“What are you doing, anyway, writing a doctoral dissertation on sexual deviance?”
“Doctoral degrees, tedious, nothing more than useless baubles,” Sherlock said as he shelved.
It was quiet in the flat. There were hardly any sounds coming in from the outside. It gave John a dreamlike feeling, safe and cloistered, as though anything he said wouldn’t be remembered in the light of morning.
He felt brave enough to say, partly as a peace offering, a more neutral reopening of their previous discussion, and partly because he was genuinely curious, “This is personal for you. Daddea.”
“Excellent observation,” Sherlock replied, with a touch sarcasm and a tinge of something else John couldn’t exactly qualify, something, if he didn’t know better, he would say was vulnerable and human. Sherlock seemed a tad too preoccupied with his ordering of books.
John continued pressing, “Because he’s taken advantage of addicts.”
“He preys upon them,” Sherlock affirmed, voice suddenly neutral and distant.
“You care,” he concluded. It sounded almost accusatory. He didn’t mean it that way.
Sherlock turned to look at him, frowning, “I care about catching him.”
This gave John pause. He leaned back in his chair, brows knit with a finger to his lips. Then he asked Sherlock a more personal question than had ever previously crossed his mind in the presence of the detective, “You never went through anything like what he’s done to those girls. Did you?”
Instead of answering, Sherlock turned away again. His shoulders tensed visibly, but when they relaxed he asked without venom, “You’ve never done cocaine, have you? Or heroin? You’ve never even smoked pot. A doctor born for a purpose.”
“No, never,” he agreed.
“So, you wouldn’t understand,” Sherlock concluded.
Maybe he couldn’t. But, Sherlock was talking about this, actually discussing it instead of being utterly reticent and secretive. It was like witnessing a rare celestial event. John was awestruck. He leaned forward in his chair to listen, and felt compelled to take advantage of it, to keep Sherlock talking as long as possible, though he suspected he couldn’t keep this up for long.
“Make me understand.”
“The high is beyond words. The addiction, in terms you’ll grasp, having never experienced it yourself: it’s like being in love. The neural mechanisms are vaguely similar, though it’s so much more intense it essentially burns out those pathways, and it ruins you in the same way.”
“Like being in love,” John repeated, wondering at this statement from Sherlock.
“Yes,” he said with a tone of finality, as though he was closing the topic for discussion.
John glanced about the room. There were still books on the desk and on the floor. “You missed some.”
“Did I?” Sherlock said as though he didn’t know.
“Finish picking them up,” John tried, firmly, just to see what would happen.
Sherlock obeyed. It occurred to John that he found this more satisfying than was strictly sensible. It gave him a pleasant heady buzz. The only thing that could have made it any better was if Sherlock-- No, he cut himself off mid-thought, astounded at where his mind went unbidden.
“Do you still have my collar?” Sherlock asked, as though he knew exactly what John was thinking.
He dug the heel of his hand into his eye and stifled a yawn. “Stop it with the bloody collar, Sherlock.”
“Touchy,” Sherlock smiled that whimsical, feral smile of his from behind an armful of books. “You think it looks good on me, too.”
///
John repeated himself, thinking maybe if he kept repeating the same words to the man behind the desk like an incantation he would renig and give them a different answer, “No, no. You don’t understand. We need two beds.”
“We’re all booked up. No doubles, just queens.”
All of the bed and breakfasts were booked. All of the bed and breakfasts in Blackpool, of all the ridiculous places to hold a kink convention, were booked. They had been up and down the streets twice now looking for more suitable accommodations. It hadn’t occurred to either of them that this might be a problem until they were on the train, surrounded by their baggage, an hour north of London. It was only mid-afternoon and already it had been a long day. Sherlock was growing steadily more fidgety and restless.
Fill: The Worst Man in London [7b/?]
“Doctoral degrees, tedious, nothing more than useless baubles,” Sherlock said as he shelved.
It was quiet in the flat. There were hardly any sounds coming in from the outside. It gave John a dreamlike feeling, safe and cloistered, as though anything he said wouldn’t be remembered in the light of morning.
He felt brave enough to say, partly as a peace offering, a more neutral reopening of their previous discussion, and partly because he was genuinely curious, “This is personal for you. Daddea.”
“Excellent observation,” Sherlock replied, with a touch sarcasm and a tinge of something else John couldn’t exactly qualify, something, if he didn’t know better, he would say was vulnerable and human. Sherlock seemed a tad too preoccupied with his ordering of books.
John continued pressing, “Because he’s taken advantage of addicts.”
“He preys upon them,” Sherlock affirmed, voice suddenly neutral and distant.
“You care,” he concluded. It sounded almost accusatory. He didn’t mean it that way.
Sherlock turned to look at him, frowning, “I care about catching him.”
This gave John pause. He leaned back in his chair, brows knit with a finger to his lips. Then he asked Sherlock a more personal question than had ever previously crossed his mind in the presence of the detective, “You never went through anything like what he’s done to those girls. Did you?”
Instead of answering, Sherlock turned away again. His shoulders tensed visibly, but when they relaxed he asked without venom, “You’ve never done cocaine, have you? Or heroin? You’ve never even smoked pot. A doctor born for a purpose.”
“No, never,” he agreed.
“So, you wouldn’t understand,” Sherlock concluded.
Maybe he couldn’t. But, Sherlock was talking about this, actually discussing it instead of being utterly reticent and secretive. It was like witnessing a rare celestial event. John was awestruck. He leaned forward in his chair to listen, and felt compelled to take advantage of it, to keep Sherlock talking as long as possible, though he suspected he couldn’t keep this up for long.
“Make me understand.”
“The high is beyond words. The addiction, in terms you’ll grasp, having never experienced it yourself: it’s like being in love. The neural mechanisms are vaguely similar, though it’s so much more intense it essentially burns out those pathways, and it ruins you in the same way.”
“Like being in love,” John repeated, wondering at this statement from Sherlock.
“Yes,” he said with a tone of finality, as though he was closing the topic for discussion.
John glanced about the room. There were still books on the desk and on the floor. “You missed some.”
“Did I?” Sherlock said as though he didn’t know.
“Finish picking them up,” John tried, firmly, just to see what would happen.
Sherlock obeyed. It occurred to John that he found this more satisfying than was strictly sensible. It gave him a pleasant heady buzz. The only thing that could have made it any better was if Sherlock-- No, he cut himself off mid-thought, astounded at where his mind went unbidden.
“Do you still have my collar?” Sherlock asked, as though he knew exactly what John was thinking.
He dug the heel of his hand into his eye and stifled a yawn. “Stop it with the bloody collar, Sherlock.”
“Touchy,” Sherlock smiled that whimsical, feral smile of his from behind an armful of books. “You think it looks good on me, too.”
///
John repeated himself, thinking maybe if he kept repeating the same words to the man behind the desk like an incantation he would renig and give them a different answer, “No, no. You don’t understand. We need two beds.”
“We’re all booked up. No doubles, just queens.”
All of the bed and breakfasts were booked. All of the bed and breakfasts in Blackpool, of all the ridiculous places to hold a kink convention, were booked. They had been up and down the streets twice now looking for more suitable accommodations. It hadn’t occurred to either of them that this might be a problem until they were on the train, surrounded by their baggage, an hour north of London. It was only mid-afternoon and already it had been a long day. Sherlock was growing steadily more fidgety and restless.