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To the Core

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Part 3

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It was long dark when John finally moved; his legs were close to falling asleep, and his back felt positively frozen. He was still ever so slightly rocking Sherlock, whose breathing had evened out; his cheek was resting against the hollow of John's neck, and the doctor thought he might have fallen asleep, judging from the complete stillness of him. No, he corrected himself, it was unlikely that Sherlock would just doze off after having an emotional breakdown.

He would probably be catalogueing whichever emotions were presenting themselves, and try to delete them later on. If John had learned one thing about Sherlock during their time together, it was that Sherlock could not tolerate any limitations of his mind and would do anything to prevent a recurrence.

Sherlock however was doing no such thing. He would have, but he was too tired, and for once, his mind was blank. He could not think and did not want to think, and it was a relief that John was there, providing shelter without trying to intrude. He was going to of course, seeing that he would want to make sure that Sherlock was all right, which would inevitably include questions, but he seemed to sense that his friend was in no shape to talk right now. He had closed his eyes at one point, concentrating on John to distract himself, and the blessed combination of warmth and scent and heartbeat had lulled him into a state of calmness. He still felt vaguely ashamed that he had broken down like that, but it was unimportant now.

He allowed himself to drift a little more.

At one point John murmured something about it getting cold. He pulled Sherlock up with him, manoeuvring them both onto the bed. He was very careful, but it felt like breaking a spell nevertheless.

Sherlock avoided to look at him, and he did not have to. John knew how it felt like to have arrived at rock bottom, and he wanted his friend to understand that it was okay, that he did neither have to apologize nor feel ashamed of his breakdown. Of course he would, no matter what John said, because it was a natural consequence; after losing control, people tended to forget how bad it felt initially, and were inclined to think they had overreacted.

"I'm going to make tea," John said quietly, and got up. Sherlock did not move, did not show whether he had heard his friend at all. John however knew better than to push him, so he just went into the kitchen and put the kettle on.

When he returned to Sherlock's room ten minutes later, balancing a tray, the detective was still sitting in the same spot, shoulders hunched. John carefully put the tray down and turned the lamp on the nightstand on. He took one mug and offered it to his friend, who slowly raised his hands and wrapped his long fingers around it, then John sat down next to him again.

The warmth of the mug was a blessing, but Sherlock did not want to drink the tea. He did not want to feel like someone who had to be coddled, who could not cope on his own.

He had been reluctant to let go of John when they got up, but now, out of hiding, so to speak, he slowly felt mortification wash over him as he realized what had happened. He had behaved like a five-year-old. He had had a bad dream, so what? It was not like that had not occured before, so why did it affect him so much? Why did it cause him to act like that, undignified, helpless, pathetic?

It was no good to berate himself however; for reasons he could not quite fathom, he still felt shaken, and he wished John would put his arms around him again, to chase away the darkness and the dread. The rational part of Sherlock's mind huffed at this indignantly, but the other part, the one which was dreadfully susceptible to emotions and was increasingly difficult to subdue, craved the soothing touch which had been so immensely reassuring right now.

He suspected that this was stemming back from the days when he had been very young, from a time in which it had been perfectly all right to seek shelter in someone else's arms when things went awry. Only he was not a child anymore, and he did not want to be depending on anyone. He would have to manage alone, as he always had. The thought however was making him shudder, a subconsicious reaction of his body, and he felt betrayed. He was vaguely aware that solitude was no longer as desirable as it once had been, a completely unexpected and new notion.

God forbid that he suddenly sounded like Mycroft, but it was not advisable to get too emotionally attached to someone, after all. Solitude had mostly protected him so far, why did he suddenly develop these sentiments?

And yet here you are, a voice in his head told him scornfully, a picture of misery, and whose fault is that? The man who induced all this was in no way attached to you.

- And it wouldn not matter at all if I had my emotions under control, he contered, angrily. If it wouldn't upset me like it does. If I didn´t feel so damn vulnerable now.

He shuddered again; he could not help it, just as he could not help feeling dirty. He could still smell Davenport's aftershave, even though that was hardly possible. God; he seemed to be going mad.

John watched Sherlock from the side and wondered what was going on his head. He was grimacing and had not touched his tea yet; he looked as though he would hug himself if he were not holding a mug, and he was trembling slightly again.

John had never seen Sherlock so vulnerable, defeated even. He usually was not squirmish and tended to make light of any injuries he sustained, or even hide them. Only by coincidence did John find out about the garotting incident in Soo Lin's apartment, or how badly bruised Sherlock's back was after he had fallen into the arena of the Chinese circus; he had seemed dazed for a moment, but had not expressed any discomfort afterwards, too preoccupied with the case to let himself be distracted by pain.

Sometimes John saw Sherlock sporting a new bruise, cut or abrasion and had no idea where it might have come from, and when he asked, Sherlock would wave it off, dismissing it as trifle.

But this, this seemed beyond his ability to handle. He looked devastated and forlorn as he sat there.

John put his own mug aside and laid a hand on Sherlock's arm: "I'm here if you want to talk," he said, unsure whether it was the right approach. "But I won't make you."

Sherlock stared at John's hand, then he nodded: "I know. I don't want to. Leave. Please." He turned away, shrugging the hand off and putting the mug on the nightstand, then he curled up on the bed.

"Sherlock," John prompted softly, but he got no reply. Hesitating at first, John slowly got up; he pulled the blanket up around Sherlock, then he left the room.

Sherlock felt like weeping again; sending John away had been difficult, but necessary, even though it left a John-shaped hole in the air.

He stayed like that, curled up under the blankets, and stared into the semi-darkness of his room, trying not to think.

John paced around the living room. Usually, it was Sherlock who was pacing and John who was annoyed by it, but the doctor did not feel like sitting down now. He was wondering what to do; this was different from Danger Nights, where at least he knew the parameters a little better.

He usually thought he had gotten to know Sherlock quite well, but sometimes he seemed like a complete stranger.

Yet if there was one fact John was a hundred percent sure about , it was that Sherlock was not as coldhearted as he sometimes appeared. He cared more about certain things and persons than he would ever admit, and he was as susceptible to emotions as everyone else, he just dealt with them differently.

Sherlock stayed in his room for the rest of the night; he eventually drank the by then cold tea, but he neither ate nor went back to sleep. He lay awake, listening to the blood rushing in his ears, the sounds from outside, the occasional creaking of the old house.

He could not tell John what had happened, because John was going to realize why it had shaken Sherlock so much. He did not want John to consider him a victim, because he was not one. It was his own fault entirely, there was no one else to blame; other people did not have issues with their sexuality, but Sherlock did. He had never had a relationship, had always felt alienated from his own body. He had refrained from being touched by others, even as a child. His grandmother, his mother and occasionally Mycroft had been the exception, which was also the reason why he never had a nanny.

John was the only one whose touch did not feel like an invasion of his personal space. In fact, Sherlock liked John's touch. John who gently shook him awake when he had fallen asleep in front of his microscope. John who supported him after he had sprained his ankle. John who cleaned his wounds if he had sustained minor injuries. John who slapped at him playfully when they were bantering with each other. John who had just calmed him down. His touch was never inappropriate, never something to be repelled by. His touch was something Sherlock wanted.

He had wanted it ever since he had woken up one night because a very drunk doctor had sat down heavily on his bed, announcing that he did not think he would ever want to live without Sherlock again, and that Sherlock was lovely, and that he was going to sleep in Sherlock's bed that night because of all that. Then he had stumbled into the bathroom.

Surprised, amused and slightly abashed, Sherlock had waited for him to return; when he did, he only wore a t-shirt and boxers, and climbed into the bed and under the covers as if he did so every night. He had sighed happily and had pressed himself against Sherlock; a minute later, he was fast asleep.

The detective had lain rigidly at first; not that it was unpleasant, but he did not know what to do in such a situation. He had then taken stock: the way John smelled (familiar, like himself and toothpaste, despite the underlying aroma of alcohol evaporating from his pores), the way John felt (soft, solid, warm, good), the way it felt to have someone snuggling up against him (not as oppressive as he would have anticipated), the way it felt to lie in the darkness and hearing the other's breathing (calming, strangely).

All in all, Sherlock found that he was okay with John sleeping in his bed, so he had closed his eyes. He had not been able to fall asleep for a long time, however, it was much too interesting to listen to John's occasional snores and snuffles, to count his heartbeart, to catalogue the way it felt when John moved in his sleep, when Sherlock could feel his breath ghosting over his shirt, his skin.

In the morning, John had woken up first, and had roused Sherlock with his appalled exclamations, spluttering indignantly how sorry he was and that he really, really had not meant to molest his flatmate. It took Sherlock a moment to register that their legs were twined together, and that John's head had been resting against Sherlock's neck.

His own arms were wrapped around John, in fact, and he could feel John's belly against his own as it expanded with every breath. Which felt unfamiliar and... nice. Sherlock muttered "It's fine, John," a few times while taking in all the details, but his friend was too ashamed to listen, and quickly distangled himself from the other man, then left the room.

They had not talked about it afterwards, since there simply had not been any time and then John had gone to Harry's, but Sherlock kept thinking about it, because it had been... pleasant. He had woken up once in the night, for a moment confused, but then he had remembered, and John's comfortable weight against his own body had been strangely reassuring.

So yes, if he was honest with himself, he wanted John. Or, to be more precise: he had wanted John to do that again, come to his bed at night and share his warmth, the feeling of his body against Sherlock's. He cringed; it should have been his choice, his decision to allow someone else to touch him. His and John's, maybe, but no one else's.

But now he could not shake off the memories of Anthony Davenport groping him, and it seemed that he was never going to experience any intimacy of that kind again, because the thought alone made him smell that ugly cologne again, made him feel nauseous and choked. By trying to... violate him, Davenport had taken something which he had had no right to.

He sat up, pressing the heels of his hands against his burning eyes: it hardly made any sense, he thought. John had just touched him, and it had been what Sherlock had needed.

It had felt good and right, so why had he sent John away afterwards? Why not just take the one touch he had been craving for some time now?

Sherlock felt a cold shudder when he realized why: the cause had been wrong. Sherlock did not want John to touch him out of pity. But that was what it would be from now on, if ever anything happened, would it not? Pity.

He lay back down, curling up into himself: it seemed as though the one chance of closeness to another human being had been spoiled for him, leaving him lonely and beyond repair.

John lay awake that night. Maybe he should not have gone in, he thought, should have left Sherlock to his misery, give him the impression that he had not witnessed anything at all. Yet not only the doctor in him protested at this notion; he had wanted to be close to Sherlock, there was no point in denying it.

The whole matter had come as a bit of a surprise, but John was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He had exclusively dated women during the time he had served his country, and admittedly, ever since. Unsuccessfully so, one might add. John did not want to delve into possible reasons why it had never worked out, there being too many factors to include, and one of them was called Sherlock; he had however dated both women and men while he had been at the uni. It seemed ages ago and back then, a good shag had been more important than finding a soulmate.

John shook his head: what an idiot he had been. Had they all been like that, once? And now, an eternity later, John seemed stuck. He unsure whether soulmates did exist at all, but if they did, Sherlock seemed surprisingly close to filling that vacancy.

Are you being ridiculous? John asked himself. Sherlock had told him in unmistakable terms that he did not want a relationship, probably never had one. And yet John was drawn to him like a magnet. No matter how often he frowned at Sherlock's odd behaviour, no matter how often the detective insulted him, John nearly always understood him, and he was not resentful. More frequent than that however were the times that Sherlock did something absolutely brilliant, or made John laugh, or made John feel needed and important, not just a waste of space.

They had become friends, and their friendship, though frowned upon by most of their mutual acquaintances, was solid and intense. Could a friend be a soulmate? Could a soulmate exist without an intimate relationship? John blushed, trying not to think of The Incident. He was not even sure what to call what he felt for Sherlock, but the idea of going back to a life without him being a constant in it was inconceivable.

And now that Sherlock had reached such a low point and needed him, John had managed to have his friend turning him away, just because he had acted on an impulse. He sighed miserably. He should have known better.

He was still pondering this when he finally fell asleep.

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To Be Continued

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