Richard Book is Innocent (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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tweedandtinsel2011-04-10 03:12 am
oxfordtweed) wrote in tweedandtinsel2011-04-10 03:12 am
No Attached Expectations
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Character/s: Holmes/Watson
Word Count: 2200
Rating: PG
Summary: A conversation is had, but not real advancements are made.
Notes/Warnings: Prompt. Seventh part of the Sex is Boring series.
No Attached Expectations
How could he have possibly been so incapable of saying the right thing? Every time he tried to explain himself, things just got worse. At this rate, John would be moved out by the end of the month.
That was unacceptable.
There had to be a way to get John to stay. Something that would make him want to stick around that didn’t involve having to deal with John’s hands down Sherlock’s pants. There must have been something that he wanted. But what? Sherlock hardly thought that a few new jumpers, regardless of expense, would do the job. John wasn’t the materialistic sort, which was lucky, because it meant he didn’t stay angry for very long whenever Sherlock used a pair of his jeans for an experiment.
So it would have to be an action. John didn’t want things; he wanted Sherlock to do things. Certain, specific things. But maybe there were other things Sherlock could do. John seemed to care about the state of the flat, especially since Mrs Hudson had stopped cleaning up for them.
Maybe that’s what Sherlock could do. John was ex-army. He was probably used to order and labels and things staying in the same place from week to week. It had never particularly bothered Sherlock, as he had never particularly cared about his immediate environment, but it did seem to bother John.
Without much more thought on the matter, Sherlock hauled himself to his feet and went to the kitchen to fetch a bin bag. He spent just a few minutes wandering through the flat, tossing anything that wasn’t vital in the bag before getting bored with the project. It felt like busy work. There must have been something else to do.
He left the bag by his desk and wandered into the kitchen again. The washing up needed done. There wasn’t much to be done, since most anything glass had been broken already, but there was still a small stack of some of the more durable plates and bowls in the sink. Sherlock filled it, watching as the foam grew above the water, and very nearly overfilled the sink as a result. Perhaps he had added too much soap. What was the right amount of soap? Perhaps he should have read the label.
He turned slightly to find a flannel or sponge or whatever John used in the sink when something vaguely fuzzy caught the corner of his eye.
No, it wasn’t fuzzy. It was moving. Specifically, several hundred, possibly several thousand its were moving. A colony of ants had taken lodging somewhere behind one of the baseboards, and was making a line up to the table to get at the various bits of experiments and uneaten meals that had been left there for who knew how long.
Sherlock hadn’t noticed the time until he heard the door to the sitting room open and John’s uneven step across the floorboards.
“Whatever mess you’ve made this time, you’re cleaning it up yourself,” John called gruffly before settling on the sofa, judging by the sound.
“We have ants,” Sherlock called as he got up from the floor. He could feel several of the small insects on his skin and tried to brush them off.
“Have you killed them?” John called. He didn’t sound as angry as he had been the night before, but there was definitely something bordering on annoyance in his voice.
“No,” Sherlock admitted. “I was watching them.” He cringed to himself as he realised everything else he had neglected to do in favour of studying the small creatures that had invaded their kitchen.
“Of course you were.”
Sherlock stepped out of the kitchen, finding John lying on his side on the sofa with a cushion tucked up under his left arm. He looked like he’d hardly slept at all, which prompted Sherlock to look at the time. Half five. Earlier than John was typically up by hours.
Probably because he hadn’t slept. More night terrors. And judging by the way he was holding his arm, he had managed to aggravate his shoulder somewhere along the way. But this was an opportunity, and Sherlock jumped at it.
“Sit up,” he said, making his way over to John.
“No, I was here first,” John protested. “You have a bed. Use it for once.”
Sherlock blinked as he worked out what John was getting at. Ah.
“And you don’t go in my room, so sit up,” he said. “I can help. With… that.”
John gave him a sceptical look before pushing himself into a more vertical position, leaving enough room for Sherlock to get between him and the arm of the sofa.
“Is it in the bone or the muscle?” asked Sherlock as he got himself situated.
“Muscle, mostly,” John answered. “Why?”
Without bothering to respond, Sherlock pressed his fingers into the top of John’s trapezius, eliciting a sharp cry from the man. For a moment, Sherlock feared that John was going to protest entirely, but John surprised him by leaning heavily against his chest.
“More on the front,” he said.
Sherlock obliged, watching John as his eyes shifted in and out of focus with each new wave of pressure on the damaged tissue.
“You stopped going to physio,” Sherlock realised aloud. “Your limp stopped bothering you, so you stopped worrying about your shoulder.”
“Yeah,” John admitted with a hiss in his voice.
“I had wondered why you held your cane on the wrong side. At first, I thought it was from your hand tremor,” Sherlock went on, barely listening to John. “Oh. Of course. Stupid.”
John couldn’t help but laugh, but it came out as more of a choke. “What?” he asked, arching into surprisingly skilled fingers.
“You’d only just got back.”
“Pneumonia,” John said. “Wound up – nngh! – delaying everything.”
Sherlock laughed. “I always miss something,” he said.
He continued to work John’s shoulder, finding that he rather enjoyed the whole thing; not just in knowing that it was making sure that John was no longer angry with him, but also that it was close contact with no attached expectations. It was rather pleasant, actually. Why couldn’t they just do this instead of sex? Surely, John was enjoying it – possibly enjoying it even more than Sherlock was.
“I like this,” he said cautiously, once John had been reduced to little more than a breathing weight against Sherlock’s chest. “Why can’t we just do this?”
John tensed slightly, and Sherlock instantly regretting having said anything. “Why now, Sherlock?” asked John.
“I want to be with you,” Sherlock said. “I just don’t want to have sex with you. Nor do I—”
“Don’t, Sherlock,” John warned. “That really, really doesn’t get any easier to hear. If anything, it gets worse every time you say it.”
Sherlock frowned. Why was it that people would get upset when they caught him lying, only to get even more upset when he tried to be honest? Maybe he was better off single. Far less guesswork, at any rate.
“But—”
“I don’t care,” John interrupted.
“Why should it matter?” asked Sherlock.
John snorted the way he did just before he told Sherlock off for something. Usually, he was able to ignore it, or at least predict what the telling off was going to be about, but like this, he had no idea.
“Why should it matter?” John asked. He sat up to face Sherlock. “Why…Why—why should it matter? All right. You’re an idiot. There are primary school students who have said more intelligent things in their sleep than what you’ve just said. I don’t mind being around you, but I don’t think very highly of you.”
It was like a stab in the chest to hear these words come from John. Words that he could ignore coming from anyone else. But from John, it was different. The entire context had change, just because he was the one who was saying them.
“Oh.”
Of course. Sex had changed everything, and not having it again since changed everything again.
John just looked at Sherlock expectantly, waiting for him to work out the meaning.
“You can go,” Sherlock said quietly.
John sighed deeply. “I don’t want to go,” he said, only confusing Sherlock further.
He scrubbed his face with his hands while he wrestled with some sort of internal force that seemed to be rattling around his head.
“I want to know that you feel about me the same way I feel about you,” John explained. “But so far, the only thing you’ve done is pushed me away.”
Ah. Yes. He had missed something important that Google had completely neglected to mention.
“And me letting you put your mouth on my penis would confirm this for you?” he asked.
John rolled his eyes. “Well, in as clinical terms as possible, which I suppose I should really expect from you by now, yes,” he said. “It’s not just about biology. It’s also about expressing feelings that you can’t put to words.”
“So, by that logic, if you want to express yourself not through words, but through actions, isn’t it a greater sign of commitment to avoid doing the things your partner doesn’t want to do?” Sherlock asked. “How is displaying emotions by respecting boundaries any less powerful than displaying them through pushing the boundaries?”
He was fairly positive he’d finally caught up to John’s side of the argument, and in doing so, caught John up to his. John licked his lips once before nodding.
“All right,” he said. “You have boundaries. I can respect that. I just have to know what they are.”
“I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted. “Most everything, I think.”
John nodded again and something flashed over his face. It wasn’t from this conversation, Sherlock was certain, because it seemed to have taken him completely by surprise.
“You know,” John started, his voice suddenly very calm and almost frighteningly soft. “Just… so… you know, if you ever want to talk about anything, I’m here to listen.”
Yes, definitely from John’s imagination somewhere. It almost sounded like he was talking about… no, it sounded exactly like he was talking about it.
“I was not abused as a child, if that’s what you’re trying to insinuate,” Sherlock said, angry at the very implication. “In fact, you should be rather pleased to know that the first time anyone touched me inappropriately was this month.”
John nodded. “Right,” he said with and air of hesitance. “Just making sure.”
Sherlock was aware that he was glaring at John, but couldn’t quite bring himself to stop yet. “I’m fairly certain it’s medical, and I’m looking into it,” he said. “And in the interim, I’d appreciate if the matter remained dropped.”
John nodded. “Okay,” he agreed. “You want to want to. I think I get it now.”
“Good.” Sherlock let himself relax slightly.
“I’m just a little confused, is all,” John said. “I mean, you didn’t seem to have any problems the other week.”
Of course he wasn’t going to drop the matter. Sherlock would have been an idiot to have thought that he would.
“I didn’t enjoy it,” he admitted. “And I’d much rather just wash my hands of the whole issue. But you want to… continue, so I’m looking into it.”
He dropped his head over the top of the arm rest and stared up at the ceiling and sighed. “Did you mean what you said?” he asked. “Earlier?”
He wasn’t sure why he asked it. He didn’t like appearing vulnerable to anybody, but if John really felt that way about him, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to change himself for John anyway.
“No,” John said softly. “I didn’t, and I’m sorry I said it. You’re just aggravating as hell sometimes, and I’ve no idea how to get through to you without dropping to your level of just throwing insults around.”
“I never insulted you,” Sherlock pointed out.
“No,” John said. “You just don’t find me attractive or desirable or a good shag.”
Sherlock frowned. He meant for it to be aimed at John, but couldn’t be bothered to sit up, so he frowned at the ceiling instead.
“I never said any of that,” he said.
“You implied it,” John told him. “Every time you say that you don’t want me to touch you, that’s what I hear.”
“Oh,” Sherlock said. “Are those things important?”
He could practically hear John rolling his eyes. “Of course they’re important,” he said.
“Right,” Sherlock said. “Don’t give me a reason to say those things, and you won’t have to hear them.”
“But you are working at it?” John asked.
And ultimatum? Possibly. Difficult to tell with John sometimes.
“Yes,” Sherlock said.
“Okay,” John said. “Fine. All right.” He settled into the far side of the sofa and picked up the remote. “Now go kill those fucking ants that you let in, or Mrs Hudson’s going to have a fit.”
Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh slightly as he pulled himself up off of the sofa, snatching up his mobile on his way to his feet.
“Fine,” he said, tossing the phone at John. “Tell Mycroft that he’s paying for your new physiotherapist.”
John looked at the phone. “Why?” he asked.
“Because he’s not paying you to spy on me, so he might as well contribute to our finances somehow,” Sherlock reasoned as he walked toward the kitchen to find the most entertaining method possible to kill a colony of ants behind the baseboard.
Character/s: Holmes/Watson
Word Count: 2200
Rating: PG
Summary: A conversation is had, but not real advancements are made.
Notes/Warnings: Prompt. Seventh part of the Sex is Boring series.
No Attached Expectations
How could he have possibly been so incapable of saying the right thing? Every time he tried to explain himself, things just got worse. At this rate, John would be moved out by the end of the month.
That was unacceptable.
There had to be a way to get John to stay. Something that would make him want to stick around that didn’t involve having to deal with John’s hands down Sherlock’s pants. There must have been something that he wanted. But what? Sherlock hardly thought that a few new jumpers, regardless of expense, would do the job. John wasn’t the materialistic sort, which was lucky, because it meant he didn’t stay angry for very long whenever Sherlock used a pair of his jeans for an experiment.
So it would have to be an action. John didn’t want things; he wanted Sherlock to do things. Certain, specific things. But maybe there were other things Sherlock could do. John seemed to care about the state of the flat, especially since Mrs Hudson had stopped cleaning up for them.
Maybe that’s what Sherlock could do. John was ex-army. He was probably used to order and labels and things staying in the same place from week to week. It had never particularly bothered Sherlock, as he had never particularly cared about his immediate environment, but it did seem to bother John.
Without much more thought on the matter, Sherlock hauled himself to his feet and went to the kitchen to fetch a bin bag. He spent just a few minutes wandering through the flat, tossing anything that wasn’t vital in the bag before getting bored with the project. It felt like busy work. There must have been something else to do.
He left the bag by his desk and wandered into the kitchen again. The washing up needed done. There wasn’t much to be done, since most anything glass had been broken already, but there was still a small stack of some of the more durable plates and bowls in the sink. Sherlock filled it, watching as the foam grew above the water, and very nearly overfilled the sink as a result. Perhaps he had added too much soap. What was the right amount of soap? Perhaps he should have read the label.
He turned slightly to find a flannel or sponge or whatever John used in the sink when something vaguely fuzzy caught the corner of his eye.
No, it wasn’t fuzzy. It was moving. Specifically, several hundred, possibly several thousand its were moving. A colony of ants had taken lodging somewhere behind one of the baseboards, and was making a line up to the table to get at the various bits of experiments and uneaten meals that had been left there for who knew how long.
Sherlock hadn’t noticed the time until he heard the door to the sitting room open and John’s uneven step across the floorboards.
“Whatever mess you’ve made this time, you’re cleaning it up yourself,” John called gruffly before settling on the sofa, judging by the sound.
“We have ants,” Sherlock called as he got up from the floor. He could feel several of the small insects on his skin and tried to brush them off.
“Have you killed them?” John called. He didn’t sound as angry as he had been the night before, but there was definitely something bordering on annoyance in his voice.
“No,” Sherlock admitted. “I was watching them.” He cringed to himself as he realised everything else he had neglected to do in favour of studying the small creatures that had invaded their kitchen.
“Of course you were.”
Sherlock stepped out of the kitchen, finding John lying on his side on the sofa with a cushion tucked up under his left arm. He looked like he’d hardly slept at all, which prompted Sherlock to look at the time. Half five. Earlier than John was typically up by hours.
Probably because he hadn’t slept. More night terrors. And judging by the way he was holding his arm, he had managed to aggravate his shoulder somewhere along the way. But this was an opportunity, and Sherlock jumped at it.
“Sit up,” he said, making his way over to John.
“No, I was here first,” John protested. “You have a bed. Use it for once.”
Sherlock blinked as he worked out what John was getting at. Ah.
“And you don’t go in my room, so sit up,” he said. “I can help. With… that.”
John gave him a sceptical look before pushing himself into a more vertical position, leaving enough room for Sherlock to get between him and the arm of the sofa.
“Is it in the bone or the muscle?” asked Sherlock as he got himself situated.
“Muscle, mostly,” John answered. “Why?”
Without bothering to respond, Sherlock pressed his fingers into the top of John’s trapezius, eliciting a sharp cry from the man. For a moment, Sherlock feared that John was going to protest entirely, but John surprised him by leaning heavily against his chest.
“More on the front,” he said.
Sherlock obliged, watching John as his eyes shifted in and out of focus with each new wave of pressure on the damaged tissue.
“You stopped going to physio,” Sherlock realised aloud. “Your limp stopped bothering you, so you stopped worrying about your shoulder.”
“Yeah,” John admitted with a hiss in his voice.
“I had wondered why you held your cane on the wrong side. At first, I thought it was from your hand tremor,” Sherlock went on, barely listening to John. “Oh. Of course. Stupid.”
John couldn’t help but laugh, but it came out as more of a choke. “What?” he asked, arching into surprisingly skilled fingers.
“You’d only just got back.”
“Pneumonia,” John said. “Wound up – nngh! – delaying everything.”
Sherlock laughed. “I always miss something,” he said.
He continued to work John’s shoulder, finding that he rather enjoyed the whole thing; not just in knowing that it was making sure that John was no longer angry with him, but also that it was close contact with no attached expectations. It was rather pleasant, actually. Why couldn’t they just do this instead of sex? Surely, John was enjoying it – possibly enjoying it even more than Sherlock was.
“I like this,” he said cautiously, once John had been reduced to little more than a breathing weight against Sherlock’s chest. “Why can’t we just do this?”
John tensed slightly, and Sherlock instantly regretting having said anything. “Why now, Sherlock?” asked John.
“I want to be with you,” Sherlock said. “I just don’t want to have sex with you. Nor do I—”
“Don’t, Sherlock,” John warned. “That really, really doesn’t get any easier to hear. If anything, it gets worse every time you say it.”
Sherlock frowned. Why was it that people would get upset when they caught him lying, only to get even more upset when he tried to be honest? Maybe he was better off single. Far less guesswork, at any rate.
“But—”
“I don’t care,” John interrupted.
“Why should it matter?” asked Sherlock.
John snorted the way he did just before he told Sherlock off for something. Usually, he was able to ignore it, or at least predict what the telling off was going to be about, but like this, he had no idea.
“Why should it matter?” John asked. He sat up to face Sherlock. “Why…Why—why should it matter? All right. You’re an idiot. There are primary school students who have said more intelligent things in their sleep than what you’ve just said. I don’t mind being around you, but I don’t think very highly of you.”
It was like a stab in the chest to hear these words come from John. Words that he could ignore coming from anyone else. But from John, it was different. The entire context had change, just because he was the one who was saying them.
“Oh.”
Of course. Sex had changed everything, and not having it again since changed everything again.
John just looked at Sherlock expectantly, waiting for him to work out the meaning.
“You can go,” Sherlock said quietly.
John sighed deeply. “I don’t want to go,” he said, only confusing Sherlock further.
He scrubbed his face with his hands while he wrestled with some sort of internal force that seemed to be rattling around his head.
“I want to know that you feel about me the same way I feel about you,” John explained. “But so far, the only thing you’ve done is pushed me away.”
Ah. Yes. He had missed something important that Google had completely neglected to mention.
“And me letting you put your mouth on my penis would confirm this for you?” he asked.
John rolled his eyes. “Well, in as clinical terms as possible, which I suppose I should really expect from you by now, yes,” he said. “It’s not just about biology. It’s also about expressing feelings that you can’t put to words.”
“So, by that logic, if you want to express yourself not through words, but through actions, isn’t it a greater sign of commitment to avoid doing the things your partner doesn’t want to do?” Sherlock asked. “How is displaying emotions by respecting boundaries any less powerful than displaying them through pushing the boundaries?”
He was fairly positive he’d finally caught up to John’s side of the argument, and in doing so, caught John up to his. John licked his lips once before nodding.
“All right,” he said. “You have boundaries. I can respect that. I just have to know what they are.”
“I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted. “Most everything, I think.”
John nodded again and something flashed over his face. It wasn’t from this conversation, Sherlock was certain, because it seemed to have taken him completely by surprise.
“You know,” John started, his voice suddenly very calm and almost frighteningly soft. “Just… so… you know, if you ever want to talk about anything, I’m here to listen.”
Yes, definitely from John’s imagination somewhere. It almost sounded like he was talking about… no, it sounded exactly like he was talking about it.
“I was not abused as a child, if that’s what you’re trying to insinuate,” Sherlock said, angry at the very implication. “In fact, you should be rather pleased to know that the first time anyone touched me inappropriately was this month.”
John nodded. “Right,” he said with and air of hesitance. “Just making sure.”
Sherlock was aware that he was glaring at John, but couldn’t quite bring himself to stop yet. “I’m fairly certain it’s medical, and I’m looking into it,” he said. “And in the interim, I’d appreciate if the matter remained dropped.”
John nodded. “Okay,” he agreed. “You want to want to. I think I get it now.”
“Good.” Sherlock let himself relax slightly.
“I’m just a little confused, is all,” John said. “I mean, you didn’t seem to have any problems the other week.”
Of course he wasn’t going to drop the matter. Sherlock would have been an idiot to have thought that he would.
“I didn’t enjoy it,” he admitted. “And I’d much rather just wash my hands of the whole issue. But you want to… continue, so I’m looking into it.”
He dropped his head over the top of the arm rest and stared up at the ceiling and sighed. “Did you mean what you said?” he asked. “Earlier?”
He wasn’t sure why he asked it. He didn’t like appearing vulnerable to anybody, but if John really felt that way about him, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to change himself for John anyway.
“No,” John said softly. “I didn’t, and I’m sorry I said it. You’re just aggravating as hell sometimes, and I’ve no idea how to get through to you without dropping to your level of just throwing insults around.”
“I never insulted you,” Sherlock pointed out.
“No,” John said. “You just don’t find me attractive or desirable or a good shag.”
Sherlock frowned. He meant for it to be aimed at John, but couldn’t be bothered to sit up, so he frowned at the ceiling instead.
“I never said any of that,” he said.
“You implied it,” John told him. “Every time you say that you don’t want me to touch you, that’s what I hear.”
“Oh,” Sherlock said. “Are those things important?”
He could practically hear John rolling his eyes. “Of course they’re important,” he said.
“Right,” Sherlock said. “Don’t give me a reason to say those things, and you won’t have to hear them.”
“But you are working at it?” John asked.
And ultimatum? Possibly. Difficult to tell with John sometimes.
“Yes,” Sherlock said.
“Okay,” John said. “Fine. All right.” He settled into the far side of the sofa and picked up the remote. “Now go kill those fucking ants that you let in, or Mrs Hudson’s going to have a fit.”
Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh slightly as he pulled himself up off of the sofa, snatching up his mobile on his way to his feet.
“Fine,” he said, tossing the phone at John. “Tell Mycroft that he’s paying for your new physiotherapist.”
John looked at the phone. “Why?” he asked.
“Because he’s not paying you to spy on me, so he might as well contribute to our finances somehow,” Sherlock reasoned as he walked toward the kitchen to find the most entertaining method possible to kill a colony of ants behind the baseboard.
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