Fic: Good Watson's Only Selfish Action

[anounceofshag]

Title: Good Watson’s Only Selfish Action, part one of two

Pairing: Sherlock/John. Highlight for spoiler: asexual Sherlock/straight John

Rating: M

Summary: Life has been a steady stream of murder and intrigue as usual at Baker Street, until John decides to leave and marry Mary Morstan, a schoolteacher whom Sherlock considers beneath his notice. Sherlock deduces that the only thing Mary can offer John that he cannot is sex. In an attempt to keep John at their flat and by his side, he decides to give him just that. This takes place after “The Reichenbach Fall” and contains series two spoilers. Third person limited POV (Sherlock’s).

Warnings: manipulation, sexual themes

Author’s notes: Thanks to the lovely Lit_Luminary for beta reading this story. The title refers to a quote from the The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier: “The good Watson had at that time deserted me for a wife, the only selfish action which I can recall in our association. I was alone.” Concrit is welcome.

Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters, I just like them.



Good Watson’s Only Selfish Action

The fact that John would soon be making house with this female was intolerable. He could perhaps bear it if the wife-to-be were deserving and of John’s measure. But Mary Morstan was not of considerable intelligence, was not of any intelligence (if you asked him), and although John was only marginally superior to the average idiot, he merited more than a life attached to her.

Sherlock understood that John had the occasional need to bumble about with dates and sex, as most people with functioning libidos and social skills did. But John’s foray into the dating game had been nothing more serious than a string of unsuccessful and temporary relationships with women he was only mildly interested in, and who would put up with being second for only so long.

These women were the sort who dressed in predictable just-modest-enough attire with subtle makeup in an attempt to compensate for whatever feature was most deficient; women who had jobs as doctors, advertisers, graphic designers, shopkeepers, or whatever other dull occupation they applied their mediocre talents to. Women who, in essence, were not Sherlock Holmes, and therefore, would never hold John’s fascination or attention for very long. At least, that is what Sherlock had thought.

When John had started dating Mary, Sherlock considered it an affair that was far too dull for his notice. He had looked her up and down with his calculating, unsettling eyes and knew: left-handed teacher working at a low-income elementary school to assuage guilt over a privileged upbringing, lives alone with at least three cats; recently traveled to the Caribbean for vacation, last serious relationship was nearly a year previous. Another boring teacher. He had ignored her and retreated farther into their flat to answer a few inquiries from his website with disappointingly predictable results.

Later that night when John--with that unfortunate smile that Sherlock should have taken into account--asked him what he thought, and Sherlock relayed his observations, John did not seem fascinated as usual. Indeed, he seemed a bit miffed. He didn’t even declare “brilliant” when Sherlock took him through his steps of deductive reasoning: traces of orange, black, and white hair on the lap of her skirt and across her tights signifying cats; the noticeable residue of chalk on the side of her left hand, indicating that she was a teacher at a school that was too underfunded to have converted to SmartBoards; expensive heels and authentic pearls suggesting money, which of course could not have been purchased with a teacher’s wages, tanned skin with no tan lines, indicating a recent vacation, and the crimping of her hair revealing the recent removal of multiple tiny braids, which narrowed the vacation to the Caribbean. The fact that Mary had the braids done--no doubt by a wandering beach worker--again disclosed her wealth guilt; top-of-the-line designer purse had evidence of wear indicating it had been purchased roughly ten to twelve months before--an indulgence like from a person aware of overconsumption could only be the result of retail-therapy as a means to alleviate emotional suffering, but there was no weariness about the eyes, which therefore precluded the death of a loved one, so harsh breakup (he probably cheated). The pastel cardigan likely meant working with children--although that was a shot in the dark. And of course she lived alone: who else would tolerate three cats?

By his expression, Sherlock considered that John for once might tell him to piss off like everyone else did, but instead John settled for a frustrated sigh and went to make them tea. Sherlock thought he was a little irritable, nothing more. He was always irritable when he was attempting to start that special something--which he knew would inevitably fail--with a new woman.

Then, six months and two days after the innocuous meeting with the teacher, when Sherlock still didn’t remember her name, John announced their engagement.

Very few things took Sherlock by surprise. Years before John, when he was living alone, and interesting cases were scarce, and the people he encountered were entirely predicable, he had taken to cocaine abuse for the sheer lack of surprise and intrigue. It took The Woman and Moriarty to fool him, to thrill him, and nearly destroy him, and here it was, his one friend in the entire world, whom he spent every day with, and noticed everything about, somehow managing to throw him off.

Sherlock had been pulling a dart out from the center of the yellow spray-painted smiley face on their peeling wallpaper when John informed him with a casualness that could only be forced. “Mary and I are getting, well, married,” he said, with that self-deprecating shrug he used when he thought his words were threatening. Sherlock was left standing next to that smile, the dart heavy in his hand, his mouth gaping, eyes widened--all the classic signs of amazed stupidity. It took him a moment to clear his throat and reply.

“That ditz? Let me hazard a guess: the ring was a diamond, the band white-gold, and the jeweler insisted you got a great deal? You’re wasting your time. I’m disappointed in you, John Watson. That woman is nothing more than a cushiony dunce who spends more time concerned with lipstick application than improving her mind--which sorely needs improving. Give me a moment and I will devise you a way to extract yourself from this unfortunate circumstance. Were you drunk?”

John closed his eyes and shook is head very slightly. “I can’t believe this. I didn’t think you’d react well, but this? You’re such a misogynist, Sherlock. Apologize now. That’s my future wife you’ve just berated.”

“I am not a misogynist. I am a misanthrope. You are perfectly well aware of that, and you’re letting emotions cloud your interpretation.”

“At least one of us has emotions,” John snapped back.

This was quickly becoming heated. Sherlock didn’t care. John couldn’t just expect him to take that news without an acerbic comment or two. He was only telling him at all so that Sherlock could persuade him out of it. “I told you the day we met that I was a high-functioning sociopath. I don’t know why you would have expected that to change.”

“You like to think that you are Sherlock, but you’re not.” John’s voice had risen but he caught himself and brought it back down to a normal volume. “You value your reasoning skills more highly than your capacity to care, but it’s not nonexistent. You don’t know yourself. You are the one being emotional here. You’re lashing out about Amy because of your feelings. You don’t want me to leave.”

“You just said Amy.”

“I said Mary.”

“Amy. That was nearly eight girlfriends ago. The one with the dog.”

“Shut up!” John shouted. “Sherlock, I’m getting married whether or not you like it. I could do with your support. I want you to be my best man.”

“I am your best man.”

“At the ceremony.”

“Dull. An archaic tradition, which, speaking of misogyny, actually is misogynist in origin--”

“No. Not now. Sherlock, please. I need this. And I love Mary. I really do.”

“Fine, get yourself tied down and shackled. See if I care.” Sherlock had hopped onto the arm of the couch and squatted there, curling his knees into his chest and wrapping his arms around them, as was his habit when frustrated. “But she’s not moving into our flat. I have to endure enough coddling from Mrs Hudson, and I actually like her. I will not allow your marriage to interfere with my marriage to my work.”

“Well of course she wouldn’t be moving into our flat. You’re a madman if you think that I would bring her here.”

Sherlock felt a wave of immense relief. “Thankfully you can be persuaded to see reason on occasion, John. Yes, relationships are best kept long-distance.”

“I’m glad to see you feel that way.” John did not sound glad. He was suddenly crossing his arms.

Why did it always take so much effort to appease him? Sherlock knew, simply for the fact that John tolerated his company, that it was much less effort to appease John than others, but he had never tried to appease others. He thought quickly on the things that the banal, normal masses say to each other to end arguments. A compliment then. “I can’t imagine what Baker Street would be like without you. You are, of course, essential to my existence. I suppose you’ve already discussed the separate housing with Am-Mary.”

Now it was John who looked dumbfounded. “Sherlock,” he began, carefully and slowly, as if he were talking to a particularly stupid child who might at any moment burst into tears, “Mary won’t be moving into our flat. And I won’t be staying. We’re getting married. Married people move into together. They buy a place. Get a dog. Or in our case, cats. Maybe have some children.”

“And a white picket fence,” Sherlock remarked dryly. The tone did not match the rampant beating of his heart. John could not possibly mean these things.

“There comes a time when people settle down. Now is my time. Of course I’ll still be your friend. Of course I’ll come to crime scenes when I can manage. But I need to grow up, to move on. Please, I know it’s hard for you, and I’ll understand if you resent me for it, but I’d rather you didn’t. I can’t live like this anymore. I can’t live off frozen pizza and ramen noodles, chasing criminals and risking my life, moving from one unattached sexual affair to another.”

“This is not growing up. This is changing an extraordinary life for a mediocre one. Stability? Marriage? This is not the John Watson I know. It’s beneath you.”

“I want stability. I want marriage.”

“No, you don’t. You’re deluding yourself. Remember, I wrote danger and you came. You came,” he insisted. Sherlock dropped his voice and looked off into the distance. “You’ve always come when I needed you.”

“Needed me to what? Limp my way across London to hand you your mobile phone when you were too lazy to walk ten feet and pick it up?” There was a bitterness to his voice that Sherlock hadn’t expected. “Needed me to follow you around and vocally admire your skills?”

“That and more.” There was a short silence. “You can’t leave.”

“Yes, I can.” The words were firm, insistent. Final. If it were anyone else, Sherlock was sure that he could figure out a way to manipulate him into giving him what he wanted. But John knew him all too well, and he had the obstinate disposition of a soldier when he needed to.

Sherlock’s body suddenly felt both heavy and light, as if he weighed too much to be standing but were weightless enough not to feel the ground beneath him. His throat knotted so tightly that it felt nearly as terrible as those several times he had poisoned himself for experiments. His lips began to tremble. He didn’t know what was wrong with them. Perhaps a muscle spasm. Vitamin deficiency. When was the last time he ate? Two days prior? John would know.

John was leaving. This could not happen.

Who would accompany him to crime scenes and fill in where his medical knowledge and pop culture references failed? Who would create diversions and fight by his side? Who would offer apologies or humorous remarks to calm the people he constantly managed to offend? Who would interfere with his experiments and complain about the head in the refrigerator? Who would pick up the apartment and buy the groceries? Who would make sure that he ate at least every three days and scold him when he was being unwarrantedly rude to Lestrade or Mrs Hudson? Who would tell him “not good” when he had gone to far, but still share his dark sense of humor? Who would laugh at his jokes, who would make him smile when the world was uninteresting, who would keep him from the numbing death sentence that was endless transport and no stimulation? Somehow, Sherlock could not begin to fathom how he had existed before he found John by his side.

Something wet spilled down his cheek. Sherlock went to touch it and brought it to his lips. The salty flavor indicated rainwater. He looked towards the ceiling for the leak but there was none. Then it happened again, the mysterious drip down the same side of his face. When he eliminated the impossible, whatever remained, no matter how mad it might seem, must be the truth.

He was crying.

Sociopaths don't cry. Since infancy until last January when he’d met John Sherlock had never genuinely cried. He had feigned crying when acting to manipulate information out of people: pretending to grieve over Mr Monkford’s fake death, hysterical worry after being “mugged” to gain entryway into The Woman’s home, among other cases. But presently, it appeared that genuine tears were becoming a habit for Sherlock. He had cried when saying goodbye to John, and here they were again.

It was fine by him if John left. Perfectly fine. He would no longer find cause to be so boringly sentimental, to give into that baser instinct of compassion that antagonized reason.

“Sherlock,” John said, concern evident on the kind lines on his face, “are you-”

“No,” he interrupted. “I’m fine.” His voice was deep and collected, unaffected as it always, always was. He was a heartless man. Two anomalous tears weren’t going to change that.

John had some how moved closer to him. He was now close enough to reach out and he did, squeezing Sherlock’s arm in empathic, brotherly affection. “It’s not going to change things between us. I told you, I’ll still help you with cases and show up at crime scenes--”

“When you can manage,” Sherlock finished, and this time, it was his voice that was surprisingly bitter.

“You’re my best friend. That’s not going to change.”

“I don’t have friends.”

***

When it was too awkward to stay in the flat for much longer, Sherlock retreated to the morgue. Molly was there to greet him, offering a black coffee with two sugars and a cheery lipgloss smile. He did write desperate in his text, after all.

Molly had finally given up on Sherlock’s ever returning her feelings (even if she did harbor some unspoken sadness over it), but he was fortunate that she was a faithful friend. Her loyalty and kindness did not, however, keep Sherlock from brushing past her and telling her to shut up when she inquired as to what he needed. It was only because he was so greatly indebted to her for providing him with a last-minute cadaver, helping him nurse his immediate injuries after his rooftop plunge, and having never once--no matter how much John despaired--revealed the truth about his staged death, that he did not slap the coffee cup out of her hand and spill it across the bleach-scrubbed floor.

Sherlock eyed the chilly, lifeless body on the slab that she had already laid out and gave a careful flick to the riding crop in his hand. He had received some stares on his brisk walk to the hospital for it, but he ignored them. He had never cared what others thought and he wasn’t going to start now. Sherlock lifted the crop and with a sharp, precise motion brought it down against the body. For over twenty minutes he whipped it in careful lines, his face impassive. When he was finished, his arm burning, his curly hair moistened and flattened to his forehead with sweat, he slid down the edge of the wall and settled with his knees curled to his chest, his fingers pressing into his temples. Think, think, think.

He had already considered planting evidence to prove Mary was having an affair, but John would suspect him, and if he didn’t, he would be heartbroken. It would likely be a temporary heartbreak, but Sherlock couldn’t take the risk of John’s never recovering. He said he needed this, this normalcy. He had said he loved her. Sherlock had also briefly contemplated murdering the damned Miss Morstan. It would be easy enough to get away with; he was sure he could induce a heart attack or stroke or something equally unsuspicious, and considering how incapable Scotland Yard inspectors proved to be, and what pathetic grovelers all but Lestrade had become (after publicly demonizing him for crimes it was later proved he didn’t commit), there was no cause to worry. His conscience didn’t give him cause to worry either. This woman didn’t mean anything to him. But she did mean something to John, so murder unfortunately was out of the question. Think, Sherlock, think. Why could he not think? There had to be a solution. There was always a solution.

Molly cleared her throat. She had left and returned, although as usual, Sherlock did not notice her. He did not know how long she had been watching him brutalize a corpse for very unscientific reasons. He looked around at the scene he’d made. Fortunately for the janitors, dead bodies do not bleed, but there were bits of flesh messily strewn throughout the room.

“I thought you had already done that experiment. That day you first met John.”

“I had. I thought it could use some revisiting.”

“Lost the results?” she asked tentatively.

“I don’t lose anything.” He tapped on his temple. “John’s engaged,” he added.

Molly brightened. “Oh tell him congratul-” she stopped herself abruptly. “I see.”

“Thank you! Someone else sees. She’s an complete idiot.”

“Compared to you, most people are. But does she make him happy? That’s what matters.” Molly gave him a half-hearted smile.

“Unfortunately she does. Although I cannot fathom why. I don’t see what she can possibly give him that I cannot.”

Molly looked in his eyes, a blush rising to her cheeks. “Are you serious? You’re the consulting detective, I think it should be a bit obvious.”

And suddenly, that unbearable weight and weightlessness was removed. He knew exactly what he needed to do.

“Molly,” Sherlock declared, “you’re a genius.” He stood, pecked her on the cheek, and rushed out, his black tweed coat and cashmere scarf billowing madly behind him.

***

When Sherlock returned, John was out. This left him with the perfect opportunity to pick up the flat a bit. Didn’t John say he wanted a normal house? Their life at Baker Street would never be normal, and the slovenly manner in which they lived hadn’t seemed to bother John terribly before, but Sherlock would show him that could make more of an effort with these purposeless tasks that couples with fences occupied themselves with.

With that thought, Sherlock frantically lit up the fire and began throwing looseleaf  paper of unknown origin inside to kindle it. When the paper had all turned to ashes, he started shoving his piles into corners, and pushing things under their sofa and easy chairs--books and drugs, cracked test tubes, a forgotten finger preserved in formaldehyde, empty packages of nicotine patches. He discovered a jackalope procured from a crime scene years ago and decided he was a bit too attached to it to sequester it in a corner.

He placed it instead on the mantle next to his skull, on top of a stack of books that were stiff and unbendable after having been accidentally soaked in sow remains during an experiment. Now, it was time to solve the problem.

The thought of entering a physical relationship with John was not a happy one. The issue was not John. Indeed, if he were forced to choose anyone to do such things with, John would be tied with Miss Adler as his least disgusting option. But it was necessary, it seemed, to share a bed if John were to stay at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock didn’t entirely believe all that nonsense about John wanting to settle down and replicate his genes. He believed that Mary wanted this, perhaps, and that John, who wanted Mary, convinced himself that it would be a good idea. So if the stability were not the deciding factor, the only factors that remained then were sex and physical intimacy.

If he had less pride, he would go to The Woman about this. After all, she did owe him a favor and she was an expert in human sexuality. But Sherlock did not want her to think him deficient in any way. Of course she knew he was a virgin: Moriarty had that little nickname for him perfectly picked. Sherlock was unaccustomed to physical touch that didn’t involve examining corpses or fighting criminals, but admitting to his rival that for once this was a weakness rather than an asset was not something he cared to do. John had needs like a normal man, and Donovan was right. Sherlock was a freak. The thought of having sex, of even making himself see and touch another naked, live human being was causing Sherlock to feel rather queasy. But he would do it for John.

For all the times he had used John, he could let John use him in this way. Of course, John was too good of a man to use him knowingly, so Sherlock had to ensure his artificial desire was convincing. No one observed as well as Sherlock, and he didn’t think he’d have much of a problem with the ruse.

Surely sex couldn’t be that bad. He had suffered twelve fractured bones, stomach lacerations, and had burst both his appendix and spleen when he jumped off that building and onto the lorry to save John, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade’s lives. If there had not been time enough for last-minute cleverness he would have died then for him, and even with his preparation, he knew there was still a chance of death, or even more terrifying, a good chance that he would wake up a different person, having suffered brain damage. But he’d stepped off that ledge, to save John.

Sherlock was the ultimate hedonistic, misanthropic, histrionic, risk-taking narcissist. How dearly he treasured his friend was absurd, considering. Sherlock Holmes was not supposed to care about anyone or anything other than himself and his work. But John was his and his alone, and he wasn’t allowed to leave. If Sherlock had to give him his body to do keep him, it was a price worth paying.

The first issue, of course, would be to mitigate Sherlock’s problem with sex and touch. This would be easy to remedy, however. John would not expect him to be warm and affectionate. A sort of angry passion would work just fine, he suspected. And pills for sexual dysfunction abounded these days--not that he was necessarily dysfunctional, it worked--he was simply uninterested. He would take one discreetly before the initial act, however, to induce a proper state of arousal in the event his natural abilities failed.

Then, of course, it would be necessary to ensure that John would reciprocate or at the very least accept his advances. John considered himself a straight man as far as Sherlock knew, but he suspected this label wasn’t set in stone. He had read textbooks that postulated that sexuality existed on a curve, and that much of sexual behavior was socially learned. John could very well have homosexual tendencies, and if his closeness and loyalty to Sherlock were any indication, as well as the insinuations that were aimed at them on a daily basis, John’s enjoying it might not be entirely improbable.

Even still, Sherlock had a lot working against his scheme. The social stigma of homosexual acts, for one thing. He knew John was not homophobic (his sister Harry was gay and he didn’t seem upset by it), but Sherlock had long ago deduced that John had a strict conservative upbringing, and such a childhood--as well as the environment of the military--can engrain some ideas into the deep recesses of the brain. John’s own aversion to a homosexual experience might not even be conscious. Sherlock then would have to provide subtle examples of homosexuals in a positive light to prime him. Perhaps playing programs on the television with gay protagonists, or encouraging him to go out to drinks with a few of his queer acquaintances.

John was a reticent person, and as a rule, he rarely touched Sherlock except when just tipsy enough to wrap an arm uncomfortably around his too high-shoulders and remark how much he cared for him. Sherlock would need to approach him at the opportune moment, when he would be most receptive. Shortly after three drinks then. Two and John was not tipsy enough to feel unusually tender; four and he was hyperaware of how much alcohol he had consumed and monitored his behavior so as not to make a fool of himself.

It would also be essential that John feel ill-disposed towards Mary and particularly protective of Sherlock. John’s loyalty to his betrothed would interfere with Sherlock’s plans otherwise. So Sherlock would have to arrange for an argument between himself and Mary, and just as things were to became heated on her part, John would enter the scene and rush to his defense.

Sherlock removed his violin and bow from their resting place. He put the curve of that majestic instrument to his chin, tilted his neck at the accurate angle, and madly, passionately, remorselessly played with such intensity that he did not notice that by the time everything was perfectly plotted, there was only one string remaining intact.

John Watson would never leave him.

TO BE CONTINUED...