New Fic: A Study in Sexuality - 2/2
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?
Previous Part
*-*-*
His first kiss had been in the playground at school when he had been ten. He had been short, quiet and slightly chubby, but he had been sweet - apparently.
He didn’t play football unlike most of the other boys, but spent his time with a couple of other boys and a few of the girls. He didn’t have a girlfriend, he wasn’t cool like that, but girls didn’t mind him talking to them.
Then he saw one of the girls sitting on her own. Her name was Beth. She wasn’t one of the popular girls, or the naughty ones, or the sporty ones. She was rather ordinary, with long brown hair and a slightly turned up nose. She wasn’t normally without friends though, so he went over to her, all awkwardness and baggy jumper.
She seemed surprised when he sat down next to her but she didn’t jump up and run away. So they chatted. She told him that the other girls had accused her of breaking their science project. She had, but it had been an accident, she hadn’t meant to knock into the table and send it to the floor. Now they weren’t talking to her.
He listened with all the wisdom of a ten year old boy, told her they were idiots and that they would forget about it by tomorrow. She had seemed pleased by this and before he knew it she had leant over and planted a firm kiss on his lips with the declaration that he was really sweet.
It took him by surprise of course but he couldn’t help but feel really pleased.
That was the most surprising kiss of his life… until Sherlock.
*-*-*
Kissing Sherlock was nothing like the dreams. It was so much better than that. It was real.
There were so many things his mind had not been able to fill in that in reality were overpowering. The smell of Sherlock; his expensive deodorant combined with his shampoo, borrowed shower gel and the faintest hint of roses from the plug in air fresheners from the house of their last case. The feel of a warm, wet mouth, softer than expected lips, a strong but agile tongue, and the slight roughness of his cheek. The sound of their mixed breathing, of little gasps and wet mouths.
It felt so much more than a kiss.
His mind was confused - this was a man and he wasn’t gay - but his senses screamed that this was Sherlock kissing him and his body told him it felt good, very good.
They broke away and he realised he had a hand in his friend’s hair and a stirring in his trousers.
“What?” he said his mind still confused as blue eyes stared down at him and fingers traced his waist. “Sherlock?”
“Shhh,” Sherlock said and then the mouth was back and teeth nipped at his lips. The fingers slipped under his jumper leaving lines of fire everywhere they touched.
“Relax. Don’t think about it. Just go with what your body is telling you.”
Each word was breathed against his mouth, his skin, each point punctuated by a kiss or a lick or a nip.
“You want me. You’ve wanted me for months, ever since you saw that kiss. Thinking about me in a sexual way turns you on… but the idea of me with anyone else makes you so… very… jealous.”
The mouth, the hands, the fingers… god the fingers. It was all he could do not to gasp.
“Your mind and your body are in a constant battle. You’re not attracted to men and yet there is something about me that you desire. This confuses you. You like it when my attention is fully on you. It gives you a rush, like adrenaline. Sex is a form of that. All that attention, all that intensity, me worshiping your body, finding every little part of you that makes you shiver, makes you moan… makes you come.”
The mouth latched onto the sensitive place behind his ear and his knees began to buckle.
“Oh god.”
There was a chuckle, a warm tongue and very nimble fingers. “Sherlock,” came the deep voice, “but I understand the confusion.”
Fingers curled around the straining bulge in his trousers, and in that moment he knew he was lost.
*-*-*
He lost his virginity at seventeen. It had hardly been the most memorable moment.
The second attempt had been better.
*-*-*
Sherlock’s room was the closest and he wasn’t thinking enough to object.
The sheets bunched beneath his back, their clothes were dropped haphazardly across the room and his skin burnt with every touch of Sherlock’s fingers.
His brain told him that this was wrong but for the first time he managed to push it aside and concentrated on the physical sensations.
Sherlock was staring at him with unmasked desire and fascination, blue eyes intense and intoxicating. His body was pale and lithe, his chest almost hairless, his hips narrow. He leant over him like a panther ready to pounce and played his body like a maestro.
He went with the sensations, wrapping his legs around Sherlock’s waist, pulling him down for more of those kisses, rocking his hips in time with Sherlock’s thrusts against him over and over again.
His orgasm hit him with an intensity he had not expected and he saw Sherlock’s eyes widen just a little more before the other man too reached climax.
They rolled away from each other, tissues were found and sheets moved, but there was little time to think as the exertions of the day finally caught up with him and he collapsed into a pleasant, sated doze.
*-*-*
“What do you think then, Doctor Watson? There’s another bedroom upstairs, if you’ll be needing two bedrooms.”
“Of course we’ll be needing two.”
*-*-*
The sheets felt strange against his bare skin. He felt hot and sticky. He could feel movement beside him, hear the tapping of phone keys and the soft whirl of a laptop. A long leg shifted against his, naked and hairy.
He sucked in a deep breath.
“You’re freaking out,” the deep voice said from beside him.
He closed his eyes again desperate to control his breathing and his stomach. Now he was awake again the situation was finally making itself clear. He had had sex with another man. He’d kissed and fondled another man. He had traces of another man’s semen still on his body.
“Stop thinking about it, John, or your mind will reject it.”
He’d wrapped his legs around another man’s body, rubbed his cock against another man’s cock, gasped and begged as another man….
He rolled out of the bed and stumbled into the bathroom, leaning over the toilet as his stomach emptied.
*-*-*
“How can you be so calm? We had sex, Sherlock!”
“I am aware of that, John. I was there.”
*-*-*
He took a shower. A very long, very hot shower.
He knew exactly what he was doing but he couldn’t help but scratch his nails across his skin, red lines trailing after them.
He felt queasy. He couldn’t help it. He could still remember the taste of Sherlock’s skin, the feel of the body pressing into his, the small gasp that had left his mouth at the point of orgasm.
He rested his head against the cool tiles and resisted the urge to bang his fist against the wall. His nails, short as they were, pressed tightly into his palms although he could barely feel them.
He sucked in a deep breath. He was a soldier and a doctor. He had seen and done things most couldn’t imagine. This was nothing.
He tipped his head under the spray and washed his hair with determination and force.
*-*-*
“Twenty quid says they’re shagging.”
The memory was enough to make his skin crawl.
*-*-*
Sherlock was up and changed when he left the bathroom, sat in his customary chair in the main room, fingers pressed together as in prayer.
Their eyes met.
He fled to the sanctuary of his own room.
*-*-*
Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.
*-*-*
It was the middle of the night. By all rights he should have been asleep.
He wasn’t.
He sat on his bed. It was neatly made, military precision, years of practice. It was comforting, reliable, familiar.
He lifted his head and pushed his chin out. He was John Watson, he had stared death in the eyes and survived, he would not run away.
*-*-*
He took each step carefully and with precision. He crossed the room and sat down on his chair.
Sherlock hadn’t moved.
“That…” he said carefully and neutrally, “should not have happened.”
He grasped his hands in his lap and met his flatmate’s unwavering gaze.
“It was a mistake. Just a mistake. Adrenaline left over from the case, we weren’t thinking, and… well… I hardly think it will happen again.”
There, he had said it.
Sherlock’s shirt collar was open, a red mark branding the skin at the bottom of his neck, a shock of colour against the paleness of his skin.
He averted his eyes.
“Did you, uh, hear me, Sherlock? This thing, we just put it behind us and never speak of this again.”
Blue eyes watched, unblinking, unnerving.
He shifted in his chair. He cleared his throat.
“Sherlock?”
“No.”
The word cut through everything, definite and final.
“Excuse me?”
“I said no, John. Denial is hardly going to help either of us.”
His fist clenched against his thigh.
“Denial?” He tried to laugh. “I’m not in denial.”
“From your reactions so far I would say that you are showing obvious signs of going through the Kubler-Ross grief cycle, of which denial is the second stage. The first is shock and I need not point out that that is what led to your extended stay in the bathroom. This is all hardly surprising considering the nature of what happened when taking into consideration the beliefs you have always - and rightfully - held regarding your sexuality and the conditioning instilled in you by institutions such as the army, despite, to quote your own words, ‘it’s all fine’.
His fist clenched tighter and he found it impossible to remain in his chair.
“I’m not in denial!”
“You’re angry.”
“Of course I’m angry. How can you be so calm?” He paced by the unlit fire. “We had sex, Sherlock!”
Sherlock didn’t even blink. “I am aware of that, John. I was there.”
Both hands were now fists.
“This isn’t one of your little experiments. We had sex….”
“Yes, and we both enjoyed it, a reason why this is so distressing for you. Anger is also the third stage.”
He gritted his teeth. “Yes. Thank you for that.”
“Like I said, it is all perfectly understandable. This has all come as a shock to you and you are grieving the loss of your ordered little world.”
“My ordered little… Sherlock, I am not going to stand here and listen to you make up something just so you can feel better.”
“I never make up things, you know that, and this is hardly complicated. You are a heterosexual man who had just discovered that the labels society insists on slapping on us are flawed and pointless, that life is not a collection of absolutes. You have lived a life defined by your sexuality. You are a man who likes women. Regardless of what we have done here tonight you are still a man who likes women, and regardless of what you might do in the future you will always be a man who likes women.”
He frowned. “Are you saying I could be bisexual then?”
“No, that’s just the labels talking again. Society does that to try and organise, to understand, but the only one who needs to understand is you. Have you ever been attracted to another man before or ever considered doing anything sexual with another man?”
“No.”
“And yet - at the time at least - you had no objection to me taking you to my bed.”
He cleared his throat. “Yes, about that….”
“The question is why,” Sherlock said cutting him off with a wave of his hand. “And that is something only you can work out. But don’t try to define who you are by the limited and frankly tedious labels that society insists upon. You are who you are not who society demands you be. It is society’s role to try and define you, not yours to define yourself by society.”
The fingers returned to the mouth and it was clear that the conversation was over. He was just uncertain as to what the conversation had been about.
*-*-*
“Have you ever, you know, with a guy?”
“Of course I have.”
*-*-*
He was confused. He was more than just confused.
He spent three hours on the internet looking up about sexuality, flicking from page to page on Wikipedia, before closing the laptop in a fit of frustration. Nothing made sense any more. Everything he thought he had known, all the order he had had in his head, gone, vanished, destroyed. He was adrift and helpless.
He called Harry.
*-*-*
“Why did you kiss me?”
“Because you wanted to know what it was like.”
*-*-*
He hadn’t seen Harry since before he had broken up with Sarah. Considering their conversation then he suspected she would not be surprised that they had gone their separate ways.
He didn’t particularly want to talk to Harry, but there was no-one else and he hoped, really hoped, that maybe she would understand.
She knew something was up right away - he had no other reason for seeing her after all - but she was tactful and sober enough to not call him on it immediately.
They talked about nothing for a long time before her gentle and not so gentle needling forced his question out.
“Have you ever, you know,” he said vaguely with a wave of his hand, “with a guy?”
She looked at him in surprise before pulling a face.
“Of course I have,” she said. “Provided of course we’re talking about sex here and not, you know, bungee jumping or something.”
“And?” he said.
She looked at him. “And what?” she said. “Since when do you want all the juicy kiss and tell details?”
He tried to get her to forget it and change the subject but Harry was just as stubborn, if not more so, than him.
“It was fine,” she said. “Probably would have been better had I not been so pissed, but probably wouldn’t have done it otherwise. And it helped that he looked like Jake Gyllenhaal. Now that’s one bloke I wouldn’t kick out of bed. What’s this about anyway? Why the sudden interest in my love life? You not getting any now Sarah’s out the picture?”
The conversation went downhill from then on, and then she gasped.
“Oh my god, you slept with Sherlock, didn’t you?”
The denial was on his tongue but got no further than that. He went to get them some more drinks. He suspected they would need them. He knew he did.
“So is this some kind of sexual identity crisis then? Worried your heterosexual tag might be slipping?”
Worried? No. Utterly petrified? Completely.
“Relax,” she said with a smile that failed to make him do just that. “You’re as straight as you’ve always been. Not as if you like blokes in general, and anyway it’s not exactly surprising. You’ve been infatuated by him since you met. Makes sense it would go physical. Pretty obvious you’re in love with him.”
That was both what he had and had not wanted to hear.
“Must have been pretty good or you wouldn’t be so confused. Which leaves the all big important question; you gonna do it again?”
He wished he had an answer.
*-*-*
He still remembered the taste, the smell, the feel of Sherlock against him. He sometimes woke up panting, hand down his pyjamas, Sherlock’s name on his lips.
His body at least knew what it wanted. At least he thought it did.
*-*-*
He was drunk. Sherlock was lying on the sofa nursing a nicotine patch.
“She’s slept with men, hasn’t she?”
Sherlock’s eyes didn’t even open.
“What? Oh. Yes.” He didn’t even bother asking how Sherlock knew the conversation between him and Harry. Even in his drunken state he figured it would be obvious.
“And if she fell in love with a man tomorrow despite a lack of physical attraction, would she be any less gay?”
He was still confused.
He was too drunk to consider an answer and turned to stumble to his own room. He stubbed his toes on the first step and tumbled down, his head spinning.
“Why did you kiss me?” he said resting his head against the lower steps.
There was a pause. He wondered if he could fall asleep where he was.
“Because you wanted to know what it was like,” came the final reply.
He supposed that made sense. It was certainly true. He had wanted to know, and now he knew, and now he was drunk and he rarely drank, and…
He woke up the next morning in his own bed, a bucket on the floor and a glass of water on the side. The answers though, were still beyond his reach.
*-*-*
He was physically attracted to Sherlock.
The realisation was both a shock and a comfort.
The question was; was he physically attracted because he was in love with him, or was he in love him because he was physically attracted?
*-*-*
He couldn’t help but feel a sense of revulsion when the guy at the club kissed him. It was all stubble and sweat and maleness.
It did help to serve one purpose though; it wasn’t men he was attracted to. Just Sherlock.
*-*-*
“You’re not gay.”
“No.”
“And you’re not bisexual, bi-curious, homoflexible, heteroflexible, or heterosexual.”
“Labels, John. Dull. Predictable. Boring.”
“Asexual then?”
“You’re missing the point.”
It had been a week since his conversation with Harry, longer still since the incident. He was still somewhat confused.
“Then tell me, what are you? What am I?”
“That’s easy. I’m Sherlock Holmes, and you’re John Watson.”
*-*-*
His body wanted Sherlock. His heart wanted Sherlock. His mind was still confused.
*-*-*
He remembered the intensity with which Sherlock had looked at him, the feeling of being the centre of the great man’s attention, the fingers that had played him like an instrument. The taste, the smell, the feel, the sounds he had made, the look on his face at climax.
His. For that short time it had been his. His and only his.
He wanted that again. He wanted it so much.
*-*-*
It looked like some kind of sci-fi thriller with that camp bloke who seemed to pop up everywhere. Torchwood the BBC3 listings said, repeat obviously. He vaguely recalled that it had something to do with Doctor Who, but it was yet another reminder of how much television he had missed while he had been busy in Afghanistan.
He had little else to do, Sherlock was elsewhere and there was nothing else on. He settled down to watch.
“You’re kidding me!” some Welsh character was exclaiming to some guy in a suit. “Really, though? Really? Christ almighty! He’s nice, though? Is he? Is he? Oh my God. I mean, since when?”
“It’s weird,” said the Welsh guy who was apparently dating the camp guy in the coat. “It’s just different. It’s not… men. It’s… it’s just him. It’s only him. And I don’t even know what it is, really.”
He switched off the television and stared at the blank screen.
*-*-*
“How do you feel?”
“Strange.”
*-*-*
Sherlock’s back hit the wall with a surprising umph. Neither noticed as their mouths and hands were too busy doing other far more pleasurable things. Surprisingly it was Sherlock who did the pushing away this time, hair already ruffled, his black shirt held together by a single button.
“John, while I am not adverse to this development, I need you to be certain of what you are doing. I am not someone who takes sexual intimacy lightly.”
“You took it well enough last time.”
Sherlock didn’t smile. “I am serious. Last time was a single isolated incident, this time I fear I may not be so… detached.”
“Detached?” He bent forward to lick his tongue across Sherlock’s collar bone. His skin tasted slightly salty. “You didn’t seem all that detached.”
“John, if we do this, I need to know that you have thought this through. I need you to have considered all the possibilities.”
He took a step back. “Look, Sherlock, I don’t want to think about this, because if I do my mind is going to take over and we both know where that leads.”
“John.”
“No, let me finish. I have thought about this and this is what I know; I’m not gay, I don’t like men, I’m not attracted to men, but god help me, I like you, I’m attracted to you. Now, I have no idea what this really means, but I want you, and I had rather hoped that maybe you wanted me too.”
There was a long pause and then Sherlock smiled; a slow, genuine, brilliant smile.
“Always.”
*-*-*
“Why? Why are you telling me this?”
“Because there are some things you need to know about my brother.”
*-*-*
“How do you feel?”
They stayed on Sherlock’s bed. They were both sated and naked, stretched out on top of the covers. There was a mark on Sherlock’s ceiling, some sort of experiment perhaps.
“Strange,” he said then cleared his throat because he could feel Sherlock watching him. “Better than last time.”
“Not about to run away again?”
He smiled because although the thought had occurred to him he’s comfortable where he was. “That was a tactical retreat,” he said instead.
“Ever the soldier.”
He lay there for a little while longer before rolling onto his side and took the opportunity to look, really look at Sherlock. He undoubtedly had the body of a man, there were no breasts for example, but he figured he could cope.
His mind still told him that he shouldn’t be doing this, but he had gotten better at not listening to it.
Leaning over he brushed his hand to Sherlock’s cheek, taking in the feel of very light stubble before bending down to press a kiss against the still swollen lips.
“That,” he said carefully aware of the way the Sherlock’s eyes had never left him, “was amazing.”
A slight wry smile touched Sherlock’s mouth. “You think so?”
“Of course I do. It was extraordinary, quite extraordinary.”
“That’s not what people normally say.”
“What do people normally say?”
Sherlock’s smile grew. “Piss off.”
The laugh ended with him on his back and Sherlock crouched in front of him. Turned out oral sex from a man wasn’t all that different than from a woman.
*-*-*
“You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool, people might talk.”
“People do little else.”
*-*-*
Lestrade was the second person to notice.
He wasn’t sure what gave it away since neither of their public actions had changed at all. Sherlock still infuriated most people, while he still stood around in the background either sighing or acting as a human sounding board.
Until Lestrade pulled him aside after Sherlock had disappeared somewhere with his coat flapping, he hadn’t thought anyone else had noticed.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Lestrade said his voice low and somewhat warning. It was clear he wasn’t talking about the case. “I may not know Sherlock very well, but I’ve worked with him on and off for six years now, I don’t want to see him hurt.”
He assured the detective that he had no plans to hurt Sherlock and with his cheeks only a touch red managed to make his escape. It had been embarrassing, true, but not as bad as facing the first person who had found out.
*-*-*
“Ah, John, so glad you could join me.”
It wasn’t as if he had had the choice. The black car had picked him up and Anthea - or Clarissa as she was called this time - was not someone he particularly wanted to argue with. He was still unsure as to what she could do with that BlackBerry.
They ended up in an empty underground parking lot, two chairs and a small fold out table. Mycroft was sat in one chair, his umbrella point on the ground, the handle swinging between his hands.
“Please, take a seat.”
He figured it wasn’t worth arguing.
“I’m sure you can hardly surprised by this meeting,” Mycroft said in a measured tone. “I believe congratulations are in order. A physical relationship with my brother? How’s that working out for you?”
“Good.” He cleared his throat not bothering to figure out how Mycroft knew. It was always better not to know. “Yes, great. It’s great.”
“Well that is excellent news,” Mycroft said. “I wish you both all the best. However, and I hope you can excuse this as brotherly concern, but you should know that my brother is not one to enter into a physical relationship lightly. By my reckoning you would be only his fourth sexual partner.”
“His fourth? There were only three before me?”
“Indeed. Two young men, a young woman, named Irene I believe, and now you, Doctor John Watson.”
He shifted slightly in his seat. Mycroft always did make him feel uncomfortable, even when they weren’t talking about such personal matters.
“Why?” he asked. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because there are some things you need to know about my brother. Through his past… dalliances he has managed to conclude what some of us had suspected for some times, that he can only enjoy physical intercourse if he is emotional invested in the person he is with. He is, in his own words, a high functioning sociopath, and as such is not one to become easily emotionally attached. He, therefore, does not routinely indulge in physical intimacy. Do you understand what I am saying?”
He frowned. “But… but I caught him. He was kissing. He said it was a former lover.”
“Ah, yes. That was indeed a former lover, but not a current one. The kiss would have been little more than an experiment, to see if intimacy was still possible.
“And the guy with his phone number?”
“Which guy with the phone number?”
He felt ridiculous for asking but doubted Mycroft would let it go. “There was a guy, some months back, part of a case. Sherlock flirted with him to get the information we needed. I told him off for leading the poor bloke on, making him think he might call. Sherlock told me it wasn’t outside the range of possibility that he would call.”
“Ah,” Mycroft said his small smile as scary as anything he could have done. “A ruse.”
“A ruse?”
“He had no intention of calling, but he needed the information, both about the case and your reaction.”
“My reaction?”
“Yes. Annoyance is a very complex thing, John. You were annoyed, he was no doubt trying to determine why. You need not worry. He was no doubt rather flattered to figure out it was due to your jealousy.”
“Jealousy.”
“Possessiveness. You have been protecting my brother from the moment you met him. You killed a man to save his life. You declined to even hear my offer of money.”
“You kidnapped me.”
“A necessary evil. I find that some people don’t tend to come if I just say please.”
“And now?” he asked. “Is this some kind of warning?”
“A warning?” Mycroft laughed. “Oh no, my dear John. I would never presume to do such a thing. This is merely a conversation.”
“In an empty underground car park?”
“So hard to find places nowadays where one can be overlooked.”
He pressed his lips together.
“My brother likes you, John. In fact, I would go as far as to say that as far as he is capable, he is in love with you.”
He shifted in his seat.
“Emotions have never been my brother’s strong point and as such they can confuse him. He may also struggle to express them. Please bear this in mind as your relationship develops and remember that he does not share his bed lightly. That is all.”
He nodded recognising both a warning and a dismissal. He rose to his feet.
“It was good talking to you again, John,” Mycroft said. “And congratulations once again. Mummy was delighted.”
He found that as disturbing as anything Mycroft had ever said to him and he fought to put it out of his mind as soon as possible.
He had four text messages waiting on his phone when the black car pulled back into signal range. Unsurprisingly they were all from Sherlock.
Need milk.
SH
Where are you?
SH
Tell Mycroft to shove his umbrella where the sun doesn’t shine.
SH
We still need milk.
And cheese.
And more of those smiley biscuits.
SH
He smiled to himself and shook his head. The car dropped him off at the nearest twenty-four hour Tesco to Baker Street. He didn’t even have to ask.
*-*-*
With the real thing well within his grasp the dreams stopped. He didn’t miss them. Reality was far better anyway.
*-*-*
He stopped thinking of Sherlock as a man, he was just Sherlock. He got the impression that had Sherlock been a woman he would have fallen for her anyway, the fact he was in the body of a man was different but not insurmountable.
Sherlock was just Sherlock; arrogant, frustrating, brilliant, maddening, extraordinary, unpredictable, surprising, and a dozen more words which barely summed him up. There was always something new, something interesting and he wouldn’t miss it for the world, especially when Sherlock would whirl round and fix him with that look, with those eyes and with that smile.
No wonder people like Lestrade started to notice.
*-*-*
The possessiveness faded. He wasn’t sure how or when that happened but it did. Of course Sherlock was the first one to notice.
“You don’t clench your fists any more when people show an interest in me.”
“Hmm?”
He had been typing up his blog and Sherlock had been reading the newspaper. The question had therefore appeared out of nowhere.
“Your fists,” Sherlock repeated a small frown on his face. “Yesterday that new detective didn’t seem to bother you. Why?”
“Oh. Yes. Well.” He cleared his throat. “I suppose it’s because I know it doesn’t mean anything. He can flirt all he wants, but it’s my bed you crawl into.”
Sherlock looked at him over the paper and he could see the small smile. They went back to their respective occupations. It only lasted a few more minutes before Sherlock folded up his paper and looked thoughtful.
“John?”
“Yes.”
“Busy?”
“Depends. Why?”
“I have just had the sudden urge to crawl into your bed. I wondered if you would be interested in joining me.”
Put like that, it was hard to say no.
*-*-*
It wasn’t without its difficulty. For a while he still had to tell his mind that the sex was fine, that he wasn’t supposed to be freaked out about it or feel ill at the thought. Slowly though it all started to become normal and they fell into a routine of sorts.
The first time he went down on Sherlock was a little strange. Sherlock had told him it was hardly necessary but it was something he had wanted to do. He was surprised to find he didn’t hate it as much as he thought he might although he knew his own limits. He refused to give in to any thoughts of dislike, so focused on the positives and rather than pull away at the end, he pressed Sherlock’s hands to his head and made his wishes clear. Sherlock’s reaction and expression made it all worthwhile.
As for the rest, well, it wasn’t nearly as bad as he thought and it turned out Sherlock was a more than enthusiastic bottom.
*-*-*
“It’s just you, you know.”
“Hmm?”
“It’s not men… just you.”
“I’m flattered.”
*-*-*
He sighed and rubbed his thumb against his forehead when they were finally outed. Sherlock of course ignored it, being as he was in a world of his own. It had been inevitable that everyone else would find out eventually. The only question had been a matter of how.
In his idle moments he had considered how it would go.
There was the accidental slip, where one of them said something without thinking. There was the being caught doing something affectionate in public. There was - and he shuddered to think about it - the random drugs busts where secrets would be spilled and gossip started.
In the end it was probably just a combination of little things.
“My god,” Anderson had breathed, “anyone would think they really were shagging.”
In that moment everyone else froze because once pointed out everyone realised the truth. It was Lestrade who naturally took control and everything snapped back to normal, or as close to it as was now possible.
“I’m not surprised by the freak but I didn’t think Watson was gay,” he heard Anderson say to Donovan later.
“I’m not,” he said standing behind them. “Although it’s hardly any of your business.”
Donovan had at least looked slightly embarrassed but it was clear Anderson wanted more answers.
“But you are shagging him,” Anderson said.
“Like I said, none of your business.”
“So if you’re not gay, what are you?” Anderson said.
He shrugged. “I’m John Watson,” he said and then left them to it.
*-*-*
He was John Watson, doctor, former solider, breast man, put upon side kick and lover of the world’s only consulting detective.
*-*-*
He wasn’t gay.
*-*-*
It was fine. It really was all fine.
*-*-*
The End
*-*-*
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?
Previous Part
*-*-*
His first kiss had been in the playground at school when he had been ten. He had been short, quiet and slightly chubby, but he had been sweet - apparently.
He didn’t play football unlike most of the other boys, but spent his time with a couple of other boys and a few of the girls. He didn’t have a girlfriend, he wasn’t cool like that, but girls didn’t mind him talking to them.
Then he saw one of the girls sitting on her own. Her name was Beth. She wasn’t one of the popular girls, or the naughty ones, or the sporty ones. She was rather ordinary, with long brown hair and a slightly turned up nose. She wasn’t normally without friends though, so he went over to her, all awkwardness and baggy jumper.
She seemed surprised when he sat down next to her but she didn’t jump up and run away. So they chatted. She told him that the other girls had accused her of breaking their science project. She had, but it had been an accident, she hadn’t meant to knock into the table and send it to the floor. Now they weren’t talking to her.
He listened with all the wisdom of a ten year old boy, told her they were idiots and that they would forget about it by tomorrow. She had seemed pleased by this and before he knew it she had leant over and planted a firm kiss on his lips with the declaration that he was really sweet.
It took him by surprise of course but he couldn’t help but feel really pleased.
That was the most surprising kiss of his life… until Sherlock.
*-*-*
Kissing Sherlock was nothing like the dreams. It was so much better than that. It was real.
There were so many things his mind had not been able to fill in that in reality were overpowering. The smell of Sherlock; his expensive deodorant combined with his shampoo, borrowed shower gel and the faintest hint of roses from the plug in air fresheners from the house of their last case. The feel of a warm, wet mouth, softer than expected lips, a strong but agile tongue, and the slight roughness of his cheek. The sound of their mixed breathing, of little gasps and wet mouths.
It felt so much more than a kiss.
His mind was confused - this was a man and he wasn’t gay - but his senses screamed that this was Sherlock kissing him and his body told him it felt good, very good.
They broke away and he realised he had a hand in his friend’s hair and a stirring in his trousers.
“What?” he said his mind still confused as blue eyes stared down at him and fingers traced his waist. “Sherlock?”
“Shhh,” Sherlock said and then the mouth was back and teeth nipped at his lips. The fingers slipped under his jumper leaving lines of fire everywhere they touched.
“Relax. Don’t think about it. Just go with what your body is telling you.”
Each word was breathed against his mouth, his skin, each point punctuated by a kiss or a lick or a nip.
“You want me. You’ve wanted me for months, ever since you saw that kiss. Thinking about me in a sexual way turns you on… but the idea of me with anyone else makes you so… very… jealous.”
The mouth, the hands, the fingers… god the fingers. It was all he could do not to gasp.
“Your mind and your body are in a constant battle. You’re not attracted to men and yet there is something about me that you desire. This confuses you. You like it when my attention is fully on you. It gives you a rush, like adrenaline. Sex is a form of that. All that attention, all that intensity, me worshiping your body, finding every little part of you that makes you shiver, makes you moan… makes you come.”
The mouth latched onto the sensitive place behind his ear and his knees began to buckle.
“Oh god.”
There was a chuckle, a warm tongue and very nimble fingers. “Sherlock,” came the deep voice, “but I understand the confusion.”
Fingers curled around the straining bulge in his trousers, and in that moment he knew he was lost.
*-*-*
He lost his virginity at seventeen. It had hardly been the most memorable moment.
The second attempt had been better.
*-*-*
Sherlock’s room was the closest and he wasn’t thinking enough to object.
The sheets bunched beneath his back, their clothes were dropped haphazardly across the room and his skin burnt with every touch of Sherlock’s fingers.
His brain told him that this was wrong but for the first time he managed to push it aside and concentrated on the physical sensations.
Sherlock was staring at him with unmasked desire and fascination, blue eyes intense and intoxicating. His body was pale and lithe, his chest almost hairless, his hips narrow. He leant over him like a panther ready to pounce and played his body like a maestro.
He went with the sensations, wrapping his legs around Sherlock’s waist, pulling him down for more of those kisses, rocking his hips in time with Sherlock’s thrusts against him over and over again.
His orgasm hit him with an intensity he had not expected and he saw Sherlock’s eyes widen just a little more before the other man too reached climax.
They rolled away from each other, tissues were found and sheets moved, but there was little time to think as the exertions of the day finally caught up with him and he collapsed into a pleasant, sated doze.
*-*-*
“What do you think then, Doctor Watson? There’s another bedroom upstairs, if you’ll be needing two bedrooms.”
“Of course we’ll be needing two.”
*-*-*
The sheets felt strange against his bare skin. He felt hot and sticky. He could feel movement beside him, hear the tapping of phone keys and the soft whirl of a laptop. A long leg shifted against his, naked and hairy.
He sucked in a deep breath.
“You’re freaking out,” the deep voice said from beside him.
He closed his eyes again desperate to control his breathing and his stomach. Now he was awake again the situation was finally making itself clear. He had had sex with another man. He’d kissed and fondled another man. He had traces of another man’s semen still on his body.
“Stop thinking about it, John, or your mind will reject it.”
He’d wrapped his legs around another man’s body, rubbed his cock against another man’s cock, gasped and begged as another man….
He rolled out of the bed and stumbled into the bathroom, leaning over the toilet as his stomach emptied.
*-*-*
“How can you be so calm? We had sex, Sherlock!”
“I am aware of that, John. I was there.”
*-*-*
He took a shower. A very long, very hot shower.
He knew exactly what he was doing but he couldn’t help but scratch his nails across his skin, red lines trailing after them.
He felt queasy. He couldn’t help it. He could still remember the taste of Sherlock’s skin, the feel of the body pressing into his, the small gasp that had left his mouth at the point of orgasm.
He rested his head against the cool tiles and resisted the urge to bang his fist against the wall. His nails, short as they were, pressed tightly into his palms although he could barely feel them.
He sucked in a deep breath. He was a soldier and a doctor. He had seen and done things most couldn’t imagine. This was nothing.
He tipped his head under the spray and washed his hair with determination and force.
*-*-*
“Twenty quid says they’re shagging.”
The memory was enough to make his skin crawl.
*-*-*
Sherlock was up and changed when he left the bathroom, sat in his customary chair in the main room, fingers pressed together as in prayer.
Their eyes met.
He fled to the sanctuary of his own room.
*-*-*
Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.
*-*-*
It was the middle of the night. By all rights he should have been asleep.
He wasn’t.
He sat on his bed. It was neatly made, military precision, years of practice. It was comforting, reliable, familiar.
He lifted his head and pushed his chin out. He was John Watson, he had stared death in the eyes and survived, he would not run away.
*-*-*
He took each step carefully and with precision. He crossed the room and sat down on his chair.
Sherlock hadn’t moved.
“That…” he said carefully and neutrally, “should not have happened.”
He grasped his hands in his lap and met his flatmate’s unwavering gaze.
“It was a mistake. Just a mistake. Adrenaline left over from the case, we weren’t thinking, and… well… I hardly think it will happen again.”
There, he had said it.
Sherlock’s shirt collar was open, a red mark branding the skin at the bottom of his neck, a shock of colour against the paleness of his skin.
He averted his eyes.
“Did you, uh, hear me, Sherlock? This thing, we just put it behind us and never speak of this again.”
Blue eyes watched, unblinking, unnerving.
He shifted in his chair. He cleared his throat.
“Sherlock?”
“No.”
The word cut through everything, definite and final.
“Excuse me?”
“I said no, John. Denial is hardly going to help either of us.”
His fist clenched against his thigh.
“Denial?” He tried to laugh. “I’m not in denial.”
“From your reactions so far I would say that you are showing obvious signs of going through the Kubler-Ross grief cycle, of which denial is the second stage. The first is shock and I need not point out that that is what led to your extended stay in the bathroom. This is all hardly surprising considering the nature of what happened when taking into consideration the beliefs you have always - and rightfully - held regarding your sexuality and the conditioning instilled in you by institutions such as the army, despite, to quote your own words, ‘it’s all fine’.
His fist clenched tighter and he found it impossible to remain in his chair.
“I’m not in denial!”
“You’re angry.”
“Of course I’m angry. How can you be so calm?” He paced by the unlit fire. “We had sex, Sherlock!”
Sherlock didn’t even blink. “I am aware of that, John. I was there.”
Both hands were now fists.
“This isn’t one of your little experiments. We had sex….”
“Yes, and we both enjoyed it, a reason why this is so distressing for you. Anger is also the third stage.”
He gritted his teeth. “Yes. Thank you for that.”
“Like I said, it is all perfectly understandable. This has all come as a shock to you and you are grieving the loss of your ordered little world.”
“My ordered little… Sherlock, I am not going to stand here and listen to you make up something just so you can feel better.”
“I never make up things, you know that, and this is hardly complicated. You are a heterosexual man who had just discovered that the labels society insists on slapping on us are flawed and pointless, that life is not a collection of absolutes. You have lived a life defined by your sexuality. You are a man who likes women. Regardless of what we have done here tonight you are still a man who likes women, and regardless of what you might do in the future you will always be a man who likes women.”
He frowned. “Are you saying I could be bisexual then?”
“No, that’s just the labels talking again. Society does that to try and organise, to understand, but the only one who needs to understand is you. Have you ever been attracted to another man before or ever considered doing anything sexual with another man?”
“No.”
“And yet - at the time at least - you had no objection to me taking you to my bed.”
He cleared his throat. “Yes, about that….”
“The question is why,” Sherlock said cutting him off with a wave of his hand. “And that is something only you can work out. But don’t try to define who you are by the limited and frankly tedious labels that society insists upon. You are who you are not who society demands you be. It is society’s role to try and define you, not yours to define yourself by society.”
The fingers returned to the mouth and it was clear that the conversation was over. He was just uncertain as to what the conversation had been about.
*-*-*
“Have you ever, you know, with a guy?”
“Of course I have.”
*-*-*
He was confused. He was more than just confused.
He spent three hours on the internet looking up about sexuality, flicking from page to page on Wikipedia, before closing the laptop in a fit of frustration. Nothing made sense any more. Everything he thought he had known, all the order he had had in his head, gone, vanished, destroyed. He was adrift and helpless.
He called Harry.
*-*-*
“Why did you kiss me?”
“Because you wanted to know what it was like.”
*-*-*
He hadn’t seen Harry since before he had broken up with Sarah. Considering their conversation then he suspected she would not be surprised that they had gone their separate ways.
He didn’t particularly want to talk to Harry, but there was no-one else and he hoped, really hoped, that maybe she would understand.
She knew something was up right away - he had no other reason for seeing her after all - but she was tactful and sober enough to not call him on it immediately.
They talked about nothing for a long time before her gentle and not so gentle needling forced his question out.
“Have you ever, you know,” he said vaguely with a wave of his hand, “with a guy?”
She looked at him in surprise before pulling a face.
“Of course I have,” she said. “Provided of course we’re talking about sex here and not, you know, bungee jumping or something.”
“And?” he said.
She looked at him. “And what?” she said. “Since when do you want all the juicy kiss and tell details?”
He tried to get her to forget it and change the subject but Harry was just as stubborn, if not more so, than him.
“It was fine,” she said. “Probably would have been better had I not been so pissed, but probably wouldn’t have done it otherwise. And it helped that he looked like Jake Gyllenhaal. Now that’s one bloke I wouldn’t kick out of bed. What’s this about anyway? Why the sudden interest in my love life? You not getting any now Sarah’s out the picture?”
The conversation went downhill from then on, and then she gasped.
“Oh my god, you slept with Sherlock, didn’t you?”
The denial was on his tongue but got no further than that. He went to get them some more drinks. He suspected they would need them. He knew he did.
“So is this some kind of sexual identity crisis then? Worried your heterosexual tag might be slipping?”
Worried? No. Utterly petrified? Completely.
“Relax,” she said with a smile that failed to make him do just that. “You’re as straight as you’ve always been. Not as if you like blokes in general, and anyway it’s not exactly surprising. You’ve been infatuated by him since you met. Makes sense it would go physical. Pretty obvious you’re in love with him.”
That was both what he had and had not wanted to hear.
“Must have been pretty good or you wouldn’t be so confused. Which leaves the all big important question; you gonna do it again?”
He wished he had an answer.
*-*-*
He still remembered the taste, the smell, the feel of Sherlock against him. He sometimes woke up panting, hand down his pyjamas, Sherlock’s name on his lips.
His body at least knew what it wanted. At least he thought it did.
*-*-*
He was drunk. Sherlock was lying on the sofa nursing a nicotine patch.
“She’s slept with men, hasn’t she?”
Sherlock’s eyes didn’t even open.
“What? Oh. Yes.” He didn’t even bother asking how Sherlock knew the conversation between him and Harry. Even in his drunken state he figured it would be obvious.
“And if she fell in love with a man tomorrow despite a lack of physical attraction, would she be any less gay?”
He was still confused.
He was too drunk to consider an answer and turned to stumble to his own room. He stubbed his toes on the first step and tumbled down, his head spinning.
“Why did you kiss me?” he said resting his head against the lower steps.
There was a pause. He wondered if he could fall asleep where he was.
“Because you wanted to know what it was like,” came the final reply.
He supposed that made sense. It was certainly true. He had wanted to know, and now he knew, and now he was drunk and he rarely drank, and…
He woke up the next morning in his own bed, a bucket on the floor and a glass of water on the side. The answers though, were still beyond his reach.
*-*-*
He was physically attracted to Sherlock.
The realisation was both a shock and a comfort.
The question was; was he physically attracted because he was in love with him, or was he in love him because he was physically attracted?
*-*-*
He couldn’t help but feel a sense of revulsion when the guy at the club kissed him. It was all stubble and sweat and maleness.
It did help to serve one purpose though; it wasn’t men he was attracted to. Just Sherlock.
*-*-*
“You’re not gay.”
“No.”
“And you’re not bisexual, bi-curious, homoflexible, heteroflexible, or heterosexual.”
“Labels, John. Dull. Predictable. Boring.”
“Asexual then?”
“You’re missing the point.”
It had been a week since his conversation with Harry, longer still since the incident. He was still somewhat confused.
“Then tell me, what are you? What am I?”
“That’s easy. I’m Sherlock Holmes, and you’re John Watson.”
*-*-*
His body wanted Sherlock. His heart wanted Sherlock. His mind was still confused.
*-*-*
He remembered the intensity with which Sherlock had looked at him, the feeling of being the centre of the great man’s attention, the fingers that had played him like an instrument. The taste, the smell, the feel, the sounds he had made, the look on his face at climax.
His. For that short time it had been his. His and only his.
He wanted that again. He wanted it so much.
*-*-*
It looked like some kind of sci-fi thriller with that camp bloke who seemed to pop up everywhere. Torchwood the BBC3 listings said, repeat obviously. He vaguely recalled that it had something to do with Doctor Who, but it was yet another reminder of how much television he had missed while he had been busy in Afghanistan.
He had little else to do, Sherlock was elsewhere and there was nothing else on. He settled down to watch.
“You’re kidding me!” some Welsh character was exclaiming to some guy in a suit. “Really, though? Really? Christ almighty! He’s nice, though? Is he? Is he? Oh my God. I mean, since when?”
“It’s weird,” said the Welsh guy who was apparently dating the camp guy in the coat. “It’s just different. It’s not… men. It’s… it’s just him. It’s only him. And I don’t even know what it is, really.”
He switched off the television and stared at the blank screen.
*-*-*
“How do you feel?”
“Strange.”
*-*-*
Sherlock’s back hit the wall with a surprising umph. Neither noticed as their mouths and hands were too busy doing other far more pleasurable things. Surprisingly it was Sherlock who did the pushing away this time, hair already ruffled, his black shirt held together by a single button.
“John, while I am not adverse to this development, I need you to be certain of what you are doing. I am not someone who takes sexual intimacy lightly.”
“You took it well enough last time.”
Sherlock didn’t smile. “I am serious. Last time was a single isolated incident, this time I fear I may not be so… detached.”
“Detached?” He bent forward to lick his tongue across Sherlock’s collar bone. His skin tasted slightly salty. “You didn’t seem all that detached.”
“John, if we do this, I need to know that you have thought this through. I need you to have considered all the possibilities.”
He took a step back. “Look, Sherlock, I don’t want to think about this, because if I do my mind is going to take over and we both know where that leads.”
“John.”
“No, let me finish. I have thought about this and this is what I know; I’m not gay, I don’t like men, I’m not attracted to men, but god help me, I like you, I’m attracted to you. Now, I have no idea what this really means, but I want you, and I had rather hoped that maybe you wanted me too.”
There was a long pause and then Sherlock smiled; a slow, genuine, brilliant smile.
“Always.”
*-*-*
“Why? Why are you telling me this?”
“Because there are some things you need to know about my brother.”
*-*-*
“How do you feel?”
They stayed on Sherlock’s bed. They were both sated and naked, stretched out on top of the covers. There was a mark on Sherlock’s ceiling, some sort of experiment perhaps.
“Strange,” he said then cleared his throat because he could feel Sherlock watching him. “Better than last time.”
“Not about to run away again?”
He smiled because although the thought had occurred to him he’s comfortable where he was. “That was a tactical retreat,” he said instead.
“Ever the soldier.”
He lay there for a little while longer before rolling onto his side and took the opportunity to look, really look at Sherlock. He undoubtedly had the body of a man, there were no breasts for example, but he figured he could cope.
His mind still told him that he shouldn’t be doing this, but he had gotten better at not listening to it.
Leaning over he brushed his hand to Sherlock’s cheek, taking in the feel of very light stubble before bending down to press a kiss against the still swollen lips.
“That,” he said carefully aware of the way the Sherlock’s eyes had never left him, “was amazing.”
A slight wry smile touched Sherlock’s mouth. “You think so?”
“Of course I do. It was extraordinary, quite extraordinary.”
“That’s not what people normally say.”
“What do people normally say?”
Sherlock’s smile grew. “Piss off.”
The laugh ended with him on his back and Sherlock crouched in front of him. Turned out oral sex from a man wasn’t all that different than from a woman.
*-*-*
“You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool, people might talk.”
“People do little else.”
*-*-*
Lestrade was the second person to notice.
He wasn’t sure what gave it away since neither of their public actions had changed at all. Sherlock still infuriated most people, while he still stood around in the background either sighing or acting as a human sounding board.
Until Lestrade pulled him aside after Sherlock had disappeared somewhere with his coat flapping, he hadn’t thought anyone else had noticed.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Lestrade said his voice low and somewhat warning. It was clear he wasn’t talking about the case. “I may not know Sherlock very well, but I’ve worked with him on and off for six years now, I don’t want to see him hurt.”
He assured the detective that he had no plans to hurt Sherlock and with his cheeks only a touch red managed to make his escape. It had been embarrassing, true, but not as bad as facing the first person who had found out.
*-*-*
“Ah, John, so glad you could join me.”
It wasn’t as if he had had the choice. The black car had picked him up and Anthea - or Clarissa as she was called this time - was not someone he particularly wanted to argue with. He was still unsure as to what she could do with that BlackBerry.
They ended up in an empty underground parking lot, two chairs and a small fold out table. Mycroft was sat in one chair, his umbrella point on the ground, the handle swinging between his hands.
“Please, take a seat.”
He figured it wasn’t worth arguing.
“I’m sure you can hardly surprised by this meeting,” Mycroft said in a measured tone. “I believe congratulations are in order. A physical relationship with my brother? How’s that working out for you?”
“Good.” He cleared his throat not bothering to figure out how Mycroft knew. It was always better not to know. “Yes, great. It’s great.”
“Well that is excellent news,” Mycroft said. “I wish you both all the best. However, and I hope you can excuse this as brotherly concern, but you should know that my brother is not one to enter into a physical relationship lightly. By my reckoning you would be only his fourth sexual partner.”
“His fourth? There were only three before me?”
“Indeed. Two young men, a young woman, named Irene I believe, and now you, Doctor John Watson.”
He shifted slightly in his seat. Mycroft always did make him feel uncomfortable, even when they weren’t talking about such personal matters.
“Why?” he asked. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because there are some things you need to know about my brother. Through his past… dalliances he has managed to conclude what some of us had suspected for some times, that he can only enjoy physical intercourse if he is emotional invested in the person he is with. He is, in his own words, a high functioning sociopath, and as such is not one to become easily emotionally attached. He, therefore, does not routinely indulge in physical intimacy. Do you understand what I am saying?”
He frowned. “But… but I caught him. He was kissing. He said it was a former lover.”
“Ah, yes. That was indeed a former lover, but not a current one. The kiss would have been little more than an experiment, to see if intimacy was still possible.
“And the guy with his phone number?”
“Which guy with the phone number?”
He felt ridiculous for asking but doubted Mycroft would let it go. “There was a guy, some months back, part of a case. Sherlock flirted with him to get the information we needed. I told him off for leading the poor bloke on, making him think he might call. Sherlock told me it wasn’t outside the range of possibility that he would call.”
“Ah,” Mycroft said his small smile as scary as anything he could have done. “A ruse.”
“A ruse?”
“He had no intention of calling, but he needed the information, both about the case and your reaction.”
“My reaction?”
“Yes. Annoyance is a very complex thing, John. You were annoyed, he was no doubt trying to determine why. You need not worry. He was no doubt rather flattered to figure out it was due to your jealousy.”
“Jealousy.”
“Possessiveness. You have been protecting my brother from the moment you met him. You killed a man to save his life. You declined to even hear my offer of money.”
“You kidnapped me.”
“A necessary evil. I find that some people don’t tend to come if I just say please.”
“And now?” he asked. “Is this some kind of warning?”
“A warning?” Mycroft laughed. “Oh no, my dear John. I would never presume to do such a thing. This is merely a conversation.”
“In an empty underground car park?”
“So hard to find places nowadays where one can be overlooked.”
He pressed his lips together.
“My brother likes you, John. In fact, I would go as far as to say that as far as he is capable, he is in love with you.”
He shifted in his seat.
“Emotions have never been my brother’s strong point and as such they can confuse him. He may also struggle to express them. Please bear this in mind as your relationship develops and remember that he does not share his bed lightly. That is all.”
He nodded recognising both a warning and a dismissal. He rose to his feet.
“It was good talking to you again, John,” Mycroft said. “And congratulations once again. Mummy was delighted.”
He found that as disturbing as anything Mycroft had ever said to him and he fought to put it out of his mind as soon as possible.
He had four text messages waiting on his phone when the black car pulled back into signal range. Unsurprisingly they were all from Sherlock.
Need milk.
SH
Where are you?
SH
Tell Mycroft to shove his umbrella where the sun doesn’t shine.
SH
We still need milk.
And cheese.
And more of those smiley biscuits.
SH
He smiled to himself and shook his head. The car dropped him off at the nearest twenty-four hour Tesco to Baker Street. He didn’t even have to ask.
*-*-*
With the real thing well within his grasp the dreams stopped. He didn’t miss them. Reality was far better anyway.
*-*-*
He stopped thinking of Sherlock as a man, he was just Sherlock. He got the impression that had Sherlock been a woman he would have fallen for her anyway, the fact he was in the body of a man was different but not insurmountable.
Sherlock was just Sherlock; arrogant, frustrating, brilliant, maddening, extraordinary, unpredictable, surprising, and a dozen more words which barely summed him up. There was always something new, something interesting and he wouldn’t miss it for the world, especially when Sherlock would whirl round and fix him with that look, with those eyes and with that smile.
No wonder people like Lestrade started to notice.
*-*-*
The possessiveness faded. He wasn’t sure how or when that happened but it did. Of course Sherlock was the first one to notice.
“You don’t clench your fists any more when people show an interest in me.”
“Hmm?”
He had been typing up his blog and Sherlock had been reading the newspaper. The question had therefore appeared out of nowhere.
“Your fists,” Sherlock repeated a small frown on his face. “Yesterday that new detective didn’t seem to bother you. Why?”
“Oh. Yes. Well.” He cleared his throat. “I suppose it’s because I know it doesn’t mean anything. He can flirt all he wants, but it’s my bed you crawl into.”
Sherlock looked at him over the paper and he could see the small smile. They went back to their respective occupations. It only lasted a few more minutes before Sherlock folded up his paper and looked thoughtful.
“John?”
“Yes.”
“Busy?”
“Depends. Why?”
“I have just had the sudden urge to crawl into your bed. I wondered if you would be interested in joining me.”
Put like that, it was hard to say no.
*-*-*
It wasn’t without its difficulty. For a while he still had to tell his mind that the sex was fine, that he wasn’t supposed to be freaked out about it or feel ill at the thought. Slowly though it all started to become normal and they fell into a routine of sorts.
The first time he went down on Sherlock was a little strange. Sherlock had told him it was hardly necessary but it was something he had wanted to do. He was surprised to find he didn’t hate it as much as he thought he might although he knew his own limits. He refused to give in to any thoughts of dislike, so focused on the positives and rather than pull away at the end, he pressed Sherlock’s hands to his head and made his wishes clear. Sherlock’s reaction and expression made it all worthwhile.
As for the rest, well, it wasn’t nearly as bad as he thought and it turned out Sherlock was a more than enthusiastic bottom.
*-*-*
“It’s just you, you know.”
“Hmm?”
“It’s not men… just you.”
“I’m flattered.”
*-*-*
He sighed and rubbed his thumb against his forehead when they were finally outed. Sherlock of course ignored it, being as he was in a world of his own. It had been inevitable that everyone else would find out eventually. The only question had been a matter of how.
In his idle moments he had considered how it would go.
There was the accidental slip, where one of them said something without thinking. There was the being caught doing something affectionate in public. There was - and he shuddered to think about it - the random drugs busts where secrets would be spilled and gossip started.
In the end it was probably just a combination of little things.
“My god,” Anderson had breathed, “anyone would think they really were shagging.”
In that moment everyone else froze because once pointed out everyone realised the truth. It was Lestrade who naturally took control and everything snapped back to normal, or as close to it as was now possible.
“I’m not surprised by the freak but I didn’t think Watson was gay,” he heard Anderson say to Donovan later.
“I’m not,” he said standing behind them. “Although it’s hardly any of your business.”
Donovan had at least looked slightly embarrassed but it was clear Anderson wanted more answers.
“But you are shagging him,” Anderson said.
“Like I said, none of your business.”
“So if you’re not gay, what are you?” Anderson said.
He shrugged. “I’m John Watson,” he said and then left them to it.
*-*-*
He was John Watson, doctor, former solider, breast man, put upon side kick and lover of the world’s only consulting detective.
*-*-*
He wasn’t gay.
*-*-*
It was fine. It really was all fine.
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The End
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