Fic: Behavioural Modification - 2/5 (BBC Sherlock)
Title: Behavioural Modification
Rating: R
Wordcount: 3.9k this part, 23.6k overall
Warnings: Extremely dysfunctional behaviour, sexual acts, swearing. Spoiler: ramifications of past emotional abuse.
Beta: vyctori
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: Whatever it took, he was going to make this work.
Step One: Acclimatize Subject
Step Two: Reward Behaviour
“Sherlock!” Excited tone, feet pounding on the stairs: good news.
“John!” he responded, not getting up.
Cheeks flushed, grin spread wide, John bounded into the front room. On second thought, perhaps this was worth sitting up for. “We’re in the newspaper!”
“Oh.” Never mind then. He flopped back down.
“Sherlock, we’re in the paper.” He shook said item in his hand for emphasis.
“I heard you the first time.” Nevertheless, he moved his feet onto the floor, giving John a clear space to sit on the couch. “The Evening Standard is nothing to get excited about.” From John’s tube ride home from the pub, doubtlessly. He’d been doing that more often of late, going to the pub. Multiple pubs, trying all within walking distance before moving farther out. Sherlock had almost worried about that before remembering that having separate social lives was part of being settled into a relationship. Besides, John widening his knowledge of London was a worthwhile pursuit.
“Look, there’s a picture!” Sitting, John opened it to page five and angled it toward him.
“What.”
He sat up, snatching the paper from John’s hands. John leaned over his shoulder, breath smelling faintly of Carlsberg. It only worsened his mood. Sherlock hated beer, hated it particularly for making John’s mouth temporarily repulsive. He looked at the picture. It was horrible.
“This is horrible,” he said.
“I think it’s great,” John said, arm against his, head tilted.
“John, my picture is in the evening newspaper. It’s being spread throughout the Underground as we speak.” When had this been taken? He remembered the street, remembered speaking to Lestrade on that street. It was the reporter he didn’t remember. Had he not seen? Not cared? Deleted it? “The last thing I want is my face across all of London.” It would likely be in the Metro as well come morning.
After a small moment of consideration, John hummed. “Hard to pretend to be someone else when they’ve a photo of you, true. Still, I’m sure you’ll manage.”
“That’s-” That wasn’t it. A practical consideration, but that wasn’t it. “It’s annoying,” Sherlock settled for.
On the page, Lestrade listened as Sherlock gestured, speaking, John standing between them, eyes on his flatmate. Mid-explanation, Sherlock looked stupid with his mouth open, looked strange and preposterous with his cheekbones, even worse with the wind taking his hair that way. He hated looking stupid. Detested it. He wasn’t an idiot.
John laughed. “Yes, I’m sure having all of London fancying you will be hard to take.”
Sherlock wasn’t sure how to respond to that joke. He flopped his body back down on the couch, swinging his legs up across John’s lap. “Is the article any good, at least?” He doubted it.
John set the paper over his legs. “I haven’t read it all yet. If you’re asking about the ‘preservation of deductive reasoning,’ then it’s bad.”
He grunted, crossing his arms over his chest. Trying to enjoy the sight of pride and exuberance across that face, he watched John read. It improved his mood, slightly.
When John frowned, that mood collapsed.
“What?”
“‘Assistant’,” John read.
“Oh?”
“‘The consulting detective Sherlock Holmes and his assistant.’ I’m not even named! And I’m not-” He pointed at Sherlock as if his index finger were a piece of effective rhetoric. “I am not your assistant.”
“You assist. It’s applicable.”
“Being applicable doesn’t- I’m your colleague. Colleague, Sherlock, not assistant. I don’t care how many things I hand you. You’re not the Doctor, I’m not an assistant.”
“No,” he confirmed, admittedly a bit lost in John’s outburst. “You’re the doctor. I think that’s fairly well established by this point.”
“No, I-” He stopped. Inclined his head. “We went over this last week.” After receiving nothing more than a blank look, John shook his head. “Never mind.”
“You want recognition,” Sherlock summarized. “Not accolades, but acknowledgement of your role and participation in the case. You feel belittled, if not detached, on the reasoning that what is invaluable will be mentioned.”
John looked at him without turning his head, nose pointed to the paper, eyes aimed at the owner of the shins over his thighs.
“People are idiots,” Sherlock concluded.
“‘Invaluable’,” John repeated.
“Yes, John, I heard myself the first time.” Then, in a desperate attempt to avoid any further embarrassment, he turned his face against the couch cushion and pretended to be unconscious. Normally, he would have left outright, but he couldn’t.
John’s hand was warm on his knee.
The longer Sherlock was still, the more circles John’s thumb made into his trousers.
The only thing for it was to keep John trapped on the couch with him. Beyond using his legs to accomplish this, he had very little by way of a plan.
John, the wonder that he was, stayed anyway.
Sherlock finally got him standing up. On his feet, against the wall, trousers sliding down his thighs, John was a gasping mess. He looked sublime. He sounded even better. Scent and taste more fascinating than extraordinary, but that was no reason to remove his mouth from John’s neck.
John pawed at him in return, left hand eventually joining Sherlock’s active right. His right hand buried in Sherlock’s hair, firm, secure. Not painful. Holding him in place. His breath beside Sherlock’s ear: hot, shallow. Full of half-formed words, sounds like “harder” and “fuck” and “yes” and maybe, possibly, a name. Finally trusting himself - trusting Sherlock? - enough to speak.
There was a spot on the side of John’s neck, roughly a centimetre below his hairline, which made his hips buck. It was no sooner discovered than thoroughly tested.
“Oh god.” High, strained. Needing to be pinned, held up against the surface behind him. “Fuck.” Harder. “Sherlock.” Voice half-broken. Pulse accelerating further under his hand. Yes. “Wanna fuck. Fucking inside you, god, want that. Fuck you so good.”
“Of course,” he answered. His voice was as steady as the rhythm of his hand. What other answer was there? John wouldn’t hurt him. John had already proven he wouldn’t throw a fit at Sherlock’s lack of physical arousal. Soon, their next session, he would collapse, spent, inside and around Sherlock, more blanket than man. He would fall asleep and Sherlock could stare and prod at him as long as he wanted, free of repercussions. The idea of disturbing John, of waking him up and John only smiling.... He could hardly count on that, but it was a lovely fantasy. “I’d wondered when you would ask.”
John’s rhythm faltered.
Sherlock nipped that spot, worried it with his teeth, and John’s rhythm collapsed entirely into trembling thrusts. John’s hand around his was tight, tense. His semen, if left, would stick their fingers together. His other hand was fisted in Sherlock’s shirt. His eyes, uncovered, unfocused, were directed toward the ceiling. He breathed through his mouth.
“Did you...” he began slowly. “Did you just say-”
“Yes,” Sherlock interrupted, and kissed him.
John tensed, back straight against the wall.
Sherlock pulled back.
“No,” John said. His eyes stayed on Sherlock’s but he angled his face away. Wary. Protecting his mouth. He separated their hands. Grimaced at his own mess.
“What?” Sherlock asked.
“This is too much,” John said. “Congratulations: you have found my limit.”
“I’ll be sure to avoid it in the future.” As soon as he determined what exactly it had been. Was Sherlock not allowed to talk during? Was that it?
“No.” John pushed at him with his clean right hand. Not a shove, a sustained push. Distance, not violence. Breathing space. He pulled up his pants. Sherlock wanted to keep his hand up John’s jumper. Just because monitoring the man’s heartbeat couldn’t resolve everything didn’t mean it wasn’t comforting. “No more.”
“You don’t want to anymore?” Which was it, then, honesty or false promise in the heat of the moment? “What happened to wanting to fuck me?”
“Sherlock!” Anger, strong. Now what?
He had tissues in his pocket. Left-handed, he removed them. He used them. He handed them to John. John did the same, then chucked them to the floor, very hard. The crumpled tissue fell softly all the same. He bent, hauled up his trousers, and fastened them. His face was extremely red.
If Sherlock waited, the anger would stop. Or it would harden and settle. Similar to the aches Sherlock had from not holding him. He thought of anger where those aches were. Unacceptable.
“John,” he said, calm and attempting to calm, “if you tell me your objections, I will honour them.” He felt an echo in his voice. No, felt his voice was an echo. Where were those words from? Ah. University. Victor Trevor. Victor shoved onto the floor, biting down anger and holding his hands up in offering. Considerate, incompatible Victor. They’d made themselves fit together anyway. There was no reason he couldn’t do the same with John.
Sherlock was willing to compromise. To consider it, at least. Depending. Where necessary. John’s libido was necessary. As it would also stimulate pair-bonding, Sherlock had no true grounds for complaint.
“My ‘objections’?” John repeated. “My objections are that you can’t do this. I’m tired of it!”
“You weren’t a minute ago.” It wasn’t an accusation. It was a calm reminder. The important thing was to remain calm. Sherlock’s inability had never bothered him before. “Why have you changed your mind?” John would tell him. Sherlock would fix it. They would resume.
“Why the fuck did I agree to this? That’s the real question. No,” he interrupted before Sherlock could start. “Don’t. I remember. Be quiet and just- Don’t.”
What else had Victor said? Some of it had even been useful. “Would you like some time alone?” There. That was one.
“No!” John shouted. Checked himself. “Yes!”
“Would you like me to leave the flat?”
John rubbed at his forehead with the heel of his palm. “Stop. Stop it.”
“Stop what?” It was difficult to think. Remaining calm took effort. Took blocking out the way John wanted distance between their bodies.
“Being reasonable. You are never reasonable, Sherlock, so why the hell are you starting now?”
“The situation seemed to call for it.” Don’t reach for him. Don’t reach. Don’t- It hurt not to reach.
All the tension in John’s body could be felt through his sleeve. Violin strings, tuned too high a pitch, ready to snap and hit him in the fingers or face. Adjust with caution, but adjust.
“We can alter the terms,” he said.
John didn’t pull his arm away. “I want out,” he said.
A razor, a quick slash down the arm. Hearing the tearing cloth, seeing the welling blood. Feeling nothing. No sting, no burn. Until later.
“We can alter the terms,” Sherlock repeated.
“Yes,” John said. “I want out. Those are my terms.”
Technically, that was only one term. “Unacceptable.”
“Too bad.” Shifting now, elbow remaining in Sherlock’s hand. Feet pointed toward him rather than away.
What to do, what angle, what tactic? Sexual bribery wouldn’t work here; he’d just done that. Emotional, what emotional difficulty could Sherlock resolve?
“You’re feeling underappreciated,” he said.
“‘Underappreciated’?” Did he have to keep parroting? It was so unnecessary. “What was your first clue?”
Three weeks ago. The look on John’s face after taking the tube home. The way he said you forgot me again as if he were resigned to it. As if Sherlock were expected to have adjusted to having someone forever with him. That John assumed his place was at Sherlock’s side and, moreover, believed that Sherlock knew this.
“I sent a correction to the Evening Standard,” he said instead.
Blink into a partial squint, head tilted in unconscious mimicry of deafness. “What?”
“I revised the offending paragraph,” he continued rather than repeat himself. “There will be a correction in this afternoon’s paper.”
For the first time, John appeared calm rather than simmering. “You sent an angry letter,” he said. The words were experimental. John often had to speak to adapt to ideas.
“Hardly. I sent a snide and condescending email.”
Turning his head away, John bit his lip. The corners twitched up anyway. “How snide and condescending?”
“Oh, extremely.” Tone and emphasis calculated. John would typically laugh.
He tucked his chin down instead, making a bid to hide his smile. His arm was relaxed in Sherlock’s hand. Good enough, if not fully satisfactory. “Can I read it?”
“If you like.” He dropped his hand with a lingering touch. A caress to the jumper, not the arm beneath. Less intrusive to John’s fragile mood. “I’ll forward it to you.”
“You know I’m not mad about the paper,” John said.
“I know. But it undid my efforts.” Which he was still annoyed about.
“Your-” He stopped in the midst of echoing. More than smile, he laughed. He giggled. He returned his back to the wall, possibly approaching hysterics.
“John?” Would it be bad to touch him? The physical impulse to smooth his hands over John’s arms and cradle him close, was that correct? He had too many urges to keep track of which ones were socially acceptable.
His body shaking itself free of tension, John sighed, then burst into giggles once more from merely looking at Sherlock. “You’re insane. You are, you are absolutely mad.” The giggles dissipated as he spoke, eyes soft. “You do realize that there are simpler ways of acknowledging someone than a handjob every other day. Saying ‘thanks’ every so often, that sort of thing.”
“Manners are boring.”
“And handjobs aren’t, right.” He laughed again.
Actually, they were. In and of itself, there was nothing terribly thrilling about having his hand on John’s penis. John’s reaction to the situation, however, was another matter entirely. It was bizarre, being eager to perform sexual acts on a person. But until John began taking the initiative, Sherlock would have to continue if he wanted to be able to touch John at all. Besides: “You were becoming sexually frustrated.”
A grin, a playful one. They were in the clear. “Natural condition of a bloke, isn’t it?” Rhetorical as well as inaccurate. No need for a direct response. “So, two birds with one stone, then? All of....” John gestured vaguely.
“Essentially.”
“It’s all right,” John said. “I get it now - you don’t need to keep doing it. At the risk of actually talking about feelings, that you would try is enough.”
He hadn’t realized he would like trying. That hadn’t been the way of it last time. “Are you sure?” He didn’t want to stop. He didn’t know how else to get to the cuddling. This was simple. Turn John into a loose-limbed heap. Migrate to doing so on a bed. Position self under loose-limbed heap. Success.
John would nuzzle in his sleep, he was sure of it. Sherlock would never need to come out and ask for it. He could maintain a reasonable bargaining position. Make them short naps, no REM cycle, and there wouldn’t even be nightmares.
“I’m sure,” John said. Slight hesitation. “It’s fine.”
John was resolved to give up the physical gratification. John disliked the idea of it, but his self-sacrificing tendencies promised moral gratification, which John believed he preferred. The moral gratification was Sherlock’s way in. Altering the scenario around a moral compass was comparable to changing the direction of that compass. John’s misplaced sense of chivalry needn’t remain a barrier. It was a matter of time and demonstration.
“All right,” Sherlock said.
“So we’re good?” John asked. “Back to normal.” He paused. “Our version of it, anyway.”
“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed. No more of this “wanting out” business. The pain of that thought, the knowledge of the near miss, provided an unanticipated degree of distress. The conflict had passed. Why was he upset? He still had John, if less of him than before. Ah. That was it. The feeling properly understood, he pushed it down. He would win him back in full, given time. Unlike Victor, John wouldn’t graduate and leave. John could be his for life. “I’ll forward you that email,” he said.
“Great.”
Now there was a smile worth waiting for.
John’s mood improved considerably. It took another case for his body language to quiet when he was next to Sherlock, but one was fortunately forthcoming. Just in time, too. He’d been going out of his mind with boredom once his John-access had been revoked.
Not that the insurance swindle was turning out to be particularly interesting. The only true benefit to the case had been John exhibiting his regained confidence. “My colleague,” Sherlock had been sure to say. Even, once, “My partner, Dr. John Watson.” Slipping it in, trying it out, and John smiling.
“Okay, I get it,” John murmured in a hall of the claims building, occupying the space between a pair of copy machines. “You don’t have to try so hard.”
Yes he did. If it meant John looking at him like that, of course he did. “Try what?” he asked, handing John the next sheet to scan.
“I don’t think the paper will make that mistake again.”
“It certainly won’t,” he agreed with confidence.
John bit his lip, poorly holding in a snicker. His amusement over the email had yet to fade.
They were almost done with the not-insignificant pile by the time Sherlock decided the question was worth asking. Or sidling up to, as the case was. “This isn’t what usually happens.”
“Hm? Printer clogged again?”
He rolled his eyes. “No.” Not this time, at least. “No, I meant.” He could do this. “This name in the paper thing.”
John mouthed but, mercifully, didn’t repeat aloud, “Name in the paper thing.” His eyebrows had drawn together. Sherlock wanted to put his finger on the crease, feel the change. He worked the scanner, hands moving without the guidance of his eyes. Up, remove, insert, down, button. Hum, print. Repeat.
“It’s unusual for anyone to want to be associated with me in the public eye,” he clarified. They might as well have been walking around hand in hand.
Up, remove, insert, down. Button. Hum, print. No repeat. John, considering him, tongue between his lips. The silence of the inactive copier was disproportionate to its previous noise.
John pulled a face in clear imitation. “Normal’s boring.”
All the details of the hall - the worn carpet, the dropped blue biro with chewed cap, the missing two leaves on the artificial shrub - were eliminated. Everything was John. Every minuscule line and feature: John. All else shut off. And in the moment before Sherlock noticed there was nothing else, he didn’t even mind.
Somehow, he recovered. The biro returned. The heat and hum of the copiers. The off-centre print of the papers in the rubbish bin. “That was awful.” Referring to the imitation, of course.
“I thought it was pretty good, actually.”
“Utter rubbish.”
John laughed and resumed copying the files. “Suit yourself.” Up, remove, insert, down, button. Hum. Print. “Besides, everyone likes being in the paper. Maybe this way, people will know who to hold at arrow-point in the future.” Up, remove, insert, down, button. “So, any theories yet?”
“Of course not.”
“What, really?”
“It’s never a good idea to theorize before possessing the facts, John. One inevitably begins twisting facts to suit the theory rather than theory to suit the facts.”
John considered this. Slowly, of course, but there was a certain pleasure in watching him. The play of his features, the give-and-take of eye contact. “You need at least a little theory. Otherwise, how do you know what direction to follow?”
“Adaptive theory, John. That involves being able to change direction when it’s shown to be the wrong one.”
He nodded. “All right, then. Makes sense. Hold on.” He reached inside his jacket for a small notebook. He patted the pocket. “Have you got a pen?”
“There’s one on the floor. Functional, I assume, only chewed on.”
John made a face but fetched the blue biro anyway. He scribbled in the notebook, then dropped the pen into the rubbish. It slid down the papers and tapped the metal side of the bin as he returned the notebook into his jacket.
“The things you put on your blog.”
“Oh, I’ve got a whole list of the pretentious things you say,” John told him with relish.
“What’s the best one?”
“I don’t know,” John said, and butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “You haven’t finished talking yet.”
Sherlock shot him a look. He tried to hold it. He did.
He gave in and smiled. “You’re going to need a bigger notebook.”
“And a few more pens,” John agreed.
Sherlock could do that. “Noted.” He gathered up their copies. “Ready for stage two?”
“I could use a spot of light reading,” he answered with a sigh. “But I could use dinner before that. Meet you at home?”
“Of course. Bring back spring rolls.”
“I didn’t-” The pause as John remembered who he was talking to. “Sure. Are you actually going to eat them?”
“Depending on how long this takes, possibly. Out of boredom, if nothing else.” He saw the waver as John weighed cost and waste. “Use my card.”
“Have I still got it?”
“No.” He’d pickpocketed it back. “Right back pocket.”
John’s tongue was stuck between his lips again. His eyes flickered down Sherlock’s body and returned, dark, to his face. “Your coat’s in the way.” Token protest only.
“Arms full of paper, John. Arms full of surprisingly heavy paper that I’m not making you carry.”
A chuckle there. John drawing closer, chest nudging the papers. His arm lifting heavy fabric, sliding against his shirt. Hand dipping down in a polite skim over his back. Fingers encountering billfold, exerting pressure. The intimacy of the position clearly wasn’t lost on John.
Sherlock sustained eye contact.
John did not. He pulled Sherlock’s card from his billfold before pocketing the plastic and placing the holder into Sherlock’s coat.
Clearly, Sherlock was being needier than John was comfortable with.
He smiled tightly and walked out in the lead.
John returned to 221b with two boxes of takeaway and a spring in his step.
“Five incidents so far,” Sherlock informed him upon his entry. “Not sure yet how they’re related. One claim might even be truthful - check into that one.” He thrust a handful of papers toward him.
“Right,” John said, effectively bounding forward to take them. His smile didn’t waver in the slightest.
“Something interesting happen at dinner?”
“Hm? Oh. No,” John answered, skimming the sheet. “Just thinking.” Takeaway on the table, he leaned onto the surface, right hand warming the wood.
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” A smile. Wide and content. “It’s been a good day. One of those days when everything pulls together. And I mean, everything. My job, my... investigative hobby.” John picked those words with care. Almost with as much care as he added, “My, my love life.”
He’d said it. He’d actually said it.
What was Sherlock supposed to do? He had no idea what to do.
“Mm.” Eyes on the spread across the table to keep his gaze from unnerving John. “You were saying about the investigative hobby?”
“Okay, okay. Getting to it.” There was no heat in the protest. Only warmth. That smile. Like stepping into daylight.
Maybe it was worth revolving around the sun after all.
Step Three
Rating: R
Wordcount: 3.9k this part, 23.6k overall
Warnings: Extremely dysfunctional behaviour, sexual acts, swearing. Spoiler: ramifications of past emotional abuse.
Beta: vyctori
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: Whatever it took, he was going to make this work.
Step One: Acclimatize Subject
Step Two: Reward Behaviour
“Sherlock!” Excited tone, feet pounding on the stairs: good news.
“John!” he responded, not getting up.
Cheeks flushed, grin spread wide, John bounded into the front room. On second thought, perhaps this was worth sitting up for. “We’re in the newspaper!”
“Oh.” Never mind then. He flopped back down.
“Sherlock, we’re in the paper.” He shook said item in his hand for emphasis.
“I heard you the first time.” Nevertheless, he moved his feet onto the floor, giving John a clear space to sit on the couch. “The Evening Standard is nothing to get excited about.” From John’s tube ride home from the pub, doubtlessly. He’d been doing that more often of late, going to the pub. Multiple pubs, trying all within walking distance before moving farther out. Sherlock had almost worried about that before remembering that having separate social lives was part of being settled into a relationship. Besides, John widening his knowledge of London was a worthwhile pursuit.
“Look, there’s a picture!” Sitting, John opened it to page five and angled it toward him.
“What.”
He sat up, snatching the paper from John’s hands. John leaned over his shoulder, breath smelling faintly of Carlsberg. It only worsened his mood. Sherlock hated beer, hated it particularly for making John’s mouth temporarily repulsive. He looked at the picture. It was horrible.
“This is horrible,” he said.
“I think it’s great,” John said, arm against his, head tilted.
“John, my picture is in the evening newspaper. It’s being spread throughout the Underground as we speak.” When had this been taken? He remembered the street, remembered speaking to Lestrade on that street. It was the reporter he didn’t remember. Had he not seen? Not cared? Deleted it? “The last thing I want is my face across all of London.” It would likely be in the Metro as well come morning.
After a small moment of consideration, John hummed. “Hard to pretend to be someone else when they’ve a photo of you, true. Still, I’m sure you’ll manage.”
“That’s-” That wasn’t it. A practical consideration, but that wasn’t it. “It’s annoying,” Sherlock settled for.
On the page, Lestrade listened as Sherlock gestured, speaking, John standing between them, eyes on his flatmate. Mid-explanation, Sherlock looked stupid with his mouth open, looked strange and preposterous with his cheekbones, even worse with the wind taking his hair that way. He hated looking stupid. Detested it. He wasn’t an idiot.
John laughed. “Yes, I’m sure having all of London fancying you will be hard to take.”
Sherlock wasn’t sure how to respond to that joke. He flopped his body back down on the couch, swinging his legs up across John’s lap. “Is the article any good, at least?” He doubted it.
John set the paper over his legs. “I haven’t read it all yet. If you’re asking about the ‘preservation of deductive reasoning,’ then it’s bad.”
He grunted, crossing his arms over his chest. Trying to enjoy the sight of pride and exuberance across that face, he watched John read. It improved his mood, slightly.
When John frowned, that mood collapsed.
“What?”
“‘Assistant’,” John read.
“Oh?”
“‘The consulting detective Sherlock Holmes and his assistant.’ I’m not even named! And I’m not-” He pointed at Sherlock as if his index finger were a piece of effective rhetoric. “I am not your assistant.”
“You assist. It’s applicable.”
“Being applicable doesn’t- I’m your colleague. Colleague, Sherlock, not assistant. I don’t care how many things I hand you. You’re not the Doctor, I’m not an assistant.”
“No,” he confirmed, admittedly a bit lost in John’s outburst. “You’re the doctor. I think that’s fairly well established by this point.”
“No, I-” He stopped. Inclined his head. “We went over this last week.” After receiving nothing more than a blank look, John shook his head. “Never mind.”
“You want recognition,” Sherlock summarized. “Not accolades, but acknowledgement of your role and participation in the case. You feel belittled, if not detached, on the reasoning that what is invaluable will be mentioned.”
John looked at him without turning his head, nose pointed to the paper, eyes aimed at the owner of the shins over his thighs.
“People are idiots,” Sherlock concluded.
“‘Invaluable’,” John repeated.
“Yes, John, I heard myself the first time.” Then, in a desperate attempt to avoid any further embarrassment, he turned his face against the couch cushion and pretended to be unconscious. Normally, he would have left outright, but he couldn’t.
John’s hand was warm on his knee.
The longer Sherlock was still, the more circles John’s thumb made into his trousers.
The only thing for it was to keep John trapped on the couch with him. Beyond using his legs to accomplish this, he had very little by way of a plan.
John, the wonder that he was, stayed anyway.
Sherlock finally got him standing up. On his feet, against the wall, trousers sliding down his thighs, John was a gasping mess. He looked sublime. He sounded even better. Scent and taste more fascinating than extraordinary, but that was no reason to remove his mouth from John’s neck.
John pawed at him in return, left hand eventually joining Sherlock’s active right. His right hand buried in Sherlock’s hair, firm, secure. Not painful. Holding him in place. His breath beside Sherlock’s ear: hot, shallow. Full of half-formed words, sounds like “harder” and “fuck” and “yes” and maybe, possibly, a name. Finally trusting himself - trusting Sherlock? - enough to speak.
There was a spot on the side of John’s neck, roughly a centimetre below his hairline, which made his hips buck. It was no sooner discovered than thoroughly tested.
“Oh god.” High, strained. Needing to be pinned, held up against the surface behind him. “Fuck.” Harder. “Sherlock.” Voice half-broken. Pulse accelerating further under his hand. Yes. “Wanna fuck. Fucking inside you, god, want that. Fuck you so good.”
“Of course,” he answered. His voice was as steady as the rhythm of his hand. What other answer was there? John wouldn’t hurt him. John had already proven he wouldn’t throw a fit at Sherlock’s lack of physical arousal. Soon, their next session, he would collapse, spent, inside and around Sherlock, more blanket than man. He would fall asleep and Sherlock could stare and prod at him as long as he wanted, free of repercussions. The idea of disturbing John, of waking him up and John only smiling.... He could hardly count on that, but it was a lovely fantasy. “I’d wondered when you would ask.”
John’s rhythm faltered.
Sherlock nipped that spot, worried it with his teeth, and John’s rhythm collapsed entirely into trembling thrusts. John’s hand around his was tight, tense. His semen, if left, would stick their fingers together. His other hand was fisted in Sherlock’s shirt. His eyes, uncovered, unfocused, were directed toward the ceiling. He breathed through his mouth.
“Did you...” he began slowly. “Did you just say-”
“Yes,” Sherlock interrupted, and kissed him.
John tensed, back straight against the wall.
Sherlock pulled back.
“No,” John said. His eyes stayed on Sherlock’s but he angled his face away. Wary. Protecting his mouth. He separated their hands. Grimaced at his own mess.
“What?” Sherlock asked.
“This is too much,” John said. “Congratulations: you have found my limit.”
“I’ll be sure to avoid it in the future.” As soon as he determined what exactly it had been. Was Sherlock not allowed to talk during? Was that it?
“No.” John pushed at him with his clean right hand. Not a shove, a sustained push. Distance, not violence. Breathing space. He pulled up his pants. Sherlock wanted to keep his hand up John’s jumper. Just because monitoring the man’s heartbeat couldn’t resolve everything didn’t mean it wasn’t comforting. “No more.”
“You don’t want to anymore?” Which was it, then, honesty or false promise in the heat of the moment? “What happened to wanting to fuck me?”
“Sherlock!” Anger, strong. Now what?
He had tissues in his pocket. Left-handed, he removed them. He used them. He handed them to John. John did the same, then chucked them to the floor, very hard. The crumpled tissue fell softly all the same. He bent, hauled up his trousers, and fastened them. His face was extremely red.
If Sherlock waited, the anger would stop. Or it would harden and settle. Similar to the aches Sherlock had from not holding him. He thought of anger where those aches were. Unacceptable.
“John,” he said, calm and attempting to calm, “if you tell me your objections, I will honour them.” He felt an echo in his voice. No, felt his voice was an echo. Where were those words from? Ah. University. Victor Trevor. Victor shoved onto the floor, biting down anger and holding his hands up in offering. Considerate, incompatible Victor. They’d made themselves fit together anyway. There was no reason he couldn’t do the same with John.
Sherlock was willing to compromise. To consider it, at least. Depending. Where necessary. John’s libido was necessary. As it would also stimulate pair-bonding, Sherlock had no true grounds for complaint.
“My ‘objections’?” John repeated. “My objections are that you can’t do this. I’m tired of it!”
“You weren’t a minute ago.” It wasn’t an accusation. It was a calm reminder. The important thing was to remain calm. Sherlock’s inability had never bothered him before. “Why have you changed your mind?” John would tell him. Sherlock would fix it. They would resume.
“Why the fuck did I agree to this? That’s the real question. No,” he interrupted before Sherlock could start. “Don’t. I remember. Be quiet and just- Don’t.”
What else had Victor said? Some of it had even been useful. “Would you like some time alone?” There. That was one.
“No!” John shouted. Checked himself. “Yes!”
“Would you like me to leave the flat?”
John rubbed at his forehead with the heel of his palm. “Stop. Stop it.”
“Stop what?” It was difficult to think. Remaining calm took effort. Took blocking out the way John wanted distance between their bodies.
“Being reasonable. You are never reasonable, Sherlock, so why the hell are you starting now?”
“The situation seemed to call for it.” Don’t reach for him. Don’t reach. Don’t- It hurt not to reach.
All the tension in John’s body could be felt through his sleeve. Violin strings, tuned too high a pitch, ready to snap and hit him in the fingers or face. Adjust with caution, but adjust.
“We can alter the terms,” he said.
John didn’t pull his arm away. “I want out,” he said.
A razor, a quick slash down the arm. Hearing the tearing cloth, seeing the welling blood. Feeling nothing. No sting, no burn. Until later.
“We can alter the terms,” Sherlock repeated.
“Yes,” John said. “I want out. Those are my terms.”
Technically, that was only one term. “Unacceptable.”
“Too bad.” Shifting now, elbow remaining in Sherlock’s hand. Feet pointed toward him rather than away.
What to do, what angle, what tactic? Sexual bribery wouldn’t work here; he’d just done that. Emotional, what emotional difficulty could Sherlock resolve?
“You’re feeling underappreciated,” he said.
“‘Underappreciated’?” Did he have to keep parroting? It was so unnecessary. “What was your first clue?”
Three weeks ago. The look on John’s face after taking the tube home. The way he said you forgot me again as if he were resigned to it. As if Sherlock were expected to have adjusted to having someone forever with him. That John assumed his place was at Sherlock’s side and, moreover, believed that Sherlock knew this.
“I sent a correction to the Evening Standard,” he said instead.
Blink into a partial squint, head tilted in unconscious mimicry of deafness. “What?”
“I revised the offending paragraph,” he continued rather than repeat himself. “There will be a correction in this afternoon’s paper.”
For the first time, John appeared calm rather than simmering. “You sent an angry letter,” he said. The words were experimental. John often had to speak to adapt to ideas.
“Hardly. I sent a snide and condescending email.”
Turning his head away, John bit his lip. The corners twitched up anyway. “How snide and condescending?”
“Oh, extremely.” Tone and emphasis calculated. John would typically laugh.
He tucked his chin down instead, making a bid to hide his smile. His arm was relaxed in Sherlock’s hand. Good enough, if not fully satisfactory. “Can I read it?”
“If you like.” He dropped his hand with a lingering touch. A caress to the jumper, not the arm beneath. Less intrusive to John’s fragile mood. “I’ll forward it to you.”
“You know I’m not mad about the paper,” John said.
“I know. But it undid my efforts.” Which he was still annoyed about.
“Your-” He stopped in the midst of echoing. More than smile, he laughed. He giggled. He returned his back to the wall, possibly approaching hysterics.
“John?” Would it be bad to touch him? The physical impulse to smooth his hands over John’s arms and cradle him close, was that correct? He had too many urges to keep track of which ones were socially acceptable.
His body shaking itself free of tension, John sighed, then burst into giggles once more from merely looking at Sherlock. “You’re insane. You are, you are absolutely mad.” The giggles dissipated as he spoke, eyes soft. “You do realize that there are simpler ways of acknowledging someone than a handjob every other day. Saying ‘thanks’ every so often, that sort of thing.”
“Manners are boring.”
“And handjobs aren’t, right.” He laughed again.
Actually, they were. In and of itself, there was nothing terribly thrilling about having his hand on John’s penis. John’s reaction to the situation, however, was another matter entirely. It was bizarre, being eager to perform sexual acts on a person. But until John began taking the initiative, Sherlock would have to continue if he wanted to be able to touch John at all. Besides: “You were becoming sexually frustrated.”
A grin, a playful one. They were in the clear. “Natural condition of a bloke, isn’t it?” Rhetorical as well as inaccurate. No need for a direct response. “So, two birds with one stone, then? All of....” John gestured vaguely.
“Essentially.”
“It’s all right,” John said. “I get it now - you don’t need to keep doing it. At the risk of actually talking about feelings, that you would try is enough.”
He hadn’t realized he would like trying. That hadn’t been the way of it last time. “Are you sure?” He didn’t want to stop. He didn’t know how else to get to the cuddling. This was simple. Turn John into a loose-limbed heap. Migrate to doing so on a bed. Position self under loose-limbed heap. Success.
John would nuzzle in his sleep, he was sure of it. Sherlock would never need to come out and ask for it. He could maintain a reasonable bargaining position. Make them short naps, no REM cycle, and there wouldn’t even be nightmares.
“I’m sure,” John said. Slight hesitation. “It’s fine.”
John was resolved to give up the physical gratification. John disliked the idea of it, but his self-sacrificing tendencies promised moral gratification, which John believed he preferred. The moral gratification was Sherlock’s way in. Altering the scenario around a moral compass was comparable to changing the direction of that compass. John’s misplaced sense of chivalry needn’t remain a barrier. It was a matter of time and demonstration.
“All right,” Sherlock said.
“So we’re good?” John asked. “Back to normal.” He paused. “Our version of it, anyway.”
“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed. No more of this “wanting out” business. The pain of that thought, the knowledge of the near miss, provided an unanticipated degree of distress. The conflict had passed. Why was he upset? He still had John, if less of him than before. Ah. That was it. The feeling properly understood, he pushed it down. He would win him back in full, given time. Unlike Victor, John wouldn’t graduate and leave. John could be his for life. “I’ll forward you that email,” he said.
“Great.”
Now there was a smile worth waiting for.
John’s mood improved considerably. It took another case for his body language to quiet when he was next to Sherlock, but one was fortunately forthcoming. Just in time, too. He’d been going out of his mind with boredom once his John-access had been revoked.
Not that the insurance swindle was turning out to be particularly interesting. The only true benefit to the case had been John exhibiting his regained confidence. “My colleague,” Sherlock had been sure to say. Even, once, “My partner, Dr. John Watson.” Slipping it in, trying it out, and John smiling.
“Okay, I get it,” John murmured in a hall of the claims building, occupying the space between a pair of copy machines. “You don’t have to try so hard.”
Yes he did. If it meant John looking at him like that, of course he did. “Try what?” he asked, handing John the next sheet to scan.
“I don’t think the paper will make that mistake again.”
“It certainly won’t,” he agreed with confidence.
John bit his lip, poorly holding in a snicker. His amusement over the email had yet to fade.
They were almost done with the not-insignificant pile by the time Sherlock decided the question was worth asking. Or sidling up to, as the case was. “This isn’t what usually happens.”
“Hm? Printer clogged again?”
He rolled his eyes. “No.” Not this time, at least. “No, I meant.” He could do this. “This name in the paper thing.”
John mouthed but, mercifully, didn’t repeat aloud, “Name in the paper thing.” His eyebrows had drawn together. Sherlock wanted to put his finger on the crease, feel the change. He worked the scanner, hands moving without the guidance of his eyes. Up, remove, insert, down, button. Hum, print. Repeat.
“It’s unusual for anyone to want to be associated with me in the public eye,” he clarified. They might as well have been walking around hand in hand.
Up, remove, insert, down. Button. Hum, print. No repeat. John, considering him, tongue between his lips. The silence of the inactive copier was disproportionate to its previous noise.
John pulled a face in clear imitation. “Normal’s boring.”
All the details of the hall - the worn carpet, the dropped blue biro with chewed cap, the missing two leaves on the artificial shrub - were eliminated. Everything was John. Every minuscule line and feature: John. All else shut off. And in the moment before Sherlock noticed there was nothing else, he didn’t even mind.
Somehow, he recovered. The biro returned. The heat and hum of the copiers. The off-centre print of the papers in the rubbish bin. “That was awful.” Referring to the imitation, of course.
“I thought it was pretty good, actually.”
“Utter rubbish.”
John laughed and resumed copying the files. “Suit yourself.” Up, remove, insert, down, button. Hum. Print. “Besides, everyone likes being in the paper. Maybe this way, people will know who to hold at arrow-point in the future.” Up, remove, insert, down, button. “So, any theories yet?”
“Of course not.”
“What, really?”
“It’s never a good idea to theorize before possessing the facts, John. One inevitably begins twisting facts to suit the theory rather than theory to suit the facts.”
John considered this. Slowly, of course, but there was a certain pleasure in watching him. The play of his features, the give-and-take of eye contact. “You need at least a little theory. Otherwise, how do you know what direction to follow?”
“Adaptive theory, John. That involves being able to change direction when it’s shown to be the wrong one.”
He nodded. “All right, then. Makes sense. Hold on.” He reached inside his jacket for a small notebook. He patted the pocket. “Have you got a pen?”
“There’s one on the floor. Functional, I assume, only chewed on.”
John made a face but fetched the blue biro anyway. He scribbled in the notebook, then dropped the pen into the rubbish. It slid down the papers and tapped the metal side of the bin as he returned the notebook into his jacket.
“The things you put on your blog.”
“Oh, I’ve got a whole list of the pretentious things you say,” John told him with relish.
“What’s the best one?”
“I don’t know,” John said, and butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “You haven’t finished talking yet.”
Sherlock shot him a look. He tried to hold it. He did.
He gave in and smiled. “You’re going to need a bigger notebook.”
“And a few more pens,” John agreed.
Sherlock could do that. “Noted.” He gathered up their copies. “Ready for stage two?”
“I could use a spot of light reading,” he answered with a sigh. “But I could use dinner before that. Meet you at home?”
“Of course. Bring back spring rolls.”
“I didn’t-” The pause as John remembered who he was talking to. “Sure. Are you actually going to eat them?”
“Depending on how long this takes, possibly. Out of boredom, if nothing else.” He saw the waver as John weighed cost and waste. “Use my card.”
“Have I still got it?”
“No.” He’d pickpocketed it back. “Right back pocket.”
John’s tongue was stuck between his lips again. His eyes flickered down Sherlock’s body and returned, dark, to his face. “Your coat’s in the way.” Token protest only.
“Arms full of paper, John. Arms full of surprisingly heavy paper that I’m not making you carry.”
A chuckle there. John drawing closer, chest nudging the papers. His arm lifting heavy fabric, sliding against his shirt. Hand dipping down in a polite skim over his back. Fingers encountering billfold, exerting pressure. The intimacy of the position clearly wasn’t lost on John.
Sherlock sustained eye contact.
John did not. He pulled Sherlock’s card from his billfold before pocketing the plastic and placing the holder into Sherlock’s coat.
Clearly, Sherlock was being needier than John was comfortable with.
He smiled tightly and walked out in the lead.
John returned to 221b with two boxes of takeaway and a spring in his step.
“Five incidents so far,” Sherlock informed him upon his entry. “Not sure yet how they’re related. One claim might even be truthful - check into that one.” He thrust a handful of papers toward him.
“Right,” John said, effectively bounding forward to take them. His smile didn’t waver in the slightest.
“Something interesting happen at dinner?”
“Hm? Oh. No,” John answered, skimming the sheet. “Just thinking.” Takeaway on the table, he leaned onto the surface, right hand warming the wood.
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” A smile. Wide and content. “It’s been a good day. One of those days when everything pulls together. And I mean, everything. My job, my... investigative hobby.” John picked those words with care. Almost with as much care as he added, “My, my love life.”
He’d said it. He’d actually said it.
What was Sherlock supposed to do? He had no idea what to do.
“Mm.” Eyes on the spread across the table to keep his gaze from unnerving John. “You were saying about the investigative hobby?”
“Okay, okay. Getting to it.” There was no heat in the protest. Only warmth. That smile. Like stepping into daylight.
Maybe it was worth revolving around the sun after all.
Step Three