{ Irene wants to know "what is for dinner?" Be patient! It's not dinnertime quite yet! I'm getting there!}
The silence wasn't entirely unexpected, but it hurt nonetheless. John waited while Sherlock processed. That was certainly nothing new. Having rather unexpectedly put it all out there, John found he needed... something. Even the most superficial, passing acknowledgment of how difficult that must had been to say out loud would have been welcome. Well... maybe not. Not from someone like Sherlock, anyway.
"Sherlock?"
The reply was barely audible, but John heard him just fine. "I've already failed you, John. So many times. The stakes are higher now, and I will likely only do so again. It was wrong to not share a bed at the hotel, wasn't it?"
"You don't know me when I'm like this. It's not fair to judge yourself so harshly when I didn't tell you how I felt. I need to be able to tell you and I can't always find..."
Sherlock closed his eyes and gently shook his head from side to side. "Wrong. And it wasn't the man with the beard. At the railroad station. He wasn't why you left the bench."
The "no" barely registered as a whisper. Possibly there was no breath behind the syllable at all, but Sherlock knew the response just the same. John's eyelids scrunched tightly together as if compressing them enough would somehow block his internal vision. "I need to... channel it. I need to feel safe. To feel like I'm safe." John stopped, fidgeted with his fingers and shook his head. The words were all wrong. "I mean.... like I'm safe to be around, not that I'm... that I won't harm anyone." His hand tightened on the edge of the sofa, suppressing a tremor. "Not again, anyway."
"You are not a threat to anyone, John."
John looked at his own hand gripping tightly. "If they knew... if any of them...anyone on that platform... even the..." John slowly met Sherlock's eyes and stared at him with a new and steady determination. "My having a little more constrictions placed upon my freedom would be a very good thing right now. Until I trust myself more."
"Don't be absurd. People are not responsible for the actions they undertake in captive situations. Self preservation is instinctual, and one need only look at recent studies in..."
"No! No, this is me. This is not a study. I'm not a case!"
Sherlock fell silent.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I didn't mean that."
"Don't be. And of course you did." Sherlock rose from the sofa. "And, as promised, I am not offended by your comment or by your request. However, it does prove me entirely incapable of what you are asking."
"You are the only person I can trust with this, Sherlock. You can handle it. Handle me. You can help me control these impulses."
"Controlling impulses is precely what I can't do, John. Look at me. I used to manage it all so well, not contaminated by any distractions of this sort, choosing to simply put it aside. Until Bagatelle. With you. And you... I can't even discuss this, John, how am I supposed to know what to do?"
"I'm so sorry. I've corrupted you somehow with my..."
"No, no, no, it's not that... it's just... what if I don't really want this? What if I only wanted it because I thought I couldn't have it? That it was safe simply because it was unattainable, and now I would have to somehow manage it all. To learn to say yes and say no and figure out what I wanted and talk about it and... It's not supposed to be like this. I'm reasonably confident sexual relations are supposed to be some sort of joyous relationship celebration of immense and incomprehensible beauty. Not the two of us struggling to manage this alien force that has superseded our very selves. This is probably the worst thing in the world for us to do, John. You know that, don't you? Logically? There is no way this is anything but crazy."
FILL 20a/? 138 (John in slave auction)
The silence wasn't entirely unexpected, but it hurt nonetheless. John waited while Sherlock processed. That was certainly nothing new. Having rather unexpectedly put it all out there, John found he needed... something. Even the most superficial, passing acknowledgment of how difficult that must had been to say out loud would have been welcome. Well... maybe not. Not from someone like Sherlock, anyway.
"Sherlock?"
The reply was barely audible, but John heard him just fine. "I've already failed you, John. So many times. The stakes are higher now, and I will likely only do so again. It was wrong to not share a bed at the hotel, wasn't it?"
"You don't know me when I'm like this. It's not fair to judge yourself so harshly when I didn't tell you how I felt. I need to be able to tell you and I can't always find..."
Sherlock closed his eyes and gently shook his head from side to side. "Wrong. And it wasn't the man with the beard. At the railroad station. He wasn't why you left the bench."
The "no" barely registered as a whisper. Possibly there was no breath behind the syllable at all, but Sherlock knew the response just the same. John's eyelids scrunched tightly together as if compressing them enough would somehow block his internal vision. "I need to... channel it. I need to feel safe. To feel like I'm safe." John stopped, fidgeted with his fingers and shook his head. The words were all wrong. "I mean.... like I'm safe to be around, not that I'm... that I won't harm anyone." His hand tightened on the edge of the sofa, suppressing a tremor. "Not again, anyway."
"You are not a threat to anyone, John."
John looked at his own hand gripping tightly. "If they knew... if any of them...anyone on that platform... even the..." John slowly met Sherlock's eyes and stared at him with a new and steady determination. "My having a little more constrictions placed upon my freedom would be a very good thing right now. Until I trust myself more."
"Don't be absurd. People are not responsible for the actions they undertake in captive situations. Self preservation is instinctual, and one need only look at recent studies in..."
"No! No, this is me. This is not a study. I'm not a case!"
Sherlock fell silent.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I didn't mean that."
"Don't be. And of course you did." Sherlock rose from the sofa. "And, as promised, I am not offended by your comment or by your request. However, it does prove me entirely incapable of what you are asking."
"You are the only person I can trust with this, Sherlock. You can handle it. Handle me. You can help me control these impulses."
"Controlling impulses is precely what I can't do, John. Look at me. I used to manage it all so well, not contaminated by any distractions of this sort, choosing to simply put it aside. Until Bagatelle. With you. And you... I can't even discuss this, John, how am I supposed to know what to do?"
"I'm so sorry. I've corrupted you somehow with my..."
"No, no, no, it's not that... it's just... what if I don't really want this? What if I only wanted it because I thought I couldn't have it? That it was safe simply because it was unattainable, and now I would have to somehow manage it all. To learn to say yes and say no and figure out what I wanted and talk about it and... It's not supposed to be like this. I'm reasonably confident sexual relations are supposed to be some sort of joyous relationship celebration of immense and incomprehensible beauty. Not the two of us struggling to manage this alien force that has superseded our very selves. This is probably the worst thing in the world for us to do, John. You know that, don't you? Logically? There is no way this is anything but crazy."