Exploring Sexuality
A/N: Took my first AP Bio test. Don't think I did awful, but Doc says no one's passed it ever, so….
High school advice- if your school offers a Psychology class, take it. It's super interesting and will change your whole outlook on life. I love it. :)
Ch. 17
John woke with a start the next morning to a loud crash. He cussed fluently and pulled himself out of bed, throwing on a pair of boxers as another crash sounded through 221B. He got to the kitchen in time to see Sherlock throw a plate, very flamboyantly, to ground, watching satisfactorily as it shattered at his feet. Of course he wasn't wearing shoes. Or even socks. "What the bloody hell are you doing?" John demanded with a raised eyebrow, his hands settling on his hips about a yard away from Sherlock.
"I am releasing my frustration," Sherlock replied calmly, turning from the cupboard with a mug in his hand. John sighed exasperatedly and closed the space between them quickly, holding Sherlock's wrist so he couldn't break their mug. "Let go of me," the detective said in such a dangerously low voice that John did, if only out of surprise.
John blinked at Sherlock, still a bit slow, having woken up not five minutes ago. "Can I have that, then?" he asked, looking to the mug and keeping his voice level. Requesting, so that Sherlock was less likely to smash it just out of spite. He held his hand out expectantly.
"Fine," Sherlock spat, shoving said mug in John's direction. "You're a doctor, then. How would you suggest I release my frustration?" he snapped.
John gently set the mug on the counter and put a hand on the other's shoulder, not responding to Sherlock's sharp tone. Sherlock recoiled immediately though, glaring down at John. His body was as tense as a wire. "You could start by telling me why you felt the need to destroy our dishes," John said slowly, dropping his hands to his sides and keeping them there.
"Why?" Sherlock exclaimed rhetorically. "Because my bloody brother feels the need to butt into every aspect of my life!" he practically shouted, thrusting the note that Mycroft had left in John's direction.
John sighed again, but took the note, looking it over. "Is this Chinese?" he asked incredulously, eyebrows scrunched together. He didn't even try to decipher the symbols on the paper in his hand.
"Japanese," Sherlock replied curtly, still glaring at John as if whatever this was was his fault. "It says that my dear brother doesn't want me on this case, and that I am forbidden to do anything besides consult with Lestrade. No going to crime scenes, the house. No finding further evidence. No anything. I have to work with whatever the stupid Yard comes up with."
John could see how that would upset Sherlock. But he could also see why Mycroft did it. He couldn't, however, see why Sherlock actually planned on listening to him this time. "Or?" he asked, looking for the missing piece.
"Or he's sending me to rehab."
John hesitated, then nodded. "Come here," he said, setting the note down and holding a hand out to Sherlock as he walked into the living room, carefully sidestepping the broken plates and such. Sherlock didn't take his hand, but he did follow John, sitting stiffly in a ball beside him on the couch. "Do you know why he would say that?" John asked, looking at Sherlock with a gentle concern.
"Sentiment," Sherlock scoffed. "A power play."
John let out his breath slowly. "Did you consider it "a power play" that I wouldn't let you go in yesterday?" he asked, part curiosity, partly to prove a point.
Sherlock blinked at him, as if he hadn't considered that the two things may be even remotely connected. There were three nicotine patches up his left arm, and John watched as he flexed, catalyzing the chemical spread through his body. He didn't answer, so John waited patiently. "No."
"Why not?"
Sherlock's fingers curled around the dog tags against his chest. He didn't answer again for at least a minute. "Because I'm not in competition with you," he decided at last.
"Good," John said with a nod. "Now go clean up the mess you made. Do you want tea?" he added, getting up and heading back into the kitchen.
Sherlock stared at his back in a confused surprise. "Black," he replied, getting up after another minute. He brought the garbage bin over to the pile of shattered ceramic and threw them individually into the trash.
John put the kettle on and sighed, going over to Sherlock, crouched on the floor, helping him. "We have a broom for this sort of thing, you know," he said, working carefully so as not to cut himself.
"I didn't," Sherlock admitted after a short pause.
"It's in the closet," John informed, though he knew Sherlock would just delete the information. Again. "Where it's always been."
John's voice was soft as he spoke, and Sherlock looked up at him. "Why aren't you angry?" he asked, still tense. On edge.
"It's just a couple of dishes," John said with a small shrug and a sigh. "I wouldn't go making a habit of this, however," he warned.
"Cleaning?" Sherlock inquired, putting the last little piece in the trash. "Don't worry; I won't."
John chuckled a little in spite of himself, knowing it was true, and rolled his eyes. He kissed Sherlock's forehead before he stood again, and Sherlock's body tensed even more, making John's smile drop. "No touching day?" he asked softly.
Sherlock nodded stiffly, returning the garbage can to beneath the sink without a word.
"Alright," John assured with a nod. "Really, it is." Sherlock didn't respond, so John got a mug out for each of them, getting the milk out of the fridge as he waited for the kettle to boil. "Do you still want to go to the Yard? To at least talk with Lestrade and the team?" he asked a bit hesitantly as he served their tea.
Sherlock nodded, wrapping his hands around the steaming cup appreciatively. "How are the idiots going to know what to look for if I don't tell them?" he murmured, not really talking to John.
John put toast in the toaster and took his seat across from Sherlock. "When do you want to leave?"
"Nine," Sherlock replied, stretching his legs out beneath the table and propping them up in John's lap. Apparently that touching was okay. Sherlock-initiated touching seemed to be okay in general, it was just John who couldn't touch.
But he didn't mind.
"Alright," he said again, smiling a little over his mug at the other.
Sherlock lifted his feet when John's toast popped, resting them on his chair while he was up. He watched as John put in two more pieces of toast and buttered the first two. "I'm not hungry," he insisted when John slid the plate across the table to him, sitting back down to wait while his own toasted.
"Too bad," John replied easily, taking another sip of tea. "It's just toast; it's not like I'm making waffles and sausage and fruit. Two pieces, please?" Sherlock was in a mood, and that usually meant he neglected his body's needs. And he needed to eat.
"Fine," he grumbled reluctantly, taking a bite of toast. Toast was John's go-to 'you must eat something for breakfast' food. But it was the please that made Sherlock agree. John was worried about him. John cared.
John was talking to him.
"Sorry, what?" Sherlock asked, pulling himself out of his head enough to listen to what the other was saying.
"I said thank you," John repeated, watching Sherlock with a small smile. "For eating," he clarified, though he knew he didn't have to.
John didn't have to thank him for eating. "You're welcome," he mumbled around another bite of toast, going back to thinking. John doesn't mind.
John's toast popped, and Sherlock was too busy to notice. John rolled his eyes good naturedly and tapped his calf twice, gentle. "Let me up," he said.
Sherlock jumped, his toes hitting the underside of the table with a thud. "Ow," he mumbled, letting John up grumpily.
"Not my fault you weren't paying attention to the real world," John quipped, spreading jam over his toast. Sherlock had at least eaten one piece of his own. He was staring at him, so John let him, smiling when he rejoined him at the table. "What?" he asked curiously, raising an eyebrow.
"Well, it was your fault, first of all. Indirectly," Sherlock replied, eyes moving slowly up and down John's torso, his feet resting in his lap. "Second, can't I just look?"
His eyes met John's, and John blushed faintly. Sherlock looking was very different than anyone else looking. "Can I ask you a question?"
"You just did." John asking- a sign he's not sure if Sherlock will be okay with the question. He doesn't have to answer, he knows that, but he also doesn't want to let John down.
John sighed softly and rolled his eyes, taking another bite of toast before resolving to ask. "Why do you have 'no touch' days?" he asked, curious, but still gently.
On the giant list of things John could have asked him, that was not one Sherlock would have thought he'd pick. But it was also not one of the worst, so he tried to answer in a way John might understand. He took a deep breath. "Sometimes it's just too much. It assaults my brain, tearing me apart, because touching isn't my area. My "no touch" days," Sherlock explained, using air quotes to coin John's phrase, "are a way of controlling it, almost. It's a day I can say no, and I don't have to worry about what you're expecting," of me, "or what's normal. I can just shut it all off." He hadn't really meant to say all that, not out loud, not to John, not ever. But it was out now, and he couldn't take it back, so he stared into his almost empty mug of tea, holding it between both of his hands.
John sat silently across from him for a long while, letting that sink in. "You shouldn't have to pick a day, then," he said quietly when he did finally say something.
"Yes, well, sorry to disappoint, but sometimes I just need-" Sherlock snapped defensively, but John was shaking his head and cut him off.
"No, no, that's not what I meant," John rushed to assure. "I meant you shouldn't have to pick a day to say no. You should be able to say it any time. You can say it any time. Whenever it's too much, or you feel uncomfortable, or whatever. You can say not to me, Sherlock," John explained, looking up at the other intently. "God knows you say it to everyone else," he added with a bit of a teasing smile.
"You're not everyone else," Sherlock said before he could think too much about it.
John's smile only grew. "Maybe that's why I'll listen," he replied.
Sherlock met the other's gaze. This was John. John cared. John listened. John chased him across London. He could trust John. But… "I need to get used to it," he said.
And John understood. He didn't say they had been together for almost a month and as good as for much longer. He didn't scoff or roll his eyes. He nodded. "That's fine." He assured. "But know you can talk to me about it, yeah?"
Sherlock smiled a little. Nodded. "Yeah." Because he could. He could talk to John.
"Good," John replied, that smile still on his face as he finished his toast and did the washing up. Sherlock watched him. John let him. "I'm going to have a shower, then I think I'll do the shopping. I'll be back before nine so we can go to the Yard."
Sherlock nodded, only half listening, and spread himself out on the couch, going over everything he remembered from the other day, making sure all the case details were as clear as they could be without much evidence. He faintly registered hearing John tell him goodbye.
He didn't hear John come home half an hour later. Didn't hear him say his name, repeatedly. Definitely felt John's hand in his hair. His eyes snapped open.
"Stuck in your head?" John said, part amusedly, pulling his hand back. "You didn't answer. Were you planning on going to the Yard in just your pajama bottoms in late September?"
"Yes, sorry, no," Sherlock answered in a way that made John go back and think about what he had said. "I'll be less than ten minutes," he added, pulling himself gracefully up and out of his thinking position on the couch and going to get changed and wash up a bit. "Tell Lestrade we're on our way, will you?" he called behind him.
"Mhmn," John hummed, texting Lestrade. "Drink a glass of water before we go," he instructed, sure Sherlock wasn't fully recovered yet. He heard the tap run and shut off defiantly and smiled. "Thanks."
Eight minutes later they were in a cab on their way to the New Scotland Yard. Sherlock was tense, which was odd because he was usually in his element on a case. Was it Mycroft's restrictions? Why wasn't his hand in John's?
"Stop thinking," he said, looking over at John.
"Tell me what this mood swing is about, then," John countered, raising an eyebrow in question.
Sherlock looked away and didn't relax.
The rest of the cab ride was passed in silence.
As soon as they stepped out of the cab, Sherlock turned on John and took his arms, holding him an arm's length away, still. "Because I'm invested in this case." Emotionally. Personally. It was the answer to John's question. "These men, the ones at the house, they are not good people." They can't know what John means to him. They'll hurt him, take him. "I am going to talk to them, no matter what Mycroft says, and I need to be ready for that." For John to hear what they might say about him. His past "I need you to be ready."
John absorbed that and tried to understand what Sherlock found so important about him knowing it. Of course they weren't good people. Not many of the people they worked with were. He didn't quite understand, but Sherlock was still staring at him expectantly, so he nodded. "Alright. But, Sherlock?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement. "Be careful." They were just at the Yard, they were safe, but Sherlock was personally invested in this case in a way that John had never seen him.
Sherlock nodded once and kissed John's forehead quickly. "You too," he whispered so quietly he almost hoped John didn't hear him as they walked into the warmth of the Yard.
Lestrade was a mess. He looked like he hadn't had a decent night's sleep since before he drove John and Sherlock home. His hair was disgruntled, he had bags under his eyes. His collar was loose with his sleeves pulled up. A cup of coffee was on his desk.
"What are you doing here, freak?" Donovan asked skeptically, being the first one to notice the two of them. "I thought your brother put you off this case."
"If I was officially off this case, you lot wouldn't solve it," Sherlock replied curtly, glaring at her. His hand tightened at his side as if he wished he was holding John's.
"Enough, both of you," Lestrade cut in before Sally could say anything in response. "Mycroft said Sherlock couldn't be in the field, so he's just helping out here. I seriously don't have the patience for the two of you to be at each other's throats today, so knock it off." He turned to Sherlock. "What do you need to see?"
"Whoever you brought in the other day," Sherlock answered immediately. Lestrade was more compliant when he was at his wits end. Eager for the case to be solved.
But he still hesitated. Damn Mycroft. "Three men and a woman. Read their files first, look over Donovan's notes, then fine," he ceded tiredly.
Sherlock complained internally a great deal, but smiled triumphantly at Lestrade. Mostly for Donovan's benefit. "We'll get right on it," he said, picking up Sally's notebook despite her protests and glare.
John took the files Lestrade handed him with an apologetic smile. "You should take a night, mate. Get a decent amount of sleep," he said.
Lestrade just laughed. "Yeah, okay," he chuckled. "Watch him for me."
"Always do," John replied with a rueful smile before following Sherlock over to a corner of the office where they sat on the floor, files and notes spread out between them.
And they got to work.