New Fic: A Study in Sexuality - 1/2
Title: A Study in Sexuality
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: R/NC17
Word Count: Approx 11,000
Pairings: Sherlock/John, Sherlock/OC, John/Sarah
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes owned by ACD, Sherlock created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss
Summary: What if John is straight, totally straight, so straight that he’d never even consider another man? What would happen if he found himself falling for Sherlock?
Warnings: Angst, slash, sexual moments, one or two swear words
Author Note: There are a number of stories about what would happen with a asexual!Sherlock/John relationship, but very few that really deal with Sherlock/straight!John. Most Sherlock/John stories make John bi, bi-curious, closeted, repressed or unaware - nothing wrong with that. The thought then struck me, what would happen if John really was straight - yes, really straight - and yet still fell for Sherlock? What would that do to him?
This is not meant as some sort of political statement, it’s not criticism and it’s not really a study in sexuality. This story is not meant to be some kind of answer, it is not meant to be that simple, it just is what it is.
This was also supposed to be a short distraction from all the other stuff I’m working on. Short? Ha.
Thanks to trillsabells for the beta, suggestions and everything else. All other mistakes are mine.
*-*-*
A Study in Sexuality
*-*-*
He wasn’t gay.
*-*-*
Harry came out while he was away at university. He might not have been there but he heard all about it. He wasn’t surprised, just as he hadn’t been surprised when he’d found her throwing up in the toilet, or when she’d cut her hair short and dyed it blue, or when she’d come home with a tattoo on her arm. Harry had always been the more flamboyant one, the one who liked to attract and court attention. She liked to make a statement.
He was more content to fade into the background, to play second fiddle and avoid the fireworks.
Neither minded the role they played and each left the other alone to perfect it.
*-*-*
It was fine. It was all fine.
*-*-*
He liked women. He liked women a lot. He wasn’t perhaps as much of a playboy as some of his army buddies, but he was no slouch.
He liked breasts. He liked the way they looked, the way they felt, the way they tasted.
He liked legs as well but he would consider himself a breast man.
Size wasn’t as much an issue, he just liked them for what they were; breasts. He figured that made him a typical heterosexual male.
*-*-*
He got the impression that Sherlock wasn’t interested in anyone. Certainly there was no sign that he was attracted to anyone. He ignored it when men gave him the once over and seemed confused when women tried to talk to him.
He had never met someone who was asexual before. He’d read a little about it and from what he could tell Sherlock fulfilled many of the criteria. It honestly didn’t matter though. Sherlock had made it perfectly clear that he preferred the mental to the physical, the exhilaration of the chase to the rush of orgasm.
It was fine. It was all fine.
*-*-*
“Who was that?”
“Old friend.”
“Friend?”
*-*-*
He had never ever considered that he might be anything but straight. Even as a teenager he hadn’t had a crush on any of his male friends, even fleetingly. He liked girls, sometimes he even liked the same girl his sister did, but that was just one of the odd things that happened in their family.
Being in the army was no different. Even after long stretches with only other men for company, he never even considered anything else. He saw men naked all the time. He was a doctor and a soldier. He knew what men looked like, even men at their peak physical health. It never did anything for him. The male form was crude and somewhat silly. He preferred the more compact and aesthetically pleasing female form.
*-*-*
They were in the main room.
He’d just come back from Sarah’s, opened the door and there they were; kissing.
He froze on the spot.
He had seen two men kiss before, of course he had, but this was different, this was Sherlock.
The sight brought a bad taste to his mouth.
It was hardly the most outrageous kiss.
The two men were simply standing still, the only real movement being their mouths. Sherlock was jacketless and pale against his burgundy shirt, his hands lightly splayed on the stranger’s hips, not grasping or holding, simply resting. The other man had one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, the other was gently cradling Sherlock’s cheek, his thumb gently stroking.
Their lips were pressed together but parted, their eyes closed as their tongues moved lazily around. There was no urgency, no embarrassment, just two men taking the moment to enjoy each other.
A strange sensation uncurled in his stomach.
Then Sherlock moaned, just softly, and the sensation intensified.
Turning he fled.
*-*-*
Married to the job?
Looked like he was having an affair.
*-*-*
He dreamed about Sherlock, about the kiss, about the hands, everything.
He dreamed he was the one being kissed. He dreamed he was the one softly caressing Sherlock’s cheek. He dreamed he was the one who was later carefully pressed against a wall while warm hands stroked under his clothing and unbuckled his jeans.
The first time he woke up horrified.
The second time he woke up panting.
The third time he woke up achingly hard.
*-*-*
Sarah was pretty, she was intelligent, and she was nice. She was everything he looked for in a potential partner. As a bonus she also seemed to like him and was not put off by his complex friendship with Sherlock. He didn’t think many women would understand that and even fewer would want to consider seeing him again after his semi-demented flatmate turned up on their first date and then almost got them killed.
Things were going rather well.
The speed of their relationship quickened after the Moriarty incident and the sex was… well it was nice, very nice indeed.
Then he saw Sherlock kissing.
*-*-*
He waited until he heard the door shut. Then he waited for another ten minutes. Then he found his legs weren’t cooperating so he waited longer.
Half an hour later he made it back downstairs. Sherlock was alone, still jacketless, sat cross-legged on his chair reading a book. Only the slight swelling of his lips suggested there was anything amiss.
“He’s gone then?” he said trying to sound as casual as possible and knowing he was failing drastically.
“Evidentially,” Sherlock said blandly turning over the page of his book with a sharp flick of his wrist.
His eyes were drawn to the long fingers, the narrow, pale wrist and he swallowed.
“Who was that?”
“Old friend.”
He made it to his own chair before his leg started to psychosomatically ache. He rubbed at it.
“Friend?”
“Lover.”
The ache worsened. He clenched his hand into a fist.
“Try not to look so surprised. Just because I’m not currently pursuing a relationship doesn’t mean I haven’t in the past.”
Oh.
“So you are….”
“No.”
He blinked, his hand pausing in mid flex. “Sorry?”
“You were about to ask me if I’m gay,” Sherlock said without even glancing up. “I thought I would save you the awkward trouble.”
“Right.” He licked his lips. “So you’re….”
“No.”
Sherlock turned another page.
He frowned. “You don’t even know what I was about to ask.”
“You were about to ask if I’m therefore either bisexual or bi-curious. A logical question considering what you know of me. You did, after all, just walk in on me kissing a man I have revealed to have been a former lover. Again, I just thought I’d save you the trouble.”
“Right,” he said again, mainly for a lack of anything else to say.
“Labels, John,” Sherlock said glancing up briefly and then looking back at his book. “They’re just labels, nothing more.”
The conversation ended and he was no closer to understanding his flatmate than he had been before it had started.
He went to make tea and tried not to think of Sherlock as having a sexuality at all.
*-*-*
He had gay friends. That is to say, he knew some gay people and his sister was a lesbian. The army was not exactly the most conducive place for meeting gay people although it was far more open than it had been. He certainly wouldn’t say he was homophobic in any way and nor would he qualify that sentence with stating that his sister was gay. To him it was fine, it was all fine. What other people chose to do or share their bed with was no business of his. It was just, personally, the idea of kissing another man seemed so wrong to him, but that was because he was straight.
He had never wanted to or even thought about kissing another man.
*-*-*
“You’re avoiding me.”
“Of course I’m not.”
“And you’ve been acting oddly ever since you caught me kissing.”
“No, I….”
“When we first met you told me it was fine, it was all fine. Were you lying?”
*-*-*
His dreams didn’t just stop at kissing.
Somehow without his knowledge or his consent they started to go further. Hands became involved. Long hands with elegant and talented fingers, fingers that stroked, that touched, that danced, fingers that teased and sought out places he had never known existed. It felt so good and yet at the same time was so terribly, terribly bad.
*-*-*
“I wish I knew how to quit you.”
*-*-*
Living with Sherlock was like living with a whirl wind. It could sweep you up and take you on the journey of your life, or it could destroy you in a matter of seconds. It was like a heady rush. His energy, his passion, his intensity, the way he would move with so much precision and control. So much movement, so much concentration and then that moment when he would stop and look at you, really look at you, because you’d done something, because you’d said something, because you’d worked something out and suddenly, for a brief moment, his entire attention was on you and he’d look at you with an expression of fondness, of pride and of unabashed affection.
There was nothing better than that moment, but like all drugs he is starting to become addicted.
He lived for those moments.
*-*-*
“I’ll get a candle for the table. It’s more romantic.”
“I’m not his date!”
*-*-*
The film was Sarah’s choice. He hadn’t seen it before but he wondered what it was that made her think he might enjoy a movie about gay cowboys.
He didn’t protest. After their latest shag he was amenable to nearly anything. It did afford him the opportunity for snuggling on the sofa. She was warm and soft and her breasts pressed against him in a delightful way.
His mobile didn’t chime until they were most the way through the movie.
Sarah said nothing as he shifted to read it.
Double homicide.
Need you.
SH
He had a choice of course. That was the beauty of texts, they could be ignored. He was under no obligation to simply drop everything and go. This was his personal time, his time with Sarah, his date. Sherlock might complain and sulk but he would understand, or at least he would accept it and move on. He could quite easily stay here in the comfortable warmth and be more than able to justify it. After all, a text was just a text.
And yet all three of them knew he would not be able to ignore it.
Sarah barely protested when he pressed a kiss to her forehead and whispered his apology. Grabbing his jacket the last thing he heard was from the film.
“I wish I knew how to quit you.”
He stepped out into the night.
*-*-*
It was cool enough for Sherlock to be back wearing that coat again. It billowed as he walked and swirled when he turned.
He wasn’t one for noticing fashion or clothing but Sherlock’s coat was hard to miss. It was part of the man; one part magician’s cloak as he twirled around the crime scene dazzling with his brilliance, plucking rabbits from thin air; one part super hero’s cape, flapping behind him as he took on the world.
There were times when he could not help but stare, as the coat moved with such ease and elegance, bold and defined, out of his class and out of his reach.
*-*-*
“You’ve stopped correcting them.”
“Hmm, what?”
“People who presume we’re a couple. You’ve stopped telling them otherwise.”
“Have I?”
“You know you have. I’m just curious as to why.”
“Well… ahm… maybe it’s because it’s pointless. People will presume what they want to presume.”
“…”
“I don’t see you correcting them either.”
“No… Look, across the street, that’s him. Quick, before he gets away.”
*-*-*
There are times when Sherlock looked at him when he felt as if he had been stripped bare and x-rayed to the bone. It felt as if there was nothing that Sherlock didn’t know about him, no thought that passed through his head that Sherlock hadn’t previous considered, no action he could take that Sherlock hadn’t pre-determined.
There are times when he felt naked and small, when his essence could be reduced to a withering glare or a pitiful look. He felt like a sapling engulfed by the shadow of Sherlock’s brilliance, struggling to stay alive in a world that contains such a person.
There are times when Sherlock looked at him like he was the most important person in the world.
Those times make everything else worthwhile.
*-*-*
He had been in love before.
Before Sherlock, before Afghanistan, before the army, he had loved a woman and he had wanted to marry her. He joined the army instead. It was perhaps one of the few things Sherlock did not know about him, or at least he thought he didn’t know, it was hard to be sure sometimes.
One thing was for certain though, he knew what love felt like.
*-*-*
The dreams didn’t stop. They weren’t every night but they still continued. Sherlock kissing, Sherlock kissing him. Sherlock and sex, sex and Sherlock. Hands and mouths and fingers and tongues. Stroking and licking and fondling and tasting.
He woke up with a start, with queasiness in his stomach and a hard-on that refused to go away. Screwing his eyes closed he twisted his head away as if trying to deny what he had seen. One hand fisted to his mouth, the other down his pyjamas bottoms.
It was Sarah’s name he groaned when he spilled across his hand… at least he believed it was.
*-*-*
Sherlock’s neck was long and pale, his fingers elegant and agile, his body slim but sure. He moved with the grace of a dancer, the steel of a panther, and the command of a world leader. His eyes were a silver blue but changed colour depending upon his mood and clothing. He could pretend to be anyone he wanted to be, had a tongue as sharp as his mind, but his true smile was as brilliant as the sun.
He also barely missed a thing.
“You’re avoiding me.”
Yes. Yes, he was avoiding him, because the less he saw Sherlock the less likely it was that he would dream about him.
“Of course I’m not.”
Me thinks the lady protests too much.
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “And you’ve been acting oddly ever since you caught me kissing.”
Hands resting on hips, a thumb stroking a cheek, lips moving and tongues meeting. He had no way of preventing the slight blush.
“No, I….”
A tip of the head, an apprising look. “When we first met you told me it was fine, it was all fine.” A small frown. “Were you lying?”
Harry and Clara. Gary from med school and his partner Rob.
“No. No, of course not. I told you, girlfriend, boyfriend, no one at all, its all fine.”
“So why are you…?”
“I’m not avoiding you, Sherlock! I’ve just been busy, that’s all.”
Busy doing anything that didn’t involve spending as much time with Sherlock because the more time he spent, the more he noticed.
*-*-*
“How’s Sarah?”
“Sarah’s fine, she’s good.”
“And Sherlock?”
“He’s… uh, yeah, he’s good too.”
“Then why are you talking to me?”
*-*-*
He watched in silence as Sherlock flirted his way to the information they needed. It was a brilliant performance, one of his best, truly consummate. Within minutes the other man was eating out of Sherlock’s hands, hanging onto his every word.
It made his stomach churn.
His fist tightened as they walked out again, his teeth clenched in memory of the smile, the playful gaze and the lingering looks. It had been the wink that had done it in the end.
“Problem?”
Oh yes.
“You just led him on.” His tone was brisk and sharp.
Sherlock was unrepentant. “I just got the name of our key suspect.”
“You made him think you might call him.”
“His face is aesthetically pleasing, his mind is not as dull as most and from his clothing he is obviously unattached, calling him is an option not outside the realm of possibility.”
That he had not been expecting.
*-*-*
“Things can’t go on like this.”
“For god’s sake, Sherlock.”
*-*-*
He had been nineteen when he’d had his heart broken. They had been together for just five months but it had been deep, passionate and in his eyes at least, perfect.
She left him.
Three weeks later he found out she was dating someone else.
He had thrown himself into his studies and finished the year with the third highest grades. He never did find out the medical cure for a broken heart.
*-*-*
By the time he ended up talking to Harry he knew his relationship with Sarah was in trouble.
Harry was the last person he went to for relationship advice, but it turned out that since finishing his therapy he had no one else to talk to. Not that he had set out to talk to her about his relationship but he had forgotten how persistent she could be when she wanted, and how well she knew him.
He should have known it would be a mistake to agree to meet for a catch up.
“Sarah’s fine, she’s good.”
He shifted in his seat and fought the impulse to clear his throat as Harry’s eyes narrowed.
“And Sherlock?” she asked sipping her surprisingly alcoholic free drink.
“He’s… uh, yeah, he’s good too.”
Harry raised an eyebrow and sank back in her chair. “Then why are you talking to me?”
Because his life was complicated and in trouble and she was the only person he could think of whose own life was more so than his.
Not that he wanted to talk about it mind.
*-*-*
Sherlock almost died… again.
In fact it was so close that for a split second he had thought that perhaps he had been too late, that this time….
It did not bear thinking about.
Sherlock’s skin had felt so cold when they had found him, locked as he had been in the meat storage freezer. Even Lestrade’s expression had tightened before making sure an ambulance was ordered.
Sherlock always looked pale, but in the blue glow of the freezer light he looked virtually translucent.
He was suffered from moderate hypothermia, his body shaking in an attempt to maintain some heat. The fight previous to him having been dumped there had left him dazed and injured, unable to do anything physical to conserve his body heat. He was barely conscious when they found him but had still managed a small smile when he realised he was alive.
“John… knew you’d find me.”
The words were enough.
*-*-*
The thing with Sarah was good, it was better than good actually, it was bloody brilliant, but he wasn’t in love with her. It was comfortable and nice, the sex was good and she made him laugh and want to be a better person, but it simply wasn’t enough.
The problem was she knew it too.
They both lost their tempers as everything neither had been saying finally all came out.
“I care for you, John, and I know you feel the same for me as well, but it’s not enough. Things can’t go on like this.”
“For god’s sake, Sherlock.”
The words slipped out of his mouth before he had a chance to censor them. It wasn’t even as if he had been distracted or anything. He had realised his mistake immediately but it was already too late.
“Sarah… I mean… shit. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
The problem was she was so understanding. She had always been so understanding, never moaning when he abandoned her yet again to run round the city with his demanding sociopathic flatmate. This was just one more thing for him to feel guilty about.
“I can’t compete with him. I don’t know what it is between the two of you but you’re always going to put him first. I thought I was alright with that, but… I’m sorry, John, but this is over.”
*-*-*
The dreams changed but they still haunted him. Sherlock’s touch became cold. His lips are blue, like his eyes, and he ached to warm them with his own. But the words from the lips are mocking, taunting him, and the fingers down his back make him shiver.
There was no arousal now, just the cold, hard burn of something deeper.
*-*-*
“She broke up with you then.”
Sherlock was lying on the sofa when he got in, jacketless and casual, his legs crossed at his ankles and a book in his hands.
He stops in the door way, his hands clenching into fists.
“Yes. Yes, she did.”
He suddenly feels angry and tired.
“I… I don’t want to talk about it, Sherlock.”
Sherlock looked at him but shut his mouth. Then he returned to his book. “Mrs Hudson dropped in some cookies while you were out and Lestrade called to say they have finally arrested the third Macfarlane brother.”
“Oh, good. That’s good.”
“Quite. I also believe it’s your turn to pick the movie for tonight. Chinese or Indian? I’ll order.”
“Uh, Indian.”
“Good. Usual I take it? If you want a shower first there’s plenty of hot water and the gold fish are no longer in the sink.”
He stood and blinked for a moment wondering if somehow he had wandered into some kind of alternative dimension.
“Oh… thanks.”
He takes the shower, standing under the warm spray for much longer than he normally would. When he returned to the main room he discovered the food already waiting for him, still piping hot, and Casino Royale in the machine ready to go.
*-*-*
“Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and I think one day, if we’re very, very lucky, he might even be a good one.”
*-*-*
He looked up porn on the internet. He wiped the history afterwards but suspected Sherlock knew what he’s doing anyway.
Some of the stuff he stumbled upon included male on male gay action. He frowned when he saw it and part of him was curious enough to not switch it off straight away. The men were handsome, he supposed, certainly well built, not that different from the guys in the diet coke adverts. They looked like men though, all silly and dangly.
It did nothing for him except remind him that he does not find the male body even remotely attractive.
He wondered what exactly that meant.
*-*-*
It was impossible not to watch Sherlock when he was working his magic. He had forgotten how heady the rush could be, when his flatmate’s entire attention was on him, when he graced him with that smile.
“Twenty quid says they’re shagging,” he overheard an officer say while Sherlock pranced around the crime scene like a child in a candy store.
He wanted to go over and punch the man’s face in for saying such a thing, because of course they’re not shagging. He’s not gay for one and Sherlock is far from interested, and suggesting otherwise was to cheapen what they did have.
He didn’t though, just crossed his arms and gritted his teeth until Sherlock called him over for a second opinion and smiled that smile when he pointed out that if this was a theft then why steal her ring and watch but leave her mobile and necklace. In that moment there is just the two of them and the rest of the world had disappeared.
*-*-*
“John, would you like me to kiss you?”
Curious, probing eyes. Pale blue with a thin green band.
“I’m… I’m not gay.”
Slightly parted lips. Shapely and enticing.
“I know.”
*-*-*
The first day they met he found himself agreeing to see a flat together. The second day he visited a crime scene, was kidnapped and then killed a man. The third day he moved all his belongings - meagre as they were - into his new home and his life with Sherlock Holmes had begun.
Nothing was simple after that.
*-*-*
The young man could barely keep his hands to himself and his eyes off Sherlock’s arse. In response it was all he could do to keep his arms crossed and his temper in check.
With one cold observation, Sherlock put the man in is place. It was brutal and precise, like a knife through the heart.
The man backed away clearly hurt and confused. It was obvious he had not been expecting such a harsh put down.
In any other situation he would have felt sorry for him.
He didn’t.
*-*-*
Lestrade asked him why he did it, why he would risk his life to take a bullet for Sherlock. He couldn’t really answer because it was just something he had done and it was something that he would do again.
He had been plagued by that question again when he came to writing it up on his blog and realised that it was less a question of why and more a matter of because.
‘It was worth it’ he wrote. ‘It was worth every pain, every risk, every wound. People say he has no heart, a sociopath who cares for no-one. He does little to dispel this myth, but they’re wrong because for a moment I saw the fear in his eyes, the shaking of his lips. For a moment the impassive mask cracked and I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as a great mind… and it was aimed at me.’
His hands shook as he typed and at the last line he had to sit back and stare.
He deleted the entry.
*-*-*
He wasn’t gay but he was in love with his best friend - his best male friend. He had almost managed to convince himself that his friend cared for him back.
Everything was so screwed up. He wasn’t gay, he wasn’t attracted to men, he wasn’t even attracted to Sherlock, not like the way he had been attracted to Sarah for instance, but even so, there was something about the other man that drew him in, that had grabbed him from the start and refused to let go.
It was like a form of obsession. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for Sherlock. There was little he hadn’t already done. He would follow the man to the end of the world and beyond. Sherlock was the most important person in his life and he wanted to be the most important in Sherlock’s. There was no where he wanted to be more. The mere idea of anyone else touching Sherlock, kissing Sherlock, having sex with Sherlock, brought bile to his mouth.
It was obsessive. It was possessive.
It was love.
*-*-*
“Are you aware of how possessive you were acting back there?”
They had finished the case - the aunt had had the jewels - and returned to Baker Street late in the evening, five hours after they had left.
He had barely managed to slip his coat off before Sherlock aimed the question at him.
“Hmm, sorry?”
“Possessive. Jealous. Overprotective. From the tightness of your jaw, the furrowing of your brow, the way your fists had been clenched and the number of times you had rubbed your leg, I deduced you would have lost your temper within three minutes, saying something in public that you would come to regret. I thought I would save you the future embarrassment and removed him from our presence. What I am more curious about is whether you were aware of what you were doing?”
It was true, it was all true. Of course it was, this was Sherlock bloody Holmes who was saying it, but that didn’t change the fact that he had wanted to punch the man and shout “mine” at the top of his lungs.
Possessive. God it was so true.
“I…” he started but he lost what other words there might have been.
Sherlock tipped his head to one side, a thoughtful look on his face. “Interesting.”
The eyes were intense. He was the centre of Sherlock’s attention and it was like adrenaline hitting his system. His mouth went dry.
“Your pupils are dilating, your heart rate increased, your skin flushed.” A small smile spread across Sherlock’s face and then the detective was stepping forward.
The natural reaction was to run, every instinct in his body telling him that staying would be a big mistake, and yet the ache in is leg - psychosomatic or not - was gone and his hand was perfect steady.
“Yes, well, we have been running.”
“No, this is something new.”
He shifted uncomfortably.
“You’ve been watching me,” Sherlock said with the conviction of a man who knows he is right. “Months and months, ever since you walked in on me kissing... Oh.” A twitch of the lips. The clasping of hands. The widening of his eyes. “Oh. Oh, yes, of course. This isn’t about me… this is about you.”
“No… uh… what?”
“How could I have missed it?” The eyes flickered and the body moved closer. “John,” Sherlock said, his voice low and seemed to caress his name, “would you like me to kiss you?”
The words barely registered. All he was aware of were the curious, probing eyes, so pale except for the thin green band darkening the edge of the pupil.
“I’m… I’m not gay,” he managed because it was the only thing he was sure of.
Sherlock’s lips parted slightly and he could not help but drop his gaze to look at them. They were shapely in a way that a man’s had no right to be and they looked so enticing.
“I know,” Sherlock said and moved in.
He did nothing to stop the kiss.
*-*-*
Part Two
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: R/NC17
Word Count: Approx 11,000
Pairings: Sherlock/John, Sherlock/OC, John/Sarah
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes owned by ACD, Sherlock created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss
Summary: What if John is straight, totally straight, so straight that he’d never even consider another man? What would happen if he found himself falling for Sherlock?
Warnings: Angst, slash, sexual moments, one or two swear words
Author Note: There are a number of stories about what would happen with a asexual!Sherlock/John relationship, but very few that really deal with Sherlock/straight!John. Most Sherlock/John stories make John bi, bi-curious, closeted, repressed or unaware - nothing wrong with that. The thought then struck me, what would happen if John really was straight - yes, really straight - and yet still fell for Sherlock? What would that do to him?
This is not meant as some sort of political statement, it’s not criticism and it’s not really a study in sexuality. This story is not meant to be some kind of answer, it is not meant to be that simple, it just is what it is.
This was also supposed to be a short distraction from all the other stuff I’m working on. Short? Ha.
Thanks to trillsabells for the beta, suggestions and everything else. All other mistakes are mine.
*-*-*
A Study in Sexuality
*-*-*
He wasn’t gay.
*-*-*
Harry came out while he was away at university. He might not have been there but he heard all about it. He wasn’t surprised, just as he hadn’t been surprised when he’d found her throwing up in the toilet, or when she’d cut her hair short and dyed it blue, or when she’d come home with a tattoo on her arm. Harry had always been the more flamboyant one, the one who liked to attract and court attention. She liked to make a statement.
He was more content to fade into the background, to play second fiddle and avoid the fireworks.
Neither minded the role they played and each left the other alone to perfect it.
*-*-*
It was fine. It was all fine.
*-*-*
He liked women. He liked women a lot. He wasn’t perhaps as much of a playboy as some of his army buddies, but he was no slouch.
He liked breasts. He liked the way they looked, the way they felt, the way they tasted.
He liked legs as well but he would consider himself a breast man.
Size wasn’t as much an issue, he just liked them for what they were; breasts. He figured that made him a typical heterosexual male.
*-*-*
He got the impression that Sherlock wasn’t interested in anyone. Certainly there was no sign that he was attracted to anyone. He ignored it when men gave him the once over and seemed confused when women tried to talk to him.
He had never met someone who was asexual before. He’d read a little about it and from what he could tell Sherlock fulfilled many of the criteria. It honestly didn’t matter though. Sherlock had made it perfectly clear that he preferred the mental to the physical, the exhilaration of the chase to the rush of orgasm.
It was fine. It was all fine.
*-*-*
“Who was that?”
“Old friend.”
“Friend?”
*-*-*
He had never ever considered that he might be anything but straight. Even as a teenager he hadn’t had a crush on any of his male friends, even fleetingly. He liked girls, sometimes he even liked the same girl his sister did, but that was just one of the odd things that happened in their family.
Being in the army was no different. Even after long stretches with only other men for company, he never even considered anything else. He saw men naked all the time. He was a doctor and a soldier. He knew what men looked like, even men at their peak physical health. It never did anything for him. The male form was crude and somewhat silly. He preferred the more compact and aesthetically pleasing female form.
*-*-*
They were in the main room.
He’d just come back from Sarah’s, opened the door and there they were; kissing.
He froze on the spot.
He had seen two men kiss before, of course he had, but this was different, this was Sherlock.
The sight brought a bad taste to his mouth.
It was hardly the most outrageous kiss.
The two men were simply standing still, the only real movement being their mouths. Sherlock was jacketless and pale against his burgundy shirt, his hands lightly splayed on the stranger’s hips, not grasping or holding, simply resting. The other man had one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, the other was gently cradling Sherlock’s cheek, his thumb gently stroking.
Their lips were pressed together but parted, their eyes closed as their tongues moved lazily around. There was no urgency, no embarrassment, just two men taking the moment to enjoy each other.
A strange sensation uncurled in his stomach.
Then Sherlock moaned, just softly, and the sensation intensified.
Turning he fled.
*-*-*
Married to the job?
Looked like he was having an affair.
*-*-*
He dreamed about Sherlock, about the kiss, about the hands, everything.
He dreamed he was the one being kissed. He dreamed he was the one softly caressing Sherlock’s cheek. He dreamed he was the one who was later carefully pressed against a wall while warm hands stroked under his clothing and unbuckled his jeans.
The first time he woke up horrified.
The second time he woke up panting.
The third time he woke up achingly hard.
*-*-*
Sarah was pretty, she was intelligent, and she was nice. She was everything he looked for in a potential partner. As a bonus she also seemed to like him and was not put off by his complex friendship with Sherlock. He didn’t think many women would understand that and even fewer would want to consider seeing him again after his semi-demented flatmate turned up on their first date and then almost got them killed.
Things were going rather well.
The speed of their relationship quickened after the Moriarty incident and the sex was… well it was nice, very nice indeed.
Then he saw Sherlock kissing.
*-*-*
He waited until he heard the door shut. Then he waited for another ten minutes. Then he found his legs weren’t cooperating so he waited longer.
Half an hour later he made it back downstairs. Sherlock was alone, still jacketless, sat cross-legged on his chair reading a book. Only the slight swelling of his lips suggested there was anything amiss.
“He’s gone then?” he said trying to sound as casual as possible and knowing he was failing drastically.
“Evidentially,” Sherlock said blandly turning over the page of his book with a sharp flick of his wrist.
His eyes were drawn to the long fingers, the narrow, pale wrist and he swallowed.
“Who was that?”
“Old friend.”
He made it to his own chair before his leg started to psychosomatically ache. He rubbed at it.
“Friend?”
“Lover.”
The ache worsened. He clenched his hand into a fist.
“Try not to look so surprised. Just because I’m not currently pursuing a relationship doesn’t mean I haven’t in the past.”
Oh.
“So you are….”
“No.”
He blinked, his hand pausing in mid flex. “Sorry?”
“You were about to ask me if I’m gay,” Sherlock said without even glancing up. “I thought I would save you the awkward trouble.”
“Right.” He licked his lips. “So you’re….”
“No.”
Sherlock turned another page.
He frowned. “You don’t even know what I was about to ask.”
“You were about to ask if I’m therefore either bisexual or bi-curious. A logical question considering what you know of me. You did, after all, just walk in on me kissing a man I have revealed to have been a former lover. Again, I just thought I’d save you the trouble.”
“Right,” he said again, mainly for a lack of anything else to say.
“Labels, John,” Sherlock said glancing up briefly and then looking back at his book. “They’re just labels, nothing more.”
The conversation ended and he was no closer to understanding his flatmate than he had been before it had started.
He went to make tea and tried not to think of Sherlock as having a sexuality at all.
*-*-*
He had gay friends. That is to say, he knew some gay people and his sister was a lesbian. The army was not exactly the most conducive place for meeting gay people although it was far more open than it had been. He certainly wouldn’t say he was homophobic in any way and nor would he qualify that sentence with stating that his sister was gay. To him it was fine, it was all fine. What other people chose to do or share their bed with was no business of his. It was just, personally, the idea of kissing another man seemed so wrong to him, but that was because he was straight.
He had never wanted to or even thought about kissing another man.
*-*-*
“You’re avoiding me.”
“Of course I’m not.”
“And you’ve been acting oddly ever since you caught me kissing.”
“No, I….”
“When we first met you told me it was fine, it was all fine. Were you lying?”
*-*-*
His dreams didn’t just stop at kissing.
Somehow without his knowledge or his consent they started to go further. Hands became involved. Long hands with elegant and talented fingers, fingers that stroked, that touched, that danced, fingers that teased and sought out places he had never known existed. It felt so good and yet at the same time was so terribly, terribly bad.
*-*-*
“I wish I knew how to quit you.”
*-*-*
Living with Sherlock was like living with a whirl wind. It could sweep you up and take you on the journey of your life, or it could destroy you in a matter of seconds. It was like a heady rush. His energy, his passion, his intensity, the way he would move with so much precision and control. So much movement, so much concentration and then that moment when he would stop and look at you, really look at you, because you’d done something, because you’d said something, because you’d worked something out and suddenly, for a brief moment, his entire attention was on you and he’d look at you with an expression of fondness, of pride and of unabashed affection.
There was nothing better than that moment, but like all drugs he is starting to become addicted.
He lived for those moments.
*-*-*
“I’ll get a candle for the table. It’s more romantic.”
“I’m not his date!”
*-*-*
The film was Sarah’s choice. He hadn’t seen it before but he wondered what it was that made her think he might enjoy a movie about gay cowboys.
He didn’t protest. After their latest shag he was amenable to nearly anything. It did afford him the opportunity for snuggling on the sofa. She was warm and soft and her breasts pressed against him in a delightful way.
His mobile didn’t chime until they were most the way through the movie.
Sarah said nothing as he shifted to read it.
Double homicide.
Need you.
SH
He had a choice of course. That was the beauty of texts, they could be ignored. He was under no obligation to simply drop everything and go. This was his personal time, his time with Sarah, his date. Sherlock might complain and sulk but he would understand, or at least he would accept it and move on. He could quite easily stay here in the comfortable warmth and be more than able to justify it. After all, a text was just a text.
And yet all three of them knew he would not be able to ignore it.
Sarah barely protested when he pressed a kiss to her forehead and whispered his apology. Grabbing his jacket the last thing he heard was from the film.
“I wish I knew how to quit you.”
He stepped out into the night.
*-*-*
It was cool enough for Sherlock to be back wearing that coat again. It billowed as he walked and swirled when he turned.
He wasn’t one for noticing fashion or clothing but Sherlock’s coat was hard to miss. It was part of the man; one part magician’s cloak as he twirled around the crime scene dazzling with his brilliance, plucking rabbits from thin air; one part super hero’s cape, flapping behind him as he took on the world.
There were times when he could not help but stare, as the coat moved with such ease and elegance, bold and defined, out of his class and out of his reach.
*-*-*
“You’ve stopped correcting them.”
“Hmm, what?”
“People who presume we’re a couple. You’ve stopped telling them otherwise.”
“Have I?”
“You know you have. I’m just curious as to why.”
“Well… ahm… maybe it’s because it’s pointless. People will presume what they want to presume.”
“…”
“I don’t see you correcting them either.”
“No… Look, across the street, that’s him. Quick, before he gets away.”
*-*-*
There are times when Sherlock looked at him when he felt as if he had been stripped bare and x-rayed to the bone. It felt as if there was nothing that Sherlock didn’t know about him, no thought that passed through his head that Sherlock hadn’t previous considered, no action he could take that Sherlock hadn’t pre-determined.
There are times when he felt naked and small, when his essence could be reduced to a withering glare or a pitiful look. He felt like a sapling engulfed by the shadow of Sherlock’s brilliance, struggling to stay alive in a world that contains such a person.
There are times when Sherlock looked at him like he was the most important person in the world.
Those times make everything else worthwhile.
*-*-*
He had been in love before.
Before Sherlock, before Afghanistan, before the army, he had loved a woman and he had wanted to marry her. He joined the army instead. It was perhaps one of the few things Sherlock did not know about him, or at least he thought he didn’t know, it was hard to be sure sometimes.
One thing was for certain though, he knew what love felt like.
*-*-*
The dreams didn’t stop. They weren’t every night but they still continued. Sherlock kissing, Sherlock kissing him. Sherlock and sex, sex and Sherlock. Hands and mouths and fingers and tongues. Stroking and licking and fondling and tasting.
He woke up with a start, with queasiness in his stomach and a hard-on that refused to go away. Screwing his eyes closed he twisted his head away as if trying to deny what he had seen. One hand fisted to his mouth, the other down his pyjamas bottoms.
It was Sarah’s name he groaned when he spilled across his hand… at least he believed it was.
*-*-*
Sherlock’s neck was long and pale, his fingers elegant and agile, his body slim but sure. He moved with the grace of a dancer, the steel of a panther, and the command of a world leader. His eyes were a silver blue but changed colour depending upon his mood and clothing. He could pretend to be anyone he wanted to be, had a tongue as sharp as his mind, but his true smile was as brilliant as the sun.
He also barely missed a thing.
“You’re avoiding me.”
Yes. Yes, he was avoiding him, because the less he saw Sherlock the less likely it was that he would dream about him.
“Of course I’m not.”
Me thinks the lady protests too much.
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “And you’ve been acting oddly ever since you caught me kissing.”
Hands resting on hips, a thumb stroking a cheek, lips moving and tongues meeting. He had no way of preventing the slight blush.
“No, I….”
A tip of the head, an apprising look. “When we first met you told me it was fine, it was all fine.” A small frown. “Were you lying?”
Harry and Clara. Gary from med school and his partner Rob.
“No. No, of course not. I told you, girlfriend, boyfriend, no one at all, its all fine.”
“So why are you…?”
“I’m not avoiding you, Sherlock! I’ve just been busy, that’s all.”
Busy doing anything that didn’t involve spending as much time with Sherlock because the more time he spent, the more he noticed.
*-*-*
“How’s Sarah?”
“Sarah’s fine, she’s good.”
“And Sherlock?”
“He’s… uh, yeah, he’s good too.”
“Then why are you talking to me?”
*-*-*
He watched in silence as Sherlock flirted his way to the information they needed. It was a brilliant performance, one of his best, truly consummate. Within minutes the other man was eating out of Sherlock’s hands, hanging onto his every word.
It made his stomach churn.
His fist tightened as they walked out again, his teeth clenched in memory of the smile, the playful gaze and the lingering looks. It had been the wink that had done it in the end.
“Problem?”
Oh yes.
“You just led him on.” His tone was brisk and sharp.
Sherlock was unrepentant. “I just got the name of our key suspect.”
“You made him think you might call him.”
“His face is aesthetically pleasing, his mind is not as dull as most and from his clothing he is obviously unattached, calling him is an option not outside the realm of possibility.”
That he had not been expecting.
*-*-*
“Things can’t go on like this.”
“For god’s sake, Sherlock.”
*-*-*
He had been nineteen when he’d had his heart broken. They had been together for just five months but it had been deep, passionate and in his eyes at least, perfect.
She left him.
Three weeks later he found out she was dating someone else.
He had thrown himself into his studies and finished the year with the third highest grades. He never did find out the medical cure for a broken heart.
*-*-*
By the time he ended up talking to Harry he knew his relationship with Sarah was in trouble.
Harry was the last person he went to for relationship advice, but it turned out that since finishing his therapy he had no one else to talk to. Not that he had set out to talk to her about his relationship but he had forgotten how persistent she could be when she wanted, and how well she knew him.
He should have known it would be a mistake to agree to meet for a catch up.
“Sarah’s fine, she’s good.”
He shifted in his seat and fought the impulse to clear his throat as Harry’s eyes narrowed.
“And Sherlock?” she asked sipping her surprisingly alcoholic free drink.
“He’s… uh, yeah, he’s good too.”
Harry raised an eyebrow and sank back in her chair. “Then why are you talking to me?”
Because his life was complicated and in trouble and she was the only person he could think of whose own life was more so than his.
Not that he wanted to talk about it mind.
*-*-*
Sherlock almost died… again.
In fact it was so close that for a split second he had thought that perhaps he had been too late, that this time….
It did not bear thinking about.
Sherlock’s skin had felt so cold when they had found him, locked as he had been in the meat storage freezer. Even Lestrade’s expression had tightened before making sure an ambulance was ordered.
Sherlock always looked pale, but in the blue glow of the freezer light he looked virtually translucent.
He was suffered from moderate hypothermia, his body shaking in an attempt to maintain some heat. The fight previous to him having been dumped there had left him dazed and injured, unable to do anything physical to conserve his body heat. He was barely conscious when they found him but had still managed a small smile when he realised he was alive.
“John… knew you’d find me.”
The words were enough.
*-*-*
The thing with Sarah was good, it was better than good actually, it was bloody brilliant, but he wasn’t in love with her. It was comfortable and nice, the sex was good and she made him laugh and want to be a better person, but it simply wasn’t enough.
The problem was she knew it too.
They both lost their tempers as everything neither had been saying finally all came out.
“I care for you, John, and I know you feel the same for me as well, but it’s not enough. Things can’t go on like this.”
“For god’s sake, Sherlock.”
The words slipped out of his mouth before he had a chance to censor them. It wasn’t even as if he had been distracted or anything. He had realised his mistake immediately but it was already too late.
“Sarah… I mean… shit. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
The problem was she was so understanding. She had always been so understanding, never moaning when he abandoned her yet again to run round the city with his demanding sociopathic flatmate. This was just one more thing for him to feel guilty about.
“I can’t compete with him. I don’t know what it is between the two of you but you’re always going to put him first. I thought I was alright with that, but… I’m sorry, John, but this is over.”
*-*-*
The dreams changed but they still haunted him. Sherlock’s touch became cold. His lips are blue, like his eyes, and he ached to warm them with his own. But the words from the lips are mocking, taunting him, and the fingers down his back make him shiver.
There was no arousal now, just the cold, hard burn of something deeper.
*-*-*
“She broke up with you then.”
Sherlock was lying on the sofa when he got in, jacketless and casual, his legs crossed at his ankles and a book in his hands.
He stops in the door way, his hands clenching into fists.
“Yes. Yes, she did.”
He suddenly feels angry and tired.
“I… I don’t want to talk about it, Sherlock.”
Sherlock looked at him but shut his mouth. Then he returned to his book. “Mrs Hudson dropped in some cookies while you were out and Lestrade called to say they have finally arrested the third Macfarlane brother.”
“Oh, good. That’s good.”
“Quite. I also believe it’s your turn to pick the movie for tonight. Chinese or Indian? I’ll order.”
“Uh, Indian.”
“Good. Usual I take it? If you want a shower first there’s plenty of hot water and the gold fish are no longer in the sink.”
He stood and blinked for a moment wondering if somehow he had wandered into some kind of alternative dimension.
“Oh… thanks.”
He takes the shower, standing under the warm spray for much longer than he normally would. When he returned to the main room he discovered the food already waiting for him, still piping hot, and Casino Royale in the machine ready to go.
*-*-*
“Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and I think one day, if we’re very, very lucky, he might even be a good one.”
*-*-*
He looked up porn on the internet. He wiped the history afterwards but suspected Sherlock knew what he’s doing anyway.
Some of the stuff he stumbled upon included male on male gay action. He frowned when he saw it and part of him was curious enough to not switch it off straight away. The men were handsome, he supposed, certainly well built, not that different from the guys in the diet coke adverts. They looked like men though, all silly and dangly.
It did nothing for him except remind him that he does not find the male body even remotely attractive.
He wondered what exactly that meant.
*-*-*
It was impossible not to watch Sherlock when he was working his magic. He had forgotten how heady the rush could be, when his flatmate’s entire attention was on him, when he graced him with that smile.
“Twenty quid says they’re shagging,” he overheard an officer say while Sherlock pranced around the crime scene like a child in a candy store.
He wanted to go over and punch the man’s face in for saying such a thing, because of course they’re not shagging. He’s not gay for one and Sherlock is far from interested, and suggesting otherwise was to cheapen what they did have.
He didn’t though, just crossed his arms and gritted his teeth until Sherlock called him over for a second opinion and smiled that smile when he pointed out that if this was a theft then why steal her ring and watch but leave her mobile and necklace. In that moment there is just the two of them and the rest of the world had disappeared.
*-*-*
“John, would you like me to kiss you?”
Curious, probing eyes. Pale blue with a thin green band.
“I’m… I’m not gay.”
Slightly parted lips. Shapely and enticing.
“I know.”
*-*-*
The first day they met he found himself agreeing to see a flat together. The second day he visited a crime scene, was kidnapped and then killed a man. The third day he moved all his belongings - meagre as they were - into his new home and his life with Sherlock Holmes had begun.
Nothing was simple after that.
*-*-*
The young man could barely keep his hands to himself and his eyes off Sherlock’s arse. In response it was all he could do to keep his arms crossed and his temper in check.
With one cold observation, Sherlock put the man in is place. It was brutal and precise, like a knife through the heart.
The man backed away clearly hurt and confused. It was obvious he had not been expecting such a harsh put down.
In any other situation he would have felt sorry for him.
He didn’t.
*-*-*
Lestrade asked him why he did it, why he would risk his life to take a bullet for Sherlock. He couldn’t really answer because it was just something he had done and it was something that he would do again.
He had been plagued by that question again when he came to writing it up on his blog and realised that it was less a question of why and more a matter of because.
‘It was worth it’ he wrote. ‘It was worth every pain, every risk, every wound. People say he has no heart, a sociopath who cares for no-one. He does little to dispel this myth, but they’re wrong because for a moment I saw the fear in his eyes, the shaking of his lips. For a moment the impassive mask cracked and I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as a great mind… and it was aimed at me.’
His hands shook as he typed and at the last line he had to sit back and stare.
He deleted the entry.
*-*-*
He wasn’t gay but he was in love with his best friend - his best male friend. He had almost managed to convince himself that his friend cared for him back.
Everything was so screwed up. He wasn’t gay, he wasn’t attracted to men, he wasn’t even attracted to Sherlock, not like the way he had been attracted to Sarah for instance, but even so, there was something about the other man that drew him in, that had grabbed him from the start and refused to let go.
It was like a form of obsession. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for Sherlock. There was little he hadn’t already done. He would follow the man to the end of the world and beyond. Sherlock was the most important person in his life and he wanted to be the most important in Sherlock’s. There was no where he wanted to be more. The mere idea of anyone else touching Sherlock, kissing Sherlock, having sex with Sherlock, brought bile to his mouth.
It was obsessive. It was possessive.
It was love.
*-*-*
“Are you aware of how possessive you were acting back there?”
They had finished the case - the aunt had had the jewels - and returned to Baker Street late in the evening, five hours after they had left.
He had barely managed to slip his coat off before Sherlock aimed the question at him.
“Hmm, sorry?”
“Possessive. Jealous. Overprotective. From the tightness of your jaw, the furrowing of your brow, the way your fists had been clenched and the number of times you had rubbed your leg, I deduced you would have lost your temper within three minutes, saying something in public that you would come to regret. I thought I would save you the future embarrassment and removed him from our presence. What I am more curious about is whether you were aware of what you were doing?”
It was true, it was all true. Of course it was, this was Sherlock bloody Holmes who was saying it, but that didn’t change the fact that he had wanted to punch the man and shout “mine” at the top of his lungs.
Possessive. God it was so true.
“I…” he started but he lost what other words there might have been.
Sherlock tipped his head to one side, a thoughtful look on his face. “Interesting.”
The eyes were intense. He was the centre of Sherlock’s attention and it was like adrenaline hitting his system. His mouth went dry.
“Your pupils are dilating, your heart rate increased, your skin flushed.” A small smile spread across Sherlock’s face and then the detective was stepping forward.
The natural reaction was to run, every instinct in his body telling him that staying would be a big mistake, and yet the ache in is leg - psychosomatic or not - was gone and his hand was perfect steady.
“Yes, well, we have been running.”
“No, this is something new.”
He shifted uncomfortably.
“You’ve been watching me,” Sherlock said with the conviction of a man who knows he is right. “Months and months, ever since you walked in on me kissing... Oh.” A twitch of the lips. The clasping of hands. The widening of his eyes. “Oh. Oh, yes, of course. This isn’t about me… this is about you.”
“No… uh… what?”
“How could I have missed it?” The eyes flickered and the body moved closer. “John,” Sherlock said, his voice low and seemed to caress his name, “would you like me to kiss you?”
The words barely registered. All he was aware of were the curious, probing eyes, so pale except for the thin green band darkening the edge of the pupil.
“I’m… I’m not gay,” he managed because it was the only thing he was sure of.
Sherlock’s lips parted slightly and he could not help but drop his gaze to look at them. They were shapely in a way that a man’s had no right to be and they looked so enticing.
“I know,” Sherlock said and moved in.
He did nothing to stop the kiss.
*-*-*
Part Two