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Chapter 13: Giving

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As always in the morning, Sherlock woke before John. He who had always found sleep dull and useless now wondered if sleep wasn't all about opening his eyes to John's slumbering form. It made him want to wake up again and again, John always the first thing he saw; John always the last thing he felt before falling in a world of dreams.

Because he'd started dreaming, too. Every night. Black dreams filled with guns, a singsong voice and trembling limbs, red dreams filled with knives and teeth and bloodied flesh. White dreams filled with nothing but pain and pleasure, so intense it made him blank out to the next dream and black, red, white again, and again, and again... Today he'd woken up to black, and John's image as he was sleeping peacefully on his side, facing him, had dispelled the guns and silenced the abhorred voice. On an impulse, Sherlock brought a shaking hand to the warm chest heaving before him, just to feel the warmth. Just to feel the ever reassuring beat. He had no idea what he'd do if it stopped some day. If the Woman's death had been a blow, he didn't want to know what John's would do to him. In that regard, Sherlock knew Mycroft was right, even if he would never admit it out loud.

He pressed his hand closer, like a child reaching for his mother, feeling lost and surprised. Never would he have expected that some day, another person's heartbeat would be the most precious thing in the world. It didn't make sense; it was beyond logic, and Sherlock never liked 'beyond logic'. Often it was a synonym for stupidity. And perhaps he had become stupid, but the beating under his palm struck him as a miracle. Sherlock didn't believe in destiny and didn't feel that meeting John had been a necessity. It was pure contingency. And that was why it felt like such an incredible gift.

Sherlock had never been good with gifts. His parents' gifts had never truly felt like gifts, except for the eye patch his father had bought him on the last Christmas before he died, and the chemistry set Mycroft had given him the next Christmas to comfort him. Sherlock had wanted nothing but to hurl the whole set in his brother's face at first, but after a few days, he'd started experimenting. He'd never stopped.

Sherlock wasn't good with gifts because he didn't understand the concept. He'd read The Gift by Marcel Mauss at age seven, and gifts without payback didn't make sense to him. When his father had bought him the eye patch, he'd drawn him a ship with Mummy as the Captain and Daddy as the lookout perched on the crow's nest. Sherlock was at the helm leading the way, and Mycroft was a ship's apprentice washing the deck. As for Mycroft's gift, the chemistry set, he had waited a whole month before blowing up his brother's room which was right above his 'lab'. That had been his gift.

He'd always found something to give back for the very few 'gifts' he had ever received. But today, he was at a loss. His own uselessness slapped him in the face. John was giving him so much, too much, and he had nothing to give in return. He'd tried to convey his gratefulness in each kiss he'd given John the previous night, to convey the apology and the anguish of not finding anything to give him. His fervour had been spontaneous and desperate. Every gesture had screamed Thank you for everything you've done, everything you do, everything you keep doing, because I'm not giving you anything in exchange.

John's touch had torn him all over the place, physically, mentally, and emotionally. The spots he had touched and the fact that it was John touching him completely blurred the limit between those three planes – his body, his mind, his 'heart'. It made the distinction pointless. It was paradoxically by shattering him to pieces that John managed to merge all those planes and make Sherlock be "one", body and soul.

Sherlock groaned. That lousy concept again. A soul. It was as if John had stirred something in him that could be called that, but it made no sense to Sherlock. Perhaps he'd have to ask John about it.

John. What could he give him? A surge of deep hatred for his nemesis filled his chest. Why did he have to take everything away from him? Couldn't he leave him just one thing, one little thing that was his own and that John hadn't given him back, so he could offer it to the one to whom he owed so much? But Moriarty's defilement had been perfect; his technique to break him, complete and exquisite. As always, Sherlock was compelled to admire the work.

But he couldn't forgive him. He had never hated Moriarty, quite the contrary in fact. He was the most exciting opponent he ever had. But then there was the Pool, and the Basement... It all felt like a betrayal. John wasn't part of their game, he shouldn't have appeared on the chess board. This wasn't playing fair. It was a direct attack against his person, and it threw the game off balance. They weren't playing against each other anymore, Moriarty was playing with him as if he were a toy. And it was no surprise that such a man would enjoy breaking his toys.

Except that Sherlock wasn't a toy. He had considered Moriarty as an equal, a sparring-partner with whom he could do some brilliant mental fencing. But suddenly Moriarty had taken out the gun and shot him. It was so unexpected that it would've been unworthy of him, had he not done the breaking so masterfully. Even in cheating, he had been brilliant. Sherlock hated him for it.

John stirred and Sherlock froze. He wasn't ready to face him yet. He hadn't found anything to give him. Panicked, he withdrew his hand from the invaluable chest and shrank back, holding his breath. John didn't wake up and Sherlock took the chance to sneak out of the bed and leave the room. He was still stark naked but didn't dare move around his room to get some clothes, for fear of rousing his partner. Looking down at his glistening body still smelling of lavender, he wondered how John could possibly find it attractive. His skin was too white, almost hairless, giving him an androgynous appearance. His limbs were long and awkward, and overall his whole body was rather lanky. His shapes could never be mistaken for a woman's, and John was straight to begin with. Sherlock didn't understand how he could kiss those lips too full and too big for his thin face, how he could look in his eerily clear pupils and still want to hold him.

Swallowing with difficulty, he looked away and walked to the living-room to put on his coat. His body was perfect for transport. For anything else, it was just grotesque.

He went to the window and looked out in the street absent-mindedly. There had to be something. Something he could do for John. The piece of paper with the little dancing men was still lying on the living-room table next to John's laptop. Sherlock knew he'd have to take care of it sooner or later. This wasn't something to give John, but it was necessary to ensure his safety. Sherlock didn't feel like playing with Moriarty at all – he wanted to crush the man. This was a little game his archenemy had set to have his own fun while he "watched him dance". He clenched his fists. Fine. He'd play. He'd win. Then he'd set his own rules and destroy Moriarty.

If you do that, he'll probably kill John. There will always be a sniper. You can't outsmart a sniper - eventually, he will always take you by surprise. John will die.

Sherlock's face darkened. Then he'd just have to part with John. Make him leave Baker Street or leave it himself. Never talk to him again, never approach him – cut all ties. And you think that will be enough? You won't fool Moriarty. He knows you. He did, didn't he? Then Sherlock should have an accident first – a concussion, and fake amnesia. Even to John. He'd pretend not to remember anything, and after a week or so throw John out of Baker Street. Can you really do that? Do you think you have it in you? A shiver ran down his spine. What was he thinking? Throwing John out just to get revenge? It was insane. What would be the point? John would live... Maybe. Or maybe not. Sherlock had no guarantee whatsoever that John would live even if he severed their bond and detached himself from him. Was it worth the risk? Was hurting him worth the possibility of saving his life? Was there any other way?

You can just stop doing cases. Don't play the game. Remain broken and stupid. Moriarty won't bother with you anymore, and John will be safe.

Sherlock felt a lump in his throat. Give up the Work? Could he really do that and live with himself? It was already hard enough as it was...

He'd created the job for himself. A unique job for a unique mind – that wasn't to say the most brilliant mind of all, but one that wasn't satisfied with just research in labs or higher philosophical spheres. For a mind so concerned with logic, it was strange indeed that he'd chosen people the object for his deductions. People, who were moved by passions and sometimes acted irrationally. People, who were so full of sentiments. Maybe it was all part of the razzle-dazzle, Sherlock thought. Every genius craved an audience. And usually scientists and philosophers didn't have many admirers – not before they died, anyway. Moreover only criminals could provide the thrill Sherlock pined for. Most researchers didn't risk their lives, but Sherlock did, almost on an everyday basis. It was only logical that whoever became close to him would be put in jeopardy.

But John needs the thrill, too, he tried to reassure himself. He loves the cases and the "adventure" as he so romantically puts it. But was that really it? If John had been attracted to him from day one, then his admiration for Sherlock's intellect was only secondary. It was just chemistry. Simple chemistry...

A pained expression filled Sherlock's face. Moriarty had been right, of course. He couldn't have hurt him otherwise. Sherlock had declared he wasn't interested in sex and relationships, decreeing that it wasn't his area. Boring. And dangerous, too. He didn't want to bother with something so messy. But sex and sentiments were two separate things. Mycroft certainly had no sentiments, not even many feelings at all, Sherlock mused, and yet he didn't run away from sex like Sherlock did. Probably just like Moriarty. Such above average minds were curious by nature and would want to try everything at least once in their lives. Sherlock's error had been to delude himself so badly. It wasn't that he didn't care. He'd never even tried. What was hidden behind his ostentatious lack of interest in sex wasn't indifference, but fear. Fear of getting caught up into it. Fear of losing control. If he truly hadn't cared, he'd have done just like Mycroft or Moriarty. He'd have tried, got bored, and would've had recourse to it punctually only when he deemed it absolutely necessary.

But that was not what he'd done. He had carefully avoided it, putting it in the same bag as 'sentiments': messy, dangerous. And since when did he get scared instead of excited at the word 'dangerous'? Because this is about your body. You have no confidence at all when it comes to this. Your mind is brilliant, and this you can show off to the world. But your body? It's ridiculous. You're not comfortable with it. It's good to fight and run and sneak around, good for "leg work" as Mycroft puts it. Your senses are useful to identify things, to help you in your deductions. Just feeling for feeling... you always deemed it pointless. Except with drugs. Drugs had been salutary. At an age when any healthy young man chases after girls and drinks on bad days (and even on good ones), Sherlock could find nothing to ease the boredom. Nothing to fascinate him, nothing to attract him and stir life in his body. People were boring and stupid. The world was dull and absurd. Even when there was something interesting going on, nobody listened to him. So he started telling what he knew would trigger a reaction from people. He started deducing them and spouting it into their faces. Everyone was so selfish. He thought they'd be interested in what he said, since it was about themselves. Look at all I can tell about you from one look. But people weren't interested. They got mad. At one point, he stopped counting the number of "Piss off!" Boring, boring, boring... Drugs weren't boring. They opened a whole new world of sensations and cleared his mind. He felt that his intellect could thrive that way.

In the end, he'd replaced them with cases from the Met. Many weren't worth his talents, but some were more challenging and he'd forget to be bored for a few hours. Then there was his research, too. Tobacco ashes and so on. It was crucial to his job. Once he'd set a centre of gravity for himself – the Work, consulting detective – it was easier to ordinate everything accordingly so it would revolve around it. He started deleting useless things even more than before. His mind was what made him special; his mind was what could bring him some recognition. Even if in fact, being his usual insufferable self, it just made him more enemies. Everyone who knew him at the Met hated him – aside from Lestrade. It didn't really matter, though. Hating him meant that they felt inferior to him and recognized the brilliancy of his mind.

Pressing his forehead to the cold windowpane, Sherlock closed his eyes. When he was little, he remembered, he used to enjoy experimenting with his body. He was a very curious child, always asking questions, always trying out new things. He couldn't remember when or how this approach to the world had stopped. But one day he'd stopped being a child and had become self-conscious – to some extent. More precisely, only where his body was concerned.

His biggest mistake had been his lack of lucidity. Worse, his self-delusion. A genius like him couldn't lack lucidity unless he put the blinkers on himself. And he had, out of fear and lack of confidence. He'd averted his eyes and hadn't even acknowledged it. That was why Moriarty had managed to break him. Sherlock had never been a sociopath, even a high-functioning one. He'd always had a heart, somewhere. Mycroft had known, and that was why he was always being so sickeningly patronizing – adamant about "protecting" him. Moriarty had known, and that was how he had succeeded in dismantling him.

Sherlock furrowed his brow against the windowpane. Had John known? From what he'd read on his blog, he never believed him to be a sociopath and regretted calling him that very quickly. He always seemed to overestimate him, and his disappointed gaze was one of the things Sherlock hated the most. Shame. Nothing like the physical shame Moriarty had made him endure in front of John, but shame nonetheless.

Whether he'd been aware of it before the Basement, now John definitely knew. But he hadn't been patronizing, and he hadn't taken advantage of it to destroy him even further. John wasn't a genius and so didn't react like geniuses who always love humiliating their peers to push themselves to the fore. He'd reacted like the infatuated friend that he was, like the soldier and the doctor: he'd given him everything. And Sherlock had no idea how to pay him back.

What had he asked of him? That Sherlock told him what he'd do before experimenting. That he wouldn't run away from this – from us, Sherlock thought. Then there were the things John never asked but obviously desired very much. His body, for one thing (even if that was beyond Sherlock's comprehension); his affection, and signs that he cared; him getting better. And finally, there were the things John himself wasn't aware of: what Sherlock called his 'kinks'. He could definitely explore those.

But it wasn't enough in Sherlock's eyes. John had given him so much more than sexual gratification that repaying him with so little seemed disproportionate. Even if to Sherlock, it didn't feel like too little, especially when it implied he had to give up his control. He knew he would, though. For John. Even if the doctor never asked directly.

Sherlock's eyes snapped opened and he retreated from the window. There was something John had asked directly. Something he couldn't give him yesterday, but could today. Maybe. Maybe...

Running to his violin case, he picked up the instrument and held it to his chin. The hand holding his bow trembled slightly, and he had to take a deeper breath. He knew what he wanted to play, knew exactly what piece would feel right in this very moment. But he wasn't sure he could manage to play it. He swallowed. If he didn't succeed, John would still hear him. He'd hear his pitiful attempt, and know that he had failed. The trembling got worse and he closed his eyes.

He'd had enough with fear. He'd been a coward and his self-delusion had almost cost him his life – not to mention John's. What had brought him back was his friend pretending to be severely injured in hospital. What had kept him from leaving again was still John, breaking himself to pieces to renew their bond and show him how to dance with shattered pieces. He'd recreated a world where both of them could exist and understand each other to some extent, recreated the invaluable sense of intimacy they had shared, all the more precious to Sherlock as it wasn't based on an equal massive intellect, but on something he couldn't quite put his finger. Something which deserved to be celebrated. Something...

His eyes snapped open as the first sound broke the morning silence. He hadn't realized he'd started playing until he heard the first note of the piece. Bach Sonata n°1, Presto. And after the first note the second came almost instantly. The presto didn't leave him time to waver anymore, and he felt as if his hands were playing of their own accord. He closed his eyes again. No, he thought. Not of their own accord. In the darkness behind his eyelids, he could see the light flow freely, enthusiastically, like the currents linking the different elements of his mind palace. The flow wasn't part of the palace, but what allowed it to stand tall and vibrant. Sherlock felt a touch on his back, fingers in his hair, a mouth on his chin, hands roaming on his torso and thighs, a foreign body stirring life into his. From his chest, beyond the fear, came rushing this improbable flow.

There was still nothing he could give to John. But this light in his chest enabled him to create music again. And even if it was just a cry, desperate and vehement in the devotion and gratitude it expressed, still it was something John could hear: a confession, and a promise.

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xXx

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tbc