[OK, here's where it gets kinda tricky, so I hope I'm blending the orientation-related issues with the abuse issues in a way that makes sense to both sexual and asexual people and survivors. Any and all specific feedback is helpful to me- and I never expect everyone to like it]
"I think, we need to back off a bit. So you can figure this out."
"Figure out what, exactly? Back off... how?"
"You need some time, Sherlock. This could change how you feel about things. Provide you with some, needed explanation."
"Explain what? Explain me? Aren't we all a product of our predispositions as well as our experiences?" Sherlock bolted out of bed and wrapped his dressing gown around him tightly. "John, for me, no relationships are about sex, so, in a sense, every relationship is about sex. Would it help or hurt, that extra layer of complication? Any friendship. Any relationship. Any chance meeting. I make a choice for it to be sexual or not. It is a conscious decision." His words continued to gain in speed and intensity as his voice dropped into deductive mode. "Apart from taboos, which are illogical for non-reproductive relationships... and apart from social convention, which is simply the opinion of the majority imposed on the minority... every type of relationship, be it personal or professional, has sexual undertones. It's difficult enough being in a romantic relationship with one person, let alone more than one, so I suppose I'm monogamous by default, not by any ridiculous moral code, but nothing about this past event, or events, affects my choices, my decision-making skills, my self." He continued after the briefest of pauses. "If I choose this , why should anything suddenly change? "
"Have you ever thought about what this side of the conversation is like? Listening to you? I mean, we are discussing us, Sherlock, not debating anthropological theories. This is... you are saying you got into a relationship, a sexual relationship, with me, not because you found me particularly handsome or fit (God knows those days are behind me), but because you thought 'sure, why the hell not?' And my having wanted to make my marriage work, regardless of my developing physical attraction to you, is ridiculous moral code, is it? And here you are, a victim of what might amount to years of sexual abuse, and you think that has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that you avoid sex? So it just comes down to 'I haven't had sex in a month, might be a good thing to do to keep the pipes working?' and that's how you define yourself and that's just fine, is it? Nothing to ponder here." John headed off to the kitchen.
"The pipes take care of themselves eventually, John," Sherlock muttered. "Might as well not wake up to it."
John turned back towards Sherlock, who was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. "Does it at least feel good? Sex with me?"
"Yes, of course it... the chemical reactions are what they are. Have you ever thought for even a moment that it's all you..." he seemed to gather more disdain the longer he continued to speak, "people out there seeking a rush that is the problem? All you oxytocin-dopamine-norepinephrine-serotonin-testosterone junkies seeking chemical satiation and calling it love?! Driving everyone else to figure out what the hell's wrong with them, when it's really all of you with the problem. Damn it, there's nothing wrong with me! I'm not broken, John! I'm just wired differently. I'm not defective. I'm..." He didn't bother to finish, he just headed back to bed and slammed the door.
So many years, discovering what I am. That I'm fine. That it all makes sense. That I'm not broken. But now, I am broken, as well. But not because of this. Because of Mycroft.
Re: FILL 15/? Plausible Deniability (TW: underage, child abuse, incest, dark!mycroft)
"I think, we need to back off a bit. So you can figure this out."
"Figure out what, exactly? Back off... how?"
"You need some time, Sherlock. This could change how you feel about things. Provide you with some, needed explanation."
"Explain what? Explain me? Aren't we all a product of our predispositions as well as our experiences?" Sherlock bolted out of bed and wrapped his dressing gown around him tightly. "John, for me, no relationships are about sex, so, in a sense, every relationship is about sex. Would it help or hurt, that extra layer of complication? Any friendship. Any relationship. Any chance meeting. I make a choice for it to be sexual or not. It is a conscious decision." His words continued to gain in speed and intensity as his voice dropped into deductive mode. "Apart from taboos, which are illogical for non-reproductive relationships... and apart from social convention, which is simply the opinion of the majority imposed on the minority... every type of relationship, be it personal or professional, has sexual undertones. It's difficult enough being in a romantic relationship with one person, let alone more than one, so I suppose I'm monogamous by default, not by any ridiculous moral code, but nothing about this past event, or events, affects my choices, my decision-making skills, my self." He continued after the briefest of pauses. "If I choose this , why should anything suddenly change? "
"Have you ever thought about what this side of the conversation is like? Listening to you? I mean, we are discussing us, Sherlock, not debating anthropological theories. This is... you are saying you got into a relationship, a sexual relationship, with me, not because you found me particularly handsome or fit (God knows those days are behind me), but because you thought 'sure, why the hell not?' And my having wanted to make my marriage work, regardless of my developing physical attraction to you, is ridiculous moral code, is it? And here you are, a victim of what might amount to years of sexual abuse, and you think that has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that you avoid sex? So it just comes down to 'I haven't had sex in a month, might be a good thing to do to keep the pipes working?' and that's how you define yourself and that's just fine, is it? Nothing to ponder here." John headed off to the kitchen.
"The pipes take care of themselves eventually, John," Sherlock muttered. "Might as well not wake up to it."
John turned back towards Sherlock, who was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. "Does it at least feel good? Sex with me?"
"Yes, of course it... the chemical reactions are what they are. Have you ever thought for even a moment that it's all you..." he seemed to gather more disdain the longer he continued to speak, "people out there seeking a rush that is the problem? All you oxytocin-dopamine-norepinephrine-serotonin-testosterone junkies seeking chemical satiation and calling it love?! Driving everyone else to figure out what the hell's wrong with them, when it's really all of you with the problem. Damn it, there's nothing wrong with me! I'm not broken, John! I'm just wired differently. I'm not defective. I'm..." He didn't bother to finish, he just headed back to bed and slammed the door.
So many years, discovering what I am. That I'm fine. That it all makes sense. That I'm not broken. But now, I am broken, as well. But not because of this.
Because of Mycroft.