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holmesticeTitle: As much as you love science
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
falling_voices
Author:tocourtdisaster
Character(s)/Pairing(s): asexual!fem!Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Mycroft Holmes
Word Count: ~6,245
Rating: NC-17
Notes: This views on asexuality that are discussed in this fic are not all encompassing of the asexual community; asexuality is a spectrum, and this is just one way (out of many) an asexual relationship might evolve. The title is from a line in Earth to Aliens: What Do You Want? by Margot & the Nuclear So and So's. Many thanks togadgetorious for the beta.
Summary: It's strange and it's comfortable and for the first time in Sherlock's life, she chooses not to question it.
Sherlock Holmes is a tall woman. She is several inches taller than the national average for a woman and taller than some men. This is a fact: objective and verifiable.
John Watson is not a tall man. He is shorter than the national average for a man of his age. This is also a fact.
So, Sherlock is tall and John is not, but they're almost exactly the same height when standing barefoot, though Sherlock is certain that if John would just let her measure his height that she would come out on top, figuratively speaking; unfortunately, John has just enough male pride to deny Sherlock the hard facts she craves. He doesn't want to feel emasculated, a feeling shared by many short men, a feeling which Sherlock is certain contributed to John's decision to join the army, though Sherlock has just enough tact to keep that observation to herself.
Not that the question of height matters much since neither of them tend to go about barefoot and the slight heel on Sherlock's favorite pair of shoes is taller than the sole of John's boots, making Sherlock the taller of them by default, if not by actual fact.
The question of height really only matters when John is standing barefoot in front of Sherlock, who has just gotten home and is still wearing her jacket and shoes, and he has to steady himself with his hands on her shoulders when he leans up to kiss her.
It's a warm press of lips against lips, nothing more complicated than that, but Sherlock feels frozen in place. Her eyes are open, but John's are closed and she doesn't understand why he's kissing her. Why here? Why now?
John pulls away after a few seconds, but leaves his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. His eyes are open now and he's smiling, just slightly, and his brow is furrowed. Sherlock continues to remain impressed by the almost constant acrobatics performed by John's facial musculature.
"Why?" she asks him, knowing he'll manage to parse all the layers of meaning behind her one word. He's always been better at feelings than she is.
"I wanted to," John answers, his tone full of quiet confidence. "I thought you wanted to, too. Is that okay?"
Sherlock has never much liked kissing, the invasiveness of another person's mouth on hers, of their tongue in her mouth. The first, and only, time Sebastian had tried to get his tongue in her mouth, she had been so startled that she bit him hard enough to draw blood. He hadn't spoken to her, except in insults, for the rest of the term and then it had been radio silence for nearly a decade before his email last year.
John's kiss was nothing like Sebastian's, but John is a sexual man; he won't remain content with chaste kisses for long and Sherlock has never enjoyed a kiss that was anything more than lips pressed together. Sherlock is fond of John, though; she likes him. She's never liked anyone she's kissed before.
She thinks maybe, since she likes John, that she could learn to not only tolerate kissing John, but to like it, maybe even enjoy it eventually. The fact that's she even thinking about it is reason enough to continue on.
"Sherlock? Are you okay?"
John doesn't sound concerned, but the lines at the corners of his eyes betray him. Sherlock has been silent for too long and now he's beginning to worry that he's damaged their relationship by kissing her. Sherlock wants to reassure him, but she's never been very good at reassurances, so she does the only thing she can think of in the two seconds she allots herself to come up with an emotional response.
"Fine," she says and leans forward to kiss John again.
------
They don't talk about it.
Oh, they don't ignore it, but they don't discuss the fact that, occasionally, John will kiss Sherlock or Sherlock will kiss John because, in Sherlock's mind at least, there's nothing to discuss. It's just quick presses of lips together in the mornings before they go their separate ways for the day or John's lips against Sherlock's brow when he goes upstairs to bed at night.
It's strange and it's comfortable and for the first time in Sherlock's life, she chooses not to question it.
It's Tuesday and John's just gotten an email from a friend home on leave. Sherlock is by the bookshelves, reorganizing their books to make way for some recent acquisitions and hardly notices when John kisses the corner of her mouth and says, "I'm going to the pub, I'll be home later."
Sherlock spends the next several hours removing every book from the shelves and sorting and resorting them into stacks and then reshelving everything before repeating the cycle over again because a new way to do it has dawned on her. She ignores Mrs. Hudson when the other woman brings up a covered plate and leaves it on the desk behind Sherlock, turning on a lamp on her way back out.
She only really notices when John comes home because he trips on the top step leading into the flat. It's uncharacteristic of him, but Sherlock is certain that John has had more to drink tonight than he was planning, most likely goaded on by his friend, who also would have had too much to drink, not that Sherlock cares about him now that he's gone home with his one-night stand and John has come home to her.
John has come home to Sherlock. It's an odd thought, that Sherlock should be someone a man like John would come home to. John could have gone home with any number of men or women tonight, most notably his old army buddy, but he chose to come home, where Sherlock is.
She doesn't know what to make of it.
Sherlock shelves the book in her hands and turns to face John when he stumbles a little on his way through the doorway. She looks him over, toes to crown, and can't help the frown that comes to her face.
"Really, John? Shots?" she asks, folding her arms across her chest. "You've been out of uni for a while, in case you've forgotten."
"Gotta live a little, Sherlock," he says, practically falling into his armchair and resting his head against the back.
"You don't want to sleep there," she tells him. "You'll get a cramp."
John doesn't say anything, but he does breath out a sigh. He's not annoyed that she's trying, in her own way, to look out for him; he's annoyed with himself for being what he perceives to be a burden to her.
Sherlock shakes her head slightly. She doesn't think she'll ever understand John Watson, but that won't stop her from trying.
John doesn't fight her when she grabs his arm and hauls him to his feet; he's even marginally helpful by using his other hand to push against the arm of the chair while they're attempting to get him upright.
They end up much closer together than Sherlock had anticipated, practically toe-to-toe, and the signs of John's inebriation are blindingly obvious at this distance. She can actually smell the alcohol on his breath.
It's not a surprise when John kisses her; what's surprising is that Sherlock can taste the tequila shots on John's lips. She's no stranger to alcohol and has been known on occasion to nurse a glass of red wine or Mycroft's best scotch, but she hasn't had tequila since she was a teenager and never has she tasted it secondhand.
She opens her mouth just enough to let her tongue press against John's lips, categorizing the flavor. Definitely not top shelf, not on John's budget, but probably not the cheapest offering either, not if he and his friend were trying to celebrate still being alive. It's impossible to say for sure without further evidence.
John's groan is loud in the silence of the flat and he jerks away, muttering, "Sorry. Jesus, Sherlock, I just--that was unexpected." He's not meeting her eyes, instead looking over her shoulder towards the still half-empty bookshelves.
Sherlock cocks her head. She hadn't intended anything explicitly sexual with her actions, but she can see how they could easily be interpreted that way. She doesn't blame John for his reaction, though he clearly blames himself.
"Was it bad?" she asks, already knowing the answer, but sometimes, John needs to talk about feelings and Sherlock is pretty certain this is one of those situations.
"No, no, not at all," John says, practically tripping over his words in his rush to reassure her. Yet another thing Sherlock doesn't think she should find endearing but does. "I just didn't think that was something we did."
Sherlock considers this. John has been kissing her for weeks, and after that first kiss, he'd never pushed her for anything she hadn't already given him, his words just now implying that he would've been if not perfectly content then at least happy with things remaining the same between them.
Yet another thing about him that Sherlock will never understand.
"What if it was to become something we do?" she asks him and then he's looking her right in the eye and it makes her stomach twist up, but in a good way. "What if I wanted it to become something we do?"
John just looks at her and looks at her and Sherlock loves it, but it's more than she's used to, even from John. She shakes her head and sets her hands on John's shoulders and physically turns him and nudges him towards the stairs.
"Go to bed, John," she tells him.
John goes.
------
Sherlock almost died today and it's all Mycroft's fault.
Normally, she wouldn't have even looked twice at the blackmail case he handed her, but there've been no police cases for weeks and there's never anything interesting on the website and she'd been desperate and she owes Mycroft a hundred times over and it's sometimes easier to give in than to fight him.
Unfortunately, a simple case of blackmail soon turned into Sherlock being kidnapped which turned into her verbally eviscerating her captors which resulted in Sherlock being thrown from the back of a moving van into traffic and very narrowly avoiding being run over by a bus. Fortunately, she had already managed to get all the information she needed to assure Mycroft could handle the clean-up himself before she'd been captured. It was simple enough to slip the ropes tied around her wrists, call Mycroft, and get a cab home.
Now she's standing in front of the door, almost reluctant to go up. She knows John is home, can see that the lights are on, and she knows that he'll start to worry the moment he sees her. She knows she looks as bad as she feels: dried blood at her right temple matting her hair to her scalp, ripped scarf and slacks, and road burn on her chest, palms, and knees.
She can't stand out here forever, but forcing her legs to carry her forward is harder than she would have imagined. She's dealt with John's worry before and this will be nothing new. He'll patch her up and give her a mild painkiller and she'll sleep for a few hours and then life will go back to normal. It's practically routine by now.
But that was before they became whatever it is they've become. Sherlock isn't sure John will react in the same manner as before and that uncertainty bothers her.
By the time Sherlock manages to drag herself up the stairs (her left knee is at the very least twisted), John is standing in the door to the kitchen, hands gripping the doorframe. Neither of them say anything for a long minute and then John sighs and reaches out to loop Sherlock's arm around his shoulders, his other arm around her waist, and helps her limp to the bathroom.
He deposits her on the closed toilet seat with a muttered, "Don't move," before stepping out to get the first aid kit from the kitchen. Sherlock pulls her scarf off, wincing when it rubs against her abraded skin, and drops it on the floor. By the time John gets back, her coat and jacket have joined the scarf on the floor and Sherlock's blouse is half unbuttoned.
"Didn't I tell you not to move?" John asks. He sets down the first aid kit and bats Sherlock's hands away from her buttons and finishes removing her shirt in a fraction of the time it would have taken Sherlock. He glances at Sherlock's ripped trousers and asks, "Are your legs hurt, too?"
Sherlock just stares at him and John sighs again. He steps back far enough that he can grip Sherlock under the elbows and get her standing before turning his attention to her trousers. The sound of the zip seems to echo between them. John efficiently strips her out of her trousers and deposits her back on the toilet seat before turning his attention to her injuries.
"I thought it was a blindly obvious case of blackmail," John says after a while, disinfecting the laceration on her swollen left knee. "You said you'd have it solved by the time I got off work, not to worry, they weren't dangerous."
"It's possible I may have miscalculated," Sherlock allows, watching the top of John's head. He's crouching between her knees, his attention seemingly wholly focused on her injuries, though the fingers of his right hand are rubbing against her calf absently. It's not a sexual caress, despite John's position between her knees, but it's alluring all the same.
John shakes his head and continues to clean and bandage Sherlock's injuries. He leaves her hands for last, wrapping them gently in gauze and pressing a kiss to the center of each palm when he's done.
"I worry about you, you know," he tells her. His knees crack loudly when he pushes himself to his feet. "You're not actually invincible."
"I know," she says. She watches him cross the tiny room and grab his dressing gown off the hook on the back of the door. She wants to say she's not surprised when he wraps the flannel robe around her shoulders, but that would be a lie.
"Come on, time for bed," he says, pulling her to her feet again. If he were anyone else, she'd be fighting against his help, but he's John and she leans against him gratefully. Her bed is still unmade from this morning and she lets John wrap her up in the duvet, but snakes a hand out to grab his wrist when he moves to leave.
"Stay?" She means to make it a command, but it comes resembling a question and Sherlock hates appearing weak, but she knows John won't take advantage of it.
John shakes off her hand, but he does sit on the bed with his hip pressed against Sherlock's side. She falls asleep with his hand in her hair.
------
Lestrade finally calls with a case, an open and shut murder that's not interesting in the least, but the victim's family requested that Sherlock be involved, and so Lestrade brings the case to her.
It turns out to be even simpler than Sherlock had been expecting and she and John are back home two hours after Lestrade appeared on their doorstep and Sherlock's blood is still singing despite the disappointment and she needs something; she can't just sit here or she'll go insane.
John settles down in his chair with the newspaper he abandoned earlier, like it's all the same to him that the case was such a letdown. Sherlock plops herself in her own chair, head lolling against the leather, legs stretched out and her feet just barely touching John's.
"Bored."
"That's nice," John says, not even bothering to look up from the paper.
It's unbearable.
"John."
"Hmm?"
"Entertain me."
"Sorry, no," he says through the barrier of the newspaper. "Find you own entertainment."
John doesn't seem to realize how dangerous that statement is when it's directed at Sherlock. She'll help him realize the error of his words.
The chair creaks when Sherlock gets to her feet, but John doesn't react until Sherlock plucks the paper right out of his hands and flings it in the general direction of the couch and drops herself into John's lap, her knees wedged against his hips and her bum resting on his thighs.
"What--" Sherlock watches John's Adam's apple bob as he swallows. "What are you doing, Sherlock?"
"Finding my own entertainment," she says, leaning forward so that their lips are just barely touching. "This is far less destructive than the experiment I had planned for today. I thought you'd approve."
John's exhale is shaky and Sherlock smirks. This is too easy.
"Have you ever?" John asks, his fingertips digging bruises into Sherlock's hips. His eyes are incredibly blue this close.
"With another person, no," she answers, her hands creeping up John's untucked shirt. His skin is warmer than she'd been expecting. "But another person needn't be involved in order to have a truly satisfying orgasm."
"Oh, god," John groans, leaning forward to kiss her, but Sherlock pulls back, keeping their lips apart. She'd much rather hear John than kiss him right now. "You're killing me, Sherlock."
Sherlock nudges John's nose with her own, getting him to tip his head to the side. She presses her open mouth to his jaw, tastes his aftershave, his barely-there stubble scraping against her tongue. "Not just yet."
"Jesus," John swears, taking his hands from her body long enough to grasp her face and hold her still while he kisses her. It's brutal and overwhelming and Sherlock doesn't think she could stop kissing John right now even if the building starting falling down around them.
Sherlock grips John's waist and John's hands slip down her neck and sides to her hips and back up to her breasts and she gasps when he squeezes them. She enjoys playing with her own breasts when she's masturbating and the sensation is multiplied when it's John doing the touching, and not only because it's not one hundred percent predictable, not like her own touch.
John's hands make their way back down her body and around to grip her arse and pull her body flush with his, her hips pressed against his groin and if she'd had any doubt before that John is aroused by her, it would've been destroyed by the obvious evidence of said arousal.
"Wait, John." She pulls back only far enough to speak; she doesn't want him to misinterpret her actions to mean that she isn't as interested in their current actions as he is. "I think you should know before this goes any farther that I don’t enjoy penetration of any kind."
"How do you feel about oral sex?" John asks. He sounds winded and tightly wound, not that Sherlock can blame him. She feels the same way.
"I've never given it much thought since it's never been relevant," she says and somehow finds herself on her back in her own chair, legs splayed, and John working at getting her shoes and trousers off.
"Just say the word and I'll stop, I promise," John says once her trousers are in a heap on the floor. His fingers are wrapped around the waistband of her knickers and Sherlock realizes he's waiting for her verbal consent before he goes any farther.
It's that, more than anything else, that decides her.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" she asks, surprising herself with the huskiness of her own voice, and then John's peeling her underwear down and away and hitching her legs up over his shoulders and the first touch of his mouth makes her cry out.
John doesn't hesitate. He licks at her and hums when her knees involuntarily tighten around his ears and she's not going to last very long at all if he keeps that up. She grips at his hair with both hands, probably pulling harder than she means to, but oh.
"Oh," she gasps when she comes, her whole body shaking. Her legs slip from his shoulders and John sits up, licking his lips, his hair an absolute wreck, and Sherlock can't help herself. She grasps at his arms and pulls until he's sprawled over her and she kisses him and she can taste herself and it's strange, but not completely off-putting.
She wants to offer to return the favor, but she's never had the slightest inclination to put a penis in her mouth. Maybe she should offer to give John a hand?
"No need," John says when Sherlock reaches for him. "Turns out that going down on you makes me come in my pants like a teenager."
"That's a workable hypothesis," Sherlock allows with a smirk. "But like any hypothesis, it should be tested before we take it as fact."
"Wouldn't want to disappoint the scientific method," John says, pressing his lips to hers. It's an oddly chaste gesture, considering John is lying on top of Sherlock, who is naked from the waist down. "Give me an hour and we'll see about starting that testing, shall we?"
------
John works every Thursday, a guaranteed full shift at the surgery no matter how erratic the rest of his hours are. Most weeks, Sherlock takes advantage of the empty flat to do the experiments that John would object to the most, the ones that involve human remains and/or noxious chemicals, all without having to deal with John's numerous and loud objections.
This week, however, almost as soon as the front door shuts behind John, the door buzzer is going off. Sherlock knows if she ignores it long enough, Mrs. Hudson will answer and so she proceeds to do just that.
She's just pulled the cirrhotic liver from the fridge when she hears her brother's distinctive tread on the stairs, despite having not heard the front door open. Not that that's particularly surprising where Mycroft is concerned.
"Go away," she says, not even bothering to look away from the liver on the table in front of her. "You're not welcome."
"Such poor manners, Sherlock," Mycroft tuts, ignoring her and seating himself on the other side of the table. "I've just come by for a chat. There's no need to be rude."
"If this was 'just a chat' you wouldn't have waited until John left for work," Sherlock says, selecting a scalpel from the tray next to the liver. She's determined to not give Mycroft any more attention than she can. "What do you want?"
"I came to inquire after you. It's been such a long time since we've spoken, Sherlock," he says and Sherlock snorts. "I worry about you."
She remembers John saying the same thing to her months ago, and she'd be more inclined to believe John was lying then than to believe that Mycroft is being honest now. She doesn't bother to say that, though, just lets the silence draw out between them. Mycroft will eventually tire of it, say what he came to say, and then leave. Sherlock just has to out-wait him.
It's nearly ten minutes later (much sooner than Sherlock had been expecting; maybe Mycroft really is worried) that Mycroft clears his throat and says, "I wonder if you're being as cautious as you can be where Doctor Watson is concerned."
"What is that supposed to mean?" she asks, drawn in despite herself. She doesn't want Mycroft talking about John.
"If you will recall, all of your previous attempts at relationships have failed. You are not like other women, Sherlock." Mycroft pauses for a moment and Sherlock pointedly doesn't look up from the liver. "I wouldn't want your inability to reciprocate to damage your friendship with the good doctor."
"My sex life is none of your business," Sherlock spits, finally deigning to look at her brother. He looks much as he always does, though it does appear as if he's gained weight since the last time she saw him. "How's the diet, by the way?"
"Fine," Mycroft answers evenly, clearly trying not to snap at her. She almost wishes he would so she'd have an excuse to shout him out of the building. "And it is my business when your condition threatens the only positive non-familial relationship you've been able to maintain since childhood."
"It's not a 'condition,'" Sherlock says. "It's my sexuality, not some disease to be diagnosed and treated." It's a well-worn argument and she's not in the mood to deal with Mycroft's misunderstanding of alternate sexualities right now. "Unless you have something original to say, cease speaking and leave."
"John loves you," Mycroft says. Sherlock's stomach twists and she looks back at the liver so she can avoid seeing the truth in Mycroft's eyes: that he's lying about John for whatever reason to manipulate her. Or, even worse, that he's being truthful about John and she had to hear about it from her bastard of a brother. "If you continue as you are, you will hurt him and he will leave. It's best for all involved parties for you to end your sexual relationship with him now, while the possibility of friendship remains."
"Leave. Now," Sherlock says. She's angry enough at Mycroft's presumption that she wouldn't rule out the possibility of physical violence if he's here much longer.
She sees him stand out of the corner of her eye, but she can't look at him right now. He moves to leave, but pauses by her shoulder and if he touches her now, she won't be held accountable for her actions.
He doesn't touch her, but he does say, "Think about what I said, Sherlock. You know how to reach me." She doesn't watch him leave, but she does hear the front door open and then shut and she knows he did it loudly enough for her benefit and that makes her hate him all the more.
John doesn't love her. Why would Mycroft say such a terrible thing? John is infatuated with her, with the idea of them together, but that's not love. John enjoys kissing Sherlock and making her come and has never pushed her to return the favor, though she frequently does and has actually gotten quite good at being able to bring John off with her hands, but that's hormones, not love. John's not in love with her. He can't be.
Can he?
Goddammit, Mycroft.
------
Sherlock can't stop thinking about what Mycroft said about John and John is smart enough to see that she's distracted. There aren't any cases right now, so she can't blame her constantly churning mind and accidentally ignoring John on the need to process evidence, even though that's exactly what she's doing, just not about a case. She's thinking about everything John's ever said to her or done around her, with specific emphasis on the last several months.
She's lying on the couch, hands steepled beneath her chin, comparing John's actions towards her with his actions towards Sarah, the only other woman Sherlock personally knows who has been in a sexual relationship with John. Sherlock crashed their first date and her investigation got them both abducted, but John came home that night with her, not Sarah. Their sexual relationship didn't last long, but they're still friends, still see each other regularly; Sherlock suddenly wishes she'd spent more time observing Sarah so she could better understand John.
"Hey," John says, startling Sherlock out of her thoughts when he lays his hand on her shoulder. "You haven't eaten properly in days. Let's get some dinner, yeah?"
And Sherlock could brush John off, say something sarcastic and biting, but her stomach is hollow with hunger and she misses John, which is ridiculous since they live together and see each other more than any other person they know.
"Fine," she says, pushing herself upright and doing her best to ignore how her heart seems to stutter when John smiles at her. She lets him help her into her coat (has he ever helped Sarah into her coat?) and guide her down the steps and onto the sidewalk with a hand on her back.
"What do you fancy?" he asks once they're outside, his breath misting in the chill air.
You, Sherlock thinks and, god, even if John doesn't love her, she's fairly certain she loves him. She wants to tell him, but she needs more evidence; she won't let her hormones risk everything if she's not certain that her feelings are reciprocated.
"You're the one who dragged me out here, so I believe it's your responsibility to choose," she says instead of the thousand and one thoughts running through her head. It's exhausting, this relationship thing.
"There's a new Vietnamese place that opened up a few streets over that I've been wanting to try," he says, tucking Sherlock's hand into the crook of his elbow before shoving his hands in his pockets.
"That's fine," she says. Her heart is pounding at the casual intimacy of her arm linked with his. It's something children and normal couples do, but it makes Sherlock feel exposed, like her feelings are on display for the whole world to see.
"Are you okay, Sherlock?" John asks after a few minutes of silence between them. It's not true silence, not in London, but it's as quiet as it can be between them. "You've had your game face on all week and I happen to know you don't have anything on right now, so what's going on?"
"Mycroft came by last Thursday," she tells him, hoping that he'll be satisfied with just a few unimportant bits of information, but knowing he won't be. It's one of his most endearing and frustrating qualities.
"What did he say?" John asks and he sounds curious and slightly upset and like he'd be willing to take his displeasure at Sherlock's discomfort out of Mycroft's hide. It makes Sherlock flush with pleasure.
"Nothing important," she says, knowing even as she's speaking that John will never take the lie at face value.
"You wouldn't have spent the last four days brooding if it was nothing important," John says, stopping them in the middle of the sidewalk and turning to face Sherlock directly. "What did he say to you?"
"He said you love me and reminded me that I will ruin you, just like I've ruined everyone else, and I've spent the last four days trying to figure out if he was lying and how to fix it if he wasn't," she blurts out before she can stop herself, her internal filters apparently destroyed by half a week of emotional crisis.
"Sherlock," John says, his eyes wide and surprised. He reaches for her, but she jerks away before his even comes close. If he touches her right now, she doesn't know what she'd do and she can't abide couples who make a scene in public.
Is this the person she's become? A woman who's worried about causing a scene with her boyfriend in public? Is John even her boyfriend? Such a juvenile term, but she can't think of one better suited to their relationship of late.
"I'm sorry," she tells him, looking over his shoulder so she doesn't have to meet his eyes. "I need to go." She turns and walks away and ignores John calling her name. She needs to think and she can't do that with John around because he takes up all the space in her brain and she hates that that doesn't bother her as much as she thinks it should.
John stops calling after her long before she's out of earshot and Sherlock does her best to ignore how her stomach clenches when her name stops echoing down the street.
------
It's four in the morning when Sherlock makes it back to the flat. She'd (very briefly) entertained the idea of calling Mycroft and kipping in his guest room for the night, but she couldn't abide the thought of him gloating over his victory and so she spent the night wandering the streets and ducking into all-night cafes for coffee when her feet would start to drag.
The windows are dark and Sherlock's hands are shaking due to the caffeine crash caused by too many coffees in too short a period and she wants nothing more right now than to fall into her bed and sleep for two days straight.
She's as careful with the door as she can be, lifting up on the handle slightly to ease the load on the squeaky hinges. She leaves her coat hanging over the banister and skips over creaking sixth step and means to go through the kitchen door and avoid the sitting room altogether on her way to bed, but she can hear John's heavy breathing coming from the other room.
He's slumped over on the couch, most likely fell asleep trying to wait up for Sherlock to come home and it's stupid and stupidly endearing and Sherlock can't stop herself from smiling just a bit.
She kneels next to the couch and gently shakes his shoulder. "John, come on, wake up for just a minute. You'll be much more comfortable in bed."
"Sherlock?" He blinks sleepily and pushes himself upright and scrubs a hand over his face. "What time is it?"
"Just after four."
"Have you been out all night?" he asks and it's such an obvious question that Sherlock doesn't bother to answer. "Right, yeah, stupid question."
"Why were you waiting up for me?" she asks her own stupidly obvious question, but this is probably one of those 'talking about feelings' moments that John is continually trying to get her recognize.
"Because I love you and I was worried about you," John answers. He reaches out to grab her arms when she moves to stand and says, "Please don't freak out and leave again." He uses his grip on her to maneuver her onto the couch next to him and he says again, "I love you and I think you love me and I know this is all new to you, but you don't have to run away. I'm not going anywhere."
"You will. Your desire for a normal relationship will eventually outweigh your desire for me and then you'll leave. Isn't it better to end it now?"
"Is that what Mycroft said to you?" And now John's angry and Sherlock is the one holding him in place. "What the hell does Mycroft know? I love you, Sherlock, and yes, you're not always easiest person to love, but I'm not just going to give up on you because your brother says I should."
"I can't give you what you want out of a relationship," she says. "I'll never give you children and I'll never take your name and we'll never move into a house in the country."
"Who says those are the things I want?" John asks. "I want you. Everything else is negotiable."
"And sex? Is that negotiable?" Sherlock asks. "I'm barely interested in sex at all and almost never interested in involving another person, even if that person is you. We'll never have intercourse and I'll never get you off with anything but my hands. The only thing negotiable about sex with me is whether you're willing to live your life not having it."
John is silent for a long moment and Sherlock is certain she's ruined everything and is already beginning to plan her escape from Baker Street when John raises his hand and presses it oh-so-gently against her cheek.
"I will accept whatever part of you you're willing to share with me," he tells her gently. "Even if that means I end up spending the rest of my life wanking myself off because that's not something you're comfortable doing."
It's not often that Sherlock is struck dumb, but John seems to be able to render her speechless with alarming regularity and very little effort expended. It's almost comforting, the fact that John is the only one capable of doing that.
"We’ll deal with issues as they arise, but here's no need to call it quits just because we're scared," he tells her gently. "We'll be okay, I promise."
Sherlock nods, not yet trusting herself to speak, and leans forward until her forehead is pressed against the side of John's neck and John's hand has slipped around to rest warmly against the back of her head. "I'm tired, John."
"I know."
After a moment, John stands and pulls Sherlock up with him. She leans against him and follows him through the kitchen and into her bedroom. She strips out of her clothes and leaves them in a pile on the floor and crawls into bed in nothing but her underwear. John follows suit and it feels like the most intimate thing they've done, settling into bed together to sleep. Sherlock thinks she could get used to it, to hearing John's heartbeat, strong and steady, underneath her ear lulling her to sleep.
"It's quite possible that I love you," she murmurs once they're settled and John's breathing has settled into the deep and even cadence that indicates sleep.
Maybe one day, she might be able to say it to John's face, maybe even without the qualifier, but for now, this will do.
end
Recipient:
falling_voicesAuthor:
tocourtdisasterCharacter(s)/Pairing(s): asexual!fem!Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Mycroft Holmes
Word Count: ~6,245
Rating: NC-17
Notes: This views on asexuality that are discussed in this fic are not all encompassing of the asexual community; asexuality is a spectrum, and this is just one way (out of many) an asexual relationship might evolve. The title is from a line in Earth to Aliens: What Do You Want? by Margot & the Nuclear So and So's. Many thanks to
gadgetorious for the beta. Summary: It's strange and it's comfortable and for the first time in Sherlock's life, she chooses not to question it.
Sherlock Holmes is a tall woman. She is several inches taller than the national average for a woman and taller than some men. This is a fact: objective and verifiable.
John Watson is not a tall man. He is shorter than the national average for a man of his age. This is also a fact.
So, Sherlock is tall and John is not, but they're almost exactly the same height when standing barefoot, though Sherlock is certain that if John would just let her measure his height that she would come out on top, figuratively speaking; unfortunately, John has just enough male pride to deny Sherlock the hard facts she craves. He doesn't want to feel emasculated, a feeling shared by many short men, a feeling which Sherlock is certain contributed to John's decision to join the army, though Sherlock has just enough tact to keep that observation to herself.
Not that the question of height matters much since neither of them tend to go about barefoot and the slight heel on Sherlock's favorite pair of shoes is taller than the sole of John's boots, making Sherlock the taller of them by default, if not by actual fact.
The question of height really only matters when John is standing barefoot in front of Sherlock, who has just gotten home and is still wearing her jacket and shoes, and he has to steady himself with his hands on her shoulders when he leans up to kiss her.
It's a warm press of lips against lips, nothing more complicated than that, but Sherlock feels frozen in place. Her eyes are open, but John's are closed and she doesn't understand why he's kissing her. Why here? Why now?
John pulls away after a few seconds, but leaves his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. His eyes are open now and he's smiling, just slightly, and his brow is furrowed. Sherlock continues to remain impressed by the almost constant acrobatics performed by John's facial musculature.
"Why?" she asks him, knowing he'll manage to parse all the layers of meaning behind her one word. He's always been better at feelings than she is.
"I wanted to," John answers, his tone full of quiet confidence. "I thought you wanted to, too. Is that okay?"
Sherlock has never much liked kissing, the invasiveness of another person's mouth on hers, of their tongue in her mouth. The first, and only, time Sebastian had tried to get his tongue in her mouth, she had been so startled that she bit him hard enough to draw blood. He hadn't spoken to her, except in insults, for the rest of the term and then it had been radio silence for nearly a decade before his email last year.
John's kiss was nothing like Sebastian's, but John is a sexual man; he won't remain content with chaste kisses for long and Sherlock has never enjoyed a kiss that was anything more than lips pressed together. Sherlock is fond of John, though; she likes him. She's never liked anyone she's kissed before.
She thinks maybe, since she likes John, that she could learn to not only tolerate kissing John, but to like it, maybe even enjoy it eventually. The fact that's she even thinking about it is reason enough to continue on.
"Sherlock? Are you okay?"
John doesn't sound concerned, but the lines at the corners of his eyes betray him. Sherlock has been silent for too long and now he's beginning to worry that he's damaged their relationship by kissing her. Sherlock wants to reassure him, but she's never been very good at reassurances, so she does the only thing she can think of in the two seconds she allots herself to come up with an emotional response.
"Fine," she says and leans forward to kiss John again.
They don't talk about it.
Oh, they don't ignore it, but they don't discuss the fact that, occasionally, John will kiss Sherlock or Sherlock will kiss John because, in Sherlock's mind at least, there's nothing to discuss. It's just quick presses of lips together in the mornings before they go their separate ways for the day or John's lips against Sherlock's brow when he goes upstairs to bed at night.
It's strange and it's comfortable and for the first time in Sherlock's life, she chooses not to question it.
It's Tuesday and John's just gotten an email from a friend home on leave. Sherlock is by the bookshelves, reorganizing their books to make way for some recent acquisitions and hardly notices when John kisses the corner of her mouth and says, "I'm going to the pub, I'll be home later."
Sherlock spends the next several hours removing every book from the shelves and sorting and resorting them into stacks and then reshelving everything before repeating the cycle over again because a new way to do it has dawned on her. She ignores Mrs. Hudson when the other woman brings up a covered plate and leaves it on the desk behind Sherlock, turning on a lamp on her way back out.
She only really notices when John comes home because he trips on the top step leading into the flat. It's uncharacteristic of him, but Sherlock is certain that John has had more to drink tonight than he was planning, most likely goaded on by his friend, who also would have had too much to drink, not that Sherlock cares about him now that he's gone home with his one-night stand and John has come home to her.
John has come home to Sherlock. It's an odd thought, that Sherlock should be someone a man like John would come home to. John could have gone home with any number of men or women tonight, most notably his old army buddy, but he chose to come home, where Sherlock is.
She doesn't know what to make of it.
Sherlock shelves the book in her hands and turns to face John when he stumbles a little on his way through the doorway. She looks him over, toes to crown, and can't help the frown that comes to her face.
"Really, John? Shots?" she asks, folding her arms across her chest. "You've been out of uni for a while, in case you've forgotten."
"Gotta live a little, Sherlock," he says, practically falling into his armchair and resting his head against the back.
"You don't want to sleep there," she tells him. "You'll get a cramp."
John doesn't say anything, but he does breath out a sigh. He's not annoyed that she's trying, in her own way, to look out for him; he's annoyed with himself for being what he perceives to be a burden to her.
Sherlock shakes her head slightly. She doesn't think she'll ever understand John Watson, but that won't stop her from trying.
John doesn't fight her when she grabs his arm and hauls him to his feet; he's even marginally helpful by using his other hand to push against the arm of the chair while they're attempting to get him upright.
They end up much closer together than Sherlock had anticipated, practically toe-to-toe, and the signs of John's inebriation are blindingly obvious at this distance. She can actually smell the alcohol on his breath.
It's not a surprise when John kisses her; what's surprising is that Sherlock can taste the tequila shots on John's lips. She's no stranger to alcohol and has been known on occasion to nurse a glass of red wine or Mycroft's best scotch, but she hasn't had tequila since she was a teenager and never has she tasted it secondhand.
She opens her mouth just enough to let her tongue press against John's lips, categorizing the flavor. Definitely not top shelf, not on John's budget, but probably not the cheapest offering either, not if he and his friend were trying to celebrate still being alive. It's impossible to say for sure without further evidence.
John's groan is loud in the silence of the flat and he jerks away, muttering, "Sorry. Jesus, Sherlock, I just--that was unexpected." He's not meeting her eyes, instead looking over her shoulder towards the still half-empty bookshelves.
Sherlock cocks her head. She hadn't intended anything explicitly sexual with her actions, but she can see how they could easily be interpreted that way. She doesn't blame John for his reaction, though he clearly blames himself.
"Was it bad?" she asks, already knowing the answer, but sometimes, John needs to talk about feelings and Sherlock is pretty certain this is one of those situations.
"No, no, not at all," John says, practically tripping over his words in his rush to reassure her. Yet another thing Sherlock doesn't think she should find endearing but does. "I just didn't think that was something we did."
Sherlock considers this. John has been kissing her for weeks, and after that first kiss, he'd never pushed her for anything she hadn't already given him, his words just now implying that he would've been if not perfectly content then at least happy with things remaining the same between them.
Yet another thing about him that Sherlock will never understand.
"What if it was to become something we do?" she asks him and then he's looking her right in the eye and it makes her stomach twist up, but in a good way. "What if I wanted it to become something we do?"
John just looks at her and looks at her and Sherlock loves it, but it's more than she's used to, even from John. She shakes her head and sets her hands on John's shoulders and physically turns him and nudges him towards the stairs.
"Go to bed, John," she tells him.
John goes.
Sherlock almost died today and it's all Mycroft's fault.
Normally, she wouldn't have even looked twice at the blackmail case he handed her, but there've been no police cases for weeks and there's never anything interesting on the website and she'd been desperate and she owes Mycroft a hundred times over and it's sometimes easier to give in than to fight him.
Unfortunately, a simple case of blackmail soon turned into Sherlock being kidnapped which turned into her verbally eviscerating her captors which resulted in Sherlock being thrown from the back of a moving van into traffic and very narrowly avoiding being run over by a bus. Fortunately, she had already managed to get all the information she needed to assure Mycroft could handle the clean-up himself before she'd been captured. It was simple enough to slip the ropes tied around her wrists, call Mycroft, and get a cab home.
Now she's standing in front of the door, almost reluctant to go up. She knows John is home, can see that the lights are on, and she knows that he'll start to worry the moment he sees her. She knows she looks as bad as she feels: dried blood at her right temple matting her hair to her scalp, ripped scarf and slacks, and road burn on her chest, palms, and knees.
She can't stand out here forever, but forcing her legs to carry her forward is harder than she would have imagined. She's dealt with John's worry before and this will be nothing new. He'll patch her up and give her a mild painkiller and she'll sleep for a few hours and then life will go back to normal. It's practically routine by now.
But that was before they became whatever it is they've become. Sherlock isn't sure John will react in the same manner as before and that uncertainty bothers her.
By the time Sherlock manages to drag herself up the stairs (her left knee is at the very least twisted), John is standing in the door to the kitchen, hands gripping the doorframe. Neither of them say anything for a long minute and then John sighs and reaches out to loop Sherlock's arm around his shoulders, his other arm around her waist, and helps her limp to the bathroom.
He deposits her on the closed toilet seat with a muttered, "Don't move," before stepping out to get the first aid kit from the kitchen. Sherlock pulls her scarf off, wincing when it rubs against her abraded skin, and drops it on the floor. By the time John gets back, her coat and jacket have joined the scarf on the floor and Sherlock's blouse is half unbuttoned.
"Didn't I tell you not to move?" John asks. He sets down the first aid kit and bats Sherlock's hands away from her buttons and finishes removing her shirt in a fraction of the time it would have taken Sherlock. He glances at Sherlock's ripped trousers and asks, "Are your legs hurt, too?"
Sherlock just stares at him and John sighs again. He steps back far enough that he can grip Sherlock under the elbows and get her standing before turning his attention to her trousers. The sound of the zip seems to echo between them. John efficiently strips her out of her trousers and deposits her back on the toilet seat before turning his attention to her injuries.
"I thought it was a blindly obvious case of blackmail," John says after a while, disinfecting the laceration on her swollen left knee. "You said you'd have it solved by the time I got off work, not to worry, they weren't dangerous."
"It's possible I may have miscalculated," Sherlock allows, watching the top of John's head. He's crouching between her knees, his attention seemingly wholly focused on her injuries, though the fingers of his right hand are rubbing against her calf absently. It's not a sexual caress, despite John's position between her knees, but it's alluring all the same.
John shakes his head and continues to clean and bandage Sherlock's injuries. He leaves her hands for last, wrapping them gently in gauze and pressing a kiss to the center of each palm when he's done.
"I worry about you, you know," he tells her. His knees crack loudly when he pushes himself to his feet. "You're not actually invincible."
"I know," she says. She watches him cross the tiny room and grab his dressing gown off the hook on the back of the door. She wants to say she's not surprised when he wraps the flannel robe around her shoulders, but that would be a lie.
"Come on, time for bed," he says, pulling her to her feet again. If he were anyone else, she'd be fighting against his help, but he's John and she leans against him gratefully. Her bed is still unmade from this morning and she lets John wrap her up in the duvet, but snakes a hand out to grab his wrist when he moves to leave.
"Stay?" She means to make it a command, but it comes resembling a question and Sherlock hates appearing weak, but she knows John won't take advantage of it.
John shakes off her hand, but he does sit on the bed with his hip pressed against Sherlock's side. She falls asleep with his hand in her hair.
Lestrade finally calls with a case, an open and shut murder that's not interesting in the least, but the victim's family requested that Sherlock be involved, and so Lestrade brings the case to her.
It turns out to be even simpler than Sherlock had been expecting and she and John are back home two hours after Lestrade appeared on their doorstep and Sherlock's blood is still singing despite the disappointment and she needs something; she can't just sit here or she'll go insane.
John settles down in his chair with the newspaper he abandoned earlier, like it's all the same to him that the case was such a letdown. Sherlock plops herself in her own chair, head lolling against the leather, legs stretched out and her feet just barely touching John's.
"Bored."
"That's nice," John says, not even bothering to look up from the paper.
It's unbearable.
"John."
"Hmm?"
"Entertain me."
"Sorry, no," he says through the barrier of the newspaper. "Find you own entertainment."
John doesn't seem to realize how dangerous that statement is when it's directed at Sherlock. She'll help him realize the error of his words.
The chair creaks when Sherlock gets to her feet, but John doesn't react until Sherlock plucks the paper right out of his hands and flings it in the general direction of the couch and drops herself into John's lap, her knees wedged against his hips and her bum resting on his thighs.
"What--" Sherlock watches John's Adam's apple bob as he swallows. "What are you doing, Sherlock?"
"Finding my own entertainment," she says, leaning forward so that their lips are just barely touching. "This is far less destructive than the experiment I had planned for today. I thought you'd approve."
John's exhale is shaky and Sherlock smirks. This is too easy.
"Have you ever?" John asks, his fingertips digging bruises into Sherlock's hips. His eyes are incredibly blue this close.
"With another person, no," she answers, her hands creeping up John's untucked shirt. His skin is warmer than she'd been expecting. "But another person needn't be involved in order to have a truly satisfying orgasm."
"Oh, god," John groans, leaning forward to kiss her, but Sherlock pulls back, keeping their lips apart. She'd much rather hear John than kiss him right now. "You're killing me, Sherlock."
Sherlock nudges John's nose with her own, getting him to tip his head to the side. She presses her open mouth to his jaw, tastes his aftershave, his barely-there stubble scraping against her tongue. "Not just yet."
"Jesus," John swears, taking his hands from her body long enough to grasp her face and hold her still while he kisses her. It's brutal and overwhelming and Sherlock doesn't think she could stop kissing John right now even if the building starting falling down around them.
Sherlock grips John's waist and John's hands slip down her neck and sides to her hips and back up to her breasts and she gasps when he squeezes them. She enjoys playing with her own breasts when she's masturbating and the sensation is multiplied when it's John doing the touching, and not only because it's not one hundred percent predictable, not like her own touch.
John's hands make their way back down her body and around to grip her arse and pull her body flush with his, her hips pressed against his groin and if she'd had any doubt before that John is aroused by her, it would've been destroyed by the obvious evidence of said arousal.
"Wait, John." She pulls back only far enough to speak; she doesn't want him to misinterpret her actions to mean that she isn't as interested in their current actions as he is. "I think you should know before this goes any farther that I don’t enjoy penetration of any kind."
"How do you feel about oral sex?" John asks. He sounds winded and tightly wound, not that Sherlock can blame him. She feels the same way.
"I've never given it much thought since it's never been relevant," she says and somehow finds herself on her back in her own chair, legs splayed, and John working at getting her shoes and trousers off.
"Just say the word and I'll stop, I promise," John says once her trousers are in a heap on the floor. His fingers are wrapped around the waistband of her knickers and Sherlock realizes he's waiting for her verbal consent before he goes any farther.
It's that, more than anything else, that decides her.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" she asks, surprising herself with the huskiness of her own voice, and then John's peeling her underwear down and away and hitching her legs up over his shoulders and the first touch of his mouth makes her cry out.
John doesn't hesitate. He licks at her and hums when her knees involuntarily tighten around his ears and she's not going to last very long at all if he keeps that up. She grips at his hair with both hands, probably pulling harder than she means to, but oh.
"Oh," she gasps when she comes, her whole body shaking. Her legs slip from his shoulders and John sits up, licking his lips, his hair an absolute wreck, and Sherlock can't help herself. She grasps at his arms and pulls until he's sprawled over her and she kisses him and she can taste herself and it's strange, but not completely off-putting.
She wants to offer to return the favor, but she's never had the slightest inclination to put a penis in her mouth. Maybe she should offer to give John a hand?
"No need," John says when Sherlock reaches for him. "Turns out that going down on you makes me come in my pants like a teenager."
"That's a workable hypothesis," Sherlock allows with a smirk. "But like any hypothesis, it should be tested before we take it as fact."
"Wouldn't want to disappoint the scientific method," John says, pressing his lips to hers. It's an oddly chaste gesture, considering John is lying on top of Sherlock, who is naked from the waist down. "Give me an hour and we'll see about starting that testing, shall we?"
John works every Thursday, a guaranteed full shift at the surgery no matter how erratic the rest of his hours are. Most weeks, Sherlock takes advantage of the empty flat to do the experiments that John would object to the most, the ones that involve human remains and/or noxious chemicals, all without having to deal with John's numerous and loud objections.
This week, however, almost as soon as the front door shuts behind John, the door buzzer is going off. Sherlock knows if she ignores it long enough, Mrs. Hudson will answer and so she proceeds to do just that.
She's just pulled the cirrhotic liver from the fridge when she hears her brother's distinctive tread on the stairs, despite having not heard the front door open. Not that that's particularly surprising where Mycroft is concerned.
"Go away," she says, not even bothering to look away from the liver on the table in front of her. "You're not welcome."
"Such poor manners, Sherlock," Mycroft tuts, ignoring her and seating himself on the other side of the table. "I've just come by for a chat. There's no need to be rude."
"If this was 'just a chat' you wouldn't have waited until John left for work," Sherlock says, selecting a scalpel from the tray next to the liver. She's determined to not give Mycroft any more attention than she can. "What do you want?"
"I came to inquire after you. It's been such a long time since we've spoken, Sherlock," he says and Sherlock snorts. "I worry about you."
She remembers John saying the same thing to her months ago, and she'd be more inclined to believe John was lying then than to believe that Mycroft is being honest now. She doesn't bother to say that, though, just lets the silence draw out between them. Mycroft will eventually tire of it, say what he came to say, and then leave. Sherlock just has to out-wait him.
It's nearly ten minutes later (much sooner than Sherlock had been expecting; maybe Mycroft really is worried) that Mycroft clears his throat and says, "I wonder if you're being as cautious as you can be where Doctor Watson is concerned."
"What is that supposed to mean?" she asks, drawn in despite herself. She doesn't want Mycroft talking about John.
"If you will recall, all of your previous attempts at relationships have failed. You are not like other women, Sherlock." Mycroft pauses for a moment and Sherlock pointedly doesn't look up from the liver. "I wouldn't want your inability to reciprocate to damage your friendship with the good doctor."
"My sex life is none of your business," Sherlock spits, finally deigning to look at her brother. He looks much as he always does, though it does appear as if he's gained weight since the last time she saw him. "How's the diet, by the way?"
"Fine," Mycroft answers evenly, clearly trying not to snap at her. She almost wishes he would so she'd have an excuse to shout him out of the building. "And it is my business when your condition threatens the only positive non-familial relationship you've been able to maintain since childhood."
"It's not a 'condition,'" Sherlock says. "It's my sexuality, not some disease to be diagnosed and treated." It's a well-worn argument and she's not in the mood to deal with Mycroft's misunderstanding of alternate sexualities right now. "Unless you have something original to say, cease speaking and leave."
"John loves you," Mycroft says. Sherlock's stomach twists and she looks back at the liver so she can avoid seeing the truth in Mycroft's eyes: that he's lying about John for whatever reason to manipulate her. Or, even worse, that he's being truthful about John and she had to hear about it from her bastard of a brother. "If you continue as you are, you will hurt him and he will leave. It's best for all involved parties for you to end your sexual relationship with him now, while the possibility of friendship remains."
"Leave. Now," Sherlock says. She's angry enough at Mycroft's presumption that she wouldn't rule out the possibility of physical violence if he's here much longer.
She sees him stand out of the corner of her eye, but she can't look at him right now. He moves to leave, but pauses by her shoulder and if he touches her now, she won't be held accountable for her actions.
He doesn't touch her, but he does say, "Think about what I said, Sherlock. You know how to reach me." She doesn't watch him leave, but she does hear the front door open and then shut and she knows he did it loudly enough for her benefit and that makes her hate him all the more.
John doesn't love her. Why would Mycroft say such a terrible thing? John is infatuated with her, with the idea of them together, but that's not love. John enjoys kissing Sherlock and making her come and has never pushed her to return the favor, though she frequently does and has actually gotten quite good at being able to bring John off with her hands, but that's hormones, not love. John's not in love with her. He can't be.
Can he?
Goddammit, Mycroft.
Sherlock can't stop thinking about what Mycroft said about John and John is smart enough to see that she's distracted. There aren't any cases right now, so she can't blame her constantly churning mind and accidentally ignoring John on the need to process evidence, even though that's exactly what she's doing, just not about a case. She's thinking about everything John's ever said to her or done around her, with specific emphasis on the last several months.
She's lying on the couch, hands steepled beneath her chin, comparing John's actions towards her with his actions towards Sarah, the only other woman Sherlock personally knows who has been in a sexual relationship with John. Sherlock crashed their first date and her investigation got them both abducted, but John came home that night with her, not Sarah. Their sexual relationship didn't last long, but they're still friends, still see each other regularly; Sherlock suddenly wishes she'd spent more time observing Sarah so she could better understand John.
"Hey," John says, startling Sherlock out of her thoughts when he lays his hand on her shoulder. "You haven't eaten properly in days. Let's get some dinner, yeah?"
And Sherlock could brush John off, say something sarcastic and biting, but her stomach is hollow with hunger and she misses John, which is ridiculous since they live together and see each other more than any other person they know.
"Fine," she says, pushing herself upright and doing her best to ignore how her heart seems to stutter when John smiles at her. She lets him help her into her coat (has he ever helped Sarah into her coat?) and guide her down the steps and onto the sidewalk with a hand on her back.
"What do you fancy?" he asks once they're outside, his breath misting in the chill air.
You, Sherlock thinks and, god, even if John doesn't love her, she's fairly certain she loves him. She wants to tell him, but she needs more evidence; she won't let her hormones risk everything if she's not certain that her feelings are reciprocated.
"You're the one who dragged me out here, so I believe it's your responsibility to choose," she says instead of the thousand and one thoughts running through her head. It's exhausting, this relationship thing.
"There's a new Vietnamese place that opened up a few streets over that I've been wanting to try," he says, tucking Sherlock's hand into the crook of his elbow before shoving his hands in his pockets.
"That's fine," she says. Her heart is pounding at the casual intimacy of her arm linked with his. It's something children and normal couples do, but it makes Sherlock feel exposed, like her feelings are on display for the whole world to see.
"Are you okay, Sherlock?" John asks after a few minutes of silence between them. It's not true silence, not in London, but it's as quiet as it can be between them. "You've had your game face on all week and I happen to know you don't have anything on right now, so what's going on?"
"Mycroft came by last Thursday," she tells him, hoping that he'll be satisfied with just a few unimportant bits of information, but knowing he won't be. It's one of his most endearing and frustrating qualities.
"What did he say?" John asks and he sounds curious and slightly upset and like he'd be willing to take his displeasure at Sherlock's discomfort out of Mycroft's hide. It makes Sherlock flush with pleasure.
"Nothing important," she says, knowing even as she's speaking that John will never take the lie at face value.
"You wouldn't have spent the last four days brooding if it was nothing important," John says, stopping them in the middle of the sidewalk and turning to face Sherlock directly. "What did he say to you?"
"He said you love me and reminded me that I will ruin you, just like I've ruined everyone else, and I've spent the last four days trying to figure out if he was lying and how to fix it if he wasn't," she blurts out before she can stop herself, her internal filters apparently destroyed by half a week of emotional crisis.
"Sherlock," John says, his eyes wide and surprised. He reaches for her, but she jerks away before his even comes close. If he touches her right now, she doesn't know what she'd do and she can't abide couples who make a scene in public.
Is this the person she's become? A woman who's worried about causing a scene with her boyfriend in public? Is John even her boyfriend? Such a juvenile term, but she can't think of one better suited to their relationship of late.
"I'm sorry," she tells him, looking over his shoulder so she doesn't have to meet his eyes. "I need to go." She turns and walks away and ignores John calling her name. She needs to think and she can't do that with John around because he takes up all the space in her brain and she hates that that doesn't bother her as much as she thinks it should.
John stops calling after her long before she's out of earshot and Sherlock does her best to ignore how her stomach clenches when her name stops echoing down the street.
It's four in the morning when Sherlock makes it back to the flat. She'd (very briefly) entertained the idea of calling Mycroft and kipping in his guest room for the night, but she couldn't abide the thought of him gloating over his victory and so she spent the night wandering the streets and ducking into all-night cafes for coffee when her feet would start to drag.
The windows are dark and Sherlock's hands are shaking due to the caffeine crash caused by too many coffees in too short a period and she wants nothing more right now than to fall into her bed and sleep for two days straight.
She's as careful with the door as she can be, lifting up on the handle slightly to ease the load on the squeaky hinges. She leaves her coat hanging over the banister and skips over creaking sixth step and means to go through the kitchen door and avoid the sitting room altogether on her way to bed, but she can hear John's heavy breathing coming from the other room.
He's slumped over on the couch, most likely fell asleep trying to wait up for Sherlock to come home and it's stupid and stupidly endearing and Sherlock can't stop herself from smiling just a bit.
She kneels next to the couch and gently shakes his shoulder. "John, come on, wake up for just a minute. You'll be much more comfortable in bed."
"Sherlock?" He blinks sleepily and pushes himself upright and scrubs a hand over his face. "What time is it?"
"Just after four."
"Have you been out all night?" he asks and it's such an obvious question that Sherlock doesn't bother to answer. "Right, yeah, stupid question."
"Why were you waiting up for me?" she asks her own stupidly obvious question, but this is probably one of those 'talking about feelings' moments that John is continually trying to get her recognize.
"Because I love you and I was worried about you," John answers. He reaches out to grab her arms when she moves to stand and says, "Please don't freak out and leave again." He uses his grip on her to maneuver her onto the couch next to him and he says again, "I love you and I think you love me and I know this is all new to you, but you don't have to run away. I'm not going anywhere."
"You will. Your desire for a normal relationship will eventually outweigh your desire for me and then you'll leave. Isn't it better to end it now?"
"Is that what Mycroft said to you?" And now John's angry and Sherlock is the one holding him in place. "What the hell does Mycroft know? I love you, Sherlock, and yes, you're not always easiest person to love, but I'm not just going to give up on you because your brother says I should."
"I can't give you what you want out of a relationship," she says. "I'll never give you children and I'll never take your name and we'll never move into a house in the country."
"Who says those are the things I want?" John asks. "I want you. Everything else is negotiable."
"And sex? Is that negotiable?" Sherlock asks. "I'm barely interested in sex at all and almost never interested in involving another person, even if that person is you. We'll never have intercourse and I'll never get you off with anything but my hands. The only thing negotiable about sex with me is whether you're willing to live your life not having it."
John is silent for a long moment and Sherlock is certain she's ruined everything and is already beginning to plan her escape from Baker Street when John raises his hand and presses it oh-so-gently against her cheek.
"I will accept whatever part of you you're willing to share with me," he tells her gently. "Even if that means I end up spending the rest of my life wanking myself off because that's not something you're comfortable doing."
It's not often that Sherlock is struck dumb, but John seems to be able to render her speechless with alarming regularity and very little effort expended. It's almost comforting, the fact that John is the only one capable of doing that.
"We’ll deal with issues as they arise, but here's no need to call it quits just because we're scared," he tells her gently. "We'll be okay, I promise."
Sherlock nods, not yet trusting herself to speak, and leans forward until her forehead is pressed against the side of John's neck and John's hand has slipped around to rest warmly against the back of her head. "I'm tired, John."
"I know."
After a moment, John stands and pulls Sherlock up with him. She leans against him and follows him through the kitchen and into her bedroom. She strips out of her clothes and leaves them in a pile on the floor and crawls into bed in nothing but her underwear. John follows suit and it feels like the most intimate thing they've done, settling into bed together to sleep. Sherlock thinks she could get used to it, to hearing John's heartbeat, strong and steady, underneath her ear lulling her to sleep.
"It's quite possible that I love you," she murmurs once they're settled and John's breathing has settled into the deep and even cadence that indicates sleep.
Maybe one day, she might be able to say it to John's face, maybe even without the qualifier, but for now, this will do.
end
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Date: 2012-06-15 04:30 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2012-06-16 10:48 am (UTC)Your portrayal of fem!Sherlock was so refreshing and original — the beginning of your piece especially, the equality you point out between their heights at the exact same moment they tip forwards into one another; there's something very clear about equilibrium between their respective sexualities, and the two of them reaching a balanced compromise in this, which fits a genderswapped version of the character very, very well. Your Sherlock (god, thank you for calling her Sherlock and not Sherly or Sheridan or any variation thereof) is perfectly in-character, and I very much enjoyed the way you portrayed her asexuality in regards to John. All in all, this is exactly the kind of story I adore, the kind where they are hardly perfect, hardly conventional, but they work around each other to make it smoother, make it fit better. The way you tackled the question of labels — from the problem posed by the recognition of love rather than its expression, to boyfriend versus not-boyfriend — is delightful; it displaces them right out of any kind of conventional relationship, and makes them that much more interesting for it. Ahh, this was excellent, just. I loved it.
Thank you so much! ♥
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Date: 2012-07-01 05:56 pm (UTC)I was absolutely overjoyed when I saw your comment and I'm still grinning like a loon now, reading it over again. I worked hard to make sure that Sherlock was still Sherlock and that her relationship with John was a recognizable evolution of what we've seen in the show, all while trying to make her her own character, so I am delighted that you enjoyed reading about her.
Thank you again, so so much, for such a wonderful prompt and for your absolutely lovely comment. <3
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