![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
emmagrant01Series: Missing and Alternate Scenes for A Cure for Boredom
Author: Emma Grant
Fandom/Pairing: Sherlock BBC, John/Sherlock, John/others
Index of all missing and alternate scenes
Alternate scene 3.5
Rating: Mature
Warnings: None
Length: 4700 words
Summary: Set during chapter 3. Sherlock's POV of the last scene in chapter 3. (This will probably make no sense if you haven't read the original fic.)
Notes: I have to thank![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
drinkingcocoa for her incredibly detailed commentary on a first draft of this scene.
Alternate link: On AO3
It was quite possibly the longest cab ride of Sherlock's life. John was silent – seething, really – and Sherlock was uncertain what he ought to say or do. He usually didn't bother: if people were angry at him for some perceived slight, what did it matter? He left them to their anger; they would get over it quickly enough. But in this case, it was clear that leaving it alone was the wrong approach entirely.
They finally stopped before 221B. John left Sherlock to pay the fare – yet another sign of his anger – and by the time Sherlock got out of the cab, John had the front door unlocked. He held it open for Sherlock, but kept his eyes focused on a point on the pavement as Sherlock passed him into the entryway.
Anxiety rose in his chest as he climbed the stairs and crossed to the sitting room's window. A streetlight flickered, and on the street below the cab pulled away from the kerb. He heard the door close, heard John's footsteps pause halfway across the room before he seemed to shift his weight from one foot to the other. John's anger had subsided perhaps, and now he was hesitant, uncertain. Sherlock turned to look at him. John's face was drawn and determined, and the harsh streetlight seeping through the windows only sharpened his features.
Sherlock braced himself. "I assume we need to talk about this."
John's face relaxed a bit, as if he'd been expecting Sherlock to say something very different. He sat on the sofa and pursed his lips. Sherlock waited, but John said nothing.
After a moment, Sherlock sighed. This was nearly as far from his area of expertise as it was possible to get; he would not be the one to start. "Go on then."
John sank into the sofa, a resigned expression on his face now. "Fine. I don't understand why, after everything that's happened, you wouldn't feel comfortable wanking in front of me."
That was it? Sherlock frowned. "I have wanked in front of you."
"Yes, but--" John looked mildly annoyed now. Perhaps he hadn't intended for Sherlock to interpret his words literally. Was it a metaphor? John looked back up at him. "What are we doing, Sherlock?"
Sherlock frowned. "You know exactly what we're doing."
"I thought I did, but now I'm not so certain. I thought this was about you studying my responses to sexual stimuli."
Sherlock stared at him, incredulous. They'd discussed this. They'd established ground rules. John had even followed them, perfectly. "That's precisely what it's about."
"But it's also about you, isn't it? You're trying to figure out what turns you on as well."
"I'm not trying. It just happens." Sherlock clenched his jaw. He'd hoped John hadn't noticed that part, that he remained unaware of the ways in which this experiment had spun so madly out of Sherlock's control.
John said nothing for a moment, just stared back at him with an expression of surprise on his face. Sherlock fought a sudden impulse to turn away, to close himself off. There was something he was missing here, something he hadn't known he'd done wrong. Why was John so surprised?
He clearly hadn't expected that admission from Sherlock, but there was something more in his expression and it took Sherlock several long moments to place it: disappointment. John had noticed Sherlock was affected by what he saw at the club and he was disappointed that Sherlock had kept his reaction private. Sherlock frowned. Sharing his own desires and responses had never been part of the protocol of the experiment. He'd rather pretend they didn't exist at all; they were disruptive at best and pathological at worst.
Ah. Perhaps John thought Sherlock was being dishonest. John had, on multiple occasions, stressed the importance of honesty in this experiment.
Had he been dishonest? It depended on one's definition of honesty: he hadn't told John everything he was considering and thinking. John knew that much; he knew Sherlock was keeping information from him. But it seemed that it was important to John to know what Sherlock was experiencing as well. Perhaps it made him feel not quite so alone in the experience. Perhaps he needed reassurance that Sherlock was truly concerned for his well-being.
So, honesty. Right.
"I thought I could be objective. And I was, to a point."
"I see." John's face softened, a sign that Sherlock had interpreted the situation correctly. Good.
"This is all rather more complicated than I'd anticipated." Sherlock crossed to sit on the opposite end of the sofa. This was new territory for Sherlock, but it was something John seemed to understand quite well. Could John see things in Sherlock that he himself couldn't see? He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the wall opposite.
John was silent for nineteen seconds, a torturous eternity. "Was that the first time you've wanked after?"
Sherlock didn't want to answer this question. He was uncomfortable enough thinking about these things, but to lay them bare to another was nearly excruciating. Honesty, he reminded himself. Or John would stop, and that was unacceptable.
"No. It happened Sunday as well."
"After you saw me with Ryan."
"I waited until we got to the flat, at least."
"I did wonder why you went straight to bed." So he'd noticed after all. Sherlock felt a rush of pleasure that John had been more observant than he'd realized. "Tonight was different, though, wasn't it?"
It had been different. He regretted the choice of Cam on multiple levels, not the least of which was that the boy's appearance and general demeanor had annoyed him on first sight. But it wasn't just that, was it? The sight of John with Ryan on the sofa last Sunday night, the expression on John's face as he climaxed, the way Ryan's hand moved on his cock, the sheer want in the way they'd kissed afterwards – he'd wanted to know if it was just Ryan who could produce that response in John, or if John would react that way to another male partner.
And then the reality had been a bit different than Sherlock had anticipated. John's response was intense, but it hadn't been completely directed towards Cam, and that in turn had affected Sherlock's response to the situation. Perhaps John had been slightly uncomfortable with Cam's youth and relative inexperience, and had clung to Sherlock to reconcile that discomfort. In the future, he should be more careful to choose partners who were more John's type. Whatever that was.
Of course, there was an alternative explanation, one he wasn't sure he ought to entertain. He looked back at John, whose expression was expectant.
Sherlock inhaled, exhaled again. "Clearly I lose all ability to be objective when I see you with another man."
John hesitated, pursing his lips before speaking again. "Can I ask you a personal question?"
"You've earned the right, haven't you?"
"Are you gay?"
Sherlock looked at his hands. He'd tried to decide what label applied once, over a decade ago. But having a sexual orientation implied one wanted to have sex with a general class of people, and that didn't describe him at all. He wasn't exactly asexual, but he wasn't… not. It was infuriating that society seemed compelled to apply labels when he was so clearly an outlier.
But then, there was no reason labels had to be permanent. The evidence of the two previous weeks seemed to suggest that he did lean in a particular direction, at least for now. He'd been uninterested in sex for more than a decade, but recent events had reawakened his libido. Perhaps a label might apply now, where one didn't before.
"It's not a question I've thought about for years, but in light of recent events, I believe the answer is yes."
Another pause. "Have you ever been in a relationship with… anyone?"
Sherlock hesitated, uncertain. How did John define a relationship? Based on Sherlock's observations of his dating habits, John's definition of a relationship included a certain type and frequency of social interactions, attending events and taking meals together, displaying affection, and engaging in sexual activity. He frowned. By that definition, he and John were very nearly in a relationship themselves, so that must not be quite correct. There was a week from his mid-twenties that might qualify, though there had been very little beyond the sex.
"No."
"Have you had sex?
"Yes." He glanced at John, who was nearly gaping. "Does that surprise you?"
"Absolutely. With a man or a woman?"
"Both."
John quickly pulled off his shoes and turned to sit sideways on the sofa. "Tell me."
"Why?"
John's eyebrows rose slightly. The honesty thing again, perhaps. Or the need to feel that they had some shared experience in this area. Or perhaps it was because John felt vulnerable after having been the subject of so much intimate scrutiny and wanted Sherlock to feel the same.
Sherlock gritted his teeth at that thought. He really, truly, did not want to talk about this. "You're going to be horribly disappointed, I assure you."
"Trust me, I won't."
John's eagerness was palpable, and Sherlock felt an odd compulsion to please him in this. He leaned back into the sofa cushions and let the images play across his mind, sorting themselves into the proper order. He hadn't thought about it for a long time, and the details were a bit fuzzy. He'd considered deleting it altogether in the years that followed, but he'd suspected the information might come in useful.
"My last year at university, I worked in a lab run by a brilliant scientist. Her research was something I was mildly interested in, so we spent quite a lot of time working together." She'd taught him new techniques of analysis, allowed him to mark her first-year students' work, and then, when he proved to be both meticulous and ruthless in the task, secretly had him mark the work of his classmates. He smiled at the memory and relaxed into the sofa before continuing. "At the end of term we were in the lab late one night and she asked me if I'd like to come back to her flat for a drink. I honestly didn't know she was propositioning me until we got there."
Her hair was auburn, usually pulled back into a knot at the back of her head, and she had large brown eyes. She never wore makeup, which wasn't unusual for academic women, in his experience, but on that day, her eyes were outlined with subtle color and her lips were painted a dusty pink. Her hair hung loose around her face and he'd been so taken aback that he'd stared at her when he thought she wasn't looking, trying to deduce what event had required her to change her appearance so drastically. He later realized she'd planned the seduction rather thoroughly – and he'd fallen for it, like a typical, ordinary male. The disappointment he'd felt in himself still stung.
"You lost your virginity to your professor? That sounds like the plot of a porno." John clearly found this story entertaining; his grin was nearly lascivious.
He'd been fairly impressed with her flat, he remembered. The walls were lined with bookshelves, the kitchen table was covered with lab equipment, and the sitting room was dominated by a large wooden desk on which sat three computers. Her living and work space were one and the same, and he'd been glad to know grown-up people with careers lived that way, just as he did.
"I'll get drinks," she said, and headed to the kitchen.
He was tempted to follow her to the kitchen to take a closer look at the ongoing experiments covering the table, but there was hardly room for two in the remaining space. Instead, he crossed to the nearest bookshelf and ran his fingers over the spines: yellow Springer mathematics texts, bound volumes of scientific journals, weathered chemistry and physics textbooks that appeared to be from her own graduate years.
"You found the right bookshelf, I see." She held out a glass of red wine and he took it.
"Bordeaux," he announced after a swirl and a sniff. "Oh, good year. Old, but very well structured. Eighty-one?"
Her smile was radiant. "Very good, Mr. Holmes. Someone taught you well."
"My brother," he said, unable to keep a note of misery from his voice. "He fancies such things."
"Does he now?" She leaned back against the edge of the desk. "And what sorts of things do you fancy?"
He took a sip from the glass and couldn't help letting the pleasure show on his face. "I don't normally indulge in such things. I've far too much work to do."
"Surely you indulge in something on occasion."
He blinked at her. "No."
"No?" She set her wine glass frighteningly close to one of the computers and stepped closer. He took a step backwards and found himself pressed against the bookshelf. "You are brilliant, Mr. Holmes, but you should also allow yourself a bit of pleasure every now and then."
"I do, though I loath to admit it." He swallowed. She was terribly close now, and he'd started to work out her intentions.
She placed her hands on his shoulders, stroked them down over his chest, and leaned in even closer, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath on his cheek. "Then tell me, what pleases you?"
Oh God, innuendo. How was he supposed to respond? It had been directed at him before, but never quite like this.
"I read horrid fiction," he said, willing his voice to remain steady, which it did with approximately 70% success. "Really, it's rather embarrassing."
Her smile changed slightly, became more focused, and her fingers brushed across one of his nipples through the thin fabric of his shirt. He was shocked by the sensation it produced in him.
"Anything else?"
He reached up and took one of her hands in his, traced his finger across her wrist. He could feel the quickening of her pulse under the soft skin there, could see the way her eyes had dilated at his touch.
She wanted him, and she intended to have him. She respected him, he knew, and for the right reasons. She didn't view him as a curiosity or as a challenge, or worse, as a dare. She recognized him for what he was, and she was offering this to him. Perhaps he should take advantage of it, learn what he could from her. Sex was important to people, it seemed, and he had no experience with it. She had taught him well in her area of academic expertise, and so it was likely she'd teach him well in this.
He brought her hand up to his mouth and kissed the warm skin of her wrist just above the pulse point. She smiled and tilted her face up to kiss his mouth.
It was only the second time he'd been kissed, though he wasn't going to tell her that. The sensation of her tongue sliding against his was strange, but not unpleasant, and the warmth of her body pressed against him felt oddly comforting. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been touched by another person.
"I've never done this before," he said as she unfastened the buttons of his shirt. He usually hated admitting his own ignorance, but for this, it seemed important for her to understand. "I've no idea what I'm doing."
"Don't worry about that." She pushed the shirt off his shoulders and kissed him again. "I'll take care of everything."
Sherlock glanced at John, who was still gaping at him, and his lips twisted slightly. "I wasn't interested in her – she was attractive enough, but…"
"You're gay."
"Well, there is that." He hadn't given it any consideration at the time, but looking back, it might explain some things. "But I was curious. Everyone else went on about sex constantly, and I decided that since I had the opportunity I should find out what the fuss was over."
"And what happened?"
"It was fine, nothing spectacular. She kept me up half the night, which was kind of annoying."
John didn't bother to contain his delight at this remark. "How many times did you do it?"
She'd unfastened his trousers and tossed him off standing there against the bookshelves, and he'd finished embarrassingly quickly. After that, they'd moved to the sofa and he'd had the chance to satisfy his curiosity about female anatomy rather thoroughly. When his erection returned, they'd had intercourse on the sofa – he'd been surprised by his own response to the sensation of his penis buried in another's body, by the instinct to thrust – and then they'd moved to the bedroom and he'd been thoroughly educated in techniques to pleasure a woman with his mouth. She'd returned the favor an hour later – that stood out in his memory as the best experience of the night – and an hour later, she'd sat astride him and it had taken forever, not that she'd seemed to mind. Early the next morning, he'd awoken to the sensation of her mouth on him, which had been disconcerting, to say the least, and that had ended with her on her hands and knees and him thrusting into her from behind. He'd enjoyed that position more than he'd expected.
"If you simply count orgasms, five." John's expression was incredulous, and Sherlock shrugged. "I was twenty."
"What, did she have you in every position she could think of?"
"Something like that." It had been that way, now that he thought of it.
John laughed, clearly unable to contain his glee at this revelation. The humor in the story wasn't obvious to Sherlock, but John had apparently enjoyed hearing it. Discussing unusual sexual encounters seemed to be something men did, though, and John's typically blokey response to his story was in itself rather humorous. Sherlock laughed with him, unable to help himself. John had a way of making these sorts of things feel easy, as no one else ever had.
John stretched out his legs and pressed his feet against Sherlock's thigh, and an odd chill ran through Sherlock at the contact.
"What happened after that?"
Sherlock looked down at John's socked feet. "It was horribly awkward. It turned out she had a boyfriend and they'd recently had a row. I seemed to represent some sort of revenge on him. The next time I saw her she barely spoke to me."
She hadn't even been able to make eye contact with him in the lab the following week. He'd worried that it might affect his course grade, but in the end he'd received perfect marks. Which he'd deserved, but still.
"I'm sorry."
"Oh, no, it was a relief. I was terrified she'd think we were dating after that. I liked her, but not personally so much as professionally."
"So did that turn you off to sex completely?"
John's toes curled against Sherlock's thigh, and it was far too much of a distraction. He reached for them with the intent of pushing them away, but stopped himself. John had initiated this contact; he must find it comforting in some way. Perhaps a bit more physical contact with John would ease the tension that had risen between them. He trailed his fingers across the tops of John's feet and watched his reaction. John settled into the sofa a bit more, clearly finding the touch pleasurable.
"For a bit. It was pleasant enough, but it was messy. It was difficult enough to interact with people on a daily basis. As hard as it may be to believe, I had even more problems with social interactions then than I do now."
"What about casual sex? Strangers in bars, that sort of thing?"
He'd considered it, afterwards. There was a sort of fleeting pleasure in orgasms, after all. But so few people were accepting of him as he was, and though he'd spent a couple of weeks experimenting with chatting up women in pubs, in the end he'd bought them drinks and hadn't pushed for anything more.
And then one night when he was twenty-one, he'd found something better: an offer of complete bliss in a needle, something he'd always scoffed at, certain his intellect would not succumb to something so simple. He'd been very wrong.
"Heroin was so much easier."
John closed his eyes; apparently that hadn't been the answer he'd expected. "You said there was a man as well."
Oh, God. This he wasn't ready to think about. He hadn't deleted it – the lesson learned had been far too valuable – but he'd locked it away in a far corner of his mind, in a place where it could only be retrieved if he really, truly wanted it. The basic details were readily accessible, though.
"Yes. He was the son of a man Mycroft knew. He introduced us, at least. The timing was good; I needed a distraction."
"From what?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows and John winced. "Right. How old were you?"
"Twenty-four. He was a bit younger." Sherlock paused.
John valued honesty, but how much of this was Sherlock required to share? Surely not all of it. He hadn't pressed John for details on all of his former lovers, after all. He was allowed a certain amount of privacy, and this had happened more than a decade ago. It wasn't relevant – though yes, it was, now that he thought about it. Small details floated to the surface: hands bound tightly against the headboard, flashes of pain, the realization that no, that hadn't gone well at all. He exhaled. No, John didn't need to know all of that.
"I thought he was a complete idiot, though that's hardly unusual for me. But there was something about him that I found fascinating, and it took me a long time to understand that it was sexual attraction."
"Was that when you first thought you might be gay?"
"Yes, but that didn't matter. I needed a distraction desperately and he made it clear he was interested. One night we had dinner and I invited him to my room and he proceeded to shag me most of the night."
John's toes curled against his thigh; he was nearly anxious now. "And then what happened?"
And then it began. And it didn't stop, even though they both knew it should, both knew it was a horrible idea, not until—
John didn't need to know that part. Honesty wasn't required about things like this, was it? No, it couldn't be.
"He wanted to see me again and I said no."
John frowned. "Why?"
This was none of John's concern, but Sherlock had the impression that saying so now would upset the delicate balance they'd achieved. John was simply curious, and the truth didn't matter, not entirely.
Sherlock shrugged, affected a casual expression. "I got bored, essentially. In one night we'd tried everything once. I realized it really was just about the sex, and sex alone wasn't enough to justify putting up with him outside the bedroom. He really was an idiot; you've no idea."
"So you ended it."
"I assumed I knew all there was to know about sex with a man. So I moved on." Not entirely true, but not completely untrue either. He pushed it all away again, closed that door. He knew he needed to examine it more closely, but not now. Not yet.
"And you survived on occasional masturbation for the next decade." John seemed to find this conclusion difficult to accept.
"It seemed extremely unlikely I'd encounter anyone I'd actually enjoy being around for any length of time, whom I'd be attracted to and who would also be attracted to me. The rational thing to do was not to waste time on it, to focus myself on other things."
John appeared to consider this for a moment. "You said the experiment had become more complicated than you expected. What did you mean?"
He had no answer for that. Well, he had four possible answers, to be honest, but none he was ready to share. He wanted to think about it more, to examine it from every angle, to dissect it thoroughly.
John's expression shifted to the one he used when he thought Sherlock had entirely missed the point of a significant social encounter. "We have to be honest with each other about this. Whatever this is, there's sex involved, even if it's not between us, and that's going to make things messy. If there's even a chance of losing your friendship over this, I won't go back to the club again. I'll end it right now."
And there it was, the one thing Sherlock was most afraid of. Whatever he did or said next would be of the utmost importance. He couldn't fuck this up or it would come to an end. He knew John well enough to know the threat was not idle; he'd follow through, if he deemed it necessary.
"Do you need some time to do a bit of exploring yourself? We could switch for a few days. I could find partners for you."
"No." He didn't even have to consider the words; on this point he was certain. John seemed taken aback and Sherlock sighed. "I'm not interested in sex with strangers. I already know that's not what I want."
"Then what do you want?"
Sometimes people asked this question out of frustration, he'd learned. They weren't actually asking for this information; what they were actually saying was I'm sick of your shit. But nothing on John's face suggested he was being anything other than earnest.
Sherlock tangled his fingers in his own hair and let go the careful control he'd held on his thoughts. Images spun in his mind, some enticing, some disturbing, all confusing. He waited until the storm subsided before trying to sense a pattern, but even then, the only one that emerged was completely unacceptable.
He pressed his hands over his face and exhaled smoothly. "I need to examine my own reactions more closely. If you're willing to continue, I would appreciate it." He opened his eyes and looked at John, hoping he would give Sherlock space to think about this.
John took a deep breath and released it again. "All right." He hesitated for a moment. "For what it's worth, Sherlock, I trust you."
"I know." That was the reason Sherlock was taking this enterprise so very seriously. He needed some space now, to think. He stood.
"Do you trust me?" John asked.
"I do."
He'd said it without hesitation, and it was true. He felt more comfortable with John than he'd ever felt with any person before. John was being honest with him about this experience, had let him see so much of what he felt. It was an incredible sign of trust, he realized, to allow Sherlock to do these things, to allow Sherlock to watch something so very private.
And then Sherlock had refused John the same level of confidence. He'd pushed him out the door and taken care of his own needs in private. It was little wonder John had to ask if he had Sherlock's trust. Nothing of what Sherlock had done tonight implied it.
John smiled. "Good. I need to borrow your laptop."
Sherlock frowned. Did John want to look at his data? He doubted anyone could make much sense of it, and he wasn't in the mood to explain his methodology. "Why?"
"Well, mine is still at the shop, being repaired after someone spent eight solid hours viewing porn on it and contracted three separate viruses, requiring the hard drive to be wiped completely."
Sherlock nearly smirked at John's attempt to induce guilt. He'd already offered to pay for the repairs, after all. But now that he thought about it, allowing John access to his data could prove beneficial in several ways. And if John googled anything particularly interesting, that information could be rather useful.
Sherlock explained the password and left him to it. He headed to his bedroom and stripped off his clothes, then stretched out across the bed to think.
*****
Go to the next part
Author: Emma Grant
Fandom/Pairing: Sherlock BBC, John/Sherlock, John/others
Index of all missing and alternate scenes
Alternate scene 3.5
Rating: Mature
Warnings: None
Length: 4700 words
Summary: Set during chapter 3. Sherlock's POV of the last scene in chapter 3. (This will probably make no sense if you haven't read the original fic.)
Notes: I have to thank
drinkingcocoa for her incredibly detailed commentary on a first draft of this scene. Alternate link: On AO3
It was quite possibly the longest cab ride of Sherlock's life. John was silent – seething, really – and Sherlock was uncertain what he ought to say or do. He usually didn't bother: if people were angry at him for some perceived slight, what did it matter? He left them to their anger; they would get over it quickly enough. But in this case, it was clear that leaving it alone was the wrong approach entirely.
They finally stopped before 221B. John left Sherlock to pay the fare – yet another sign of his anger – and by the time Sherlock got out of the cab, John had the front door unlocked. He held it open for Sherlock, but kept his eyes focused on a point on the pavement as Sherlock passed him into the entryway.
Anxiety rose in his chest as he climbed the stairs and crossed to the sitting room's window. A streetlight flickered, and on the street below the cab pulled away from the kerb. He heard the door close, heard John's footsteps pause halfway across the room before he seemed to shift his weight from one foot to the other. John's anger had subsided perhaps, and now he was hesitant, uncertain. Sherlock turned to look at him. John's face was drawn and determined, and the harsh streetlight seeping through the windows only sharpened his features.
Sherlock braced himself. "I assume we need to talk about this."
John's face relaxed a bit, as if he'd been expecting Sherlock to say something very different. He sat on the sofa and pursed his lips. Sherlock waited, but John said nothing.
After a moment, Sherlock sighed. This was nearly as far from his area of expertise as it was possible to get; he would not be the one to start. "Go on then."
John sank into the sofa, a resigned expression on his face now. "Fine. I don't understand why, after everything that's happened, you wouldn't feel comfortable wanking in front of me."
That was it? Sherlock frowned. "I have wanked in front of you."
"Yes, but--" John looked mildly annoyed now. Perhaps he hadn't intended for Sherlock to interpret his words literally. Was it a metaphor? John looked back up at him. "What are we doing, Sherlock?"
Sherlock frowned. "You know exactly what we're doing."
"I thought I did, but now I'm not so certain. I thought this was about you studying my responses to sexual stimuli."
Sherlock stared at him, incredulous. They'd discussed this. They'd established ground rules. John had even followed them, perfectly. "That's precisely what it's about."
"But it's also about you, isn't it? You're trying to figure out what turns you on as well."
"I'm not trying. It just happens." Sherlock clenched his jaw. He'd hoped John hadn't noticed that part, that he remained unaware of the ways in which this experiment had spun so madly out of Sherlock's control.
John said nothing for a moment, just stared back at him with an expression of surprise on his face. Sherlock fought a sudden impulse to turn away, to close himself off. There was something he was missing here, something he hadn't known he'd done wrong. Why was John so surprised?
He clearly hadn't expected that admission from Sherlock, but there was something more in his expression and it took Sherlock several long moments to place it: disappointment. John had noticed Sherlock was affected by what he saw at the club and he was disappointed that Sherlock had kept his reaction private. Sherlock frowned. Sharing his own desires and responses had never been part of the protocol of the experiment. He'd rather pretend they didn't exist at all; they were disruptive at best and pathological at worst.
Ah. Perhaps John thought Sherlock was being dishonest. John had, on multiple occasions, stressed the importance of honesty in this experiment.
Had he been dishonest? It depended on one's definition of honesty: he hadn't told John everything he was considering and thinking. John knew that much; he knew Sherlock was keeping information from him. But it seemed that it was important to John to know what Sherlock was experiencing as well. Perhaps it made him feel not quite so alone in the experience. Perhaps he needed reassurance that Sherlock was truly concerned for his well-being.
So, honesty. Right.
"I thought I could be objective. And I was, to a point."
"I see." John's face softened, a sign that Sherlock had interpreted the situation correctly. Good.
"This is all rather more complicated than I'd anticipated." Sherlock crossed to sit on the opposite end of the sofa. This was new territory for Sherlock, but it was something John seemed to understand quite well. Could John see things in Sherlock that he himself couldn't see? He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the wall opposite.
John was silent for nineteen seconds, a torturous eternity. "Was that the first time you've wanked after?"
Sherlock didn't want to answer this question. He was uncomfortable enough thinking about these things, but to lay them bare to another was nearly excruciating. Honesty, he reminded himself. Or John would stop, and that was unacceptable.
"No. It happened Sunday as well."
"After you saw me with Ryan."
"I waited until we got to the flat, at least."
"I did wonder why you went straight to bed." So he'd noticed after all. Sherlock felt a rush of pleasure that John had been more observant than he'd realized. "Tonight was different, though, wasn't it?"
It had been different. He regretted the choice of Cam on multiple levels, not the least of which was that the boy's appearance and general demeanor had annoyed him on first sight. But it wasn't just that, was it? The sight of John with Ryan on the sofa last Sunday night, the expression on John's face as he climaxed, the way Ryan's hand moved on his cock, the sheer want in the way they'd kissed afterwards – he'd wanted to know if it was just Ryan who could produce that response in John, or if John would react that way to another male partner.
And then the reality had been a bit different than Sherlock had anticipated. John's response was intense, but it hadn't been completely directed towards Cam, and that in turn had affected Sherlock's response to the situation. Perhaps John had been slightly uncomfortable with Cam's youth and relative inexperience, and had clung to Sherlock to reconcile that discomfort. In the future, he should be more careful to choose partners who were more John's type. Whatever that was.
Of course, there was an alternative explanation, one he wasn't sure he ought to entertain. He looked back at John, whose expression was expectant.
Sherlock inhaled, exhaled again. "Clearly I lose all ability to be objective when I see you with another man."
John hesitated, pursing his lips before speaking again. "Can I ask you a personal question?"
"You've earned the right, haven't you?"
"Are you gay?"
Sherlock looked at his hands. He'd tried to decide what label applied once, over a decade ago. But having a sexual orientation implied one wanted to have sex with a general class of people, and that didn't describe him at all. He wasn't exactly asexual, but he wasn't… not. It was infuriating that society seemed compelled to apply labels when he was so clearly an outlier.
But then, there was no reason labels had to be permanent. The evidence of the two previous weeks seemed to suggest that he did lean in a particular direction, at least for now. He'd been uninterested in sex for more than a decade, but recent events had reawakened his libido. Perhaps a label might apply now, where one didn't before.
"It's not a question I've thought about for years, but in light of recent events, I believe the answer is yes."
Another pause. "Have you ever been in a relationship with… anyone?"
Sherlock hesitated, uncertain. How did John define a relationship? Based on Sherlock's observations of his dating habits, John's definition of a relationship included a certain type and frequency of social interactions, attending events and taking meals together, displaying affection, and engaging in sexual activity. He frowned. By that definition, he and John were very nearly in a relationship themselves, so that must not be quite correct. There was a week from his mid-twenties that might qualify, though there had been very little beyond the sex.
"No."
"Have you had sex?
"Yes." He glanced at John, who was nearly gaping. "Does that surprise you?"
"Absolutely. With a man or a woman?"
"Both."
John quickly pulled off his shoes and turned to sit sideways on the sofa. "Tell me."
"Why?"
John's eyebrows rose slightly. The honesty thing again, perhaps. Or the need to feel that they had some shared experience in this area. Or perhaps it was because John felt vulnerable after having been the subject of so much intimate scrutiny and wanted Sherlock to feel the same.
Sherlock gritted his teeth at that thought. He really, truly, did not want to talk about this. "You're going to be horribly disappointed, I assure you."
"Trust me, I won't."
John's eagerness was palpable, and Sherlock felt an odd compulsion to please him in this. He leaned back into the sofa cushions and let the images play across his mind, sorting themselves into the proper order. He hadn't thought about it for a long time, and the details were a bit fuzzy. He'd considered deleting it altogether in the years that followed, but he'd suspected the information might come in useful.
"My last year at university, I worked in a lab run by a brilliant scientist. Her research was something I was mildly interested in, so we spent quite a lot of time working together." She'd taught him new techniques of analysis, allowed him to mark her first-year students' work, and then, when he proved to be both meticulous and ruthless in the task, secretly had him mark the work of his classmates. He smiled at the memory and relaxed into the sofa before continuing. "At the end of term we were in the lab late one night and she asked me if I'd like to come back to her flat for a drink. I honestly didn't know she was propositioning me until we got there."
Her hair was auburn, usually pulled back into a knot at the back of her head, and she had large brown eyes. She never wore makeup, which wasn't unusual for academic women, in his experience, but on that day, her eyes were outlined with subtle color and her lips were painted a dusty pink. Her hair hung loose around her face and he'd been so taken aback that he'd stared at her when he thought she wasn't looking, trying to deduce what event had required her to change her appearance so drastically. He later realized she'd planned the seduction rather thoroughly – and he'd fallen for it, like a typical, ordinary male. The disappointment he'd felt in himself still stung.
"You lost your virginity to your professor? That sounds like the plot of a porno." John clearly found this story entertaining; his grin was nearly lascivious.
He'd been fairly impressed with her flat, he remembered. The walls were lined with bookshelves, the kitchen table was covered with lab equipment, and the sitting room was dominated by a large wooden desk on which sat three computers. Her living and work space were one and the same, and he'd been glad to know grown-up people with careers lived that way, just as he did.
"I'll get drinks," she said, and headed to the kitchen.
He was tempted to follow her to the kitchen to take a closer look at the ongoing experiments covering the table, but there was hardly room for two in the remaining space. Instead, he crossed to the nearest bookshelf and ran his fingers over the spines: yellow Springer mathematics texts, bound volumes of scientific journals, weathered chemistry and physics textbooks that appeared to be from her own graduate years.
"You found the right bookshelf, I see." She held out a glass of red wine and he took it.
"Bordeaux," he announced after a swirl and a sniff. "Oh, good year. Old, but very well structured. Eighty-one?"
Her smile was radiant. "Very good, Mr. Holmes. Someone taught you well."
"My brother," he said, unable to keep a note of misery from his voice. "He fancies such things."
"Does he now?" She leaned back against the edge of the desk. "And what sorts of things do you fancy?"
He took a sip from the glass and couldn't help letting the pleasure show on his face. "I don't normally indulge in such things. I've far too much work to do."
"Surely you indulge in something on occasion."
He blinked at her. "No."
"No?" She set her wine glass frighteningly close to one of the computers and stepped closer. He took a step backwards and found himself pressed against the bookshelf. "You are brilliant, Mr. Holmes, but you should also allow yourself a bit of pleasure every now and then."
"I do, though I loath to admit it." He swallowed. She was terribly close now, and he'd started to work out her intentions.
She placed her hands on his shoulders, stroked them down over his chest, and leaned in even closer, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath on his cheek. "Then tell me, what pleases you?"
Oh God, innuendo. How was he supposed to respond? It had been directed at him before, but never quite like this.
"I read horrid fiction," he said, willing his voice to remain steady, which it did with approximately 70% success. "Really, it's rather embarrassing."
Her smile changed slightly, became more focused, and her fingers brushed across one of his nipples through the thin fabric of his shirt. He was shocked by the sensation it produced in him.
"Anything else?"
He reached up and took one of her hands in his, traced his finger across her wrist. He could feel the quickening of her pulse under the soft skin there, could see the way her eyes had dilated at his touch.
She wanted him, and she intended to have him. She respected him, he knew, and for the right reasons. She didn't view him as a curiosity or as a challenge, or worse, as a dare. She recognized him for what he was, and she was offering this to him. Perhaps he should take advantage of it, learn what he could from her. Sex was important to people, it seemed, and he had no experience with it. She had taught him well in her area of academic expertise, and so it was likely she'd teach him well in this.
He brought her hand up to his mouth and kissed the warm skin of her wrist just above the pulse point. She smiled and tilted her face up to kiss his mouth.
It was only the second time he'd been kissed, though he wasn't going to tell her that. The sensation of her tongue sliding against his was strange, but not unpleasant, and the warmth of her body pressed against him felt oddly comforting. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been touched by another person.
"I've never done this before," he said as she unfastened the buttons of his shirt. He usually hated admitting his own ignorance, but for this, it seemed important for her to understand. "I've no idea what I'm doing."
"Don't worry about that." She pushed the shirt off his shoulders and kissed him again. "I'll take care of everything."
Sherlock glanced at John, who was still gaping at him, and his lips twisted slightly. "I wasn't interested in her – she was attractive enough, but…"
"You're gay."
"Well, there is that." He hadn't given it any consideration at the time, but looking back, it might explain some things. "But I was curious. Everyone else went on about sex constantly, and I decided that since I had the opportunity I should find out what the fuss was over."
"And what happened?"
"It was fine, nothing spectacular. She kept me up half the night, which was kind of annoying."
John didn't bother to contain his delight at this remark. "How many times did you do it?"
She'd unfastened his trousers and tossed him off standing there against the bookshelves, and he'd finished embarrassingly quickly. After that, they'd moved to the sofa and he'd had the chance to satisfy his curiosity about female anatomy rather thoroughly. When his erection returned, they'd had intercourse on the sofa – he'd been surprised by his own response to the sensation of his penis buried in another's body, by the instinct to thrust – and then they'd moved to the bedroom and he'd been thoroughly educated in techniques to pleasure a woman with his mouth. She'd returned the favor an hour later – that stood out in his memory as the best experience of the night – and an hour later, she'd sat astride him and it had taken forever, not that she'd seemed to mind. Early the next morning, he'd awoken to the sensation of her mouth on him, which had been disconcerting, to say the least, and that had ended with her on her hands and knees and him thrusting into her from behind. He'd enjoyed that position more than he'd expected.
"If you simply count orgasms, five." John's expression was incredulous, and Sherlock shrugged. "I was twenty."
"What, did she have you in every position she could think of?"
"Something like that." It had been that way, now that he thought of it.
John laughed, clearly unable to contain his glee at this revelation. The humor in the story wasn't obvious to Sherlock, but John had apparently enjoyed hearing it. Discussing unusual sexual encounters seemed to be something men did, though, and John's typically blokey response to his story was in itself rather humorous. Sherlock laughed with him, unable to help himself. John had a way of making these sorts of things feel easy, as no one else ever had.
John stretched out his legs and pressed his feet against Sherlock's thigh, and an odd chill ran through Sherlock at the contact.
"What happened after that?"
Sherlock looked down at John's socked feet. "It was horribly awkward. It turned out she had a boyfriend and they'd recently had a row. I seemed to represent some sort of revenge on him. The next time I saw her she barely spoke to me."
She hadn't even been able to make eye contact with him in the lab the following week. He'd worried that it might affect his course grade, but in the end he'd received perfect marks. Which he'd deserved, but still.
"I'm sorry."
"Oh, no, it was a relief. I was terrified she'd think we were dating after that. I liked her, but not personally so much as professionally."
"So did that turn you off to sex completely?"
John's toes curled against Sherlock's thigh, and it was far too much of a distraction. He reached for them with the intent of pushing them away, but stopped himself. John had initiated this contact; he must find it comforting in some way. Perhaps a bit more physical contact with John would ease the tension that had risen between them. He trailed his fingers across the tops of John's feet and watched his reaction. John settled into the sofa a bit more, clearly finding the touch pleasurable.
"For a bit. It was pleasant enough, but it was messy. It was difficult enough to interact with people on a daily basis. As hard as it may be to believe, I had even more problems with social interactions then than I do now."
"What about casual sex? Strangers in bars, that sort of thing?"
He'd considered it, afterwards. There was a sort of fleeting pleasure in orgasms, after all. But so few people were accepting of him as he was, and though he'd spent a couple of weeks experimenting with chatting up women in pubs, in the end he'd bought them drinks and hadn't pushed for anything more.
And then one night when he was twenty-one, he'd found something better: an offer of complete bliss in a needle, something he'd always scoffed at, certain his intellect would not succumb to something so simple. He'd been very wrong.
"Heroin was so much easier."
John closed his eyes; apparently that hadn't been the answer he'd expected. "You said there was a man as well."
Oh, God. This he wasn't ready to think about. He hadn't deleted it – the lesson learned had been far too valuable – but he'd locked it away in a far corner of his mind, in a place where it could only be retrieved if he really, truly wanted it. The basic details were readily accessible, though.
"Yes. He was the son of a man Mycroft knew. He introduced us, at least. The timing was good; I needed a distraction."
"From what?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows and John winced. "Right. How old were you?"
"Twenty-four. He was a bit younger." Sherlock paused.
John valued honesty, but how much of this was Sherlock required to share? Surely not all of it. He hadn't pressed John for details on all of his former lovers, after all. He was allowed a certain amount of privacy, and this had happened more than a decade ago. It wasn't relevant – though yes, it was, now that he thought about it. Small details floated to the surface: hands bound tightly against the headboard, flashes of pain, the realization that no, that hadn't gone well at all. He exhaled. No, John didn't need to know all of that.
"I thought he was a complete idiot, though that's hardly unusual for me. But there was something about him that I found fascinating, and it took me a long time to understand that it was sexual attraction."
"Was that when you first thought you might be gay?"
"Yes, but that didn't matter. I needed a distraction desperately and he made it clear he was interested. One night we had dinner and I invited him to my room and he proceeded to shag me most of the night."
John's toes curled against his thigh; he was nearly anxious now. "And then what happened?"
And then it began. And it didn't stop, even though they both knew it should, both knew it was a horrible idea, not until—
John didn't need to know that part. Honesty wasn't required about things like this, was it? No, it couldn't be.
"He wanted to see me again and I said no."
John frowned. "Why?"
This was none of John's concern, but Sherlock had the impression that saying so now would upset the delicate balance they'd achieved. John was simply curious, and the truth didn't matter, not entirely.
Sherlock shrugged, affected a casual expression. "I got bored, essentially. In one night we'd tried everything once. I realized it really was just about the sex, and sex alone wasn't enough to justify putting up with him outside the bedroom. He really was an idiot; you've no idea."
"So you ended it."
"I assumed I knew all there was to know about sex with a man. So I moved on." Not entirely true, but not completely untrue either. He pushed it all away again, closed that door. He knew he needed to examine it more closely, but not now. Not yet.
"And you survived on occasional masturbation for the next decade." John seemed to find this conclusion difficult to accept.
"It seemed extremely unlikely I'd encounter anyone I'd actually enjoy being around for any length of time, whom I'd be attracted to and who would also be attracted to me. The rational thing to do was not to waste time on it, to focus myself on other things."
John appeared to consider this for a moment. "You said the experiment had become more complicated than you expected. What did you mean?"
He had no answer for that. Well, he had four possible answers, to be honest, but none he was ready to share. He wanted to think about it more, to examine it from every angle, to dissect it thoroughly.
John's expression shifted to the one he used when he thought Sherlock had entirely missed the point of a significant social encounter. "We have to be honest with each other about this. Whatever this is, there's sex involved, even if it's not between us, and that's going to make things messy. If there's even a chance of losing your friendship over this, I won't go back to the club again. I'll end it right now."
And there it was, the one thing Sherlock was most afraid of. Whatever he did or said next would be of the utmost importance. He couldn't fuck this up or it would come to an end. He knew John well enough to know the threat was not idle; he'd follow through, if he deemed it necessary.
"Do you need some time to do a bit of exploring yourself? We could switch for a few days. I could find partners for you."
"No." He didn't even have to consider the words; on this point he was certain. John seemed taken aback and Sherlock sighed. "I'm not interested in sex with strangers. I already know that's not what I want."
"Then what do you want?"
Sometimes people asked this question out of frustration, he'd learned. They weren't actually asking for this information; what they were actually saying was I'm sick of your shit. But nothing on John's face suggested he was being anything other than earnest.
Sherlock tangled his fingers in his own hair and let go the careful control he'd held on his thoughts. Images spun in his mind, some enticing, some disturbing, all confusing. He waited until the storm subsided before trying to sense a pattern, but even then, the only one that emerged was completely unacceptable.
He pressed his hands over his face and exhaled smoothly. "I need to examine my own reactions more closely. If you're willing to continue, I would appreciate it." He opened his eyes and looked at John, hoping he would give Sherlock space to think about this.
John took a deep breath and released it again. "All right." He hesitated for a moment. "For what it's worth, Sherlock, I trust you."
"I know." That was the reason Sherlock was taking this enterprise so very seriously. He needed some space now, to think. He stood.
"Do you trust me?" John asked.
"I do."
He'd said it without hesitation, and it was true. He felt more comfortable with John than he'd ever felt with any person before. John was being honest with him about this experience, had let him see so much of what he felt. It was an incredible sign of trust, he realized, to allow Sherlock to do these things, to allow Sherlock to watch something so very private.
And then Sherlock had refused John the same level of confidence. He'd pushed him out the door and taken care of his own needs in private. It was little wonder John had to ask if he had Sherlock's trust. Nothing of what Sherlock had done tonight implied it.
John smiled. "Good. I need to borrow your laptop."
Sherlock frowned. Did John want to look at his data? He doubted anyone could make much sense of it, and he wasn't in the mood to explain his methodology. "Why?"
"Well, mine is still at the shop, being repaired after someone spent eight solid hours viewing porn on it and contracted three separate viruses, requiring the hard drive to be wiped completely."
Sherlock nearly smirked at John's attempt to induce guilt. He'd already offered to pay for the repairs, after all. But now that he thought about it, allowing John access to his data could prove beneficial in several ways. And if John googled anything particularly interesting, that information could be rather useful.
Sherlock explained the password and left him to it. He headed to his bedroom and stripped off his clothes, then stretched out across the bed to think.
*****
Go to the next part
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Love this!
Date: 2013-01-09 07:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-09 07:51 pm (UTC)I could never have imagined, when ACfB was a WIP, that we'd be blessed enough to see this complex interaction from Sherlock's point of view. And I applaud your guts for taking on the challenge of Sherlock's voice.
no subject
Date: 2013-01-09 08:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-09 08:27 pm (UTC)So he'd noticed after all. Sherlock felt a rush of pleasure that John had been more observant than he'd realized.
I love how pleased Sherlock is when John does a little of what Sherlock does.
By that definition, he and John were very nearly in a relationship themselves, so that must not be quite correct.
Yes it is. LOL.
Oh god, that teacher. It really does sound like a porno. It's almost too bad Sherlock isn't straight or bisexual, as he got a pretty thorough education in one night. (Well...she was a professor.) I find myself having a soft spot for the professor, despite her reasons for seducing Sherlock. Quite possibly because due to my tastes in younger and geeky, there was a period of my life where I had sex with a handful of rather inexperienced guys, and I remember a lot of it with positive feelings.
LOL no seriously, there was a period of my life where if a guy had said to me, "I've never done this before" it would have been quite the turn-on. But generally by the time I was getting their clothes off I already knew that.
My love of virginal!Sherlock fics suddenly makes more sense--I thought it was part of my love of subby!Sherlock, but it would appear to be something closer to nostalgia. That amuses me to no end.
John had a way of making these sorts of things feel easy, as no one else ever had.
*wibble*
Oh god, the unnamed man he had sex with. I had a feeling it was more complicated than what he said to John, because of that comment Mycroft made about Sherlock fucking it up, just like he did before, I don't remember the exact comment. Or (where in the story did I read it?) the bit about "it's not supposed to hurt you git." Aaaugh I can see the heartbreak in the distance. I'm dying to know more but it's gonna hurt, isn't it. *flail*
They weren't actually asking for this information; what they were actually saying was I'm sick of your shit.
I get the feeling this has happened to Sherlock a number of times.
He waited until the storm subsided before trying to sense a pattern, but even then, the only one that emerged was completely unacceptable.
Awww bb. You are just pushing that idea away so hard. I want to hug him or shake some sense to him, not sure which. But I remember feeling that way right about now in the original story, too.
One of the things I love about reading this from Sherlock's perspective is seeing the way he watches other people's behavior and faces and body language to try to make sense of them and their motives. It's all intentional and thought-out and he learned it by that laser-sharp observing he's so good at, because figuring out what people are feeling never came to him naturally. I might see someone and say, "that person seems dishonest" and not know why I think so, but Sherlock could tell me exactly what someone was doing that would make them appear dishonest.
Watching him apply that skill to John is a marvel, because he's so desperate to please John.
Woooo long comment. I always feel proud of myself for writing coherent long comments, I dunno why. Maybe because I was terrible at writing about fiction when I was in school? (Worst torture ever devised for me: Lit papers. NOOOOOO.)
ANYWAY. Cabin Pressure is out today! I might go listen to that now.
no subject
Date: 2013-01-09 10:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-10 03:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-10 08:24 am (UTC)I had forgotten how good it was to have Wednesdays to look forward to.
Thank you! x
PS sorry it's not a more literary related comment.
no subject
Date: 2013-01-11 04:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-16 08:19 pm (UTC)I saw the link to this section last week on sherlockbbc, and since your note said that it would make little sense without reading the original story, I started reading A Cure for Boredom. Then I read the missing and alternative scenes, then all your other Sherlock fics, then all your Harry/Dracos, then all your other Harry Potter fics. You get the idea.
You are an amazing writer. Probably most notable for brilliant characterizations, and lovingly detailed and scorching hot sex. Count me as another of the many eagerly awaiting anything you may chose to write. Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2013-01-22 05:57 am (UTC)I DID think you might find it amusing that someone actually loved this fic so much that they turned it into a tea blend: http://www.adagio.com/signature_blend/blend.html?blend=34626&SID=fada4b03f3e71094c416e9d7cbb6041a
That just means you're awesome. Yep.