Sherlock Holmes woke with a start, sitting bolt upright in bed, hot and sweaty. It had been another one of those dreams again. He checked his watch. Damn it. He hadn't intended to stay that long. It was nearly 4am. He swivelled round and dropped his feet down out of the bed, running his fingers through his hair with a sigh, then stood up and began to look for his clothes, strewn out across the floor. He silently got dressed, keeping a close eye on the sleeping figure of the woman who had been in bed beside him only moments before. Now he'd got his relief he felt depressed and sickened by what he had done. Another meaningless, dissatisfying shag just to satisfy some illogical primal instinct. He cursed himself for being so weak, and he cursed the dreams that were forcing him to act on his urges, and he cursed John Watson for being the centre of those dreams.
He found it difficult to look his flatmate in the eye these days. It was only when they were working on a case together did he manage to forget about it. Whenever they weren't working, when they'd reached a quiet spot and the boredom kicked in, that was when the dreams returned, that was when the desires came back. It had all started last year when he returned after a three year absence during which John believed him to be dead. It had been an emotional and difficult reunion, and it took them a long time to get back to normal. Except for Sherlock, things weren't normal anymore. Whilst he was away he'd began to miss John, to realise how much he meant to him and what a good friend the doctor really was. His heart began to ache, a dull throbbing pain, and he knew he had to return to John, to their old life in Baker Street.
It was only a week after his return that he had the first dream. They'd started innocently enough at first, but gradually they became more and more graphic, his own body betraying his emotions and going against everything he believed to be logical and rational. He'd wake up in a sweat with a throbbing in his underpants that had to be satisfied. He'd try ignoring it, but it would consume his entire day, stop him concentrating, stop him thinking, until his urges were satiated.
The first time he'd gone to a bar. That was what people do. They go to bars. They meet people. That's what ordinary people do in their ordinary lives. Sherlock hated going to bars. For a start off he didn't particularly enjoy drinking alcohol. It clouded his thinking, made him feel out of control. They were also full of idiots with IQs that would make Anderson look like a genius. He hated bars. The first night he'd sat there for two hours with a glass of coke and not spoken to anyone. He'd gone home frustrated and unsatisfied. He couldn't sleep. He had one of the dreams again. The next night he went to the same bar. A woman smiled at him. He smiled back. That's what people do. She came over and started talking to him. He deduced she was flirting with him and allowed it to happen. He even allowed himself to have an alcoholic beverage. He needed to relax. He needed to lose his inhibitions otherwise he'd never get this thing done, he reflected. So he drank and engaged in idiotic small talk with the woman, doing his best not to be himself. This was, after all, to serve a purpose. And it worked. She took him back to her house and...well, it gave him temporary satisfaction.
After that first time, it became a regular thing. Sherlock found he could easily go to bars and allow women to talk to him, put on an act with them and pretend to be stupid like they were. It was also dull and mundane but at the end of the evening he got what he needed. The sex was enjoyable enough at the time but as soon as he'd reached his climax he wanted to put his clothes on and get the hell out. It made him feel weak, dirty and never satisfied. There was always something else...something missing. And no matter how hard he tried he couldn't get the dreams to stop.
He sighed as he reached for his coat, and silently tiptoed out of the bedroom. He made his way downstairs and out onto the street. He'd had a few drinks earlier but was feeling more sober now he'd had a few hours sleep. The streets were quiet. It took him ages to find a cab. Finally he arrived back at 221B Baker Street and he felt a warm feeling to be back on familiar territory. Home. He wondered what John had been up to tonight...Sherlock missed him when he went out, but he knew it was hopeless. He could never be with John. He could never do in real life what he dreamt about every night. John was...well...he wasn't going to be interested in Sherlock. He liked to go on dates...with women. Not sociopathic male flatmates. Sherlock had no chance. He realised that immediately and so never even considered mentioning any of this to John. He wouldn't be able to talk about it anyway. He found it impossible to talk about anything like that. Not to mention the neverending embarrassment and general awkwardness it would cause. No. It was out of the question.
Sherlock unlocked the door to 221B, closed it quietly behind him and crept upstairs. The whole house was silent, Mrs Hudson and John both asleep. He went to his room, closed the door and lay down on his bed, sleep enveloping him quickly. He was exhausted.
He found it difficult to look his flatmate in the eye these days. It was only when they were working on a case together did he manage to forget about it. Whenever they weren't working, when they'd reached a quiet spot and the boredom kicked in, that was when the dreams returned, that was when the desires came back. It had all started last year when he returned after a three year absence during which John believed him to be dead. It had been an emotional and difficult reunion, and it took them a long time to get back to normal. Except for Sherlock, things weren't normal anymore. Whilst he was away he'd began to miss John, to realise how much he meant to him and what a good friend the doctor really was. His heart began to ache, a dull throbbing pain, and he knew he had to return to John, to their old life in Baker Street.
It was only a week after his return that he had the first dream. They'd started innocently enough at first, but gradually they became more and more graphic, his own body betraying his emotions and going against everything he believed to be logical and rational. He'd wake up in a sweat with a throbbing in his underpants that had to be satisfied. He'd try ignoring it, but it would consume his entire day, stop him concentrating, stop him thinking, until his urges were satiated.
The first time he'd gone to a bar. That was what people do. They go to bars. They meet people. That's what ordinary people do in their ordinary lives. Sherlock hated going to bars. For a start off he didn't particularly enjoy drinking alcohol. It clouded his thinking, made him feel out of control. They were also full of idiots with IQs that would make Anderson look like a genius. He hated bars. The first night he'd sat there for two hours with a glass of coke and not spoken to anyone. He'd gone home frustrated and unsatisfied. He couldn't sleep. He had one of the dreams again. The next night he went to the same bar. A woman smiled at him. He smiled back. That's what people do. She came over and started talking to him. He deduced she was flirting with him and allowed it to happen. He even allowed himself to have an alcoholic beverage. He needed to relax. He needed to lose his inhibitions otherwise he'd never get this thing done, he reflected. So he drank and engaged in idiotic small talk with the woman, doing his best not to be himself. This was, after all, to serve a purpose. And it worked. She took him back to her house and...well, it gave him temporary satisfaction.
After that first time, it became a regular thing. Sherlock found he could easily go to bars and allow women to talk to him, put on an act with them and pretend to be stupid like they were. It was also dull and mundane but at the end of the evening he got what he needed. The sex was enjoyable enough at the time but as soon as he'd reached his climax he wanted to put his clothes on and get the hell out. It made him feel weak, dirty and never satisfied. There was always something else...something missing. And no matter how hard he tried he couldn't get the dreams to stop.
He sighed as he reached for his coat, and silently tiptoed out of the bedroom. He made his way downstairs and out onto the street. He'd had a few drinks earlier but was feeling more sober now he'd had a few hours sleep. The streets were quiet. It took him ages to find a cab. Finally he arrived back at 221B Baker Street and he felt a warm feeling to be back on familiar territory. Home. He wondered what John had been up to tonight...Sherlock missed him when he went out, but he knew it was hopeless. He could never be with John. He could never do in real life what he dreamt about every night. John was...well...he wasn't going to be interested in Sherlock. He liked to go on dates...with women. Not sociopathic male flatmates. Sherlock had no chance. He realised that immediately and so never even considered mentioning any of this to John. He wouldn't be able to talk about it anyway. He found it impossible to talk about anything like that. Not to mention the neverending embarrassment and general awkwardness it would cause. No. It was out of the question.
Sherlock unlocked the door to 221B, closed it quietly behind him and crept upstairs. The whole house was silent, Mrs Hudson and John both asleep. He went to his room, closed the door and lay down on his bed, sleep enveloping him quickly. He was exhausted.
