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“The Mystery of Us: The First Ten Times, Sherlock Holmes”
By Daisy Gamgee
1. The first time Sherlock Holmes had ever trusted anyone on sight had also been the first time he’d laid eyes on Dr. John Watson. Of course, he could tell a great deal about the man as soon as Mike Stamford (overly pleasant, tending to obesity, myopic, good teacher, moderately useful) had brought him in, and he had no initial objection to John at all. He realized that he was eager to convince Dr. Watson to share the flat with him, and to very much want to impress the doctor somehow to keep him interested.
He expected the usual, of course—that he’d scare the man off, or anger him, or impress him more as a freak than a friend. He expected to hear the usual, as well: wanker, show-off, conceited asshole, I fucking hate you. He did not, in any way, expect what he actually got: Amazing! Extraordinary! Fantastic! It befuddled him at first, but then he warmed to the sincerity in Watson’s voice and face and began to relax.
Sherlock Holmes, relaxed? Unheard of.
Then came the gunshot that ripped through two buildings, two double-hung windows, the space between, and flesh and bone, tearing a hole in a man’s chest at exactly the right place and time. And once he’d worked out who’d fired it, well, it did no earthly good to tell the Detective Inspector, now, did it?
2. The first time Sherlock Holmes suspected he might have real and deeper feelings for John Watson, he was standing at a crime scene with an emergency blanket around his shoulders, suddenly in awe of a short nondescript Army doctor with unerring aim. This man, whom Sherlock had known for only a few hours, really, had put a bullet through a cabby’s chest to save Sherlock the 50-50 chance of a slow agonizing death.
John Watson had killed a man to protect Sherlock Holmes.
Captain John H. Watson, M.D., late of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, had killed a man to save the life of Sherlock Holmes, a man Watson barely knew, because in that moment he lifted his service revolver, Sherlock Holmes was more important to him than any other consideration in the world.
Sherlock would have described his realization of this as a transient moment of psychological disassociation, as usually happened when he experienced high emotions. He would have, except that he had never felt quite so grounded to his feelings and in emotional control before that moment. He wasn’t at all sure he liked it, but when he looked over at Watson, he knew his gut instinct to trust this man had been utterly justified.
He filed the experience away for later analysis and crossed the street to consult with his doctor.
3. The first time Sherlock Holmes kissed John Watson was after an insane run through Whitechapel after yet another thematically and creatively dull but ruthlessly efficient Jack the Ripper copy cat. The murderer had spent the better part of two weeks killing prostitutes and taunting Sherlock and John with cryptic messages scribbled on walls and pavement. They had cornered the man in a dead end after a frantic chase down narrow dark alleys: just the thing to get the blood pumping and neurons firing at full bore. When Lestrade and his merry band of fuck-ups showed up and took over, Sherlock felt as though every nerve and muscle were crackling. In a moment of exuberance, he had grabbed John by the coat, pushed him roughly into a brick wall, and kissed him. That had taken the edge off his unbearable agitation, and he exclaimed “Brilliant!” and went to hail a taxi.
Much to Sherlock’s annoyance, John had kept asking about that kiss all the way home, and the only way he could escape delivering a pointless exposition about the firing off of useless energy was to either ignore him or ask about Harry in order to shut him up. Didn’t John Watson the Soldier understand a post-hunt high?
When they got home, John put the kettle to boil and they had their usual evening tea. When Sherlock finally got to bed, he slept straight through the night for the first time in weeks.
They never spoke of it.
4. The first time Sherlock Holmes seriously and thoroughly kissed John Watson—what John would later refer to as their first real snog, a term that Sherlock abhorred—had started out as an ordinary evening. Sherlock was at his microscope, and john ordered Chinese takeaway about fifteen minutes before Sherlock had realized that John had been asking him what he’d like to eat. He still hadn’t fully registered what was going on around him until he’d asked John a question and gotten no reply.
He went to the window. There was John, standing on the kerb next to a giggling girl, flirting outrageously and smiling like a giddy schoolboy.
Sherlock felt a knot twist in his gut.
John looked up just then, saw Sherlock watching him, looked down; Sherlock closed the curtain and returned to his microscope, utterly confused by whatever emotion he’d just experienced.
It didn’t help at all that John then ate his dinner in the sitting room in front of the telly, glancing over to Sherlock every couple of minutes. What in the world could this be about, he puzzled, and when it finally occurred to him just what the problem was, he nearly snapped a slide in half in his hand.
“You really should eat.”
Sherlock took in a deep breath. “You’re always so quick to deny it when people assume we’re a couple.”
There was a pause. “Does that offend you in some way?”
Sherlock looked at John for a split-second, but the indelible blue of John’s dark eyes was much too much, and he returned his sight to the scope. “You seem offended when it happens.”
“Really? Well. No. No, I don’t think I’m offended, exactly.” There was another pause while Sherlock watched a dying wriggling speck on the slide turn from blue to grey. “It makes it harder to chat up a girl if everyone seems to think I’m gay.”
“You didn’t have any trouble with the delivery girl just now.” He kept a steady tone, trying to keep the anger, or hurt, or bitterness, or whatever-it-was that he was experiencing, out of his voice.
‘She didn’t seem to know who I was.”
“Didn’t she?” Sherlock shot back, then bit the inside of his cheek to calm himself. “I believe I heard her say ‘Having a night in, you two?’” Sherlock realized he shouldn’t be gloating at that and frowned.
“What? No, she didn’t, she was…” John’s expression changed as realization dawned. “She knew who we were and thought she’d have a little flirt with the couple ‘round the corner.” He scowled. “Great. Fantastic. You’re killing my love life, you know.” John smacked the heels of his hands into the table behind him.
Sherlock raised his head to fully look at John—his obvious displeasure, very clear defensive posture, left hand clenching and unclenching. Not good, then. He changed the slide with a bit more care than the last one. “Would it really be that bad?”
“To have no love life?”
Why was John being deliberately obtuse? “No, John. If we were a couple.” Well. There it was, there was no unsaying it now. Perhaps he should have remained silent.
“Sherlock. What. Uhm. I don’t.” John took a deep breath.“I’m not gay.”
Sherlock resisted the urge to snort. “So you continue to remind yourself. Repeatedly.”
“Remind myself? What’s that supposed to mean?”
Sherlock huffed and shook his head. It was so obvious. “Really. You haven’t realized? You consistently and constantly react to the assumption that we are a couple by either swiftly denying it, or declaring pontifically that You. Are. Not. Gay. This has convinced precisely no one, except, perhaps, for you.”
“No one? Not even you?”
Sherlock, his concentration on the microbes at hand utterly ruined, pushed away from the microscope and crossed his arms. “Please tell me,” he began firmly, then checked himself and modulated his voice. “Please tell me in what way, besides that we aren’t having sex, that you and I differ from any other interpersonal relationship model that might generally be used to define ‘couple’?”
“Relationship model? What the fuck are you…” John slapped his forehead. “Oh. I see. Yeah. More research, social research this time. I get it, I do.”
Sherlock’s ire began to rise; he decided to examine the emotion later, after he had talked this all through. “You’ve never wondered why I don’t correct anyone about this? I do, so you tell me, have an appalling habit of correcting everyone about everything, yet on this one point, this one precise point, I have remained mute.” He wanted to look at John but was suddenly apprehensive of what he’d see in that face. Instead, he stared intently at an ugly stain on the tabletop that Mrs. Hudson would likely take him to task for. “You’re my friend, John. Colleague. Partner. We’re a couple, we’re not a couple. All of it, whatever you want to call it, or anyone else calls it, I’m find with all of that, as long as you.” Suddenly his voice refused to work, because of what felt like an involuntary constriction in his trachea. He swallowed to push it down, then cleared his throat. “As long as you’re with me.” He frowned and closed his eyes, not wanting to take the risk of meeting John’s.
“How would our being a couple change anything?” John asked. “We’re already together all the time. We live together, we work together, we go out and….oh. Like a couple. Hmm. I may need to rethink this argument.”
Sherlock allowed a smile and shook his head. “You will leave, you know, eventually. You’ll meet some woman, and she’ll see you like I have, and you’ll get married. I can’t imagine any married woman wanting to live with her husband with me, of all the most ridiculous people, in this flat.” He waved a dismissive hand toward their surroundings. He felt his smile turn down. “And you’ll go with her.”
“Yeah. I suppose so.” John answered warily, then deliberately brightened. “We’ll still work together.”
“Won’t be the same.” He knew it, felt it like a punch to the ribs. “You know that.”
“Yeah, john said softly, regret in his voice. “I think I might hate that.”
“Yes. Me, too.” More than he could say. He had to look at John then, desperately needed to, and the cobalt blue of his eyes was so deep and bright that Sherlock’s heart felt, for just one beat, utterly seized up.
“You told me,” John said carefully, “that very first night, that you were married to your work, and all that mattered is the work.”
“You said you weren’t my date. Twice. Then you flirted with me. What was I supposed to say?”
“Was I your date, then? What does Angelo know that I don’t?”
Sherlock dismissed that with a quick shake of his head. “You’re part of my work, John. Of course, I couldn’t know that, that night, but you are. I can’t separate you out from it. I don’t think I ever could from the first. I don’t want to. I can’t.” He realized that he was having the same mix of high emotions that he’d experienced that night and laughed sardonically at himself. “I swore when I started this work that I’d never let myself get distracted by sentiment, and emotions, and attachments, and sexual feelings, and I’d only focus on the work. But John, I could not anticipate you. You’re the work, you’re the emotions, you’re the attachments, you’re the sexual feelings, John. You.”
John stood dumbstruck.
Sherlock felt an icy sensation in his spine. “I’ve said too much.”
“You usually do, yeah.”
“You’re still standing here.” Yes, Sherlock, do state the obvious.
“Do you expect me to run screaming?”
“I have no idea what to expect, John. I didn’t expect to have this conversation this evening. Then you flirted with the takeaway girl and I was puzzled by my reactions. It seemed imperative to talk about it.”
John’s eyebrows raised. “You were jealous.”
Sherlock frowned, started to deny it, then reconsidered. “Perhaps. No. Yes. I don’t know. I just know that I’d imagined a future without you, and I didn’t care for it at all.”
“I see.”
“Do you? You’re still not running.”
John laughed softly. “I genuinely have no idea what to do, Sherlock.”
Ah, well, this Sherlock could deal with. He was always quite confident when it came to enumerating possibilities. “You could tell me again that you’re not gay, for whatever that’s worth. You could leave, hire a bedsit, move out, never speak to me again. You could call an old girlfriend and have sex with her to reassure yourself of your sexuality. You could hit me. You could no doubt kill me, if you decided to.” He stopped to consider a moment and found his voice failing again. “Or you could kiss me.” The expression on John’s face heightened the chill down Sherlock’s spine. “As an experiment.”
“Oh, no. No, Sherlock, I don’t think you’d have scientific motives for kissing me, not at all.”
“Ah. Well. You’d be right.” Sherlock sighed and pressed his lips together. “I’ve clearly said too many of the wrong sorts of things.” Miscalculated, played the wrong hand, buggered it all up, he thought; he crossed his arms, and unconsciously, his ankles as well. He had to analyze this, work out what he’d done wrong, and either retreat or…
He felt hands on his face and opened his eyes wide.
“You’re a total bloody idiot,” John said, and kissed him.
Sherlock was so taken by surprise that he had to grab John’s shoulders to steady himself. He regained his aplomb a moment later and carefully slid one hand up John’s neck and into his hair—soft, warm, silken—and their teeth bumped in an eagerness to go deeper. It had been so long since Sherlock had kissed anyone at all, let alone like this, and he grabbed John up in his arms and legs and let John explore as he wanted. Some day he’d ask John how he learned to use his lips and teeth and tongue to so thoroughly debauch a mouth, but not now, not just yet.
John stepped back abruptly, struggling to catch his breath. “Shit.” It came out more a gasp than a word, and he looked dazed.
“Was that all right? I apologize, I’m a bit out of practice.” Sherlock realized his lips were swollen. “I enjoyed it.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah, that was brilliant. Jesus.”
That cold spine effect began again. “John? Are you all right?”
“I just. I don’t know.” John took a deep breath. “Sherlock, I need to think about this.”
“Of course.” Sherlock pulled his hand away and the ice spread into his chest. He’d ruined this somehow and should retreat and try to figure this out; if he could just logic this through, somehow. “Good night.” He stood a steadily as he could manage and quickly made his way to his bedroom.
“What the fuck just happened?” John said from the kitchen.
Sherlock closed and locked his bedroom door.
He didn’t open it again for three days.
5. The first time Sherlock Holmes went to the club in over a year was on a miserably cold, rainy, dreary, moonless night later that week. He hadn’t left his room since that disastrous kiss, despite entreaties from John that he eat, or show himself, or speak. Sherlock had shouted a “Go away” or two at the door, just to demonstrate that he was still alive, but on the third day, it was more than he could do to speak at all. So he didn’t.
Mycroft, however, did. “Really, Sherlock, the poor boy is frantic.” “Really, Sherlock, he’s not Victor Trevor, you know.” “Really, Sherlock, you need to talk to him.” “Really, Sherlock, at least get a shower and get out of the flat if you can’t bring yourself to talk to John.”
Thus Sherlock dragged himself into the shower, washed desultorily, and got ready to go out for--well, what, exactly, he didn’t know. As much as he’d hated to admit it, Mycroft had been right. He needed to get out of the flat and away from John’s voice, and John’s footstep, and John’s knock on the door.
“You’re in love, you fool,” he scolded himself. He was in love, he’d acted on that love, and he’d ruined everything.
Suddenly he knew where he was going.
He also knew he shouldn’t.
He ran his hands through his hair, pulled on his jacket, and opened the door.
6. The first time Sherlock Holmes made love with John Watson was much later on that same night. He was grateful for the knowledge of Central London cabbies, who knew him and got him to the correct address. After a few hours at the club, he barely knew who he was, let alone where he lived, and he’d walked for another hour in the pouring hard rain before sobering up enough to hail a cab.
He got himself up the stairs without incident. John had clearly tried to wait up for him, but had fallen asleep with a book open on his lap.
John jerked awake and his book tumbled to the floor. He looked closely at Sherlock. “Hey. You all right?”
Sherlock looked over at him, but couldn’t bear to meet his gaze. He knew if he spoke now, he’d just make John sorry he was even still there. He went to his bedroom and shut the door gently. No use in slamming; that would only bring questions.
The bedroom was too damned hot—why was the room so warm? Ridiculously, stiflingly warm. He pulled off his wet coat, his sopping jacket, dropped them onto the floor, then kicked off his shoes into the pile. No, no good, he was just steaming in all of these sodden clothes, they had to come off, now. And the windows needed to be open, now.
Sherlock fell onto the bed and pulled a sheet up, just enough to cover himself to the waist, and waited impatiently to cool off. The rain and wind were blowing in, bringing down the ambient temperature dramatically. The door blew open; he quickly decided he didn’t care and closed his eyes.
He opened them again when he realized he was shivering, hard; he wondered that he didn’t shake apart, muscle from bone. Objectively, he examined the facts; he had been out, and then in a driving cold rain, for hours. He got home and thought the room was too hot, hence his nudity and the pile of wet clothes near the bed. The windows were wide open because he had opened them. He was shivering and his teeth were chattering. He very probably was going into exposure shock. Perhaps his heart would stop. That wouldn’t be as bad as all that, as the thing was broken anyway. Serve it right for daring to feel.
He only became aware that John had come into the room when he felt warm fingers on his forehead, neck, wrist. “Bloody idiot,” John muttered, and left the room; Sherlock could hear his footfall on the stairs. Of course he left the room. Why would he want to stay here with a bloody idiot like Sherlock Holmes?
The sheet was tugged off, shaken out, replaced; wool blankets appeared and covered him, atop that a down duvet that smelled of fresh laundry and John. But he was still shaking—why didn’t he hear his bones rattling about?
“Feeling better?”
Sherlock spoke before he could stop himself. “I’m very, very cold, John.” Clearly his survival instinct had kicked in if he was almost involuntarily asking for help.
“What do you need?”
“Body heat. Please.” Just for a moment, just come warm me, I swear I’ll do this your way, anyway you want, just come here.
“Shove toward the middle, then, don’t hang off the edge.” John slipped in next to Sherlock, shivering himself from the coldness of the sheets. He pushed up close to Sherlock’s back and wound his arms and legs around his cold body. “Give me your hand. Tuck the other under your side.” He took the hand and chafed it briskly. “What the hell were you trying to do? All right, never mind. None of the answers I can think of are any good.”
John was talking in that worried and exasperated tone he took on that was equal parts anger and affection, and Sherlock warmed just from the light and life in that voice.
“Christ. You should have at least put socks on.”
“That would have disturbed my sock index.”
It was fact, of course, but it made John laugh, and Sherlock could feel that laugh in his back.
“Of course it would. What was I thinking.” John tucked the sheet and one of the wool blankets more firmly around them both. “All right. Sleep now.”
Sherlock’s shivering slowed, then stopped. Finally, thankfully, he allowed himself to consider beginning to relax. He felt pleasantly, comfortably, serenely warm, and, he realized, loved.
He was loved.
John Watson loved him. John Watson loved him.
Sherlock took John’s hand in his own, weaving their fingers together. This met with no protest; in fact, John squeezed his hand and sighed. Sherlock raised their hands to his mouth, and softly kissed the back of John’s hand.
“You’re welcome,” John mumbled, and Sherlock laughed silently.
“John.”
“Hmm?”
Sherlock could feel the beginnings of John’s arousal at the base of his own spine. “Ahhh, John.” He turned in John’s arms, nose to nose on the pillow, and could feel sweet breath across his cheeks. “Dear John. Lovely warm John.” He pressed a soft kiss to John’s mouth, just the barest pressure, just enough.
John kissed Sherlock back, teasing open lips and teeth with his tongue. Then he grunted, grabbed Sherlock firmly, and pulled him even closer, hooking a foot behind Sherlock’s knees and grinding against him.
There was some tugging, and pulling, and then John was nude against him, insistently and thoroughly hard. Then he froze.
No, no, John, please don’t do this, please, not again.
“I don’t know what to do,” John confessed with a sheepish laugh. “Show me.”
Sherlock smiled in relief. “Here,” he whispered, guiding him. “Ah! Yes! There, there,” and a little while later, “Oh, please, please, just push.” He retrieved a condom from the nightstand, lube from the shelf beneath that, and then John did push, and push again, and they looked at each other and laughed from the sheer joy of it.
Usually, just before he came, Sherlock felt a sort of blind panic at the unavoidable loss of control he would momentarily experience. He’d never fully trusted a partner enough to really let go during that few seconds of blinding consuming fiery pleasure that pulled him from himself and into primal raw sensation and emotion.
Not this time. This time he felt it grow from his core downward, and saw, instead of the fires of oblivion, two cobalt orbs that smiled in wonder and love right into him.
He let go.
John came, too, with little gasps and one big groan, and Sherlock caught him as he gave out and wrapped his arms and legs protectively around him. They smiled, and laughed, and kissed, and cleaned up; John wound himself around Sherlock again and they settled deep into a contented quiet.
7. The first time Sherlock Holmes fell asleep in a bed with someone else was in the arms of John Watson after they’d made love. If he hadn’t been so exhausted he probably would have tried to get up without disturbing a contentedly sleeping John, but that would have been nearly impossible because of the way they were tangled up with each other and with the bedclothes. By the time he’s worked out a way to do it, he just needed to close his eyes for a second and
8. The first time Sherlock Holmes woke up in a bed with someone else in it was roughly seven hours later. He was amazed he could have slept with someone in such close and intimate circumstances for all those hours. To add to his surprise, he felt truly rested as he hadn’t in weeks.
He looked over at John’s still-sleeping face and was transfixed. How like an angel he seemed! Stupid metaphor, he thought, he could do better. Then he realized he couldn’t. This man looked like a true sleeping Renaissance cherub: peaceful face, tousled blond hair, slight smile. What a beautiful sight his John Watson was.
9. The first time Sherlock Holmes was brought to tears by the sight of a lover was just that very moment.
10. The first time Sherlock Holmes began composing a piece on the violin for John Watson was an hour later, and the music flowed surely and sweetly and floated off into the morning air.
**end**