DIAMONDS FOR TEARS
'Cos when you're sleeping right next to me
I know you're the one
So when I hear you calling my name
Why do I turn away and run?
I guess that's why it's raining diamonds
Sweet happiness in tears
Crying heaven shed your diamonds
Diamonds for tears
~ Poets of the Fall - Diamonds for Tears
Chapter One - What Happened Last Night?
The mid November sunshine peeked into the rooms of London's finest and only consulting detective.
Sherlock lay entangled in the silk bed sheets, his hair sprawling on the soft pillow beneath his head. His eyes fluttered, still battling the decision to open up to the new day or just give in and sink back into dreamland. He made an attempt to lift his head, but the simple action caused pain to shoot behind his eyes. Groaning, he rested his forehead back onto the pillow and inhaled deeply.
He tried to unwrap himself from the sheet that held him like a cocoon, but the only thing he achieved was to roll to the edge of the bed until he ended up on the floor with a loud thump.
What the hell? Sherlock grunted, mentally cursing the whole universe. Finally, finding a loose end of the sheet, he managed to free his upper body, stretching his arms with a lazy yawn. His bladder persistently demanding his attention, he untangled himself from the rest of the linen and, supporting his weight on the bed, pushed himself up to a slightly wobbly standing position.
He looked around and suddenly froze on the spot. His bed was not empty; it was full of a soundly sleeping, messy-haired, apparently naked John Watson. Sherlock's eyes widened in shock. John? Is this a dream?
The urge to piss was too much to bear, so, putting aside the confusion for a moment, Sherlock gave in to the call of nature and headed to the bathroom.
He emptied his bladder with a quiet groan of relief and flushing the toilet, moved to the sink and looked into the mirror. Compared to his usual standards, he had to admit he looked terrible. The mess of curls, the still sleep-lidded, hangover-glazed, pale blue eyes, the pillow creases on his cheek; this was not how the great detective usually looked. Wondering what had made him achieve this state of hellish dishevelment, he realised that the gears of his mind had slowed down too. His head felt clouded by thick fog and finding his way to his mind palace required all his strength of concentration.
Grabbing the plastic container of painkillers out of the bathroom cabinet, he fished out two pills and swallowed them with a groan. Closing his eyes and rubbing his temples, he made an attempt to navigate through the foggy hallways of his mind, stumbling from wall to wall, almost blindly, frantically searching for the room of short-term memories.
“ Again, why did I let you drag me into this?” Sherlock groaned, shifting his weight back and forth from left to right, apparently feeling out of place. Parties weren't his cup of tea. Give him a clever murder, a mystery to solve, but God forbid he should be asked to socialise.
“You know very well. Greg and Molly are our friends, and if a friend asks you to be their groomsman, let alone best man, you just can't refuse.”
Sherlock let out an inaudible sigh. “I could.”
“Yes, Sherlock, you could,” John snorted.
The detective raised a brow, sensing the reproach in his companion's voice.
“You still don't get the meaning of friendship, do you?” John groaned, seeing the question in Sherlock's eyes.
“You are my friend,” Sherlock noted innocently.
“Yes,” John replied patiently. “And how do you feel about it? Why do you consider me a friend?”
Sherlock felt like he was back at school as he struggled to answer the question.
“You accept and tolerate me,” he started tentatively. “You are ordinary, but not boring.” His voice became more confident with every word. “We share common interests. You are there when I need you. You listen and talk to me, you make me smile. You trust me like no one else. You are adorably naive and honest and caring. You wear those ridiculous jumpers, write awful poetic letters to your girlfriends, read boring and unreliable papers..." Sherlock considered his words for a moment. “But, actually, I like that. You care about what others say and think, though you worry too much about them. You enjoy the thrill of the chase, you need the regular dose of adrenaline just as I do. You are the only one who can communicate with my brother, and you are not afraid to defy him. You are brave and adventurous. You make me tea, do the shopping, buy milk... you are… ” A strange realization hit him.
“ What?” John raised a brow.
"How obvious! Why have I not seen it before?" Sherlock felt the glow of triumph appear on his face.
John cast him an impatient, inquiring look.
“You are what I always needed. You are the company I want forever.”
The intimate confession brought colour to John Watson's cheeks. “ Well, with you being probably the worst flatmate one could ever have, no one else would be able to put up with you,” he laughed nervously, passing the moment of intimacy with a joke.
Sherlock furrowed a brow. “Why would I want anyone else to try? I've just said you are the one I want.”
“ Uhm, forget it,” John averted his gaze, looking down at his shoes.
Sherlock gave him a quizzical glance.
John took a deep breath before speaking again. “ Getting back to your original question. Lestrade and Molly asked us to participate in their wedding, because we are their friends. Also, Lestrade asked me to be his best man, there was no way we could have said no.”
“ That may be, but I still don't have to like the idea.”
“I don't see why they need me ; you’re the one they wanted to take part in this boring ceremony! They could have left me out of it.”
“You should feel honoured to be offered a role, especially with your infuriating attitude. Having helpers, who are usually friends of the couple, is traditional, and, as such, one is not supposed to question it.”
Sherlock groaned. “That's so ridiculous.”
Sherlock's eyes snapped open in revelation. Lestrade and Molly's wedding reception!
The pieces of the puzzle finally clicked.
The celebration that despite his reluctance and lack of enthusiasm, he had had to attend, even more, participate in. (John getting him the chemistry equipment that Sherlock had wanted for so long had seemed to be the right price of tolerating tedious social events.)
He had never planned on staying long; an hour or two, maximum, then he’d planned to sneak out when no one noticed, leaving the explanation up to John. He had been sure that his friend would have been able to come up with a believable lie. The only problem with his scheme had been that John, being Lestrade's good friend, had taken his role very seriously and had not let Sherlock out of his sight.
Might he have figured out that I was planning a daring escape ? Am I that transparent? Sherlock frowned.
This time John had dictated the rules and had insisted on staying until late—or rather early morning—which had consequently led to becoming drunk by the end of the party. Very drunk, indeed. No matter how many rooms and hidden corners Sherlock visited in his mind palace, he just couldn't come up with any memory of having been that drunk before. Now he had new experiences to store concerning this crazy state of mind and body.
He never understood the benefit of being drunk, why people preferred that state. In his opinion, it was a useless, stupid thing that clouded reasonable thinking, made people act stupid, and do unconsidered, reckless and awkward things. Also alcohol initiated unhealthy processes in the body, resulting in a loss of control. Losing control over the mind and body was an unacceptable option, a repellent idea.
However, last night he had apparently lost the fight against alcohol—Lestrade and John had to do with that too—and no matter how his mind had tried to rule his system, Sherlock Holmes ended up displaying all the symptoms of drunkenness.
He groaned at the shameful memory.
Due, he presumed, to the effects of alcohol, he could remember only bits and bobs of the night. The partial amnesia was extremely frustrating; but what bothered him the most was not knowing what had happened during the night that had resulted in a naked John Watson ending up in his bed, next to his own similarly nude body. One didn't have to be a genius to tell what that situation usually meant, but in Sherlock Holmes' case, it wasn't that evident by far.
Splashing some cold water on his face, he took a deep breath. Unusual events require unusual measures. He needed to go under, digging deep in his mind to find out why he had woken up with John by his side this morning.
Being a genius, Sherlock had the advantage of being able to control his mind in ways that normal people could not. With the proper recollection technique of the subconscious, he could recover the lost or suppressed memories. For a limited time—which usually varied between 1 and 24 hours, depending on the circumstances—his mind preserved the imprint of every impact and impression, converting them into memories that either were approved for further storage or faded into his mind's recycle bin. However, being able to control his mind, he was able to retrieve this fragmented information. The only disadvantage of the subconscious memory—besides the short retrieval period—was that it felt like watching a film from an armchair; one could see the events, but the actual feeling was indistinct, rather a narration than real, experienced emotion.
Sherlock almost never used the technique, though. Along with being an exhausting and difficult exercise, it had harsh side effects, including excruciating headaches, rapid heartbeat, and sudden changes of body temperature.
He had been warned not to overload his brain with such extreme actions. The body, not being able to tolerate the impact after a while, could give up and shut down the most affected organs, leading to coma or even death.
Sherlock used the method only twice in his life and had vowed to do it again only in a serious emergency. The first time, he had been too young for the procedure, but the need of the thrill had been too strong to give a damn about warnings. The other time had been ten years ago and had been inevitable; when your own father is accused of first degree murder, you don't think twice. And now, here he was, on the threshold of a third time. He hoped this one was still below the limit of his abilities. It had to be .
Most people wouldn’t risk the dangerous technique just to find out the reason they were in bed with their best friend, but Sherlock had recently been experiencing perplexing feelings for John, and he just couldn't pinpoint what they meant. The revelation of wanting John Watson as his companion forever had just doubled the frustration he felt not knowing what was happening to him. He knew that his already splitting headache was going to double the torture, but he needed to find out for sure.
Locking the bathroom door to have fully undisturbed privacy, he pulled on his dressing gown and faced the mirror again. The reflection of a determined man looked back at him. Let's do it. He braced himself, then got to work.
Grabbing a couple of towels from the rack, he placed them into the bath before climbing in. The thick, fluffy material provided some layer between the cold enamel and his warm body and would also help protect him in case heavy shivers wracked his limbs during the procedure.
Sherlock climbed into the bath and settled his lanky frame in the small space. Taking a deep breath and arranging his hands into his trademark thinking posture, he let his eyes fall shut. Silence enveloping him, he focused with every nerve on sinking deep into his mind, deeper than ever before.
A few minutes passed, and the only motion he made was an involuntary frown when he still hadn't entered the desired level of mind control.
The recycle chamber and the room of temporary memories were in the dark, cold basement of his mind palace, the place that Sherlock normally didn't go. Two times he had experienced the hell that those rooms meant, two times he had been lucky.
A heavy shiver ran through his body, and his lips twitched. He was on the way . The neurons of his brain sizzled with the forceful data retrieval; he could feel the high speed of information transfer as electric signals surged through the highway of his mind. Pictures flashed up before his mind’s eye, snippets of moments expanding into whole scenes—scenes that would have seemed to be highly unlikely to happen a few years ago and which brought a warmth to his cheeks. His eyelids quivered rapidly as his eyes mimicked the movements of REM sleep.
Drinking—dancing with John — laughing uncontrollably — drinking more — kissing John — touches and flirtatious glances — someone putting them in a cab — fumbling with the key at 221B — stumbling up on the stairs while laughing loudly—
He barely noticed his body convulse, his lips tremble severely, his veins throb in his temples.
The walls of the room of temporary memories shook around him as in an earthquake. Sherlock stumbled and reached for the imagined shelves as support. What is happening? He had not experienced this physical response on either of the previous occasions.
In the sitting room, he takes John in his arms for a quick, drunken dance —
The basement room's walls shook again, more violently this time. Sherlock could hear the cracking in the old paint of his memory’s walls. This is not good. Too much strain on the palace. His body trembled against the cold bathtub, blood streaking down from his nose. I must get out of here.
But he was in the middle of revealing the content of the most recent recycle box before it was transferred to the recycle chamber, he couldn't leave without retrieving what he came for. With a deep breath, he gritted his teeth and dug deeper in the content of the brown paper box — the white A5-sized cards faded into sepia as time had passed by. Touching the discoloured papers, Sherlock could tell he didn't have much time until the recycling phase started.
—the dance ends in kissing — they get into his bed — passion, more kissing, handjobs —
The basement shook again and the whole room groaned, the paint falling off the wet clay walls with a loud cracking sound. Losing balance, Sherlock fell against the old desk at the wall, knocking off the boxes piled up there. The sepia sheets flew around, rustling. Shoving the papers with the memories he needed into the pocket of his suit jacket, he got on his knees and crawled in the direction of the door. The lights quivered, sizzling, and the room shook once more. Just when Sherlock made it out of the room, a shelf cracked and fell, blocking the entrance.
Panting heavily, his eyes snapped open. For a fleeting moment, he didn't know where he was. The agonising pain consumed his head. His skin felt like it was burning, his hair was drenched in cold sweat. His veins throbbed against his skull and temples so intensely that he thought they would rip apart at any moment, a stroke ending his existence right there. His stinging eyes tried to focus on something around him, blocking out the spinning of the room. Gazing at the shower curtain, he concentrated on calming his breathing. The image of John and him entangled in each other flared in his mind, and, despite the pain, a faint smile of satisfaction played at the corner of his lips.
The procedure is done. I did it. And I’m still alive.
A tired, weak laugh emerged from his chest. It was the hardest thing he had ever done, but he had made it. His mind palace had stubbornly tried to prevent him reaching his goal for some reason, but he had succeeded. However, Sherlock realised that—whatever else might happen—this was his last visit to the room of temporary memories. The fallen shelf had blocked the door for good. More than three visits was too risky anyway, so perhaps this whole disaster had done him a favour, ensuring that he never opened its door again.
The heat in his head was calming down slowly, and he noticed the low temperature in the rest of his body. Drenched in cold sweat, he shuddered heavily. He was badly in a need of a warm bath. Discarding his clothes, he turned on the hot tap, letting the hot water envelope his cold body. When, after a few minutes, he finally gathered the strength to stand up, he reeled in dizziness and nausea, his mind buzzing, as if millions of ants were parading in his head. The combination of the after-effects of his trip down memory lane and the hangover was not a walk in the park, yet at least he was now aware of what had happened during the blurry hours of the night before.
Drying himself, he wrapped a towel around his waist and sat on the toilet lid and breathed in and out slowly to ease the battle in his stomach, mentally swearing he would never let himself end up in this humiliating state of drunkenness ever again. After about twenty minutes that felt more like hours, he deemed himself able to stand and breathe without the urge to throw up or faint and, slowly, stumbled back into the bedroom.
John didn't register his movements and noises; he was still sleeping deeply, snoring occasionally. Sherlock swallowed a few pills to cure his headache and slid under the covers, lying on his back. The exhaustion of the roller coaster memory ride made him unable to think and the sickness the of hangover was taking its toll, so, closing his eyes, he let sleep overtake him again.
Two hours later, Sherlock woke again, feeling much more human. In the first moments of consciousness, he wondered if he had just dreamt everything concerning himself and a certain ex-army doctor, but, glancing at the other side of the bed, his doubts were dismissed. John was lying on his stomach next to Sherlock, snoring quietly; his exhaled breaths fluffing the sandy hair over his forehead. Cute , Sherlock's lips involuntarily curled into a soft smile. He had never paid such intense attention to his flatmate's hair, but now he found the sight endearing. And ever so sexy.
Cute ? Sexy ? God. Since when did he care about the chemical defects and electric surges caused by physical attraction; he groaned to himself mockingly. What's going on with you, Sherlock Holmes? You're getting pathetic.
Letting his eyes shut, his thoughts returned to the events of the previous night.
After a couple of glasses of champagne, creamy punch and shots of liquor, both men were completely pissed and apparently completely uninhibited. Sherlock danced a couple of dances with Molly to her great delight, while John and Lestrade shared stories of the Yard and the army.
When Lestrade finally cut in, whisking his newly wed wife away, Sherlock lost balance and stumbled into John, grabbing the other man's shoulders to prevent his fall.
“When did the room start to spin?” he slurred, his hand gripping John's arm tightly.
“Actually I lost count after Greg's Grenade Cocktail,” John stuttered before they both started giggling uncontrollably.
The song changed, and Sherlock shrieked like a girl. “John, you must dance with me!”
“Sherlock, you're crazy,” John giggled. “I can't dance.”
Sherlock sneaked his arm around John’s waist, and John's eyes widened.
“What are you doing??”
“ Experiment, my dear Watson, experiment!“ Sherlock pulled him close, their bodies pressing against each other.
“ This is…ridiculous…" John laughed, clumsily trying to keep up with the ethereal moves of the detective's long limbs.
After the initial tension, John’s body seemed to relax into the warm, comforting embrace of his flatmate, and he easily followed the steps of his mentor.
“You were wrong,” Sherlock smiled at him mischievously. “You can dance. No more arguing about it.”
He slid a hand down John’s back, tracing a line down over the soft fabric of his suit and coming to rest on his arse. John jumped a little in surprise, but didn't break their close contact.
Swaying slightly to the rhythm, they stared at each other, smiling giddily.
Ignoring the symptoms of his hangover, Sherlock spent part of the morning thinking, analysing the situation, pondering how he was at such ease with the night's events. How was it that he didn't regret them? Or feel repulsed at having been weakened by the effects of alcohol and acting like an ordinary person, giving in to such primal instincts? The answer to all these questions was lying next to him.
You are what I always needed. You are the company I want forever. He recalled his earlier confession. He hadn't been aware of the real depths of his attachment to his flatmate until last night. Glancing at the naked skin of John's arm, shoulder and back where the crumpled sheet had fallen away, his mouth felt suddenly dry. He tried to retrieve the memory of the feeling of John’s soft skin under his lips, the warmth and power of the buzzing nerve endings, his hand pushing into the sandy hair, the slightly spiky strands between his fingers, only to come to a distant recollection of the moment, lacking the real sensation — just an image, a scene from a film. But Sherlock was never content with indirect perception, he needed empirical proof; especially where his friend was concerned. The chance of reliving the feeling was offering itself on a silver plate, he just needed to reach out. He couldn't resist, the temptation was too strong and too much. Hesitantly, he reached toward John's head, his heart speeding up in anticipation. For a moment, his hand stopped in mid-air as he noticed the slight quiver of his fingers. Emotions . His body didn't lie. However much he seemed to be composed and in control, his human shell gave him away — he was scared. Scared of the new feelings and their control over him and of John's reaction when he finally woke up.
What if he refuses me, proclaiming last night's events a dreadful mistake?
John had already stated many times that he wasn't gay, strongly protesting against the mere idea. Last night, they had both been under the influence of alcohol; their passionate journey may have just been a crazy result of the hydroxyl molecules taking over.
Sherlock cringed at the possibility that John was going to declare the experience a terrible trip to the dark side, something to forget.
But Sherlock didn't want to delete this file from his hard drive, not at all. Having got a taste of this brand new experience, he found himself eager to repeat it instead of burying it in the deepest cellar of his mind palace.
Warmth stirred in his chest every moment he recalled the events from the night before. What does it mean? Why does everything I usually despise suddenly appeal to me, evoking emotions and thoughts that I have refused to engage in all my life? What is this nonsense? Has Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective in the world, given in and become just like everyone else, taken over by chemical defects? How could this have happened? The one thing he had always distanced himself from, the trap he had avoided falling into for so long, seemed to have caught up with him.
The revelation was utterly disturbing. It was kind of schizophrenic, his personality suddenly splitting in two. He still wasn't interested in love, sexuality and attraction in general, but if he thought or looked at the man sleeping beside him, something stirred inside him, sending a strange surging buzz through his body, speeding up the blood in his veins, accelerating his heartbeat, making his skin tingle and mouth go dry. All frustratingly mysterious and unknown reactions to Sherlock Holmes. Overwhelming, uncontrollable, consuming.
John Watson had turned his precisely organised life upside-down, knocking his emotionless world off kilter.
Rolling onto his side and propping himself up onto his elbow, Sherlock ever so cautiously touched John's hair. He needed this physical contact; after last night he was yearning for John's closeness more than ever before. Drugs, cigarettes, none of these would be enough to dissipate this thirst; this man was what he needed and craved. The only problem was the uncertainty of the other party's willingness to participate in this new game.
What if John never wants to see me again? What if he moves out of 221b or, even worse, disappears from my life for good?
Sherlock didn't know if he could handle that. John Watson had become his addiction, the drug that helped him to function, the light in his life, the equal company of his every day. He refused to entertain the thought of losing it all.
The soft strands under his palm felt ever so comforting. Sherlock felt as if every single hair elicited a slightly different sensation. Not only he was stroking the sandy strands, but they also caressed the sensitive cells of his own skin. It was a simple act, but to him it was something extraordinary.
John stirred and Sherlock pulled his hand back like a child caught doing something forbidden.
Reluctantly, John blinked his eyes open, lazily stretching his body under the sheets. His sleepy eyes meeting the ones gazing into his, his breath stopped, confusion and alarm flashing in his dark blue eyes.
"Sher-Sherlock?" He stammered, his cheek flushing in embarrassment. Casting a quick glance at his flatmate's naked torso under the sheet they shared, he groaned quietly, before letting out a frustrated sigh. “God, what the hell happened last night?”
Sherlock stared at John, trying to read him, to figure out what was on the doctor's mind in that very moment. “Something not good?” He asked tentatively, his neurons sparking furiously with the possibility of so many different answers.
“Actually, this splitting headache is definitely not good,” John groaned painfully, rubbing his temple. “You don’t look half as bad as I feel. How is that possible?” He narrowed his eyes. “Don't tell me that being a genius is accompanied by a high tolerance of alcohol.”
Sherlock shrugged. “My mind was focused on other things. There didn’t seem to be any point to dwell on feeling miserable.”
“Oh, thank you very much for the sympathy.”
Sherlock stared at him expectantly. He hoped for John finally saying something that would give away how he truly felt about what had apparently happened between them the night before, something that could reassure him that despite this unexpected development in their friendship, John would still stay with him. From John’s evasive remarks so far, he couldn’t tell what was on the doctor’s mind. And that was alarming. Is John deliberately avoiding revealing his approach on last night’s happenings?
Sherlock’s chest tightened anxiously.
John licked his lips and, with a deep breath, said, “You’d better tell me. I might not remember much of the night’s events, but I can recall that it was you who dragged me onto the dance floor and started this. In every way. ”
That wasn’t good. Why was John suddenly so wary to share what was on his mind, what he thought? This was not the John he knew, not the man who always acted on his feelings.
“I wanted to dance with you,” Sherlock muttered, searching John’s face for a tiny sign of his emotions.
“Just to be clear, are we talking about dancing dancing or dancing as an euphemism?” John gestured at them and the bed.
Sherlock gathered all his courage to say, “Both.”
It was way past 2am, but the party was still in full swing, to the great delight of the newly wed couple. It seemed the combination of Lestrade's colleagues and Molly's friends resulted in a loud and energetic bunch. People were still filling the dance floor, swaying and singing to the music, apparently enjoying themselves a great deal. The majority of the guests were pretty pissed, thanks to the free bar, and John and Sherlock were no exceptions. Anderson and Donovan were more than tipsy too, which thankfully resulted in them behaving much better toward Sherlock than usual.
“ Something tells me that everyone has had a bit too much drink here,” Sherlock drawled, swaying John closer to the darker edge of the dance floor.
“ What a brilliant deduction!” The doctor grinned. “Sherlock Holmes, I'm truly amazed.”
“ You always are, my Watson,” Sherlock slurred, looking into his friend's eyes. “But I love hearing it from you. Say it again.”
“ I'm truly amazed by you, Sherlock,” John smiled. “I'm blown away by your brilliance. You're fantastic, fascinating and…often a real bastard. But! You're still the biggest smartarse and most amazingly annoying prick I have ever met.”
Beaming at him, Sherlock slid a hand lower on John’s backside. Even through his alcohol-dazed mind, he was pretty sure that what he was doing was not generally considered an act of friendship. But he didn’t dwell on it. Despite the layers of clothing, the warmth of John’s arse made his skin tingle.
Leaning closer, Sherlock muttered into John’s ear. “You feel so good in my arms.” He tightened his hold, his hand unconsciously squeezing John’s buttock.
John pressed his body tightly against his Sherlock’s, causing the detective's heart to thump fast in his chest. Staring into Sherlock's eyes and glancing at his lips, John leaned in and brushed his mouth against Sherlock’s in a swift, hungry move.
Sherlock didn't pull back, but responded clumsily without thinking twice. After the initial tentativeness due to his inexperience, he followed John’s lead, quickly getting the hang of things.
“God, you’re fucking dangerous,” John muttered into the kiss.
“But you're still here,” Sherlock breathed into his mouth.
Pulling back for air, John's nose touched Sherlock's chest, seeming to breath Sherlock in. He whispered, “Jesus, you make me crazy, Sherlock.”
” Not good?” Sherlock raised a brow.
John let out a muffled sigh and smiled at the detective. “Very good, actually.”
Sherlock's mouth curved into a mischievous smirk. “In that case, would you be up for another adventure?” he drawled, suggestively squeezing John's bum.
John's eyes widened, fire burning in his dark eyes. “Oh, God, yes.” He licked his lips.
“Oh,” John said, unease visible on his face.
Sherlock raised a brow. Oh? That's all? “What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing. I — ” John mumbled awkwardly, avoiding Sherlock’s look, and turned his head, apparently searching for a clue revealing how far they had gone the night before. "Uhm, what—?"
“Yes," Sherlock replied even before John could have finished the question. "We obviously had sex. No penetration though, if you are concerned about that part."
John went deep red. “Thank God,” he muttered half audibly.
Sherlock furrowed a brow. Would penetrative sex with him be that much of a crime? Something to be ashamed of? Of course, it would. He was a freak, no one—not even John—would do that with him .
John's reaction confused him. According to Sherlock’s memories, the doctor had been more than pleased by his interest and been a willing participant in the previous night's activities. Yet, now he acted as if Sherlock's confession had been something unexpected and shocking. Maybe what had happened was something not good after all...
Confusion was such a hateful state of mind, like a malfunction in a computer. His mind couldn't resolve the issue, all the data was contradictory. Feelings , Sherlock spat in disgust. No logic there. It appeared he had been wrong about John's approach to the night's events, the doctor had done everything under the effect alcohol, nothing more.
Sitting up, John ruffled his hair and rubbed his face. “I really, really need some painkillers and a shower.”
Sherlock watched him leave the bedroom, a lump forming in his throat. His fear was real. John apparently didn’t approve of what they did last night. He had to be disgusted with what had happened and was certainly going to leave him. The reserved attitude was a clear sign.
I’m going to be alone again. Maybe that’s what I deserve. The freak isn’t entitled to anyone’s company, especially not someone special like John Watson.
He bit his lip hard, desperately trying to fight the tears welling up in his eyes.