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Enchanted	By : Flavy Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 1622 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock BBC, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
Quick Note: This fiction does not take into account The Reichenbach Fall as this storyline takes place sometime before that (although, really, in my mind palace TRF never happened in the first place because it is too sad). This fic will however mention some events from previous episodes from time to time, so it does follow canon.
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Chapter 1
John exhaled sharply and pressed his trembling hands against a silk shirt, pushing at it resolutely as hot, eager lips repeatedly murmured his name against his neck among breathless kisses. Squeezing his eyes shut and turning his face to the side, trying his best to ignore the deafening sound of his heartbeat, John mumbled in a subdued voice he barely recognized as his own, “Stop. God, please stop.”
In response to his resistance, warm hands slid up the sides of his arms and held him in place. Soft yet urgent kisses were pressed to his turned face, hot breath ghosting against his skin and awakening faulty sensations that sent John into panicked trepidation.
It felt both surreal and yet so very substantial that John could barely process anything outside of the other’s unexpected intimacy toward him. There was no movement in the background, no extraneous noises, no lights, not a thing beyond the other’s overwhelming presence. Nothing that could anchor John to reality and give him the strength to resist what he knew should not be happening. It all made him feel as though it was somehow inevitable – the only true reality that existed in his world right then.
As the other’s hands began roaming his small frame, John tensed to the point of physical strain, hyperaware of how drunk he was becoming off the other’s light yet insistent touches, his familiar scent, his heated kisses and soft murmurs.
John’s mind was racing with confused emotions, unable to settle on a course of action. He just stood there, mortified, gripping at the other’s shirt in a half-hearted attempt to pry them apart. To his great alarm, he was becoming increasingly aware of the fact that his blood was beginning to flow in the wrong direction, causing an inevitable response that John simply couldn’t accept as his own. Not because he didn’t enjoy that type of response, but because of the source of it.
Those hands, those lips, the soft curls brushing against his cheek. That rich, deep voice.
Oh God, John panicked, a low groan escaping his lips as a wandering hand found his arousal and slid across the fabric of his pants, creating unwelcome friction. His breath caught painfully in his throat and for a moment he felt as though his lungs had collapsed altogether as he felt himself respond to that touch.
No, he ordered himself sharply, forcing his body out of its hormone-induced stupor and breaking the intimate contact roughly.
This wasn’t right. This wasn’t what he wanted. This was not who he was.
“Don’t do this,” he managed quietly but firmly, steadying his shaky voice while keeping the other man at arm’s length to enforce his point. “We can’t do this. I’m not gay, Sherlock, and I don’t wish to be your experimental study in human relations.”
Incriminating silence met his words, angering John to a degree. He knew that Sherlock didn’t actually care about this, he’d made it clear enough the very first day they met. It made John feel stupid and embarrassed at his own body’s overreaction to his flatmate’s attentions. Flushing deeply, he brought up his arm to cover his face. A nauseating mixture of confusion, hurt, and guilt spun in his mind, making him sick down to his stomach.
For Sherlock, this was nothing but another experiment to test some stupid theory born of boredom and lack of alternate mental stimulation. It meant nothing to him.
With an involuntary shiver, John felt the air grow increasingly cold and empty as he stood there, waiting for something to happen. There was darkness all around him, he could sense it closing in on him, suffocating him and draining him, leaving nothing but bare and frightening powerlessness. Suddenly overtaken by a deep, irrational fear, he reached out instinctively, grasping blindly in the dark. He called out the name once, twice...
But… he was gone. Sherlock was gone.
With this realization, John tried to move forward, reaching out farther into the darkness that hung heavily around him like veiled death. He found himself calling out Sherlock’s name again and again, feeling more terrified than he had ever before.
But there was nothing. Nothing and no one.
John froze in shock, desperately needing a deep breath but finding that his lungs had lost their capacity to hold air. The deafening silence was crushing him, smothering the frantic beat of his heart. He felt nothing; nothing but pain that was rooted somewhere deep in his heart and radiated outward in sickening waves of dread and insecurity.
He was lost again. Alone. Cold. So cold…
Waking up with a violent jerk, John inhaled sharply as his entire body shook in the aftermath of his dream. He stared wide-eyed at the wall in front of him, his breath coming in small spurts as comprehension slowly filled in.
A dream. Just a dream.
His eyes darted around the room reflexively, making sure that everything was rightly in its place before resting on his clenched fists that were entangled in cold, sweat-soaked sheets. Flexing them slowly to get them to relax, John pulled his legs from underneath the blanket and let them fall to the floor as he sat at the edge of his bed, his face contorted into wild disbelief.
What the bloody hell was that all about?
He was startled by a soft knock on his door before Mrs. Hudson’s worried face appeared from behind it. “John? Is everything alright? May I come in?”
Scrubbing his face with the palm of his clammy hand, John nodded mutely, not trusting his voice. A hundred questions assaulted his mind all at once as it replayed the dream over and over again, making him feel as though he was going to be sick right then and there. Chaos reigned over him momentarily as a whole lot of disjointed mess raged inside of him, making him want nothing more than to shut down and think of nothing at all.
“I heard you calling out and I got a little worried,” Mrs. Hudson went on as she approached him with a half-concerned, half-wary look on her aged face. “I know you boys attract trouble like honeybees so I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”
“I’m fine,” John answered a little too quickly before trying his best to stretch his lips into a reassuring smile for the old lady. He was quite sure he failed miserably when he saw Mrs. Hudson’s facial expression contort apprehensively.
“Are you sure about that, dear?” she asked him, peering into his face with uncertainty. “Would you like me to call Sherlock up here?”
“No!” John almost shouted out in alarm before realizing that he was acting oddly. “I mean, it’s really nothing to get worked up about, Mrs. Hudson,” he went on more calmly in a raspy voice, lowering his eyes to the hardwood floor that felt cold beneath his feet. “Just a bad dream.”
Mrs. Hudson blinked a few times, hesitating for a moment before making the decision to sit beside him. “Anything you want to talk about?” she offered, clasping her hands in her lap. “I may not be much of a listener, but I’m by no means a stranger to bad dreams. Living with Sherlock will do that to you. God only knows I’ve had a good share of my own because of his little work mishaps.”
John just nodded in agreement, finding it difficult to follow her words. Currently, it took all he had to keep his mind from overanalyzing the dream’s implications, which were… disturbing at the least.
“It’s nothing to worry about, Mrs. Hudson,” he reaffirmed, squeezing his landlady’s hand in appreciation. “Thank you, but I think I’ll be alright.”
A blatant lie, but John wasn’t about to discuss any of what had just transpired in his dream with Mrs. Hudson of all people. It was dangerous enough territory to sink into for himself.
Mrs. Hudson smiled at him, seemingly convinced. “Good,” she said, squeezing his hand. “I’m glad to hear that because I always worry about what would happen to Sherlock if you were to decide to part with him in favour of a quieter life. I’ve always imagined you settling down with a wife and children, you know. You are such a calm, responsible man, and Sherlock… well, you know him. Sherlock is a spoiled child at best. I’ve always wondered how you two get on so well, seeing how you’re as different as lemons and apple pie.”
John felt himself smile bitterly at her words. Sometimes he wondered the same thing himself. All he could say was that he found Sherlock to be utterly brilliant and fascinating, and John couldn’t help but want to be around him all the time. And maybe that was the problem. Maybe he was spending too much time with Sherlock.
“I couldn’t tell you that, Mrs. Hudson, but I can assure you that I would never leave Sherlock completely. Even if I were to settle down someday, he’d still remain to be my best friend.”
Mrs. Hudson nodded with a happy expression. “I hope so. Because he needs you, John.”
John swallowed thickly, a trace of something indistinguishable washing over him. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess he does,” he agreed quietly. Like a scientist needed a lab assistant.
“You are the only one I’ve ever seen Sherlock open up to. Before he met you, he used to spend entire days lying on the sofa, all alone, as still as a statue. Never had any friends to visit him and he only ever went out for his work. I used to feel so bad for him, really. I don’t anymore.” She met his eyes with a warm smile. “He’s lucky to have you, John.”
John returned her smile, although it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m pretty lucky to have met him too, Mrs. Hudson. Despite his ‘little mishaps’, Sherlock is… a good friend. A great friend, really.”
John’s best and most important friend, in fact, but still just a friend. John simply couldn’t accept the possibility of more. For one, John was not gay. And two, he had never once considered the possibility of sharing an intimate experience with Sherlock. In his view, homosexuality was… an abnormal lifestyle infused with challenges and difficulties beyond what he could manage or even comprehend. And while he had come to terms with it in other people, he had made the decision against it many years ago while faced with the prospect of engaging in such relations over the course of his life.
“And you make such a great team together,” Mrs. Hudson went on, patting his leg. “I guess it’s true what they say, that opposites attract.”
John felt himself grow tense at her words, his face and neck flushing with sudden warmth. He steeled himself against the unexpected onslaught of emotions flooding in as he was briefly assaulted by memories of Sherlock’s lips against his skin.
God, he didn’t want to think about that bloody dream anymore. He wanted to forget its very existence. The feelings that welled up in his chest were distressing and confusing. He didn’t want to have them. He didn’t want to analyze them. He just wanted them to disappear so that he could return to being the same John he was before this ever happened. He didn’t want anything to change between him and Sherlock, although he had a dreadful suspicion that it already had.
How could he ever look into Sherlock’s eyes again? How could he stop himself from remembering the way it felt to have Sherlock’s hands on him whenever Sherlock looked at him, smiled at him… touched him.
Letting out a shaky breath, John bit his lip, flexing his fingers nervously again. “I think I’ll take a shower now, Mrs. Hudson.”
His landlady clasped her hands in the air, looking apologetic. “Silly me. Here I am chatting you up when you’re probably dying to freshen up a little before work. I’ll bring down some biscuits for you two to have with your morning tea. Just this one time, seeing how you had a rather rough night.”
“That sounds great,” John replied automatically, breakfast being the farthest thing from his mind. “Thanks, Mrs. Hudson.”
“You’re quite welcome, dear,” she said as she rose quickly and disappeared behind the door, leaving John to his thoughts.
Walking over to his closet, John fished for a fresh change of clothes and headed for the bathroom, hoping a nice shower would improve the uncomfortable churning that lingered in his stomach. The intense aftermath of his dream was quickly losing its edge, for which he was exceedingly grateful.
He was going to have to get himself busy that day so as to avoid Sherlock at all costs. He couldn’t have Sherlock ‘observing’ him too much, because Sherlock knew him too well. He would know something was wrong and he wouldn’t leave it alone until he found out what it was. Sherlock wasn’t one to shy away from prying into other people’s personal lives, especially John’s personal life. And John couldn’t let that happen right now. Not with that bloody dream replaying itself in his head like a song you hated but just couldn’t stop thinking about.
Stepping into the shower, John hesitated momentarily before turning the cold water dial to its fullest. He gritted his teeth as freezing water bit into his skin, shivering violently under the heavy spray.
He couldn’t let this change anything between them.
John needed to have Sherlock in his life. He didn’t want to cross any boundaries with him, but he couldn’t stand to lose him either. What he needed with Sherlock was balance. And, quite possibly, a wife to go along with it.
Leaning his forehead against the silver-grey tiles of the shower stall wall, John closed his eyes. Rivulets of cold water ran along his face and neck, cooling down the heat that still lingered there. He rubbed at his face harshly, suddenly overcome with the loneliness and anguish he felt just prior to waking up. That single brief glimpse of how it felt to lose Sherlock was… absolutely terrifying.
Maybe one day of avoiding Sherlock wasn’t enough. After all, was John really expecting to be better off tomorrow? Or the day after? Maybe what he needed was a vacation from Sherlock. It wouldn’t have to be a very long one, just one far enough to allow John some space to figure things out. He could go to France, or even Germany. Find a nice girl and go sight-seeing together. John could use the relaxation, plus it would get Sherlock out of his system for a while, which would hopefully prevent any further disturbing dreams about the nature of their relationship.
After giving himself a good scrub-and-rinse, he turned off the running water and toweled himself off thoroughly, feeling satisfied for the moment. He’d ask Sarah for some vacation time that same day and then visit some travel agencies. That sounded like a good place to start. And tonight he would tell Sherlock about it.
Which, of course, wasn’t going to be easy.
As he brushed his teeth and combed his hair, John paused momentarily to stare at his pale, tired face in the mirror. This was going to be good for both of them. He was sure of it. He just had to make Sherlock see it that way without raising too much upset. Because Mrs. Hudson was right, Sherlock was nothing but a spoiled child when it came to what he wanted, and somehow John just knew that having ‘his blogger’ fly off for a week by himself wasn’t on Sherlock’s list of ‘Likes’.
Sherlock would just have to accept it, whether he liked it or not. It was the only way John could see himself getting through the next week and beyond. His dream had been an accident born of far too many innuendos and recent sexual deprivation – nothing more and nothing less. That is why John believed it to be foolish to read anything more into it.
He just had to get it out of his system. That was as simple as it got.
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To be continued…
- 1
- 2
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Enchanted