SNAFU (3/6)
BBC Sherlock
Rating for whole fic 15 (swearing, sex, angst, hints of BDSM)
Summary: The aftermath of sleeping with Sherlock things gets even more fraught for John.
Notes: With special thanks to my betas Fengirl88 and Blooms84 for their exceptional efforts in trying to sort this fic out.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6
One of the things I've had to give up as a result of associating with Sherlock is a belief in random human behaviour. Sherlock insists that everyone's actions have a definite cause, people's behaviour makes sense - at least to an ideal observer, who happens to bear a remarkable resemblance to Sherlock. When I've attempted to contradict these statements, I get met with blisteringly detailed logical attacks, which once mysteriously managed to link the colour of my shirt back to events in 1989 I'd completely forgotten about.
Most of the time I don't mind losing randomness: there's a certain intellectual pleasure in sensing the interconnection of everything, even if you can't understand the details. Unfortunately, however, a belief in chance would have been useful to wake up to on the day after I'd slept with a man for the first time. Because saying I'd had sex with Sherlock because he was being extremely annoying was a pretty feeble explanation. Especially when I wasn't gay.
Hadn't been gay. Hadn't thought I was gay. Hadn't realised the things I wanted to do with Sherlock, do to him. Still, he could hardly complain about that. He'd obviously disentangled himself from my grip at some point in the night, and disappeared downstairs. I had a vague memory of him muttering something to me at some ridiculous time, but I couldn't remember what it was - it's hard enough for me to follow what Sherlock's saying when I'm awake. Nothing for it, I thought, but to go downstairs and talk to him.
I was a long time in the shower, as if I could somehow wash myself back to last night, stop what had happened. But at last I was clean and dressed and as prepared as I was going to get. As soon as I came down the stairs, I spotted Sherlock lying on the sofa, gazing intently at his laptop with his hands steepled, as if part of a particularly strange sect of icon-worshippers. The small bit of my brain that has detective pretensions deduced 'been there for hours, stumped by current problem'. The rest of me just concentrated on registering every inch of his body for more immediate purposes. And the thump of my heart as I remembered exactly what was on the laptop told me there was no point in apologising for what had happened. It's hypocritical to apologise for something you'd be quite prepared to do again.
So I walked up beside him, and said: "About last night..." and then ground to a halt completely. Eventually, I seemed to register with Sherlock, who looked up at me, smiled vaguely, said: "Last night, yes. It was...good, very good..we must do it again some time," and then returned to contemplating his laptop as if the matter was closed.
I stood there and concentrated very hard on my leg muscles, until I was sure my knees weren't going to buckle. And then I went into the kitchen and had some coffee, and went back up to my room. I spent about an hour trying to think up versions of the conversation - conversation? - in which I had a snappy reply to Sherlock. None of them were remotely convincing. Then I heard Sherlock bounding upstairs, and he burst into my room in a minor explosion of enthusiastic limbs.
"Suspected crocodile attack in Dagenham," he announced, "and London Zoo are sounding very twitchy. Let's go."
"Are you serious?"
"Teeth marks, prints. You can fake a lion's paw, but can you fake a crocodile's bite? If you're coming, come."
I stood up blearily. "Down in a minute," I said.
***
It wasn't quite as bad being with Sherlock as I'd expected. I got used to heroic levels of pretence in Afghanistan, the stubborn refusal to admit what was going to happen, what had happened. I've known a lot of live cowards who became dead heroes, and heard far too many speeches about how we were going to sort out Terry Taliban once and for all. Ignoring the existence of one bout of vigorous sex was relatively small stuff in comparison.
I was, of course, so tuned into Channel Sherlock that it was ridiculous. I was conscious of everything he did, every word, every gesture, everyone else seemed blurry in comparison. But was that really any change? Hadn't I always been obsessed with Sherlock, even before this? No-one seemed to notice anything different, though it was a bloody good job that no-one could see the scratches on my back, or test for DNA under my fingernails.
The real problem was when Sherlock disappeared, saying he had to see a man in Harlow about a caiman. He left me with a list of questions to go and ask the witnesses, and a state of total confusion. As I headed off to Becontree tube station, it felt like a bad dream, my tired legs too heavy to move. And then I realised I was looking at other men on the platform, noticing them.
It's not the first time that Sherlock's actions have warped my perspectives substantially. That went right back to the first case I ever helped him with, the one I called the Study in Pink. (The details are on my blog, if you really want to know). After the deductions he made about Donovan and the Pink Lady, I found that for days afterwards I was looking at every woman I met and trying to work out if she was cheating on someone. And when Sherlock explained about what you could tell from a person's thumb, I wasn't able to shake someone's hand for a fortnight without trying to work out their profession from their hands, though my accuracy rate was about one in twenty.
But this was far worse. This was like suddenly realising that there was an extra colour, or that the world was 3D rather than flat. I kept on finding I was staring at some young man, wondering: is he, would he, would he with me? The stupid thing was that I didn't actually want to have sex with any of them. At least I was almost sure I didn't. But then I'd see someone turn his head just like that, so you could see the line of his bare neck, or a tall figure would stride past me, and my pulse would race and the constant ache in my stomach would spread to my whole body. Almost like a drug rush, though far less pleasant. (No, I haven't tried illegal drugs for many years, thank you very much. I can do enough damn fool things without getting high).
***
I tracked down and talked to all the people that Sherlock had asked me to, and then went home, and got yelled at for my incompetence in not having observed key details. Which was absolutely justified - my notes were a garbled mess - so I didn't even attempt to excuse myself. I just retorted with a few angry remarks when Sherlock promptly walked off with my phone and laptop yet again. Now he was in case mode, it wasn't worth asking what he was doing, let alone try to discuss anything else. I also knew that if I had to sit around just watching him for the rest of the day, it was going to screw up my nervous system even further. So I went upstairs and spent a long evening almost bouncing off the walls, and unsuccessfully trying to think of something that wasn't Sherlock's naked body.
I didn't have any locum work on that month - I'd probably have been a danger to my patients - so I had nothing to do that week but trail after Sherlock and his hypothetical crocodile. Unfortunately, he was having problems with the case, and started taking it out on me, saying I was being 'distracting'. (Sherlock can ignore pretty much anything short of hypothermia when things are going well. When things are going wrong, you can distract him by wearing a patterned shirt, or breathing the wrong way, let alone by walking around in a lust-crazed blur).
He went further than normal, though, and after a couple of days, told me not to come with him, that I wasn't helping his thought processes. It was typical of bloody Sherlock that he didn't mention why I had become so incoherent and incompetent. His effect on me probably hadn't even registered with him. For a moment I wondered whether if we ever did have another close encounter, it might not be more satisfying just to beat him to a pulp, rather than have sex.
But instead, I found myself wandering around the streets of London on my own. Unfortunately they were still full of men flaunting themselves in ways that were really not helpful for someone trying not to think about gay sex. Who the hell had decided that September should be Slim Dark-Haired Men Dressing Stylishly Month?
When I thought I'd killed enough time, I went home. Except it wasn't home anymore, just a cage for two silent men. Sherlock was still wound up - the case going badly, I assumed - and now he was Not Talking to me, just like I was Not Talking to him. We were like the north poles of two magnets, automatically veering away whenever the other one came near. Except bloody magnets probably never wished they could reverse their own polarity, and Sherlock might be a magnet, but I was more like some hapless pile of iron filings. No, what Sherlock really was was a fucking catalyst, a not fucking catalyst, who could cause this explosive reaction in me and be completely unaffected himself. I had to get him out of my system somehow.
***
A night's reflection - well, more a night's frantic scrabbling round in my bed and what remained of my mind - convinced me that the best option was to find a woman to sleep with. That would prove that I was still the person I had been, that that part of me hadn't changed. But I couldn't think of anyone to ask, and I was conscious that 'I'd like to sleep with you so I don't obsess about my flatmate' was even worse than my normal chat-up lines. I even wondered about e-mailing Juanita, because she'd probably be quite happy to help me deal with my insecurities. Instead, I ended up doing something that was only marginally less insane. If I looked at pictures of girls, women, I could at least satisfy my own body, and then maybe I could get myself together again.
So I went off to see Shinwell Johnson, who's one of Sherlock's informers, and asked him if I could borrow his computer for some research. Shinwell's dark, beady eyes gleamed at that.
"Course, Dr Watson, whatever you need. And if you have to research some unusual sites, that's fine by me. I'd just be grateful if you wipe down the keyboard afterwards."
There was nothing to be ashamed of, I told myself, even as I winced at Shinwell's smirk. Most men - most straight men - looked at porn. I didn't, though. I'd given it up after the disaster with Julie. If I was going to get myself under control the last thing I needed was anything giving me more ideas. It wasn't as if I needed any encouragement to think about sex.
But that was twenty years ago; I wasn't an adolescent anymore. I could do what I liked, enjoy myself. Except the stuff I found myself looking at, for hour after hour, wasn't...enjoyable, not like the slightly comic girls I remembered from twenty years ago. Too many of the videos didn't show the women properly, just thrusting genitals, which was about as arousing as watching a heart pump. And most of the girls you did get a decent look at had fake plastic bodies and even more fake smiles.
Then I found one that seemed more promising. No artificial tan this time: the woman's dark curls contrasted strikingly with her pale skin, oddly compelling. There was no smile on those beautiful lips, either - she just stood there, tall and slender and calm, as the camera ran up and down her. And then her partner stepped forward, and she stretched out her long, graceful arms, and he was putting handcuffs onto her wrists...
Christ, no! I clicked frantically on the back button, my heart pounding. I was not going to look at something like that, that was awful. And then my mind went abruptly back to that night, and Sherlock smirking up at me from where he was sprawled on my bed. And my hands clamping round his bony wrists as I snarled at him: "We're not through with this yet."
Fuck, what the hell had happened to me? And why wasn't this working? Had the girl in the video just turned me on because she reminded me of Sherlock? But I liked brunettes, always had done. I pulled up some more clips, but I couldn't find anything that was right. I was second-guessing my own body, by now, even as I rubbed at my erection, trying to tell myself that I liked that, but not that. What I mainly felt was more and more disconnected. I didn't know any more whether it was all fine, or none of it was. Then I realised that I'd unthinkingly brought up my own blog site, and had to force myself not to type: 'Ever since I slept with Sherlock, I've become obsessed with sex.' At that point I left, because I was obviously in danger of losing control of my fingers, as well as the rest of my body
***
I was turning myself into a sweaty moral wreck, and it wasn't even making me feel better. I decided, when I got up the next day, that whatever Sherlock had done to me, I was not going to make things worse. So I spent most of the day not doing things. Successfully not talking to Sherlock and not going to Shinwell's. Unsuccessfully not thinking about Sherlock, or sex, or sex with Sherlock every 10 seconds. Almost automatically not eating or sleeping.
The problem was that some of the videos were still playing in front of my eyes, I couldn't get away from them. And now I'd seen them, thought about them, what might I end up doing? I couldn't trust myself anymore. Because there are times when you - I - do things that you know are stupid, wrong, even when you're doing them. Thump my little sister when Mum was watching. Bully a girl into kinky sex. Sleep with my flatmate, and then spend hours wanking over porn to try and forget him.
The sane part of me realised that this was going to end with somebody getting hurt or me being arrested. Or discovering that what I really subconsciously wanted was a threesome with Donovan and bloody Anderson. I had to get help, but not from Ella, of course. She'd want to discuss things, ask how I felt about it all. What I needed right now, though, was not non-directive counselling, but practical advice on what the hell to do next.
I wondered about going to see DI Lestrade, because he's one of the most sensible blokes I know, and pretty near unshockable. But the thing was, he wanted me to be a good influence on Sherlock, keep him on the straight and narrow. Hardly do to let him see how warped I was underneath. I needed someone who knew Sherlock, though, because it was only if you'd met him that you could understand the field of bizarreness he emanated, that made almost anything seem sensible at the time. I also decided I was more likely to get useful advice from a woman than a man. I knew a lot of clever, sensible women. Some of them I was still on speaking terms with. So I phoned up Clara and asked to come round to see her. Which just proved that my mind was no longer functioning on any level.
***
I think I've mentioned Clara before, but I didn't explain who she is, which is Harry's ex. As in the ex-civil partner of my sister Harriet, whom I have never got on with. Harry's had a nasty tongue on her almost since she learned to talk, always known how to hurt people with it. She was always hurting me in other ways as well, when we were kids. Sly pokes, and pulling my hair, and accidentally on purpose kicking me, till I lost it and walloped her. And then I'd get into trouble with my parents, because you must never, ever hit a girl. Which I know is right, but seems a bit odd when you're training in the same army regiment as them. Harry gave me hell, of course, for joining the army, but I was used to her disapproving of anything I did.
Given we don't get on, it's pretty ironic that she's the only member of my family I'm still in contact with. It soon became clear after Harry came out at university that everyone in our family was going to have pick sides: for Harry or against her. I picked Harry's side on principle and I don't think she's ever quite forgiven me for that. It spoiled her lovely clear-cut story about how horribly her bigoted family had treated her. So I got ostracised by the rest of my family, and turned into a whipping boy by Harry. Not one of my cleverer moves.
It hasn't all been bad with Harry, and it was a lot better when she got together with Clara, who is a really nice woman. I was quite envious that Harry had found someone like her, after all the dodgy girlfriends she'd hopped into bed with. And then, of course, Harry went and blew it: started drinking heavily, and then ran out on Clara. I am - amazingly enough - not the biggest relationship disaster in the Watson family. At least this time, Harry had the sense not to insist that I had to choose whether to stay friends with Clara or her. Maybe she'd guessed that I might have chosen Clara.
***
The problem, I realised, once I'd made the call and my brain had finally caught up, was that Clara was absolutely not the right person to talk to about this. Not so much because she doesn't get on well with Sherlock - hardly anyone does. But because she would probably say I ought to be OK with being attracted to men, and I wasn't in a fit state to argue with her. I picked up my phone again, and rang her to cancel.
"Sorry about messing you around," I said. "It's just this case has come up and I can't make it, and I'm really sorry-"
"John, do you realise how rotten a liar you are?" Clara replied crisply. "There's obviously something wrong. What is it?"
"There's nothing, everything's fine." Even I could hear I was sounding pathetically unconvincing.
"Then you either turn up at my flat tonight as we agreed, or I'll have to come round to Baker Street to sort you out, because you're sounding in a really bad state."
"I-"
"Stop arguing, John. I'll be expecting you at eight."