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The Gödel Problem	By : marksandspence Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 1053 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This story is based solely on the television show Sherlock that airs on BBC1, written by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. All characters belong exclusively to them, the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s estate.

Chapter List
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Chapter 3: Sex and Death and Dreamt Beasts
Sherlock rolls off of Sio and after propping his head on his elbow, lets his hand loosely wander across the warm, damp skin of her torso. Her breathing is steadily calming, her body limp and over-relaxed, her eyes half closed. When his fingers reach the curls of her pubic hair, he pauses them just a moment before slipping them further downward, parting her lips and feeling the swollen wetness beneath. He slips his fingertips inside, encouraging the flow of the juices he put inside moments earlier. As the semen leaves her body, he uses his fingers to spread it onto the hair above, continuing until the area is drenched. To his utter amazement, he feels himself start to get hard again, despite having come twice in the last hour or so.
This is not typical of him, of them. Not that they were obsessively tidy about bodily fluids, but before, there was rarely the opportunity for leakage. Sio would usually clean herself up in between if she decided to stay for a second round and on the occasions when he had come outside of her, there was generally a reasonably quick response to avoid soiling the sheets (or carpet or settee). Perhaps it was just the erasure of inhibitions from the nearly continual high they had been on the past few days. Or maybe it is simply because there is no rush to leave, no necessary end to their trysts. Everything has become a bit sloppy. And much to his surprise, Sherlock has found it all rather titillating.
In a gruff sort of whisper as he continues to swirl his dampened fingers, he asks, “Why do I find this so arousing?”
Sio smiles and looks over at him with sleepy, contented eyes, “You haven’t come outside me since I’ve been back, despite ample opportunity.” Even when she had been sucking him off in the shower, he had puller her up and pushed himself inside at the last minute.
“Explain why that is relevant,” he responds in a more professional tone.
“Your brain knows you can, so your body is trying to get me pregnant. There is no more primal drive than that,” Sio explains.
He frowns, deferring to her knowledge in these matters. “Could I?”
She sighs heavily. “I don’t really know. Maybe. I’ve been too afraid to look up the statistics on reversals.”
“Should we be worried about that?” Sherlock asks.
“Abortion is easy to get in this country. And once I am feeling up to it, I’ll explore more permanent options,” she answers.
Sherlock blinks and tilts his head. “I just had a pang. Interesting.”
Sio shifts up onto her elbow and says, “God, we’d make horrible parents. If the child even survived into adulthood, which is rather unlikely given our collective distractibility, it would hate us completely.”
“Yes. Hate plus comprehensive intelligence – the perfect recipe for a Bond villain,” he responds with a queer smile.
“We would surely have to step in at some point to prevent her from taking over the world,” Sio adds.
“How are you so sure it would be a girl?” he asks, amused.
She tilts her head and blinks, “I don’t know. I just assumed. Much easier if it was a boy.”
“Boys don’t ever want to take over the world?” Sherlock retorts with mild incredulity.
Narrowing her eyes, Sio offers with mock seriousness, “they do, but there seems to be so much more precedent in defeating male super villains. I think a woman could throw a whole new wrench into the genre.”
“Either way, probably would involve someone being thrown off a building or something,” he says.
“I don’t fancy that at all,” she says.
“This can never happen.”
“Agreed.”
“I guess we could always give it to John and Mary. They’re good people and the sort of parents children should have,” Sherlock offers.
“True. But it seems a rather awful thing to do to friends. Any child of ours would be a bloody nightmare,” Sio responds. “Plus, if one of us ever wanted to take over the world, or similar, such a child would be the only one capable of stopping us and that would be terribly awkward.”
Sherlock chuckles to himself.
“What?” Sio asks in response.
“I’m just trying to parse what ‘or similar’ might be. In any case, where does that leave us now?” Sherlock asks.
“More drugs and less fucking?” Sio suggests with some skepticism.
Sherlock smiles devilishly, reaching behind him for the pipe, “drugs are rather nice.”
He fiddles with the contraption, takes a drag, then offers it to Sio. She shakes her head. Her tolerance is much lower, plus her motivation is tied only to diminishing pain, the “high” unnecessary at the moment as her mind is quiet. She takes the pipe from him as he instantly reacts, setting it down on the bedside table. Sherlock lies back as the feeling of tingling, aggressive relaxation overwhelms his body. She watches him, judging the degree of his incapacitation – relatively mild this time, she thinks. Her hand wanders down his body, reaching under the duvet.
“You make me feel rather nice,” she says, grabbing hold of his stubborn erection.
He mumbles, “So you love me just for my hard bits.”
She sits up and rolls over to straddle him, “I love your hard and soft bits with equal measure.”
He laughs in the way he only does when he is high, asking “Soft bits?”
Before responding, she slides his cock inside her and sinks down. “Brain tissue; perhaps not the most apt descriptor.”
Continuing to giggle, he responds, “Apparently that makes you a zombie.”
“How do you know about zombies?”
“There was a film on the plane. Pretending to watch seemed to be the only way to stop people from attempting conversation.”
Watching his face, she starts to gently rock her pelvis, “Cocks are a dime a dozen. You are sublimely unique.”
He watches her move through half closed eyes. “Tell me you’ll never leave again.”
Without hesitation, she replies, “Impossible. The future is unpredictable.”
“It shouldn’t be. Not entirely.”
“Even if it is deterministic chaos, which I doubt, there are too many variables. It might as well be stochastic.”
Frowning, his tone modulated slightly, betraying a twinge of seriousness, he says “But barring accidental death….”
She doesn’t let him finish. “If you just want me to say it…” She begins while grinding on him in more earnest.
“You must know me better than that,” he says with some concern. “Empty words are as meaningless to me as they are to you.”
Sio is getting breathless from her pelvic endeavors. She puts her hands on his shoulders and looks him directly in the eye as her lower body continues to rock and sway. “Right now, at this moment, I don’t want to ever leave this room. Right now, I can envision no reality superior to one spent with you. But it is not within my power to promise anything more.”
Sherlock puts his hands gently on her hips and winces with a short laugh. “I don’t feel anything.”
She stops moving as if she’d been slapped in the face. “What?” She asks.
Perceiving her interpretation, he quickly clarifies, “I don’t have any feeling below the waist right now – sorry, the drugs make everything feel equally exquisite and you seem to be exerting yourself unnecessarily as nothing is actually going to happen for me. I’m happy to watch if you want to keep going…” He smiles a drunken sort of smile.
Sio, feeling the physical moment has passed and lacking the energy to ramp up again, pulls forward just enough to release him and the lays on his chest. He vaguely registers the unusually warm temperature of her skin.
Before drifting off to sleep, she whispers, “I don’t feel myself at all. Things have gone so quiet.” It worries her to feel so present in the moment; so cut-off from her analytic side. She should be getting better; her thoughts should be getting more clear, more abstract. But everything keeps swirling around the minute she is in right now.
*
The days pass in more or less the same way as this – a mixture of sex and opiates; ridiculous conversations and copious nudity; orgasms and sleep. It’s all rather juvenile, but seems to be an odd respite for them both. On one of their more melancholy afternoons, Sherlock finds himself dwelling on a particular question.
“What would you have done if he succeeded?” He asks without warning.
“I’d rather not say,” she replies honestly.
“How would you have done it?” He insists, her answer confirming his suspicion.
Resigned, Sio says without emotion, “There was a drain in the bottom of the pool with a chain attached. I kept a pair of handcuffs in the stuffing of one of the lawn chairs. I knew the schedule of the guards and when they’d take their breaks. It wouldn’t take long if I had the courage to inhale….”
Whatever compelled him to demand to know this, he is unsure, especially knowing the answer in advance. But the devil is in the detail. For a moment, he lets himself imagine her lifeless body dangling in the blue water of the pool, her arm pulled straight as her buoyant body pulled limply against the chain. Then he rewinds to a few minutes earlier, when despite her determined intention, her body would fight against the circumstance and she would thrash against the metal constraint. This image makes him feel dizzy with horror; sick with rage. He mentally jumps forward again to her motionless body, giving himself a glimmer of what her death would mean. He quickly shuts down the searing chaos of his imagined reaction and instead mentally dissects the crime scene. How would he make the case for suicide, as everyone would assume murder? If he did not know her, would he think to look for the rip in the cushion? What else? Other wet footprints – no, they would have evaporated so their absence means nothing.
“Sherlock? I asked if you’d like some tea,” Sio interrupts, knowing full well where his mind has gone.
“I just don’t see why death would be the preferable option,” Sherlock says, unwilling to let it drop.
“Death would be inevitable. It’s really just a matter of controlling the timing,” Sio says, rolling over onto her side.
If she had more energy, she would have said something flip, like “Remind me to inject you with progesterone sometime” or “50% of the world’s genius has been wasted through pregnancy and childbirth” but of course it is more than the fear of being changed, of losing the precise endocrine balance that defines oneself. It is a fear of gaining emotions over which she likely would have little control; it is the fear of becoming a willing prisoner, or at least a complicit one. Too much to be lost, with what is gained an unknown, unknowable.
*
Sherlock lies in bed, pleasantly trapped in sleep, remaining so willingly with the cajoling effects of the opiates still permeating the tissues of his body. He has been falling in and out of dreams, gaining and losing control over them for an unknown amount of time. Right now, he is wandering through the rooms of his imagined Mind Palace, finding everything hysterically funny. He hears himself laugh, but then stops when it doesn’t sound like his own voice. He searches for a mirror to confirm his identity and does so with just a mild thought to his rather unhealthy, distorted appearance. He suddenly appears in the doorway of a rather large room with a fireplace and a settee and bookshelves lining the walls. It takes him a moment to focus on what first looks like an amorphous blob reclining on the settee. Tuning his mind and taking a step forward, he is able to see a woman in a large black burka reading a book. He walks over and sits down next to her feet.
“Why are you wearing that?” He asks.
Sio’s voice responds in a whisper, “I’m hiding.”
“Why?”
“I'm not supposed to be here.”
He reaches over and pulls off her hood, underneath which, her hair is wild and untamed like it was before she returned from the desert. Just as he is noticing the book she is reading – it's the one on beekeeping – they are both startled by the appearance of a dog barking and growling from the other side of the room.
Sherlock admonishes, “Stop it, Redbeard. Don’t be rude.”
“I don’t think she likes her,” Sio says in response.
“Who?”
Something moves underneath the fabric of the burka, making its way to the neck hole. What pops out is a tiny dragon about the size of a small cat. It leaps and starts to fly around the room. The dog has now disappeared and the tiny dragon is circling the bookshelves.
“It won’t burn them, will it? I need those books.”
“She’s just exploring. She can scorch him if you like.”
Sherlock feels dizzy watching the small beast circle the room.
“Scorch who?”
“That is him, isn’t it? In the basement. Your nemesis.”
He nods slowly.
“She can get rid of him.”
“No. He needs to stay here. So I can keep my eye on him.”
The burka has disappeared and she is wearing one if his undershirts.
“Do I need to stay here too?” She asks, putting down the book.
“Would you like to?” Sherlock asks, unable to take his eyes off of the dragon, despite consciously wanting to look at the half-naked Sio. Is it getting bigger?
“Would have done. Wouldn’t have minded. But it’s not me anymore. She has to grow.”
“What does she eat?”
Sio laughs at the joke. “Brains, of course. I’d better take her away, else she’ll want yours too…”
He is alone again in the room. The fire is out and he is getting cold. With some relief, he sees a single bed in the corner. The next thing he knows, he is climbing into the bed, pulling the duvet up to his chin, squeezing his eyes shut. When he opens them, he is back in the guestroom, Sio, looking pale and sweaty, asleep by his side.
*
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The Gödel Problem