The Inevitable (The Untrue) - 1/8
I.
John has never given much thought to the fact that Sherlock doesn’t seem to put much stock in romance.
After living with him for almost a year, it seems like a rather silly thing to spend energy considering. Sherlock is very clear on his feelings about sentiment and sexuality. He finds them both to be rather tedious and rather a waste of time, and sometimes, John agrees with him. After all, he spends a vast amount of time trying to woo women into being in a relationship with him, mostly because he wants to sleep with them, and for the most part, the sex doesn’t seem to be happening either way.
Not that he minds much. He hates to admit it, because it sounds a bit too much like Sherlock even for him, but he rather thinks being a part of Sherlock’s life - solving mysteries, chasing criminals, being something of a bodyguard and something else like an agent - is enough of a thrill for him. He barely misses sex when he’s not having it but absolutely would not give Sherlock that information if someone was holding a gun to his head - and that’s happened on a number of occasions, especially recently, so he’s quite sure of that fact.
The rivalry and mockery often seen in exchange between Sherlock and Mycroft isn’t something John finds surprising anymore. It’s comforting to know that on some level, these men, these geniuses, are surprisingly childish and petty at times, and snipe at each other regularly to prove it. But there’s something nasty, a snarl, a twist in Mycroft’s mouth and the lift of his nostrils, the way he all but spits “How would you know?” that makes John’s quills rise. He wants to throw himself in the way of it, protect Sherlock from it, or maybe just punch Mycroft in the face for it.
He probably would if some Secret Service men weren’t going to jump out of the woodwork and knock him to the ground before carrying him off to the Tower of London if he did.
It doesn’t help that Sherlock’s face goes blank the way it does when he doesn’t want to deal with something. It isn’t easy to hurt his feelings, but it also isn’t impossible, and John isn’t sure what nerve Mycroft just struck. They move on easily enough, and Sherlock seems to bounce back with the possibility of a puzzle at hand, and so John decides not to risk life in prison killing Mycroft for putting that look on Sherlock’s face.
(He’s not exactly sure where his protective streak comes from, and he’s not exactly sure why it manifests as a need to look after Sherlock, who is probably least in need of it, but he can’t expend the energy just now figuring it out.)
He manages not to ask why the topic of sex is a sore spot for Sherlock. He manages not to ask verbally anyway; he’s sure the question is written all over his face on their ride home. Sherlock ignores it, which is just fine, but it also leaves the back of John’s neck itching. He wonders if this is how it feels for Sherlock, to not know the answer to a question, to not solve the case in the end - like something’s crawling under his skin that he just can’t manage to scratch out.
Then they meet Irene, and Irene makes John’s skin crawl.
From the very first moment, John wants to make himself hard and round and wrap himself as a casing around Sherlock that can’t be breached. There has only been one situation in which Sherlock has ever looked as helpless as he does right now, and that was when John was standing beside a pool strapped into a Semtex vest.
Irene, with her hard hourglass curves and head-to-toe peaches-and-cream skin, mocks Sherlock. “Someone loves you.”
John considers telling her that yes, someone does, and he will look after him, but his throat closes before he can. He doesn’t know why. He supposes it’s because Sherlock has no use for sentiment, and John has no intention of becoming something Sherlock has reason to discard.
He hates that Irene recognizes it in him. He hates that he can see how desperately he needs Sherlock in his life, even if he has no desire for a sexual relationship with the man. But in a way, he feels as if he has a leg up on her. She thinks that his inexperience is for lack of trying. She’s wrong.
When she goes away, he relishes the fact that he gets to keep Sherlock - even if it’s a Sherlock smarting from some combination of rejection and humiliation at being beaten, by the most clever woman either of them has ever known, but one who was too stupid to recognize anything more in Sherlock than the fact that he was a virgin.
***
Sherlock spends one too many days staring at that phone sulking and pining, and John spends one too many days pretending he isn’t infuriated by it. His breaking point comes in the form of the cracked handle of his favorite mug, and then the splash of tea over his shoes when it gives way and shatters on the kitchen floor.
He stands staring at the mess for a long moment, the broken handle still gripped between his fingers, then sighs and stoops to collect the pieces and mop up the tea, binning it all with more force than strictly necessary. He startles when he finds Sherlock standing in the doorway of the kitchen frowning at him, then scowls. “What?”
A nonchalant shrug. “It’s unlike you to be clumsy,” Sherlock says slowly. “It’s generally an indication that you have something on your mind.”
John didn’t feel terribly interested in being deduced just now. “It’s nothing,” he cuts out.
“Most days I wouldn’t disagree with that.”
The line of John’s jaw goes hard, and a tick starts under his cheekbone.
“However, there’s been some unexplained tension in your shoulders for several weeks now. Why?”
“You’re the detective. You figure it out,” he murmurs, turning back toward the counter to refill the kettle and start it again.
“Ah.” Sherlock has moved closer. He leans against the edge of the table, blessedly clear of experiments for the time being. “You’re angry with me.” He folds his hands together, touches his index fingers to his lips. “I honestly don’t know what I could possibly have done. We’ve barely spoken in days. Unless that’s the problem? Are you feeling neglected?”
There aren’t many things more humiliating than being psychoanalyzed by Sherlock Holmes. It always gives one the sense that one’s feelings should have been dealt with neatly long ago so they no longer pose a problem to him.
“I’m not angry with you, Sherlock.” John doesn’t bother hiding the weariness in his voice. “It’s just been a long few days.”
“Ah, is the lack of cases bothering you as well?” He pushes himself off the table, the issue seemingly dismissed. “No matter. We’ll go out tonight. A bit of nightlife will do us both some good.”
John snorts and turns to look at him. “What possible use could you have for nightlife?”
“Absolutely none, but it’s always advisable to polish my skills by watching the populace at play.” Sherlock smiles at him, and it’s like he knows John’s forgiven him. “A bit of people-watching, as you call it.”
“‘People-deducing,’ you mean.”
“More accurate, definitely. We’ll go to that pub you like.”
“The Beehive?”
“Yes, you like their chips. You always suck on your fingers after you’ve finished them.”
John flushes, much like he always does at being scrutinized to that degree, and nods. “Alright.” It sounds surprisingly like a date. The thought draws up thoughts of Irene again, and before he can stop himself, he blurts out, “Why was she so special?”
Sherlock goes still for a moment. He seems on the verge of giving an inane “Who?” in response, but instead settles on, “She wasn’t.”
“Sherlock, you carry her mobile in your pocket as a memento of her.”
He doesn’t speak.
John sighs. “I would like to understand.”
Sherlock looks up at him, and his eyes are more transparent than they’ve ever been, like sharply-cut glass. “She was able to overcome me with something I do not understand or see the necessity of,” he says slowly, as if he’s picking through his words and setting them in place - like refrigerator magnets. “I’ve always deemed sex to be irrelevant, if not downright distasteful, and the things people do to partake in it are absurd.”
John snorts. He can’t exactly disagree. “Has she made you reconsider that viewpoint?”
Sherlock shakes his head slowly, then nods. “Yes. But not successfully. The more I consider the idea of utilizing knowledge of sex to my own ends, the less appealing I find it still.” He pauses. “I’m not sure I understand why I’m…” He falters, licks his lips.
“Why you’re what, Sherlock?” John’s tone is gentle, like he’s speaking to an easily-spooked horse. Sherlock rarely looks this fragile. In fact, he’s fairly certain he’s never seen this expression on his face before.
“I don’t understand why she found me to be an unworthy opponent because I’m - because I’ve never had intercourse.”
John is caught by that admission, and his embarrassment at that brings him to cast his gaze to the floor. He supposes, with Sherlock’s personality, and his feelings about the human race in general, that it shouldn’t come as a surprise to him that he’s in his mid-thirties and a virgin. But still, he has to swallow before he can answer. “Because Irene is a fool.”
“Why do you say that?” There’s a smile in the detective’s voice.
John meets his eyes. “Because she was never clever enough to outwit you without using sex. She had to make you fall in love with her to get anywhere with you.”
Sherlock makes a derisive noise, plants his hands on his hips. “Is that how I feel about her?”
“It certainly seems like it. You’ve been pining after her for weeks.”
“Oh, please stop using that word.”
“What I can’t seem to understand -”
“Many things, I’m sure.”
“- is how we’ve lived together for this long and I haven’t given two shits about your sexuality, or lack thereof, and yet you’ve never seemed to take notice of that.”
A pause. “I don’t understand.”
John smiles faintly. “Finally.”
The silence in the kitchen is palpable. John wonders if he could swim through it and away.
Sherlock moves first, runs his hand through his hair, his only gesture of discomfort. John’s heart drops into his feet. “You date constantly. You’ve had five girlfriends this year.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t even pretend to commit to any of them. When they fade out of your life, you let them go without much thought.”
John winces. “That’s true.”
“Why do you pursue them?”
He shrugs. “Companionship isn’t high on your list of necessities. However, it is high on mine.”
Sherlock studies his face for a long moment, his own expression unreadable. He shifts his weight to his right foot after a moment, a clear indication that he intends to leave the room in a moment. He pauses though, looks at John again. “I’ve never considered companionship important,” he agrees, his voice quiet. “But now that I’ve had it, I find it essential. I couldn’t do without again.”
He goes out to the living room without another word, and John lets out the breath he was holding. When, five minutes later, Sherlock yells for him that they’re going to the pub, he smiles and grabs his jacket.
Part II.
John has never given much thought to the fact that Sherlock doesn’t seem to put much stock in romance.
After living with him for almost a year, it seems like a rather silly thing to spend energy considering. Sherlock is very clear on his feelings about sentiment and sexuality. He finds them both to be rather tedious and rather a waste of time, and sometimes, John agrees with him. After all, he spends a vast amount of time trying to woo women into being in a relationship with him, mostly because he wants to sleep with them, and for the most part, the sex doesn’t seem to be happening either way.
Not that he minds much. He hates to admit it, because it sounds a bit too much like Sherlock even for him, but he rather thinks being a part of Sherlock’s life - solving mysteries, chasing criminals, being something of a bodyguard and something else like an agent - is enough of a thrill for him. He barely misses sex when he’s not having it but absolutely would not give Sherlock that information if someone was holding a gun to his head - and that’s happened on a number of occasions, especially recently, so he’s quite sure of that fact.
The rivalry and mockery often seen in exchange between Sherlock and Mycroft isn’t something John finds surprising anymore. It’s comforting to know that on some level, these men, these geniuses, are surprisingly childish and petty at times, and snipe at each other regularly to prove it. But there’s something nasty, a snarl, a twist in Mycroft’s mouth and the lift of his nostrils, the way he all but spits “How would you know?” that makes John’s quills rise. He wants to throw himself in the way of it, protect Sherlock from it, or maybe just punch Mycroft in the face for it.
He probably would if some Secret Service men weren’t going to jump out of the woodwork and knock him to the ground before carrying him off to the Tower of London if he did.
It doesn’t help that Sherlock’s face goes blank the way it does when he doesn’t want to deal with something. It isn’t easy to hurt his feelings, but it also isn’t impossible, and John isn’t sure what nerve Mycroft just struck. They move on easily enough, and Sherlock seems to bounce back with the possibility of a puzzle at hand, and so John decides not to risk life in prison killing Mycroft for putting that look on Sherlock’s face.
(He’s not exactly sure where his protective streak comes from, and he’s not exactly sure why it manifests as a need to look after Sherlock, who is probably least in need of it, but he can’t expend the energy just now figuring it out.)
He manages not to ask why the topic of sex is a sore spot for Sherlock. He manages not to ask verbally anyway; he’s sure the question is written all over his face on their ride home. Sherlock ignores it, which is just fine, but it also leaves the back of John’s neck itching. He wonders if this is how it feels for Sherlock, to not know the answer to a question, to not solve the case in the end - like something’s crawling under his skin that he just can’t manage to scratch out.
Then they meet Irene, and Irene makes John’s skin crawl.
From the very first moment, John wants to make himself hard and round and wrap himself as a casing around Sherlock that can’t be breached. There has only been one situation in which Sherlock has ever looked as helpless as he does right now, and that was when John was standing beside a pool strapped into a Semtex vest.
Irene, with her hard hourglass curves and head-to-toe peaches-and-cream skin, mocks Sherlock. “Someone loves you.”
John considers telling her that yes, someone does, and he will look after him, but his throat closes before he can. He doesn’t know why. He supposes it’s because Sherlock has no use for sentiment, and John has no intention of becoming something Sherlock has reason to discard.
He hates that Irene recognizes it in him. He hates that he can see how desperately he needs Sherlock in his life, even if he has no desire for a sexual relationship with the man. But in a way, he feels as if he has a leg up on her. She thinks that his inexperience is for lack of trying. She’s wrong.
When she goes away, he relishes the fact that he gets to keep Sherlock - even if it’s a Sherlock smarting from some combination of rejection and humiliation at being beaten, by the most clever woman either of them has ever known, but one who was too stupid to recognize anything more in Sherlock than the fact that he was a virgin.
***
Sherlock spends one too many days staring at that phone sulking and pining, and John spends one too many days pretending he isn’t infuriated by it. His breaking point comes in the form of the cracked handle of his favorite mug, and then the splash of tea over his shoes when it gives way and shatters on the kitchen floor.
He stands staring at the mess for a long moment, the broken handle still gripped between his fingers, then sighs and stoops to collect the pieces and mop up the tea, binning it all with more force than strictly necessary. He startles when he finds Sherlock standing in the doorway of the kitchen frowning at him, then scowls. “What?”
A nonchalant shrug. “It’s unlike you to be clumsy,” Sherlock says slowly. “It’s generally an indication that you have something on your mind.”
John didn’t feel terribly interested in being deduced just now. “It’s nothing,” he cuts out.
“Most days I wouldn’t disagree with that.”
The line of John’s jaw goes hard, and a tick starts under his cheekbone.
“However, there’s been some unexplained tension in your shoulders for several weeks now. Why?”
“You’re the detective. You figure it out,” he murmurs, turning back toward the counter to refill the kettle and start it again.
“Ah.” Sherlock has moved closer. He leans against the edge of the table, blessedly clear of experiments for the time being. “You’re angry with me.” He folds his hands together, touches his index fingers to his lips. “I honestly don’t know what I could possibly have done. We’ve barely spoken in days. Unless that’s the problem? Are you feeling neglected?”
There aren’t many things more humiliating than being psychoanalyzed by Sherlock Holmes. It always gives one the sense that one’s feelings should have been dealt with neatly long ago so they no longer pose a problem to him.
“I’m not angry with you, Sherlock.” John doesn’t bother hiding the weariness in his voice. “It’s just been a long few days.”
“Ah, is the lack of cases bothering you as well?” He pushes himself off the table, the issue seemingly dismissed. “No matter. We’ll go out tonight. A bit of nightlife will do us both some good.”
John snorts and turns to look at him. “What possible use could you have for nightlife?”
“Absolutely none, but it’s always advisable to polish my skills by watching the populace at play.” Sherlock smiles at him, and it’s like he knows John’s forgiven him. “A bit of people-watching, as you call it.”
“‘People-deducing,’ you mean.”
“More accurate, definitely. We’ll go to that pub you like.”
“The Beehive?”
“Yes, you like their chips. You always suck on your fingers after you’ve finished them.”
John flushes, much like he always does at being scrutinized to that degree, and nods. “Alright.” It sounds surprisingly like a date. The thought draws up thoughts of Irene again, and before he can stop himself, he blurts out, “Why was she so special?”
Sherlock goes still for a moment. He seems on the verge of giving an inane “Who?” in response, but instead settles on, “She wasn’t.”
“Sherlock, you carry her mobile in your pocket as a memento of her.”
He doesn’t speak.
John sighs. “I would like to understand.”
Sherlock looks up at him, and his eyes are more transparent than they’ve ever been, like sharply-cut glass. “She was able to overcome me with something I do not understand or see the necessity of,” he says slowly, as if he’s picking through his words and setting them in place - like refrigerator magnets. “I’ve always deemed sex to be irrelevant, if not downright distasteful, and the things people do to partake in it are absurd.”
John snorts. He can’t exactly disagree. “Has she made you reconsider that viewpoint?”
Sherlock shakes his head slowly, then nods. “Yes. But not successfully. The more I consider the idea of utilizing knowledge of sex to my own ends, the less appealing I find it still.” He pauses. “I’m not sure I understand why I’m…” He falters, licks his lips.
“Why you’re what, Sherlock?” John’s tone is gentle, like he’s speaking to an easily-spooked horse. Sherlock rarely looks this fragile. In fact, he’s fairly certain he’s never seen this expression on his face before.
“I don’t understand why she found me to be an unworthy opponent because I’m - because I’ve never had intercourse.”
John is caught by that admission, and his embarrassment at that brings him to cast his gaze to the floor. He supposes, with Sherlock’s personality, and his feelings about the human race in general, that it shouldn’t come as a surprise to him that he’s in his mid-thirties and a virgin. But still, he has to swallow before he can answer. “Because Irene is a fool.”
“Why do you say that?” There’s a smile in the detective’s voice.
John meets his eyes. “Because she was never clever enough to outwit you without using sex. She had to make you fall in love with her to get anywhere with you.”
Sherlock makes a derisive noise, plants his hands on his hips. “Is that how I feel about her?”
“It certainly seems like it. You’ve been pining after her for weeks.”
“Oh, please stop using that word.”
“What I can’t seem to understand -”
“Many things, I’m sure.”
“- is how we’ve lived together for this long and I haven’t given two shits about your sexuality, or lack thereof, and yet you’ve never seemed to take notice of that.”
A pause. “I don’t understand.”
John smiles faintly. “Finally.”
The silence in the kitchen is palpable. John wonders if he could swim through it and away.
Sherlock moves first, runs his hand through his hair, his only gesture of discomfort. John’s heart drops into his feet. “You date constantly. You’ve had five girlfriends this year.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t even pretend to commit to any of them. When they fade out of your life, you let them go without much thought.”
John winces. “That’s true.”
“Why do you pursue them?”
He shrugs. “Companionship isn’t high on your list of necessities. However, it is high on mine.”
Sherlock studies his face for a long moment, his own expression unreadable. He shifts his weight to his right foot after a moment, a clear indication that he intends to leave the room in a moment. He pauses though, looks at John again. “I’ve never considered companionship important,” he agrees, his voice quiet. “But now that I’ve had it, I find it essential. I couldn’t do without again.”
He goes out to the living room without another word, and John lets out the breath he was holding. When, five minutes later, Sherlock yells for him that they’re going to the pub, he smiles and grabs his jacket.
Part II.