sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXIV

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Prompting Part XXXIV

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He should have known. The sudden shift, the loss of focus. But no, John had been lost in the moment.

Sherlock had been lost too, he supposed... in a sense. John had thought having to be relatively still while being opened up had been a boring prospect at best for Sherlock, and probably slightly uncomfortable (though a skilled physician, proctology was hardly his... area). In retrospect, he had been entirely too quiet. Oh, he had eventually groaned and mumbled instructions to get on with it already, and the impatience had seemed perfectly in character. To be fair (although John had absolutely no intention of being fair, especially to himself), he claimed it had only been a very short while before he came back... having reached some sort of conclusion. But he should have known, should have thought perhaps something was wrong, not just Sherlock wanting to be, well, serviced, like the petulant, lazy git he frequently was. Damn.

Maybe Sherlock was right, not to have said anything about it for so long. Maybe he never should have said anything at all. John almost would have preferred to have continued to think him a lazy git. Almost.

It took a whole week, and even then, when he apparently couldn't hide his reaction quickly enough, Sherlock hadn't intended to confess to it ever having happened before... that feeling he could scarcely describe. He hadn't been able to suppress the flinch as he leaned against John on the sofa while he was delicately twirling his hair, but John had asked and he had answered. As a doctor, his first thought had been an ongoing medical condition... an inner ear imbalance, perhaps... which left him feeling vaguely disoriented at the change in position.

A whole week of ignorance. Not that Sherlock had expected any different. I mean, he was trying to be disingenuous, and who in the world can see through Sherlock at times like that?

What? Did he expect him to have said "John, I need to go into my mind palace a bit during our first time together. Just trying to figure out if I've ever been held down and had a cock involuntarily shoved down my throat or up my arse. Be back in a jiff... just keep doing what you're doing, would you, while I see if it gets worse for me as you go along. Ta!" Or perhaps "OK, back now. Not as bad as I initially thought, but bears further investigation. Carry on, my good man! Now, where were we. Oh, yes... harder, John!"

He would have stopped. Bloody fucking Hell, of course he would have stopped. And Sherlock hadn't exactly wanted that to happen, had he?

[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.

John was running late. It took him longer than usual to make his way out of the tangle of limbs that was Sherlock Holmes and make his way to the shower. He grabbed a quick slice of toast, and headed out the door. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he felt something in one. Pulling it out, he discovered a small tube of L'Occitane Shea Butter Hand Cream and a small note tied to the cap with a thin red ribbon.

"Apologies for the Arsenic-contaminated fingernails upon the countertop, slammed doors, broken mugs, and any other crimes perpetrated upon our flat or its contents within the past two and one half weeks. Please do be advised this note does not constitute an apology for emotional reactions. -S"

John smiled. He was finally getting better at this. Cutting words, a march to the bedroom and a slammed door meant come after me if you love me. He had made the right choice following Sherlock, letting him spew poison at the Universe for being the way it was, and holding him afterwards, even when he was convinced he deserved no such thing. He had stopped trying to create distance for him when he needed to prove he was fully capable of closeness. He had given him the opportunity to do just that, on his own terms.

Each time he washed his hands between patients, he grabbed some of the lotion. Sure beat the stuff in the office. This was Expensive French Stuff. He couldn't resist grinning again as he checked the time, wondering what Sherlock was up to this afternoon. He sent a text thanking him for his good taste before heading back to the exam room for his next patient.

Sherlock heard the text alert and allowed a quick smile to cross his face as he turned down the volume on his mobile. He knew exactly who it was, and he would be wanting to read it very much in four to six minutes from now. Mycroft often liked to talk slower than was strictly necessary, so there could only be an approximation.

"Why this room? Why not the Strangers Room?"

"The other rooms have surveillance equipment, Sherlock. This one is different. It is unmonitored. It is private. It is entirely soundproof. If you want to have a discussion, or, I suppose, murder someone without witnesses, then this would be the place to do it."

"And you think I have a need to murder someone without witnesses?"

"Perhaps."

Mycroft crossed to a flask of brandy and poured himself a glass. He raised an empty one and tilted it in his brother's direction. Sherlock shook his head. "We're different, you and I," Mycroft began.

"Yes. I know."

Mycroft frowned. Sherlock grinned.

"I know that's not what you meant, but please, do go on... Brother Mine."

"The, rules, that apply to normal people, they don't have to apply to us. We are not normal people Sherlock." He gestured with his glass, but didn't drink from it. "The Latin root means unchaste. Impure. Such archaic terms. Chastity. Purity."

"Ever the linguist. Good with your tongue, then? Can't say I recall. Not exactly a finger, is it?"

Mycroft leaned against a large mahogany desk. "I prefer 'consanguineous relationship'. Better etymology... of the same blood. Ancient Egypt. The Incan Empire. To preserve greatness."

"Small islands and mountainous tribes. Primitive cultures. A survival mechanism when faced with extreme isolation. There is no need for such isolation in today's world. But it's not the fact that you're my brother that concerns me. That is irrelevant... a boundary entirely created by culture. Of course, that was all about children. It has always been about children, in one way or another, but that is hardly the issue here."

"True. An estimated 50,000 active genes in humans, no need to concern ourselves with deleterious recessive alleles."

"And, might I say, preserving royal lineage, that's a very lofty justification for what essentially amounts to the selfish behavior of a horny teenager. The issue, Mycroft, is consent."

Mycroft swirled the drink he held and held it to his nose. "You've likely heard of the rooting reflex. If you stroke a newborn’s cheek, he will open his mouth and turn his head toward the side that was stroked. A newborn will suck anything, you know. Instinctual." He placed the glass down.

"Up to about four months of age. I somehow doubt this diversion interested you at age seven."

"Might have. For the depraved, there are no restrictions based on age. I suppose this is a suitable role for me. Your archenemy."

Sherlock crossed to the brandy and poured himself a glass. "I know how this game goes. You manage to portray yourself as evil incarnate. I see that you couldn't possibly have been that man...having looked after my well-being for years, from a far enough distance for me to almost not have noticed. Then part of me, the stupid part, rushes to your defense. That couldn't possibly be the same person...it doesn't... fit. I decide I must have gotten it wrong." Sherlock paused to sip his drink.

"Didn't see all the parts clearly, assumed they weren't there," Mycroft said under his breath, turning towards the window, eyeing his own reflection in the one-way-glass.

"Or, alternatively, I forgive you. Figure you must have dealt with something far worse. Or, perhaps, I try to understand you. No tragic motivation, just an escalating lack of concern for someone else's right to their own body's autonomy. A gradual process. Put myself in your shoes, so to speak."

Mycroft faced Sherlock again, watching quietly as he continued. "I don't care to do that. I don't care to do any of those things. And I don't choose to absolve you. However far you went, it was far enough. We both know that. We each live with the consequences." He placed the glass back on the table. "Thank you for the conversation. It has been enlightening."

"You're welcome. It was the least I could do."

Op here! This was wonderful! So intriguing and the writing was gorgeous. Thank you so much for filling <3

Hi OP... Deanoning. (Doing some editing and posting it onto my AO3 as I go.)
It was a great prompt! I'm really glad you liked where I went with the fill. Thanks for following me through it with your feedback... I really appreciate that!

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