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The Gödel Problem	By : marksandspence Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 1057 -:- 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
- 3
- 4
Chapter 4: Reality Bites
Sio and Sherlock arrive at a hotel room in the late afternoon, transported by a car that was provided either by John himself or by Mycroft or the police. Neither really paid much attention to who was forcing them to emerge out of their week long party-for-two because everything still seemed rather hilarious to them as they slowly came down off the opiate high. Sherlock drops a bag that he has no memory of packing onto the bed.
“That is a gigantic bed,” Sio marvels.
“I’m not sure I have ever seen a bed quite as big as that,” Sherlock squints.
“I like this hotel. How long do we have to stay here?” Sio asks.
“I have no idea. Wait. I think just one night. However long it takes them to get rid of the smell,” Sherlock responds with a mischievous smirk.
“The look on John’s face was rather priceless. I think he’s been to a brothel before and he was embarrassed that he recognized what one smelled like,” Sio offers.
“I do think he was rather unfairly cross with me. I had asked him specifically what my responsibilities were and he did not mention nursing. Or if he did, I wasn’t listening, so hardly can be held accountable. And I am not entirely convinced its been proven that opiates hinder healing or promote infection,” Sherlock rants petulantly.
“It’s all sorted now. Some antibiotics, a bit of a detox and I’ll be good as new…”
“Ech, that sounds dreadful,” he says flopping dramatically down on the cushioned chair by the bed.
“I have some ideas about how to make the best of it…” Sio says, dropping to her knees in front of him.
He shrugs rather noncommittally while she undoes his trousers and reaches her hand down into his pants.
*
A while later, with their bag still sitting in the middle of the gigantic bed, they are naked on the floor, Sio on hands and knees, Sherlock behind, his hands resting on her shoulders to steady his rhythmic thrusting. Based on the amount of sweat and other signs of exertion, they have been at it a while. As the effect of the drugs fade, the sensitivity of feeling becomes focused on the areas of friction and they both are feeling the increase in intensity compared with the days prior. The moment she feels the increase in girth that precedes his release, she commands,
“Stop. Don’t move.”
He does as he is told, holding on to her hips to still himself, clenching his teeth at the seemingly impossible task. He lets out a weak, low moan as he feels her tighten her walls rhythmically around him. It is an incredible feeling, being at the absolute edge of orgasm, trying to maintain control over the peak in pleasure. The muscles in his arms start to shake from the tension; he fights the urge to close his eyes, knowing the distraction of sight is essential. After a moment, he starts to beg in a whisper, “Please. Please…I don’t think I can….”
“Wait,” she says as she presses ever-so-slightly against her clit with one finger while the others reach back and feel the base of him at her entrance. “When I say so, I want you to explode into me as hard as you can. Don’t worry about hurting me. Just selfishly fuck without restraint. Do you think you can do that?”
“Yes” he grunts, nearly crying now.
With one more rub down her slit with her finger, she feels herself start to come and insists, “Now”.
As promised, he grabs her shoulders and quickly pulls out enough to push back in with frantic force. Oblivious to her screams of pleasure, he thrusts so hard and fast that they slide inches across the carpet grinding their knees in the process. After what feels like minutes of crazed ecstasy, they collapse together on the floor, deliciously spent.
It takes a while for either of them to regain the faculty of their body, but soon they slide up onto the bed, finally usurping the leather bag. They rest a few moments in wakeful silence.
“Are you pretending?” Sio asks, resting her head on his chest.
He reflects, unsure.
Aside from the physical pleasure, the reason why he finds Sio’s company so intoxicating has nearly everything to do with the fact that he needn’t expend any energy to mask his thoughts, to modify or tweak his manner. As she had promised, all experience is heightened when charades are dropped and interactions are honest. But now that he is spoiled by this unique form of social interaction, he finds himself desperate to continue it; even if that might mean a sprinkling of effort or a smidge of deception here and there.
“Does it matter?” He asks in return.
“Not really. I just want to know if it’s going to end. People like us don’t handle surprises well.”
Feeling freed by her words, he says softly while running his fingers gently across her back, “I will do everything in my power to keep you here.”
“That’s rather creepy,” she mumbles, sliding into the diminuendo of consciousness.
Perhaps it was Sherlock’s choice of words or force of habit, but in that moment before the stillness of sleep, Sio thinks about her brother. This would be the time; this used to be the time for them. As children, when they still shared a room, the final hour of their day would be spent exchanging thoughts from the day across the dark. It was glorious to have someone to talk to who understood. They did not have their own language, as some twins do, but they rarely ever needed to be explicit about anything; things were just known after a few words. Even after she was given her own room, or rather her brother was given his to prevent her from distracting his genius, the conversations continued, albeit silently. At the time, she had imagined the interactions to be real – to be a unique function of their brains allowing them to communicate directly. But in the short time between this separation and the accident that took away their waking hours together, she had often been frustrated by his lack of acknowledgement of the previous night’s musings. Then after, she clung to the myth of their incorporeal connection as a way to hold on, to keep him as he once had been. And he was no longer able to dispel this myth, so the nearly nightly ritual continued well into her adulthood, even as she began to admit to herself that these were merely the workings of her own imagination and a projection of who she imagined her unconstrained brother would have become. When the real communication came, when she was confident her invention had worked, the mythic one dissipated and her nights became unnaturally quiet. Had something else changed? She wonders as she finally drifts off to sleep.
Sometime later, Sherlock and Sio stir at the methodical beeping of a phone alarm. In the moment just before she is fully awake, Sio sees an image of her brother standing at the end of the bed. He is a full grown adult, sharing the basic features of the crumpled, wheelchair bound man he had grown in to, only fleshed out and healthy like the way he used to appear in their nightly chats. But there is something different – a blankness in his eyes that she would never have put there. As she tries to call out his name, the sound of her own voice wakes her up fully from the dream and she sits up abruptly.
“What did you say?” Sherlock asks, still groggy.
“Cae, I think. A dream,” she responds, wincing from the sudden motion as the last of the drugs they had been taking wears off.
“Remind me why you set an alarm?” Sherlock asks, obviously irritated.
“The pills – John was very insistent I take them every 4 hours. Something about sepsis…”
“Right. Are you feeling better?”
She looks around the room to test herself, her eyes landing on the movement of the sheets as Sherlock sits up. “Yes. I think the fever is gone. I need something to eat.”
“Shall we order something?”
“I’d hate to spoil the room with the smell of food. Lets get dressed and go to the restaurant, shall we? It’ll be like a date.”
“You told me you didn’t want to be taken on dates.”
“Lets just call it dinner, then.”
She slides out of bed and heads to the bathroom to wash up.
Sherlock catches himself fondly reviewing their last tryst when he suddenly frowns. He calls out to her, “What happened to your birthmark?”
“What?”
“The birthmark on your back. The one six inches below your left shoulder blade; looked like a squashed butterfly.”
“I don’t know. I rarely see that part of my body. Are you sure it wasn’t just an odd freckle or tan line?”
“You should know better than to question my observational skills. It was there and now it isn’t.”
In the bathroom, she turns around and tries to see the spot he is referring to. The skin is peculiarly blemish free. She shakes her head.
“Maybe it got scraped off? Or distorted by the skin infection somehow?” She suggests, feeling too tired and hungry to want to deal with the cause of a missing blemish. She walks into the main room and starts to gather some clothes. Sherlock grabs her hips rather roughly to reexamine the area. She winces.
“Unlikely, as there are no other signs of scar tissue. Curious,” he observes before releasing his grip.
She suddenly feels a bit ill and has to steady herself on the chair by the desk. Attributing it to withdrawal, she closes her eyes and stays still a moment until she regains control.
“I would like to go,” she says quietly as she pulls a dress over her head.
Sherlock nods reluctantly and proceeds to get ready.
*
Sherlock and Sio sit at a table in a half-empty hotel restaurant. Sio is picking at some bread while Sherlock engages is some amusing deconstructions of the wait staff and fellow patrons. Sio smiles a bit too easily.
“What?” Sherlock asks during a momentary pause in conversation.
“I didn’t say anything,” Sio responds.
“Obviously, but you look as though you meant to,” he says.
She shrugs, “I keep thinking of questions, but then answering them myself on your behalf.” In truth, with the fever dissipating, her mind is jumping to action and is beginning to race rather manically.
“Then I supposed I appreciate your not wasting my time,” Sherlock answers as if this makes complete sense, before taking a sip of water. “Are you completely satisfied with your answers?”
“Yes,” she answers with a tiny hesitation.
“But?” He asks.
“I didn’t say…,” she begins.
“Yes, but you were going to,” he explains.
She pauses a moment, but then shakes her head saying, “no, just answered that one as well.”
“Surely there is something …” he suggests.
She squints her eyes and beings with, “what would you do if you didn’t have mysteries to solve?”
“Boring. And you are just projecting; trying to figure out what you are going to do without your lab. Try again,” he commands abruptly.
“But what am I going to do?” She asks.
Disregarding this with a quick twitch of the head, he says, “I believe we were talking about me. Lets get back to that. You were going to ask me something.”
“Have you ever thought of becoming a criminal? I imagine it would be easy for you to…” her voice trails off.
“Answered your own question again?” He asks with a knowing smirk.
“But presumably there could be challenging aspects – you have encountered some rather clever criminals. And if so, would you object based on ethics or convenience?” She counters.
“What do you think?”
“Convenience. You like the consistency of your environment – frees the mind for other things. Criminal masterminds don’t usually live in granny flats,” Sio says with a wink.
“Perhaps I should go back up to the room while you interrogate me,” Sherlock says, obviously amused. “And Baker Street is not a granny flat.”
“Well…” She counters.
“Might I remind you that it is technically your residence as well at the moment,” he responds.
“Then I suppose ‘criminal masterminds’ are off the table for both of us, then,” she concludes with a smile.
Sherlock suddenly sits up a bit straighter. “You’re deflecting. I was wrong before. Clever girl.”
“How long ago did we order? It feels like ages,” she complains.
“You don’t want to talk about yourself. Why?” Sherlock asks.
“I almost never want to talk about myself. This is nothing new,” she responds.
“Really? I rather like talking about myself,” he observes.
“Liar.”
“I am usually the most interesting person in the room,” he states.
“You like hearing yourself talk. Not quite the same thing,” she responds.
“Oh, I see. You think that if you don’t keep me occupied talking, either about myself or about everyone else, I might ask you questions. Questions you either can’t or don’t care to answer. Well, you needn’t trouble yourself with any of that. I’m not that interested.”
Sio can’t help herself from grinning at this. They share a chuckle and a look. It takes a few moments before either of them realize that the person standing next to their table is, in fact, not the waiter.
“Well if it isn’t Sio Stanton, in the flesh,” the man says with thick Yorkshire accent and a put-on cheerful tone.
Sio squints at the man before her – he is probably in his late 40’s, stocky and muscular, nice looking in a rough sort of way. A moment passes before recognition wipes the smile from her face.
“Tim. I would act surprised, only I don’t do that. Didn’t take you long,” she says.
“You just disappeared. How does someone just disappear like that?” Tim asks.
She glances over to Sherlock, “With detectives like Tim on the force, being a criminal seems easier still.”
“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Tim asks, barely taking his eyes off of Sio to glance in Sherlock’s direction.
“Why would I?”
Tim laughs. “Come on, Sio. Surely enough time has passed. Water under the bridge and all that.”
“Sherlock, this is Tim Riordan, a man I used to have sex with,” Sio says reluctantly.
Sherlock just nods.
“Aw, Sio, why do you always have to do that. Minimize it. As if that’s all it was,” Tim responds.
“Because that is all it was,” Sio answers, obviously frustrated.
Tim holds up his hands. “Fine. You spin it how you like. I’m done with all that now.”
“Really? Because it doesn’t sound…” Sio comments before being interrupted by Tim.
“Yeah, Sio and I had our time, didn’t we luv?” He turns toward Sherlock before adding in a conspiratorial tone, “My neighbors were sure glad when it ended, I can tell you that. I used to get so many complaints.”
Sio rolls her eyes.
After a brief pause, Sherlock mocks, “Sorry. Was that meant to make me jealous?”
“What do you want, Tim?” Sio asks, exasperated.
“Nothing. Nothing. Just saw you and thought I’d come over to say hello. It’s been a long time.” He glances down at her legs – her dress is short enough that her knees are exposed when she crosses her legs and the rug burns are clearly visible. He sneers, “See your MO hasn’t changed. Just the one, or do you have someone else lined up for the evening?”
“You do realize that slut shaming only works on women who feel ashamed? You are wasting your breath with me,” Sio answers.
Tim laughs, knowingly. He shrugs, glances at her left hand, which is loosely gripping her water glass.
“Nice ring,” he says as he abruptly reaches for her hand. Sio whips it away as soon as he touches it, knocking the water glass over in the process, which then falls to the floor and breaks. Sherlock stands up.
Tim holds up his hands as if surrendering. “I don’t want any trouble. Just surprised is all. Never thought I’d see the day when Sio Stanton let a man put a ring on her finger.”
He bends down and starts picking up the shards of glass and placing them in a cloth napkin.
“As much of a pleasure as this has been, I think it is time for you to go,” Sherlock says.
“I was thinking the same thing,” Tim says standing up, the napkin filled with glass still in his hands.
“How is it that you have still not moved on? I cannot understand…” Sio spits before being interrupted again.
“Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve moved on – that’s my wife over there.” He points to the corner of the restaurant where a woman sits with a fidgety child on her lap, her face a picture of annoyance.
Tim explains, “With all the bruises (he indicates with his hand the bruises still clearly visible on her neck and chest), I was concerned. Thought I’d check up on you.”
“Do they look familiar?” Sio chirps.
Tim shakes his head at this, visibly stung by her words. “Fine. I’m done,” he says as he backs away from the table.
Sherlock sits down. He cocks his head to the side, obviously thinking about something.
“Well that was rather unsettling. Police detectives make disturbingly effective stalkers. Still, I thought I’d seen the last of him,” Sio says.
“Why? What happened last time?” Sherlock asks.
“We had a little talk. I made some threats about ruining his career and thing were quiet afterwards,” she explains.
“How did it start?” He asks.
“It was my mistake initially. I let it go on too long. We had good chemistry in bed and I got rather lazy about moving on. It was early days still and I was under the obviously misguided gendered hype that men don’t form emotional attachments based on sex. Everyone said it was true. Silly that I believed it, I suppose, since the reverse is not remotely true in my case. He got so angry when I finally ended it. I think he just assumed that since I was a woman, I would form an emotional attachment and he refused to believe it wasn’t true. And then it just went on and on and on and he got angrier and angrier.”
“Your comment about the bruises?”
“That was rather unfair of me, but I knew it would make him leave. In a fit of anger, he did put his hand on me once – around my neck for just a moment of rage. I wasn’t hurt at all, but he was mortified – convinced he was now a domestic abuser. So I used that to make him go away. I told him there were bruises; that I took pictures,” she confesses.
“Perhaps you were naïve to think he would believe something like that could ruin his career,” Sherlock responds.
“No. I suppose it makes him a good man, but he believed it fully. The guilt of it more than anything else,” She counters.
“You know this wasn’t a coincidence, him being here?” Sherlock asks.
“What?”
“He knew you’d be here. The child was obviously due for a nap, the wife not dressed for brunch at a hotel. He brought them here as props. But how did he know?”
Sio shakes her head.
“And why did he want your fingerprint?”
“The glass!” Sio exclaims, realizing the ploy. She looks over to where Tim’s family had been sitting, but they are gone.
She suddenly feels impossibly tired and lays her head down on the table.
“I am extraordinarily peckish,” she whimpers.
“Food will be here in a moment. I imagine keeping the waiter away was all part of the plan,” Sherlock explains.
“What plan?” Sio asks.
“To get your fingerprints. To confirm you are here. Pay attention. To what purpose, I don’t know yet,” Sherlock answers with a slight frown.
“We should have ordered room service,” Sio sighs.
*
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The Gödel Problem