Am I loud and clear or am I breaking up?
Am I still your charm or am I just bad luck?
Are we getting closer or are we just getting more lost?
I'll show you mine if you show me yours first...
“Come on, John,” Sherlock is barely through the door. “I need to see your penis! It’s urgent”.
“Go to the morgue; grab yourself one,” John is only half kidding. Sherlock is so unbelievable sometimes, it’s like he created a whole new definition of ‘not-normal and proud.’
“No, I need one which is attached to a live body!” Sherlock is fuming and does not get that John is being sarcastic.
“No,” John had one hell of the day in clinic and now all he wants is to get back to his newspaper. And he tries to, in which moment Sherlock drops to his knees in front of the armchair and starts fumbling with John’s belt.
“It will only take a minute, I just need to verify something and I…”
“Sherlock, stop for fuck sake!” John is angry now. “Don’t you get how wildly inappropriate that is? You have your own penis, you know.”
“But I can’t observe mine properly! I need to examine the underside and have a closer look” Sherlock is still on his knees and it’s weird and a bit arousing (more weird than arousing). “Come on, John, I just need one peek and the case will be solved!”
“So I’m just a convenient puzzle piece to you?” John is a bit angry and a bit sad. It’s always one thing or another: John fetch me a mobile, John bring me a newspaper, John don’t touch the toenails in the jar. And now this! Sherlock does not listen to him, it does not matter to the man if this or that makes John embarrassed, cold, or left behind. Sherlock brings excitement to his life, but also sometimes makes him feel so… small (no pun intended).
“No, but you can help me and the poor victim if only I could see the pattern.” Sherlock has this ‘I’m right and you’re wrong and stupid’ voice that all who know him (except Mrs. Hudson, but Sherlock just does not want to risk his tea) are quite familiar with.
There is no chance for John. Anyway he thinks, “you would die for him and kill for him and this is just such a small thing, unimportant thing.” But he feels humiliated, by the request itself and Sherlock in front of him, impatient, inconsiderate of John’s feelings. The great detective lives by the rules he invents himself – society and morals and all be damned – and that scares John sometimes.
John gives in, he unbuckles his belt and takes himself out with a sign. Sherlock immediately reaches out and grabs him.
“What the fuck you think you are doing?” One would think it’s impossible to get more embarrassed and one would be wrong.
“I need you to get hard.” “Obvious” is unspoken. So Sherlock strokes him and John closes his eyes. The sensation is quite nice, but he just does not want to see Sherlock using him as a tool. Finally he is hard and he can feel touch of cold fingers clinical and sure. The medical exam he had last month had more to do with sex then this. The detective is examining, turning a part of him in his hands.
He hears Sherlock exclaiming “Oh” and then he just feels cold and exposed and alone. He opens his eyes and sees that Sherlock had run to a mantle, grabbed his mobile and is firing texts and murmuring something that sound a lot like “bite marks and burns.” John thinks he probably should feel happy Sherlock did not actually bite or burn his privates.
“Do you need something else?” He asks, but Sherlock does not fucking notice the ice in his voice. The hell will freeze when this will happen. “No, no. You can go back to reading or whatever,” Sherlock waves a hand in his general direction, dismissing him, forgetting him, leaving him behind.
John signs, tucks himself in, gets up and slowly walks out of the room, up the stairs. Once by himself he goes to lie on the bed facing the wall. He can hear Sherlock pacing downstairs, but it’s like he is underwater. The whole exchange had probably taken ten minutes, but it’s like ages between when and now. John thinks. “What am I? I used to have a clear definition of right and wrong, of appropriate and unacceptable. Of what friendship means.” He had clearly lost it somewhere along the way.
Suddenly the door flies open. Of course. Why knock?
“John, it’s over, the suspect is in custody! Let’s go out.”
John closes his eyes again. “No, thanks I’d rather stay in.” Is he dead? He sounds dead to himself.
“You want to order in?” The steps and the voice are approaching together with their owner.
“I don’t. I just want to stay here by myself.” ‘Go away” is unspoken, but Sherlock as always does not get the hint. Instead he goes to sit on the bed.
“John,” A pointy finger jabs him in the arm. “What’s wrong?”
“Go away” John does not feel like talking, discussing, cussing or whatever. He just wants to be left alone and spend five bloody minutes without Sherlock being here and there and fucking everywhere.
“Are you mad at me? But that was necessary, John! That was for a case! It’s not like I…It’s counterproductive to be offended,” Sherlock is babbling now.
“Emotions are that way, usually counterproductive and not relevant. Don’t mind me – go out, order in, whatever.”
“John…” Sherlock goes to lie on the bed, John feels his bed crack, feels the warm body behind him. But he stays on his side and does not try to touch John anymore.
They both are silent for couple of minutes.
“I’m mad at you, yes” – John says at last – “You take and take and take some more, without taking what I want into consideration. Without listening to me than I say “no” and “stop” and “I don’t want to”. You just manhandled me downstairs… One would think after all things we survived together – bombs and all – you would have more respect for me. But that’s you, that’s the way you are. What worries me the most is that I let you. I let you take and take and take until there is no me left for the taking.”
He turns around and when he sees Sherlock he wants to take his words back. The great detective (stupid inconsiderate cruel git) looks so lost and small and on a verge of… what? Crying? Impossible, well highly improbable. Sherlock does not raise his eyes and mumbles:
“I’m sorry, John. It was moronic to presume that… No, it was unspeakable. I’ve overstepped all boundaries, I forget sometimes that we are not… And I don’t deserve your company. But if you give me a second chance I’ll try, you know, to listen when you say ‘no’ and ‘don’t.’ I know it might seem that for me you are just means to an end. But really John, you are the only one there. There’s just no one else.”
John feels oddly touched, he is still annoyed of course, but there’s just something about Sherlock apologizing for once.
“Оk, you can stay but only for a short while.” He says. Sherlock scoots a bit closer, still avoiding looking directly at John. He is like a cat that had pissed under an armchair and now is trying to make amends, John thinks. “Next time I’ll smack you hard” he promises. “I put up with so much from you already without exposing my privates for a case.” He realizes suddenly just how ridiculous the whole thing was and starts to giggle. Sherlock smiles too. “What if next time I would like to repeat it out of confines of the case?” John smacks him on the shoulder lightly and mumbles “Hey, don’t push it,” but he is not that angry anymore. Maybe it’s just that the boundaries they have set in this relationship somehow wore thin, opening the gates to some weird sort of intimacy. Their style. It’s hard to predict what will happen next. He will consider it later, right now he just needs a nap after his shift and being angry and reconciliation. John closes his eyes. He will tell Sherlock to go to his own bed in a moment.