All those awkward little things

Buttons

Mon, 26 Nov 2012 12:24:13 -0500

Title: Buttons
Word Count: 292
Inspiration: One Word Prompts, word given by: Notyourhouse-elf
Warnings: Jealous/Possessive Sherlock. Annoyed John
Rating: E is for Everyone.

Sherlock knew how to push his buttons.

He knew how to slip his arm over John’s while reaching for a drink, or a pen or something equally as pointless. He knew how to make the fabrics of their respective coats or shirts brush together just enough, and with enough intent, to be seen by those looking-and there was always someone looking-as nothing less than a show of familiarity. He did it to show that yes, he was comfortable enough with John to routinely breach his sphere of personal space and John was comfortable enough to allow it.

Sherlock made a point of doing it in front of John’s dates; those idiotic women that he seemed so fond of. He would place his hand on John’s shoulder, or else sit close enough to him that their shoulders or thighs (often both) brushed. He continued in this manner until John stopped bringing his dates home, or around him in general. Still, he found ways to make it clear that they weren’t welcome around John.

Very often, the women got the message, and perhaps they weren’t as stupid as Sherlock had thought. It bothered John on those instances: it bothered him that Sherlock was able to make his dates leave, and often with angry questions-and sometimes accusations-over how he should just shag his flatmate like he so clearly-desperately-wanted to and save them all the trouble of dealing with his repressed sexuality.

His complaints, and they were many, fell on deaf ears (or were instantly deleted) when he brought them to Sherlock’s attention. As far as buttons went, it was a rather tender one and Sherlock seemed to gain endless pleasure by prodding at it. John wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take.

One Word Prompts

Sat, 24 Nov 2012 18:31:16 -0500

Bed Time Stories: Aladdin

Tue, 07 Aug 2012 21:52:27 -0400

Title: Bed Time Stories: Aladdin
Word Count: 501
Inspiration: Conversation with a friend about John telling Sherlock the story of Aladdin before bed.
Warnings: Copious amounts of fluff.
Rating: E is for Everyone.

“The princess, sitting in the hall of four-and-twenty windows, sent a slave to find out what the noise was about, who came back laughing, so that the princess scolded her.”

Sherlock smiles softly as John’s voice fills the room. His eyes are shut, body curled so that his knees just barely press up against John’s legs. There’s no book to sit in his hands, John reciting the story by memory. Instead he uses his free hands to brush through Sherlock’s curls, and to keep him by his side. Sherlock doesn’t mind, reveling in the touch: It wasn’t often that he got this. As a child, he’d rarely been read to or told bed time stories. It didn’t bother him much at the time, and he still wasn’t sure if he’d have preferred it. Fiction wasn’t something he took much stock by. It was pointless stuffing; just something to fill the mind with. There was no practical application.

“At that instant the vizier, who saw that the crowd had forced their way into the courtyard and were scaling the walls to rescue Aladdin, called to the executioner to stay his hand. The people, indeed, looked so threatening that the Sultan gave way and ordered Aladdin to be unbound, and pardoned him in the sight of the crowd.”

It was different with John; different than it had been the few times his mother, or Mycroft, had read to him. Those times hadn’t been particularly enjoyable. His mother had done it out of a feeling of necessity: A family wasn’t a family unless the mother read to the children, right? Mycroft had read to him for much the same feeling of necessity, but a necessity to try and fix things. John didn’t try to fix him, or do it because he thought he had to. He did it because he wanted to, and left it up to Sherlock if he wanted to listen or not.

“‘That is not in my power,’ said the genie; ‘I am only the slave of the ring; you must ask the slave of the lamp.’”

He listens.

“‘Now I know,’ cried Aladdin, ‘that we have to thank the African magician for this! Where is the lamp?’”

It’s not the story he listens to-fiction is pointless-it’s the changes in John’s tone; the adaptation of voices and different inflections for characters; the contentment he can hear. It’s better than the story. The story is fiction, false, just words and clutter, but John’s voice is real. It’s a fact. It’s something that Sherlock can understand.

“Aladdin went back to the princess, saying his head ached, and requesting that the holy Fatima should be fetched to lay her hands on it. But when the magician came near, Aladdin, seizing his dagger, pierced him to the heart.”

He likes it when John tells him stories.

“After this Aladdin and his wife lived in peace. He succeeded the Sultan when he died, and reigned for many years, leaving behind him a long line of kings.”

Wonder Why

Sun, 22 Apr 2012 13:05:00 -0400

Title: Wonder Why

Word Count: 560

Inspiration: Wonder Why You Want Her - Gotye

Warnings: Light sexual content; UST

Rating: Be discreet.

Lost in his face.

All sharp edges and drastic angles. Sherlock was beautiful in what John wouldn’t call a traditional way, but beautiful all the same. The way certain lights cast shadows that accented his cheekbones just-so, or the arch of his nose; the bow of his lips. It made Sherlock into something inhuman and gorgeous; impossibly unattainable.

Caught on the thought of a taste.

He shouldn’t imagine how it might be to kiss his flatmate; he did anyways. John couldn’t help it. That clever mouth was so tempting. The way it twitched into a smirk whenever Sherlock thought he was being more clever than usual, or when he was secretly pleased and wanted John to think he was being sarcastic. John wanted to explore that mouth. He wanted to find out if a kiss could undo the great Sherlock Holmes; leave him boneless and begging for more.

Sold on the fantasy; Bought, for a price you can have a taste.

Sherlock knew how he felt; of course he did. He had laid down an invitation only once. John could join him in bed. There were rules; stipulations; a verbal contract; a price that John wasn’t sure he could handle. He’d refused. Sherlock hadn’t invited him again.

Fresh from the colour press, the flesh of today’s prince.

Face flushed from exertion, chest heaving; John couldn’t help but stare. He wanted to run his hands over every inch of him, drag him down into bed; agree to every little rule that Sherlock placed on him. He wanted to be the cause of that rosy complexion, not having run halfway across London after some murderer.

Spread from end to end, blue eyes and perfect skin.

John wanted everything he could possibly have. He wanted Sherlock under him; around him; moaning; screaming; begging for more. He wanted Sherlock on top, buggering him into the mattress again, and again, and again. Making him come over and over until John couldn’t remember his own name. Until Sherlock had to remind him.

‘Do you ever wonder why you want him?’

Mycroft’s mocking words followed him everywhere. That man knew everything.

‘Does it even matter you can’t have him?’

He knew that John had turned Sherlock down when he’d been offered everything he could want. He knew that John had panicked, and he knew that John wouldn’t get another chance.

‘Even if you tried to it wouldn’t matter.’

Sherlock had made it clear that the offer was a one-time only thing. Even though John had changed his mind almost immediately afterwards-when he had seen how Sherlock shut down his features and walked away; when he had realised that Sherlock had wanted it as much as he did-he knew that Sherlock wouldn’t offer again. But John wanted him.

‘Trying to possess him can only depress you. You’ll only want him stronger-’

Knowing how hopeless his pining was made for sleepless nights, Sherlock running through his mind. He could hardly focus when they were in the same room together. Sherlock acted like there was nothing different, as if the proposition hadn’t happened; as if John hadn’t said no; as if John wasn’t fantasizing about what those long, slender legs might feel like hooked around his waist, or what that delicious mouth might look like wrapped around his cock.

He wished he could take back his refusal.

“-long for longer.”

It's Cold Outside

Thu, 19 Apr 2012 22:07:40 -0400

Title: It’s Cold Outside (Also Know As: John is a cheating whore, but Angela says it’s okay because it’s Sherlock.) (I agree.)

Word Count: 537

Inspiration: This Song

Warnings: John is a cheating whore; bit of kissing; I used the word whore three times in this introduction.

Rating: Reasonably safe for work

“I really can’t stay,” I mumbled, quickly trying to gather my belongings. “I’ve got to go.”

“It’s cold outside,” Sherlock said breathlessly. I’d kissed him.

“This evening has been-” I hesitated. What did you say when you’d kissed your best friend and ex-flatmate? What did you say when you were married and had just kissed your best friend and ex-flatmate? “-really very nice.”

“I’d been hoping that you would drop in.” I willed him to stop talking; to stop looking at me with such wide eyes. I was too close to him; his hand brushed mine. “Your hands are like ice.”

I snatched my hand away. “Mary will start to worry.” My eyes went to the door, then back to Sherlock. He gave me a look that clearly said, ‘what’s your hurry?’ “She’ll be pacing the floor,” my voice shook. I couldn’t blame it on the cold, the fireplace took care of that. “I-I really should scurry.”

“I don’t understand your hurry.” I was pulled down onto the couch, a drink pressed into my hand. What could it hurt? Just half a drink more. I relaxed; the music was soft, something I didn’t recognize. Sherlock was watching me. What would the neighbours think? “It’s getting bad out there,” he was referring to the snow. My heart was hammering. What’s in this drink? “There won’t be any cabbies out.

“Your eyes are like stars,” his voice was like honey. I wish I knew how to break his spell. I was a married man. This couldn’t go on like this. He was smiling, hand running up my arm to my hair. I knew that I should say ‘no, no, no,’ the least I could do was try.

“I really can’t stay.” He moved in closer. It was rather cold outside. “I simply must go,” my voice was weak.

“It’s cold outside.”

I was married. “The answer is no.”

“But John, it’s so cold outside.” My resolve crumbled. “I’m so lucky that you dropped in.”

It was Christmas. I should be with my wife. “You’ve really been so nice and warm.”

His lips twitched upwards. “It really is quite a storm.” His eyes didn’t even flicker towards the window. “Your lips look delicious.”

I licked them, my eyes flickering down to his. “Your brother will be suspicious.” If he wasn’t watching already. “Ms. Hudson could be at the door.”

His lips met mine. Maybe just one little kiss more. What could it hurt? I felt his tongue on my lips before he pulled away. “You really are quite delicious.” The blizzard continued on.

I shook myself. Mary’s anger would certainly be vicious. “I’ve got to go home.”

His lips tilted downwards. “You’ll freeze, it’s up to your knees out there.”

“I have a coat. You’ve-” What do you say? “-you’ve really been grand.”

“I thrill when you touch my hand.” My heart must have stopped. “How can you leave me like this?”

I was shaking. “People will talk.”

“They do little else.” His eyes were so bright. What could it hurt?

I really shouldn’t stay. “It is rather cold out there.”

He pulled me in close; whispered against my skin, “Just stay here with me.” I could feel his smile against my neck when I gave in.

Husbands

Wed, 18 Apr 2012 20:55:00 -0400

Title: Husbands (Also Known As: Angela’s Heart in a Blender)

Prompt (One-word prompt challenges): Husbands

Word Count: 296

Warnings: Drug use; Kissing; Unrequited feelings

“You’re beautiful like this, John.” I ignore him and continue to press the damp cloth against his forehead. He hadn’t meant for me to catch him like this; doped up on something. “John,” he repeats my name slowly, drawing it out into two syllables. “You’re golden. You’re beautiful,” his voice grew softer; almost a whisper. “John, marry me.”

My heart jumped. He was watching me with such clarity in his eyes that I could have believed his proposal if it weren’t for the way his face flushed, or his heart pounded from the drugs he’d taken; If he hadn’t spent the last forty minutes going on about nonexistent spiders trying to climb under his fingernails; If I hadn’t had to restrain him forcibly on the couch while the drug worked its way through his system. I could have believed him.

“Marry me,” he repeated. His voice was hoarse, dry. “We can be husbands, John.” His eyes fluttered shut, I swiped the cloth over his eyelids. “You can buy the milk and take care of me, I’ll keep you entertained and frustrated.” We already did that. I didn’t say anything, just let him talk. He was calmer when he talked. His eyes stayed shut and he stayed silent for so long I began to wonder if he’d dozed off. His long, thin hand found my wrist and latched on. “You’re beautiful; marry me.”

I shushed him, pulled him close, kept him close, as close as possible. “I can’t,” I told him. “I can’t.”

His lips found my neck; didn’t kiss, only whispered over the skin: “You love me. Leave her.”

My heart twisted. I found my way to his lips and kissed him hard; deep; how he wanted me to kiss him.

“You love me.”

“I can’t.”

A Chemical Analysis of Love and the Mechanics Thereof 3/4

Wed, 18 Apr 2012 02:03:00 -0400

A Chemical Analysis of Love and the Mechanics Thereof 3/4: Attachment (Part A)

Word Count: 2,153

Warnings: Talks of sex and masturbation, bit of kissing thrown in there, possessive language, mentions of drug use, relationship established in Stage 2, Sherlock’s P.O.V., Science

Stage One:
Lust

Stage Two:
Attraction

Attachment, stage three; the bond that keeps couples together long enough for them to-theoretically-have and raise children. Hormones responsible: Oxytocin; best known for its roles in sexual reproduction, during and after childbirth; released by both men and women during orgasm; social recognition; pair bonding; anxiety; maternal behaviours. Sometimes referred to as the “love” hormone. The inability to secrete oxytocin and feel empathy is linked to sociopathy, psychopathy, narcissism, and “general manipulativeness.” Arginine Vasopressin; Also known as vasopressin, argipressin, or antidiuretic hormone (ADH). Neurohypophysial hormone found in most mammals, vasopressin is responsible for increasing water absorption in the collecting ducts of the kidney nephron, therefore regulating the body’s retention of water. Has a variety of neurological effects on the brain in addition, the most notable being the influencing of pair-bonding in prairie voles. Prairie voles are found to engage in far more sex than is strictly necessary for reproduction. Research shows that vasopressin is likely an influence in human pair-bonding. Through sex.

“So, you’re a virgin.” I turned quickly and my bow went flying out of my hand, much to John’s amusement. I must have looked startled; he repeated the statement.

“I never said that.”

He cocked an eyebrow; infuriatingly bemused. “Oh, so you’re not?”

Cautiously, and collectedly I picked up the bow; my avoidance of his eyes was almost painfully obvious. “I never said that.”

“There’s really only two ways someone can go here, Sherlock.”

Gauge the trajectory needed to throw the bow at John’s head; He knew what I was thinking, and glared to still my hand. Not that I would throw my bow; important. “Is there?”

“Yes or no, Sherlock.”

I turned my attention back to my violin. John had interrupted my tuning of it; rude. “Does it really matter?” Did it? Would John suddenly decide that I was undesirable should he not get the answer he wanted?

I could see John frown out of the corner of my eye. “Well, it could be, depending on what exactly we plan to do in the future. We are in a relationship, right?” Was he asking me to confirm that we were? Did he not know? He took my silence for confusion. “Sherlock! Yes, yes we are in a relationship. You shouldn’t have to think about that!”

I rolled my eyes. John was so fragile at times. “If you already knew, then why ask?”

His eyes narrowed, I kept mine fixed on the instrument. “Stop trying to distract me, Sherlock.” His tone was reminiscent of his ‘you don’t just take someone’s phone’ voice.

“What do you want me to say?” I sighed. John was rather intolerable when he got into one of his questioning moods.

“The truth would be nice.”

Look up; lift a brow. “You didn’t ask a question, you simply assumed your own answer.”

John didn’t look very amused anymore. “Are you, or are you not a virgin?”

“Virgin,” I said the word slowly. John was very clearly annoyed. “Noun. A person, typically a woman, who has never had sexual intercourse.”

“Yes, that’s the definiti-“

“I am not a woman.”

“Have you, or have you not, had sex?” He cut me off the moment I opened my mouth to retort. “By sex, Sherlock, I mean have you ever stuck your prick inside another human being, or had a man stick theirs up your arse, or any other orifice? Clear enough for you?”

I locked eyes with him. “No.”

John threw his hands up. “How the bloody hell do you expect me to be clearer than that?”

“No, I mean no. As in ‘no, I have not.’”

“Just because, or is there a different reason?” Doctor Jonathan Hamish Watson, M.D. Did my abstinence result from a medical problem? His question was very clearly written in the lines of his face.

“You can rest assured that I am a fully functioning human male.” I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Then what? His eyes questioned. I carefully placed my violin back in its case-pointless having taken it out-and turned my entire focus on John. “I find the idea to be rather unpleasant and needlessly messy.”

“Speaking from experience,” he said pointedly, “I can tell you that the act itself is quite pleasant, and while it can tend to be a little messy, it’s usually worth it.”

“Opinion.”

“Oxytocin.”

“Sod off.” I gracelessly fell onto the couch and turned my back to the room. Familiar position; normally effective for making John leave.

Hand in my hair; lips on my ear; tongue; teeth. I’m on my back in an instant, hands clamped over my ears-both to be safe. John’s hands covered mine. Lips on my lips; cheekbones; jaw; neck. “What are you doing?” The question came out choked, my eyes fixed on some point towards the ceiling.

He looked up; smiled; pressed our foreheads together. “You know what I’m doing.”

“What are you trying to do?” I asked, my eyes narrowing.

“You know that, too.” His mouth found mine again. Tongue flicking against my hard palate: Distraction. His hand no longer covered mine, instead wandering dangerously close to the waistband of my trousers. Fingers slipping below the waistband. Out of my depth; panic; shut everything out; close eyes.

“Sherlock.” Ignored. “Sherlock, look at me, open your eyes. Look: Both of my hands are on your face. See?” Warmth on my cheeks; I opened my eyes to see John regarding me with a worried expression. He pressed our foreheads together. “You’re allowed to tell me to stop if I’m making you uncomfortable, Sherlock.”

My hands flopped limply by my head. “You want sex.” No response; John was getting very proficient at keeping his expression neutral. “You want sex,” I went on, “so just get on with it.”

He sputtered, quite an achievement with nothing to drink, and stared at me like I’d just asked him to recite Latin ballads from memory. “Sherlock,” Lecture tone, “that’s not what it’s about at all.”

“Traditionally,” I started, frowning when John closed his eyes, “sex is an act of reproduction. I can hardly produce a child, which-seeing as how you’re a doctor-you’re fully aware of. Therefore, the sexual act that you’re proposing is a means of gaining pleasure.”

“I’m not proposing anything!”

“You were attempting to shove your hand down my pants.” Not shove, per say. “That’s not a proposition?”

“That’s-” He cut himself off. Statement: True. I watched as John sat back on my legs and ran his right hand through his hair-he normally did that with his left. Significant? Possibly; file away for later. “I just want to be close to you.”

“Carnally.”

“Emotionally, Sherlock.”

I looked him over carefully. His expression was adoring, irritated, but still adoring. What did I look like to him? Cold? Unfeeling? A robot? “Why?”

He sighed heavily. “Because emotions are important, and I love you, you idiot.”

Emotions were important. I had my counterarguments to that, and John had his. The topic, when discussed, normally ended in both of us glaring from across the room at each other. Concede; sit up and kiss him to make sure he knows we’re not arguing. I closed the distance between us, cradling his face in my hands, and kissed him.

John closes his eyes when he kisses. He doesn’t realize how expressive he is, even when his eyes are closed. He’s told me that it discomforts him to know that I’m watching him when we kiss, he doesn’t understand that I have to: it’s how I know that he likes it when I pull my hands up his face and through his cropped hair; or when I drag my nails across the back of his neck gently. He’s not silent when I do something he likes. He’s quick to assure me; a moan, a hand gripping my shoulder-my hair-pulling me closer. I enjoy watching him fall apart.

I moved to his neck and he sighed and pushed me away. My stomach twisted. “You’re disappointed with me.” I kept my voice steady; my face carefully void of fear. John was disappointed. I’d messed things up. He’d leave.

“No, no, it’s not that. God, it’s not that at all.” He touched my face gently. “You just have no clue what you’re doing-shut up, I’m not finished.” I shut my mouth. “You have no clue what you’re doing to me. You can’t kiss me like that and expect me to not want to have sex with you.” But- “But you do, and I don’t understand. Do I affect you at all?”

“Yes,” I said instantly. “Yes, of course you do; yes.” How could I explain in a way he could understand? How could I tell him that everything he did affected me; that he was able to pick me apart without having me spread on the sheets before him. He didn’t need to make me moan, or come, or scream for him to have me more intimately than anyone ever will. How could I explain that he already had me in my entirety and I wasn’t sure if there was any more to give?

Arms encircled me instantly and hands settled my head onto his shoulder, soothing through my hair. I must have looked panicked for John to be doing this; to have felt the need to do this. We must have looked ridiculous; him still very much straddling my thighs while cradling me like a child, me doing absolutely nothing to change our positions. He held me until my heart rate returned to normal, then released me with a kiss to the forehead.

“Explain. If you can,” he tacked on. He was always afraid of pushing me, which was strange: I was never afraid of pushing him. Difference; did that mean he cared more? Possibly.

I didn’t speak up until I was certain he was about to ask if I’d heard him. I closed my eyes and fell back on the sofa. “Two minutes into our first meeting and I realized I was attracted to you.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Now shut up, I’m trying to explain.” I didn’t need to see to know he rolled his eyes.

I took a breath and continued. “I repressed the urge-”

“Urge?”

“Shut up, John,” I hissed. “I repressed the urge to simply pounce on you,” he snorted, “and shove you against a lab table.” I felt his weight settle on me. Opening my eyes I found him looking up from my chest. He was curious; I sighed. “Spit it out.”

He gave a soft smile. “So, you wanted me then, but not now?”

“No, no, no,” I groaned. “You’re not understanding at all. I do want you. I do.” I brought my hands up to my face; ground my palms into my eyes. “More than anything, I want you. I want everything you want to give me. I want everything you don’t want to give me. I want everything you can give, and more than you can give, John. I want, and want, and want, and I’ll take because I can and you’ll let me because I won’t give you a choice.” John had shifted during my speech; climbing up my body to press his nose just under my jaw, and his forehead into my cheek. His hands ran through my hair. Trying to comfort me. I went on.

“It’s not just that, John.” He said nothing. “It’s-I can’t shut my mind off. I’ve tried-you know my history, I’ve tried to shut it off. For a few moments at least. Sex is… a lot.”

“Too much information?”

“Sensory overload.”

A pause. “You’ve never had sex.”

I shifted uncomfortably. John didn’t move; didn’t try to look at my face, or gauge my reactions: Just waited. “I have hands, John.”

There was a huff of hot air against my neck: Laughter? “You most certainly do.” Definitely laughter. “So, do you… do that often?” I considered the possibility of ignoring his meaning; making him say what he meant precisely. I wasn’t sure that I wanted him to actually say it out loud.

“No. Rarely if ever.”

“Have you tried doing it with your eyes shut or blindfolded?”

Confusion. “Why would I shut my eyes?”

“It might help with the sensory overload. You’d be getting rid of one of your senses-basically.” He propped himself up, looking down at me with-Happiness? Compassion? Adoring? Love? “It could be worth a try.”

I wanted to look away from him; needed to look away. Impossible.

“Stay in my room tonight,” he gave the command softly. I wondered if he was suddenly afraid that he would scare me off; make me unwilling to be near him as we were. I took the words for what they were: an invitation. He was inviting me into his room, his bed. It was more than that, I knew. It wasn’t just an invitation for a sleep over. He was telling me that everything would be all right; asking me to trust him.

I almost said no.

A reminder:

Sun, 08 Apr 2012 14:32:00 -0400

I am currently taking prompt requests. There is no telling when I’ll be able to get to yours, but I will try to get to all of them. If you have an idea that you would like to see explored, feel free to drop a request.

A Chemical Analysis of Love and the Mechanics Thereof 2/3

Sun, 01 Apr 2012 00:47:00 -0400

A Chemical Analysis of Love and the Mechanics Thereof 2/3: Attraction

Word Count: 2,662

Warnings: Science, bit of kissing, Pissed off!John, Pissed off!Sherlock, Quite a bit of fluffy stuff, mentions of drug abuse.

Stage One:
Lust

Attraction, stage 2; characterized by an almost obsessive need to think of/be near the other person. Hormones responsible: Adrenaline and cortisol; stress response when interacting with object of attraction. Causes an increased heart rate, dry mouth, perspiration. Unpleasant; dangerous distraction. Dopamine; stimulates the ‘reward center’ of the brain. Results in increased energy, less need for sleep or food, focused attention and delight towards the other person. Similar effects on the brain as the use of cocaine. Not unpleasant; certainly a distraction. Use of cocaine can be restricted to the home (experience), use of John cannot. Serotonin; contributes to feelings of well-being and happiness. Also has some cognitive functions, including memory and learning. Not unpleasant; not a distraction.

It was simple enough to ignore when it was only an inclination for John; simply a matter of suppressing baser wants. I’m very good at that. Wouldn’t work anymore.

Upset at having found that he’d gotten rid of my stash: drugs; bad, didn’t care; needed. More than upset, really; lashed out: unwise. I’d gotten used to John. Complacent. It was easy to ignore his military training. He wouldn’t hurt me; couldn’t hurt me. I ignored the facts, assumed instead. Assumption proven incorrect. Very, very incorrect. Hated that.

He’d pinned me in less than three minutes; not without a few bruises, but still impressive. My face pressed against the carpet; knee sitting dangerously on my spine-a warning; hands caught and held in one hand next to that knee; other hand in my hair-not hard. He was bent over so that he could talk to me up-close. Instinct; closer meant the other person was more likely to listen. John wanted me to listen.

I ignored him. The effects of him pinning me were of much more importance than what he was saying about addiction, though his tone was certainly playing into my inclination. Having him close was nice. His hand in my hair was nice. His knee on my spine was not. He tensed. I must have spoken out loud-involuntary. Interesting development, I would have to look into it at a later time.

His hand shifted, slid from my hair to my neck, index and middle pressed lightly just under my jaw. It almost could have been considered a caress, but I knew what he was doing. I used similar tricks-didn’t normally pin the person, though. John cared nothing about subtleties.

My breathing and heart rate were up from the (brief) struggle; obvious, logical, surely he couldn’t overlook that fact. If pressed, I could easily bring that up and ruin any sort of data he thought to gleam from checking my pulse. No threat; no viable data to be gathered; pulse check allowed.

He kissed my neck. He kissed my neck. It went straight to my nucleus accumbens, that dreadful part of the limbic system, and provided him with more than enough evidence to make a conclusive deduction. Body froze; pulse quickened exponentially; mind wiped clear. That was new. Didn’t like it. Not being able to think was a horrible feeling. Slight panic; close eyes instinctively; need for John to go away; want for him to come closer.

I must have made some sound to alert John to my distress-or else he was getting far too well at reading me-for the pressure on my back was suddenly gone, along with the close contact. I could think; breathe; move now. I rolled over. There was hardly a different option. It was either roll over or remain with my face pressed against the carpet; uncomfortable. Besides, I couldn’t see John from this angle: I rolled over and stared.

I took him in. He was dressed modestly, black slacks, a button up under an off-white jumper; very soft. He’d showered before I’d come home and demanded to know where he had put my things, I could still smell his aftershave; nice, very John; reminder to tell him later. My eyes went to his feet. His shoes were still on; nicer shoes than normal; no scuff marks; haven’t seen them before: New.

“You have a date.” Not a question. I couldn’t help but feel a little betrayed. His dates were always boring, why else would he consistently come back early? John appeared to feel rather put out, if his avoidance to make eye contact was any indication (a person trying to avoid something will often avoid eye contact for fear of drawing attention to themselves or the situation in question).“You kissed me.”

Embarrassment; yes. Denial; no. John was very clearly embarrassed. His left hand betrayed him, coming up to rub behind his head. Increased eye avoidance, nervous habits: embarrassment. Yet, he didn’t appear to be in any hurry to deny the fact that he had kissed my neck. Curious. I was curious; the situation was curious; was John curious, too?

“Do you want to kiss me again?” Blunt; forthright: Reasons why John didn’t invite me along on his dates, or bother to introduce them to me.

Surprise flitted across his face. John froze; an overwhelming feeling of smugness overcame me. I’d been lectured, pinned, bruised, and had a possible rug burn, but I was still able to render John speechless. He was certainly at a loss for words, his mouth opening and closing in-astonishment? Could he not make up his mind? He clearly wanted to kiss me again, or else he would have already said no. “John,” I said it carefully; scaring him away: not my intention. I sat up. Closer to John; easier to see him. He wasn’t going to answer my question; known. It raised too many possible questions he may have. A direct order played to the soldier part of him; easier to understand, easier to obey. “Kiss me.”

Eyes locked on my lips; body canted towards me: He wanted to kiss me. His brow furrowed- some inner argument. He wasn’t listening to me. I took the decision away from him, moving forward and cupping his face in my hands, pressing our lips together gently. Kissing John. I kept my eyes open; watching, observing. Noting how his eyes widened in shock and then narrowed in- anger? The kiss turned suddenly; John took over and he was so angry. I felt teeth on my bottom lip and jerked away.

This wasn’t how things were supposed to go; confusion. “I don’t-“ understand. He cut me off.

“Is that what you wanted, then?” He got to his feet and ran his left hand through his hair; refused to look at me. “Some sort of bloody experiment on-on what?” John spread his arms out and glared at me. Though it was a question, I got the distinct feeling that he didn’t want me to answer. He went on. “Fucking air capacity or something?”

Air capacity? I opened my mouth to tell him that he was wrong; that I’d already done experiments on air capacity and that there are far more efficient ways to gain that information besides kissing him. His expression silenced me. Lips pursed; eyes narrowed; obviously grinding his teeth; left hand clasping and unclasping compulsively: He was livid. “I don’t want to hear your excuses about how it was ‘for science’ or any of that bull. You don’t go around kissing people, Sherlock!” Just you. “I don’t care if you lack emotions; you don’t go fucking around with others’.”

“Get out.” My voice shocked both of us. He’d crossed a line, and I think he noticed that after I spoke. Rationally, I knew that what he had said had been out of some form of misdirected anger. I still wanted him to leave. He needed to leave. I needed him to go away and let me think; to figure out where my calculations had been wrong. I stood and straightened out. Looming over John wasn’t difficult; height advantage. Locking down my emotions was a bit more so. I was upset; his words had stung, but I had years of practice blocking out hurtful words. It was all a matter of shifting my view of John; making him like any other person; blocking him out.

The flat was silent, and I could hear as he inhaled; exhaled in a sigh. He rubbed his face, one hand on his hip. The anger was still there when he looked at me, but he seemed questioning, if the incredulous look was any indication. I knew he was going to start talking again. I wasn’t sure I wanted him to. If he assumed that it was an experiment, not simply a desire to kiss him, then I would be able to play it off as such. He would be angry, but John would get over it. He inhaled.

“I’m not leaving.” My eyes went to the door. I could still leave. “You’re not leaving either, Sherlock. We’re going to talk about this. You are going to talk about this. You are not allowed to just sit on the sofa, tune me out, and sulk, am I understood?” There was no mistaking the military edge to his tone. I’d heard it on more than one occasion, quite a few times in my direction. John should know that that didn’t work; did know. If anything, it made me more willing to ignore him. To sit on the sofa and sulk, or to simply walk out the door.

I sat on the sofa, crossed my left leg over the right, then gestured towards the armchair across. He took the opposite end of the couch. It wasn’t where I wanted him, and he knew it. It made it so that I had to turn to see him; to observe him. Annoying. “Fine. Talk.”

“Sherlock.” Warning tone. I kept my eyes firmly averted. “You’re sulking. I told you not to sulk.”

“You told me not to ‘tune you out.’”

“Yeah, and I told you not to sit on that sofa and sulk.”

“I’ll sit somewhere else.”

“Sherlock,” he sighed. I turned my head so that I could see him properly. His left hand was raised over his face, rubbing small circles on his forehead, his right pressed firmly across his torso; defensive pose. “Look, okay? I just… I just don’t want to be part of your experiments without being asked first.”

“I asked if you wanted to kiss m-“

His hand came down with a rather loud slap on his leg. “Sherlock Holmes, that is not good enough, and you know it.”

“I wasn’t-“

“You were.”

“Will you let me finish a bloody sentence?” Irritation. I wasn’t used to being spoken over so easily. Especially not by John; he normally listened to what I had to say, not the other way around. He cocked an eyebrow; non-verbal signal to continue. I found myself at a loss for words, suddenly. I knew what I wanted to say, of course, but saying it in a way that John would understand, and not take to mean that he was an unwilling participant in an experiment, was… difficult. I settled on the simplest explanation. “I wanted to kiss you.”

He blinked; frowned; opened his mouth; shut it again; settled on what to say. “You don’t kiss people.”

What he said wasn’t untrue: I didn’t normally engage in kissing unless it pertained directly to a case (has happened twice), or once or twice in my university years. It still remained that I wanted to kiss John. “I haven’t had cause to.” He was going to ask me ‘why’ I’d suddenly decided that I had cause to.

“Why? Why now? Why kiss me?” Predictable,as was the frustration evident in his tone. John had no idea what to make of the whole situation.

“You did kiss me first.” Fact; pointedly stated.

“On the neck!”

“Does that not count?” I mimicked his questioning look from earlier, turning it on him. His lips were pursed, jaw muscles working furiously, eyes fixed on some point just below my right shoulder. “You’ll get a migraine if you continue to grind your teeth.” He stopped, his eyes met mine. “You took my pulse, and then kissed my neck to provide a comparison set of data. If anyone was experimenting, John, it was most certainly you.”

I let him spend a moment trying to sputter out some type of excuse or explanation before continuing. “You clearly must have ascertained that I was at least somewhat attracted to you,” more than that, “and decided to use my own methods against me. Or, perhaps, you just wanted to kiss me.” Pause; let that sink in. “You did want to kiss me, or you wouldn’t have.”

There was a long moment where neither of us said anything. My own data for this inference was somewhat… speculated. I had been paying more attention on how his lips had felt on my neck, than to the possible reasoning behind the action, at the time. Though, I was fairly certain of my deduction.

“Yeah, I mean- Well, yeah,” he sighed. Deduction: Correct. “You just- Look, you said my name and-“ He was turning red. “Gasped my name, actually, and I thought ‘well maybe,’ and then just thought that it would-…Stop staring at me like that!”

“I’m not staring, I’m observing.”

“You’re being an arse, is what you’re doing.”

I smiled. “Your face is red.” Darkened further. “Do you want to kiss me again?” John looked hopelessly lost, clearly his words were failing him as he kept opening and shutting his mouth like a fish; metaphor. “I’m really quite attracted to you. Dopamine levels increase drastically when you’re here; I’ve tested. I haven’t tested for Serotonin, but I think that is rather obvious: I’m content.”

“You mean ‘happy,’” he licked his lips. “So, what are you saying? That-that you love me?”

Did I? Was that what I was trying to say? It was my turn to slip into silence while John stared. I moved; shifting my feet up onto the cushion and twisting until my back pressed against the armrest; brought my hands up in front of my face, fingertips pressed together: it helped me think.

Emotionally: Were emotions even important if the proper chemicals were already in the bloodstream? John would say yes; important because John said it was. Emotions were important to him. I was content with him; happy? He’d become a constant in my life: He was always there when I needed him, even if he didn’t want to be; especially when he didn’t want to be. He was frustrating when he didn’t understand what I was talking about, but I could tolerate it from him when I couldn’t tolerate it from others.

Could I love John? “Yes.”

“What?”

Scientifically: The chemicals didn’t lie; my research into the topic had been very concrete on which were involved in love: Dopamine, Serotonin, Oxytocin, Vasopressin. Dopamine and Serotonin were consistently claimed to be important in the initial stages; Oxytocin and Vasopressin became important to ensure attachment to the romantic partner.

Did I love John? “Yes.”

“I should call and cancel my date, then.”

I blinked; when had John started talking? “You’re forty-six minutes late anyways; I doubt that your date waited that long for you, but why?”

He stared at me, then pressed a finger to his lips. I understood it as one of his ‘are-we-really-having-this-discussion-Sherlock’ looks. “Are we really going to have this discussion, Sherlock?” Bit off.

“Never mind.”

“You really have no idea why, do you?”

I held myself closer together. “If you’d like, you can explain.”

“You said that you love me-Rather, you said ‘yes’ when I asked if you did, yeah? Following?” Nodded. “I said that I should call and cancel my date.”

I rolled my eyes, “Yes, John, and I told you that that is pointless because she didn’t wait forty-six minutes for you. Fifty minutes, now.”

“Right, my fault, my fault,” he raised a hand in an attempt to-placate?-me. “Can’t mince words with you, can I? I was trying to say that,” John swallowed, “that I love you too.”

“Obviously.” Deduction: Correct.

A Chemical Analysis of Love and the Mechanics Thereof 1/3

Mon, 05 Mar 2012 22:42:00 -0500

Love is not magic.

It takes anywhere from ninety seconds to four minutes for your brain to decide if you fancy someone. Fifty-five percent of that attraction is based on body-language, thirty-eight based on tone and speed of their voice, only seven percent is based on what they actually say. Love is not magic, it’s science. There are three stages:

Lust, stage one; driven by the sex hormones testosterone and oestrogen, in both men and women. Webster’s describes it as lust [luhst] noun 1. Intense sexual desire or appetite; 2. Uncontrolled or illicit sexual desire or appetite; lecherousness; 3. A passionate or overmastering desire or craving (usually followed by for): a lust for power; 4. Ardent enthusiasm; zest; relish; an enviable lust for life; 5. Obsolete: a. Pleasure or delight; b. Desire; inclination; wish.

I have a very strong inclination towards John. Upon our first meeting it took two minutes for my mind to decide that and inform my body; five minutes to suppress the desire to take him right there on the exam table, audience be damned.

Instinctual reaction when meeting someone new is to ask two questions (not consciously): Prey or mate? I would later muse over what my triune brain had considered. Prey? No, not prey. Potential mate, then? Possibility. Mutual interest? Extended eye contact; either wants to have sex or to kill me. No other signs of aggression. Mutual interest confirmed. Insistence later that he wasn’t interested in men. Doesn’t matter-most likely a self-delusion, anyways. Easy enough to think of it that way; preferable.

Vengeance

Fri, 24 Feb 2012 23:46:00 -0500

Vengeance
Word Count: 188

My brother is not a kind man. Sociopath? Not quite. He can certainly feel, he just chooses not to. Caring has never been an advantage for us; something to be foregone, ignored, banished. Sherlock cares for John. Cares for the doctor far more than he lets on. My brother likes to pretend that I don’t notice. I notice more than he thinks.

John provides him balance; stability. Right now, to all extents and purposes, my brother was dead-I’d had the death certificate written up myself. Sherlock was cut off from that stability; from John, in order to protect him. He would do anything to keep John safe. I was almost jealous of the attention my brother gave him. Almost.

Sherlock is possessive to a fault. John made him happy, provided structure, he was Sherlock’s. That possession had been threatened; my brother was pushed away from something he felt to be his. He’s so vindictive when he doesn’t get his way. Moriarty was dead: Gone. But, he had only been the controller. The puppets still existed-Sherlock’s balance was gone.

Vengeance was sure to be swift. It would be terrifying.

Jumpers

Fri, 24 Feb 2012 16:34:54 -0500

Jumpers
Word Count: 480

“You’re really going out like that?” Sherlock had been lounging in relative silence all day, having been overcome by one of his brooding moods. Having seen no end in sight to it, I had made dinner arrangements with Sarah. Apparently, that was all it took to catch his attention-I’d have to remember that.

“Well, yes, that was the plan,” I replied, pausing in putting on my coat. He made a soft sound, a sound of dismissal. But it wasn’t. He wanted me to ask ‘Why?’ “Why?” His lips twitched. It was as much a smile as his current torpidity would allow.

“You don’t look right.” I looked down at myself. Shoes-practical, perhaps a little dressy; trousers-slacks, a light grey; black belt; striped jumper over a white button down. I didn’t look right?

It struck me after a moment, a moment long enough to have Sherlock sighing; the jumper. It was new, not one that Sherlock had seen me in before-a gift from Sarah. “You don’t like my jumper.”

“It makes you resemble a pumpkin.” The jumper had an assortment of differently coloured stripes, none of which even remotely resembled the colour of a pumpkin. I told him thus.

He snorted and waved a hand in my direction. “Then it is a mystery far beyond my capabilities as to how you’ve managed it. However, the manner still stands that you look like a pumpkin. That thing is atrocious.”

“This ‘thing’ was a gift.”

“From Sarah, yes, I know.” He didn’t sound very impressed. “She has horrible tastes. Put something else on.”

I bristled at his tone and his insufferable habit of ordering me about. “I will not.”

He let out a laugh. It was becoming clear that his interest in picking apart my wardrobe was overcoming any laziness. “Yes you will. You hate the jumper as much as I do, more so. It’s itchy, uncomfortable; the collar is too close to your neck, not one that you would normally choose for yourself, it makes you feel enclosed.” I said nothing, I didn’t have to. He was right, he was always right. Infuriating. “You walked down the stairs slowly, before putting your coat on with less hurry than you normally do. You clearly wanted me to see the jumper and develop an opinion on it. You knew what my opinion would be, and yet you waited to hear it anyways. You want me to tell you to take it off, unable to get past your own sense of morals-or whatever is compelling you to wear it-to do it yourself.

“Take it off. If you don’t, I will get up and spill something horrible on it. Do what I ask and no harm will come to it.”

I went back upstairs and changed before leaving for my date. I knew the jumper wouldn’t be there when I got home. Sherlock would make sure.

Hollow

Fri, 24 Feb 2012 00:30:00 -0500

Hollow
Word Count: 239

It’s my hollow place. The place I go to when I simply need to stop. Stop everything; stop thinking, stop moving, stop seeing, stop existing. It’s beyond my mind palace, outside the reach of information, not past logic. Logic remains even in my hollow place. It’s because of the logic that I wait until John is gone, until he’s out with her. It’s because of logic that I make a concentrated effort to hide the needle and vial, fingers fumbling and unwilling to cooperate, should he come home early. Logic said he wouldn’t.

I’m too hollow to care. A tin man, a machine, running on logic and chemicals. Safe from the tedium of emotions and the insecurities they cause. Emotions are human; I’m far too hollowed out to be human-John has implied that many times. So many times that it must be true. Logic saw the flaw in that; my hollow place moved away from the logic. Logic began to not exist.

But a machine must run on logic (and chemicals). Without the logic, I can’t survive. Not as a machine. I couldn’t be human-John said so-so I needed to be a machine. If I couldn’t, then I was lost. Lost, lost, lost, hollow and lost.

I heard the door click open-distant; downstairs-moved to hide the syringe, fitting the vial between the cushions, the needle under the couch. My hands shook.

John was home early.

Logic had failed me.

Twins

Thu, 23 Feb 2012 21:50:52 -0500

Twins
Word count: 343

Times like these made me wonder if he was even human; if, when he claimed to be a “high-functioning sociopath” he hadn’t been simply exaggerating. Two girls had been found murdered in a warehouse down near the docks. Twins, only eleven, still children, cause of death was strangulation. Sherlock was practically giddy.

They were identical, the twins, with matching pink dresses, fringed with lace, long red hair plaited into braids, pink gloss on the lips. Sherlock happily pointed out that they had been dressed up post-mortem. My stomach twisted. I couldn’t imagine what sort of person would do this to two innocent children, what type of monster it would ta-

“The twins were dressed with care, there are tear marks darkening the fabric: The one that placed the bodies had an emotional attachment with the victims, enough of one to cry over their death and to pay special attention to how they were laid out. The suspect didn’t want to leave. The bruising around the neck shows a rough estimation of the size of the killer’s fingers; large, rather bulky. Most likely a male. If you’ll note the tracks in the dust-I am so glad that you’re starting to realize the importance of calling me in before you ruin evidence with your clumsy team, Lestrade. If you’ll notice the tracks, you’ll see that there are two sets,” he pointed to the footsteps. “The twins were killed elsewhere, and carried to this location. One set of footsteps is marginally smaller than the other. The larger pair appear to have been made with a certain type of work boot, the other with a common tennis shoe. The boots reach the placement site, and then quickly turn away, while the smaller set can be found around where the bodies lay. The mother placed the bodies, the father is the murderer. Interrogate the mother first. She feels guilty about what has happened and will admit to it within an hour.”

God. Times like these made me wonder where we would be if Sherlock wasn’t on our side.

Muffins

Thu, 23 Feb 2012 21:48:00 -0500

Muffins
Word Count: 703

I was startled awake by a large clatter and a sound of pained frustration. A very loud sound of pained frustration. I tensed; that wasn’t normal. Sure, when Sherlock became frustrated he would often take it out in a loud and rather destructive manner, but never before had he sounded like he’d hurt himself. I was out of bed and down the stairs quicker than I would have thought possible, forgoing my dressing gown in my haste.

Not in his bedroom; not in the bathroom; not in the living room; kitchen-I could hear the water running.

I threw the door open expecting to see blood, or something that would indicate that Sherlock was in danger or distress. Instead I saw only a pan lying over turned on the floor, and a very grumpy looking detective running his hands under the faucet. “Shut up,” he said before I had the chance to open my mouth.

I cocked an eyebrow and crossed my arms over my chest. He knew I wasn’t about to listen to him. “You woke me up. What happened?” It wasn’t the smoothest way to pose the question, and I knew that it would only serve to further frustrate my flatmate. It wasn’t that I enjoyed frustrating him, although occasionally it did prove for an interesting morning so long as it didn’t get to the point where he stormed off. When that happened, it meant that I would be facing many sleepless nights listening to him scratch at the violin-making no attempts to be melodic-or waking at four AM to gunshots.

He kept his back to me, hands still under the water, and refused to respond. I glanced at the pan on the floor, then back to Sherlock, connecting the dots. I kept an eye on him as I walked over, not putting it past him to move away or hide his hands; he didn’t. He let me take a wrist and pull it out from under the stream of water, allowed me to inspect it. He’d burned himself, both hands. I touched the red flesh gently, fingertips barely ghosting over it. Sherlock hissed and jerked away, sticking the hand back under the faucet.

“You tried to take the pan out of the oven without mitts!” I found the notion almost absurd. Sherlock was brilliant, the smartest man I had ever had the pleasure, though at times I am unsure if it should really be called a pleasure, of meeting. Yet, he had tried to take the pan out of the oven without mitts. I barely managed to restrain a smile.

He practically growled, shooting me the coldest look he could. He’d noticed, I’d hardly expected him not to, that I had to fight to maintain my composure. It only worsened his mood. “Oh, you are getting better at deducing, aren’t you?” His tone was caustic, dripping with acid.

I ignored the bite and smiled. “You don’t normally cook. Although I can see why,now,” wrong thing to say; his eyes narrowed to slits. I took a step back and cleared my throat. “Important case?”

He shook his head, once.

“Ah,” I was at a loss. I couldn’t think of any other reason that would see Sherlock in the kitchen, attempting to cook-what appeared to be, although it was rather hard to tell when the evidence was crumbling on the ground-muffins. “Then what?” I’d missed something. I could tell from the way his eyebrow lifted and his lips twitched into a smirk just ever-so-slightly. He was enjoying this.

“John,” he said my name carefully as he stepped back from the faucet and shut it off gingerly. “What day is it?”

“Tuesday.”

Sherlock found that immensely amusing. I’d clearly overlooked something again. “Oh, John, that’s precious.” I blinked. What? “The muffins were for you.”For me? Sherlock rarely did anything altruistically. The only other time he’d ‘made’ something for me, it had been drugged and I’d spent the night in a blur of colours.

My confusion was evident. Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. “You’re a doctor; go get something to bandage my hands with. We can discuss your amazing ability to forget your own birthday when you get back.”

Oh.

Yellow

Thu, 23 Feb 2012 21:46:46 -0500

Yellow doesn’t suit you. Did she buy that jumper for you? It’s horrible. I would never have bought you something so horrible. She doesn’t suit you either. What is it about her that you like? Is it her figure? She’s all curves, is that what you like? Curves? Maybe it’s her hair. You do seem to have an affinity for blondes. I wish I could tell you just how wrong for you she is, how much you two don’t suit each other. She’s not worth your attention. Why do you spend time with her? She’s hardly interesting. Is she a distraction? That’s it. I can see it in the way you smile, how it doesn’t reach your eyes; your laugh is hollow. She does notice, John. You’re not that great of an actor. She can tell that you’re not as interested in her as she is in you, but she stays anyways. She wants to change you. That isn’t right; you’re not allowed to change. I don’t like her. She’s yellow, yellow doesn’t suit you.