had been worth the risk. Still, had he been there, he would have talked Sherlock out of it.

John sat there, pondering the events in Russia, his face turned towards the window. It was dark, the ward was silent, and the Thames embankment was sparkling with artificial lights.

He sighed deeply, and turning to Sherlock, he said, "You know, Sherlock, I'm proud of –"

The words got stuck on his tongue.

Sherlock sat upright, eyes open but unfocused, the nasal cannula discarded in his lap. His hands were moving, but no longer in that uncoordinated, jerky fashion. There was fluency and determination – every movement had purpose, as if shifting invisible objects, often just touching them with a fingertip, moving them hither and thither or running an index finger along an invisible inventory. The injured side seemed to cause him a lot of pain: he flinched and even hissed when he tried to move his left arm, but he never stopped.

John gaped, not daring to believe it. He had been witness to this silent choreography before, and either he was completely wrong, delusional, and the victim of his own wishful thinking, or Sherlock was deep in his Mind Palace, shifting around things, probably inspecting and ordering them. At least it looked like it, given his frown and the annoyed flicker of his eyes. Often, he seemed to dismiss something in anger, virtually throwing it away; other times, he lingered, as if cherishing the object, twisting and turning it, smoothing its edges, running his fingers along it, almost caressing. John could but wonder what was going on in this brilliant mind: these were no longer the involuntary spasms of a brain in vegetative state.

John considered calling in the cavalry – the coma specialists and other experts, but in the end refrained from it. They would only poke and prod Sherlock, and he was bound to react badly to it. He decided to call Mycroft in the morning to inform him of the sudden change – the experts would be flocking in anyway then.

Instead, he watched Sherlock with growing concern: he was clearly in a great deal of pain and completely exhausted, sweat running down his temples. John approached him slowly, wary to startle him. He had no idea whether Sherlock knew he was there.

"Sherlock, it's me, John. I'm going to give you something against the pain, OK? I won't touch you, I'm just adjusting the infusion system."

Sherlock gave no sign of recognition, busy with his silent shifting and sorting. By all rights, the pain medication should have made him even more tired, but he kept working – on what, only he knew.

John just sat there, staring at him in wonder, worrying and praying that he was witnessing another miracle. Could it be that Mycroft's initial quip was correct, and Sherlock was indeed rebuilding his Mind Palace?

And once finished, would he wake up?

It seemed not: after almost two hours, Sherlock was so exhausted that he simply collapsed back into bed, wincing at the pain, eyes falling shut.

John followed suit.